A/N: Thank you to those who are reading. Hope you enjoy! Comments and thoughts are welcomed and appreciated. This is also slightly AU; hopefully not so much that it seems OOC.

Routine

Elsie Hughes has not been at Downton long before she realizes his Lordship's valet thoroughly fascinates her. Oh, he is a handsome man to be sure! Tall, broad-shouldered with dark eyes and hair, a deep, resonating voice. And then there is that errant lock of hair he swats his hand at sometimes, annoyed when it falls forward as he concentrates on mending a shirt collar in the servants' hall or polishing a pair of shoes in the courtyard after the young Earl retires for the evening.

Yes, she is drawn to him – for more than his physical attributes, though. After nearly half a year of working at Downton, she's begun picking up on his habits. Every task he sets himself to –not just the ones he completes for his Lordship, but also things he does for himself –is done on a certain schedule. She wonders if he even realizes he does it. His actions are so precise, Elsie can almost time them by the chiming of the clock on the wall. Frequents walks or reading in the evenings once his mending is finished. Sometimes even plays the piano, though this is a rare event. He's recently become intrigued by the word puzzles they've started printing in the newspapers and will spend time solving them in the evenings or during tea time. She's even helped him on occasion, curious.

It is while she is helping the young Countess undress one evening, standing in for her lady's maid who has been ill with a nasty cold, that she has made up to her mind to ask if she might join him for his walk this evening. She looks at the small clock on her Ladyship's vanity. If she is lucky she may be able to catch him before he sets off.

"Thank you for stepping in for Caroline today, Elsie. I know it mustn't be easy on top of your other duties," the other woman says quietly as Elsie unlaces her corset.

"Tis no trouble at all, milady. It's nice to have a change of pace now and then."

Cora smiles as the fabric is pulled away from her. She breathes in deeply and dons her nightdress, sits down at the vanity. She watches as Elsie neatly folds her clothing, places it back in the wardrobe. The other woman cannot be much older than her –three, four years or so. She moves gracefully about the room. She is beautiful, delicately so, Cora thinks. Clear, blue eyes with pale, freckled skin she's noticed is so common among the people she's met since coming to England.

Her accent is different as well, defines the head housemaid as Cora's defines her. Cora notices she tries to hide it sometimes, wonders why. She does a much better job at it than Cora would ever be able to.

Elsie comes to stand behind Cora, carefully begins undoing her hair. She picks up the brush, runs it through her hair gently. Separates it into even sections, skillfully braids it before tying off the end.

"Is there anything else I can get for you, milady?"

Cora meets her eye in the mirror. "No, thank you, Elsie."

"Shall I wake you in the morning? Bring your tea tray round for you?"

"Yes, that would be wonderful."

Elsie nods, curtsies politely before leaving the room. She hurries downstairs, hopes he hasn't left yet. She grabs a shawl from the rack across from the servants' hall, sees him just as he is about to step out the door. She calls out to him.

"Mr. Carson!"

He looks up upon hearing his name. She reaches him quickly, smiles. Receives one in return.

"It's a bit late for you to be up, isn't it, Elsie?" he says.

She shakes her head. "Mr. Carson, I wondered –that is, I wanted to ask if I might join you on your walk this evening. Tis a lovely night."

If he is surprised by her request, he hides it well. His response is what surprises her.

"I'd like that, Elsie."

They take care after that first walk to be discreet in their private meetings. Outwardly, all appearances are kept up. They still spend evenings in the servants' hall finishing up their tasks for the day, but have also begun to meet in the courtyard to converse privately, walk the grounds together in the evenings after most everyone has gone to bed, save for the housekeeper or the butler. They are shy at first, this recent shift in their relationship novel to both of them.

He is proper; almost as stiff in their courtship as the starched collared shirt he wears. She is the bold one of the two of them. After a month she takes his hand instead when he offers his arm, leans against him as they walk together, kisses his cheek goodnight. When he leaves for the season, with a promise to write faithfully, she wraps her arms around his neck, kisses him properly for the first time, whispers that she loves him. He is stunned for a moment, then responds. Wraps his arms around her, returns her kiss with equal tenderness.

His letters come dependably, two times a week. She sends her responses the day after, receives his two days later. The cycle is reiterated throughout the season he is away –the contents of his letters filled with tales of London. A show he's been to, the walks he takes along Thames, his visits to Buckingham Palace, St. Paul's Cathedral, his desire to share this with her one day, to see her. Her responses are a little more practical –sedate –yet still filled with love and affection, an unwritten longing to see him reflected in the words.

