Elsie closed the door to the butler's pantry, moving through the downstairs hallway as quickly - and quietly - as decorum would allow. Mrs. Patmore was almost certainly still up and about in the kitchen, and Beryl would catch Elsie's distress immediately if she saw her. The tough little cook had a far keener eye than her appearance let on, and Elsie suspected that this was an appearance that Mrs. Patmore cultivated quite on purpose. Nevertheless, Elsie didn't want to speak about Charles Carson to anyone. Not yet.
As she climbed the stairs to head up to the attics, Elsie mulled over what had happened in the pantry. She couldn't fathom why Mr. Carson had sent her away, when they could have had the mess cleared away in a matter of minutes, if that long. It hadn't even reached the rug, so there was that much less work to do. At any other time, at least in the past, he'd have let her help as a matter of course. Now, unfortunately, something had changed between them. And not the something that Elsie had wanted.
Elsie Hughes had prided herself on her relative independence for her entire adult life. She had made herself into the housekeeper of one of the most prominent families in the country, and she wasn't about to give that up to become a housewife. Caring for a house that she had been given because of a marriage would have felt completely artificial to her. Downton was her home because she gave it something worthwhile, and it valued her in return. She had earned her place at Downton; anything else would feel artificial, like cheating. It was why she had turned down Joe Burns' proposal over ten years previously.
Well, that might be half true. Upon closer examination of her feelings at the time, she was surprised to realize that there was a significant underlying factor in her refusal. Buried beneath her staunch pragmatism was the tiniest sliver of an objection to the match, on the grounds that she was in love with someone else.
Elsie heaved out a sigh and unzipped her dress, stepping out of it carefully and draping it over the chair at her vanity. She quickly divested herself of that hated corset - why did everyone else in the bloody house get to be free of them? - and settled into the chair to braid her hair. It was almost embarrassing to think of the years during which she had successfully lied to herself, had convinced herself that her attraction to the tall, stern butler had stemmed only from an unusually potent brand of professional respect. She let out a tiny chuckle to think of her young self, dogging his heels at every turn, learning how to sooth his temper and provoke his frustration without seeming uncouth. Professional respect, indeed. The fondness she had for his rich baritone stemmed from the moment they met, to be sure.
But he could be so terribly frustrating. Her smile faded as she heard the door to his room shut down the hall. She caught her own eye in the mirror and saw the crease between her brows deepen as she remembered his hurried dismissal downstairs. She tasted the sharp, familiar tang of annoyance, and hurriedly stood, blowing out the candle and changing into her nightclothes. He could be so terribly, terribly dense.
Settling into bed, she sighed heavily and closed her eyes. Every time she began to drift, the anger would find a way to resurface and she would have to roll over, unable to stay comfortable. So, she turned to an old standby. She let herself sink deep into a memory, one that always calmed her when she was having trouble sleeping. It was the image of Mr. Carson, polishing silver, and singing merrily to himself.
"Dashing away with the smoothing iron, she stole my heart away."
She began to fall asleep in earnest, and as she did, the sweetness of his song mingled with the sense of his warm fingers gently touching the back of her neck.