Lady Mary

It was inevitable, perhaps, that they should clash over Lady Mary, although it never occurred to Mr. Carson that they might. Mrs. Hughes was less sanguine about it. She didn't go looking for trouble, but she wasn't surprised when it showed up.

Not knowing that it was even a possibility, he missed the warning signs. When Mrs. Hughes went up to bed one night without waiting for him, without what had become their usual moment together at the end of the day, without even pinning a note to his door telling him that she had retired, he was a little hurt. He'd seen her at dinner, of course, but he looked forward to their time alone. Whether it was a leisurely hour over sherry, or merely a half hour chat, or even just a few minutes simply of being together, it was something they now did as a couple. And although he would not admit it - certainly not to her, and not even to himself - he'd quickly come to appreciate the delight of a goodnight kiss when they parted on the stairs. It had gotten to the point where he was ignoring his own regulation that they be absolutely alone in order to indulge in this pleasure. He'd rather have the kiss and risk the consequences with regard to his authority or staff behaviour than do without. This shift in his own attitude shocked him a little, but desire overrode that sensibility. So he missed her, that evening, and his kiss, but he thought nothing more about it.

That something was amiss became more apparent the next morning. First, he did not see her at all before breakfast. This was unusual. Even if he missed her coming down on the stairs - and they had begun to coordinate their morning routines so that they did meet - she could always be found in her sitting room. But not that morning. Still, he was not unduly troubled. Mrs. Hughes had a job to do, after all, and it made varied demands on her.

When he met her at breakfast, however, he could no longer deny that these slight deviations from their informal schedule spoke to a larger problem. She was ... frosty. She didn't speak to him until he spoke to her, and when she responded it was in monosyllables, and she quickly turned from him again. And he could not fail to see that this turn of temper was directed at him. She had an animated conversation with Miss Baxter - right over him - about the latest news of Mr. Branson in America. She even remarked to Mr. Barrow on the number of letters he received - four - which was a lot for a man who was not renowned for his friendliness. But she responded to him peremptorily when he told her the estate workers had fixed the leak in the roof of their jointly-owned house, and turned away from him again.

He was perplexed by her manner and irritated by the knowing smirk on Barrow's face on overhearing this last exchange. This was, of course, exactly why marriage in the service quarters had always been prohibited. Not that they were married yet. But even though they weren't, everyone downstairs treated them as though they were. Everything not strictly related to the upstairs meals now seemed to be routed through her. No one asked him anything anymore. He might have been more grateful for the relief of this burden of dealing with everyone's trivial concerns if he were not convinced it was because no one thought he could deny her anything.

But that didn't explain this coolness for which he could find no reason. Barrow's smugness directed his course of action. This was not something that could be resolved at the breakfast table or with onlookers. He would leave it for the day, minimize his official interactions with her so as to avoid increasing her vexation, and take it up with her in the evening when they might find some time alone. Because he didn't have any idea what it could be.

She was angry with him. But her coolness wasn't directed at him so much as it is a protective measure for herself. She knew it hurt him that she was so distant and also that it was apparent to the others that something was wrong. Her nature, however, rejected the explosive expression of anger. The only thing that came from heated outbursts were more hard words that were even harder to retract. Cold shoulders warmed up. Words lay on the mat forever. She realized she couldn't avoid him interminably and that he'd pin her down to a conversation on this, probably as early as that evening. She was hoping her anger would have diminished by then. Because there was really no point to having an argument. She already knew the outcome. It was only for her to accept an unpleasant reality, and for that she needed time, not a post mortem of the specific incident that had brought it to their attention.

Everything was easier over a companionable glass of sherry, so he made certain to bring a bottle and the appropriate glasses with him when he went along as usual to her sitting room after the servants' dinner and when the rest of them were drifting off to their rooms. The weather front had not changed all day, making for a series of uncomfortable meals, which only made him more determined to get to the bottom of it. Since the announcement of their engagement they had been no more demonstrative - well, not much more - than they had ever been, but there was a certain expectation, nonetheless, of felicity between them. And when that was not present, it was obvious to all that they had had a falling out. Mr. Carson did not enjoy his personal relations being an open book for staff amusement. Of one thing he was certain: some things ought never to be a topic of conversation and he and Mrs. Hughes together were one of them.

"I missed you last night," he said, knocking on her half-open door and stepping inside.

"Really." Her back was to him as she sat at her desk, finishing up some paperwork. She wished she could tell him to go away, but he wouldn't even if she did. There was nothing for it but to have the conversation, although she knew she wasn't ready for it.

He put the bottle and glasses down on the side table and glanced at her, a little puzzled by this remark. He decided to press ahead. "Where were you?"

"I was where I always am in the evening," she replied curtly, still not looking at him. "In here. Where were you?"

She seemed annoyed, but he didn't know why. "In my office. Lady Mary dropped in for a chat. Look... could you join me over here or at least look at me when we're talking?" It was an appeal, not a demand. He didn't like addressing her back.

She got up, stalked over to the table, and sat down in her usual chair, but kept her gaze averted. If she could only maintain her concentration, she thought, they might yet escape this without a more serious confrontation.

Taking this as progress, he poured them each a sherry and held hers out to her. She did not take it and, with a resigned sigh, he put it on the table next to her hand. He was beginning to think he should have brought whisky. A good stiff drink wouldn't have gone amiss in such circumstances. A similar thought crossed her mind.

There was nothing to do but be blunt about it. "Tell me what's wrong," he said. "Please."

"I've already told you." If she had to put it any more explicitly, she knew her anger would out.