When they first express their desire to marry after the third year she's worked at Downton, they are surprised and fortunate Lord and Lady Grantham allow them to stay on, agreeing on the ground that if their relationship hasn't interfered with the running of the house thus far, they couldn't foresee a problem with it. They have even insisted the two of them be allowed their own space when the time came for it.

About a year later, they move into a small, quaint cottage on the estate, not far from the big house. On and off throughout that first year, she has spent many of her half-days at the cottage, tidying up, preparing it for their arrival. She laughs when he insists on carrying her over the threshold, despite her protests that she has been in and out of their little house at least a hundred times.

The two of them make love that first night in the cottage, and every time after, savoring the knowledge that they no longer have to restrain themselves as they did that first year, do not have to stifle the gasps or cries of pleasure they gain from each other. They are especially thankful for this, when not long after their fourth anniversary came and went, she whispers to him that another Carson would be joining them in a few months' time.

They have been married a little over ten years now. In that time, he has become butler of Downton and she, the housekeeper upon the retirement of their predecessors. He still he fascinates her. The sound of his voice, the glint in his eyes, the way he moves, the old and new habits he's sown over the years and follows to a t. Each facet – an integral part of what defines him.

She watches him now, from the comfort of their bed. Watches as he methodically lays out his clothing for the day –his Sunday best. First he pulls his shoes from the cupboard, sets them by the chair. Then come his trousers, his shirt, his socks, all laid neatly over the chair. Ready for his return from washing up.

Elsie sighs, smiles. She moves over to lie on his pillow, continues watching him silently. It is Sunday; they are allowed a bit of a lie-in this day. He rises early today, though, as he does every day. Usually does before her on most days. Usually puts the kettle on most mornings so she doesn't have to.

Charles looks back to the bed, sees her watching him from his side of the bed. He moves back to the bed, perches on the edge. Leans down and kisses her warmly.

"Did you sleep well?" she whispers.

He nods. "Yes, I was just going to set the kettle on and have a wash."

"Mmm." She sits up and he kisses her once more before leaving the room.

Elsie reaches for her dressing gown, wraps it around herself. She finds her slippers, slides her feet into them. They are fortunate, even more so since they've had Olivia. Elsie is always given Sundays off and Charles, Mondays. One whole day where they each can give their undivided attention to their wee one. She leaves their bedroom, walks to Olivia's door. She looks in, is surprised when she sees the bed empty. It is still early yet. Most days, the child doesn't wake until Elsie croons softly in her ear.

She hears a giggle down the short hallway. Perhaps the two of them are in the small kitchen. She walks on, the giggling continues, becomes more pronounced as she draws near to the privy. Elsie peers around the door frame, sees her young daughter standing barefoot on the vanity, still in her nightdress. She is all reddish brown curls, large hazel brown eyes, and a smattering of freckles across her nose. The plait Elsie had done her hair up last night is mussed from a restful night's sleep.

The scene before her warms Elsie inside and out. She smiles. Father and daughter have both just finished cleaning their teeth, the younger of the two more determinedly so, showing off their cleanliness to the older. Their toothbrushes return to their stations next to the third, the small box of baking soda back to the shelf. She watches as Charles rolls up his sleeves, adds a little water to the powder in the small finger bowl in his hand. He swirls the brush a few times creating a rich lather. She watches her daughter's eyes light up in fascination. He hands the brush to their little one, lets her brush the lather over his face. When she satisfied with the result, she hands the brush back.

"Now me, Papa," she says excitedly and Elsie cannot help but laugh quietly.

Two sets of dark eyes turn to see her in the doorway, faces brightening.

"I'm helping Papa," Olivia says proudly.

"I see that, lass," her mother agrees, walking in to them. "Perhaps we ought to let Papa finish and you can help me with sorting out the tea tray."

"Oh, but we're not done yet, Mummy." The little girl looks her father, face still lathered up. "We aren't yet, are we, Papa?"

"I daresay say we are not, Miss Livi," he says affectionately, sets down the brush and bowl. He turns to Elsie, winks. "We're almost done, Mummy."

She puts her hands up in mock defense. "Pardon me for interrupting. I'll go check the on the kettle, shall I?"

Elsie hears her daughter giggle again as she leaves, turns to see Charles has picked up the bowl again, is lathering their daughter's face. She rolls her eyes, smiles as she shakes her head in amusement.

She is hard-pressed to deny them this new Sunday morning ritual.