He reviewed the conversation so far and wondered if he'd missed something. In an uncharacteristic move, and one he could take only because she wasn't looking at him, he swallowed the sherry in one. It wasn't nearly as satisfying as whisky. He didn't like her cold shoulder. When he was angry about something, he gave way to heated expressions of his feelings, making it clear to all and sundry what transgressions had been committed and how he expected them to be redressed. Where he went hot, she went cold, cutting him off to work out his sins on his own. It was frustrating and counterproductive, and he would have been less than human if he did not think his approach superior.

She said nothing, which was her preference. If he wanted to talk about it, then he would have to frame the conversation.

"You're angry because I didn't see you last night?" he asked tentatively. "But I told you, Lady Mary dropped in to see me."

She could only shake her head. How could he not see it? And now she did turn to him and stared at him so long he felt a slight chill in his bones. Only blue eyes could turn to ice like that.

"You're angry because Lady Mary dropped in to see me," he concluded.

"Can't get anything past you, Charlie."

Charlie was the way she addressed him in private and he'd warmed to it, recognizing it as an appellation of affection. But there was a sarcastic inflection to it now and he didn't like that at all.

He shook his head. "I don't understand."

"I was waiting for you last night."

"And when I came to you, you'd already gone up. Without leaving a note." If there were transgressions here, his was not the only one.

"I couldn't wait all night for Lady Mary to leave."

He still wondered why she was so irritated, but this, at least, was something he could address. "I was about to join you, as usual, when Lady Mary came by. I spoke to her and then I went looking for you."

"Do you know how long you spoke to Lady Mary?"

"No-o-o." He didn't. But he gathered from the way she said it, that it had been too long. He tried to explain. "It was a rather involved conversation. She wanted to talk about the new Administration of Estates Act and what the abolition of primogeniture would mean for Downton."

"Really."

He wished she'd stop saying that and in that way. Mrs. Hughes could pack more belligerence into that one word than most countries could in a declaration of war. And ... that wasn't quite what Lady Mary had talked about, but it was close enough. She'd taken over management of the estate in the wake of Mr. Branson's departure and it was a heavy burden for her. She'd come to him, as she often did when troubled, for an injection of confidence in a moment of doubt. Lady Mary had admitted uncertainty as to her ability to rise to the growing challenges of that job. He had, of course, assured her that she was more than capable, that she had a fine, sharp intellect, a capacity to learn and adapt, and a rather impressive dose of common sense. And she'd wanted him to hold her, as he had often done over the years, a hug from him allowing her - just for a moment - to surrender all her cares and worries and to be again a little girl whose hurts might be mended so simply.

"Yes," he said finally, judiciously choosing not to unload upon Mrs. Hughes the full extent of Lady Mary's apprehensions.

Mrs. Hughes had not wanted to get into this with him. She knew all about his special relationship with Lady Mary Crawley and accepted it for what it was. She and Lady Mary were not competitors for his affection. That part was manageable. But it had not occurred to her that though they did not compete for space in his heart, they might still do so for his time. And she didn't think it was unreasonable to expect that she might come first with him there. But last night had disabused her of that notion. And as she'd waited for him, it had hurt more and more, and she'd let anger over the fact of it consume her. And it hadn't dissipated yet.

"Why you?"

"What do you mean?" He shifted uncomfortably under that searching glare.

"Why you?" she repeated. "Last time I checked, inheritance law was not among either your specialties or your duties at Downton." He sighed as she went on. "I would have thought His Lordship more conversant on the subject."

"She wanted to talk to me." And that was the heart of the matter. She had.

Mrs. Hughes was undeterred. "And I suppose it was just a coincidence that she appeared down here after the servants' dinner at an hour that is about the only one we get to ourselves all day. As if she couldn't have spoken to you at any time during the day, when you were upstairs, on her time rather than on ..." Ours.

He poured himself another glass of sherry - she still hadn't touched hers - and leaned back against the wall, staring vacantly across the office, away from her still unsettling gaze. He understood now, he thought.

"She doesn't know about our time," he said evenly, and ignored the sceptical sound she made. "How could she?"

"Perhaps not, although if she gave any thought at all to the matter, she might figure it out," she said grimly. "But you know."

He glanced at her. She was looking away again. "What did you want me to do then? Throw her out?" He really didn't know what she wanted.

"You could have told her you had your own plans for the rest of the evening and couldn't it wait until tomorrow."

He was struggling, he really was, to understand why this bothered her so much. "She ... wanted to talk to me," he said again, a little desperately. "In private."

She laughed though there was nothing humorous in her laughter.

"And...," he hesitated. This might not go over very well, but he felt he ought to make it clear. "...you seem to think that my life ... our lives ... are divided into categories of public and private, and that the family exists exclusively in the former. But that isn't so. Lady Mary is a member of the family I ... we ... serve, but she's part of my private life, as well, and has, I think, a claim to make on what private time I have."

"Well." That answered that, didn't it? "How convenient for Lady Mary. She's got you at her beck and call any way you look at it."

He was growing frustrated with this, not least because he thought she had understood about Lady Mary, and now it appeared she did not. "That's not fair," he said firmly.

"Isn't it. Lady Mary's not dropping in on you after hours so that she might discuss her troubles. She's just reassuring herself that she can still command your exclusive attention. That whenever she wants you, you'll drop everything to indulge her. Never mind your own interests. Or mine." It was painful to say this, and even more painful to know that it was so.

They were silent for a moment.

"Are you jealous of her?" It was a dangerous question and he fully expected a rebuke.

But she was nothing if not honest. Instead of snapping at him, she sighed. "Maybe. A little. She gets what she wants from you and with very little effort and even less investment on her part."

She'd disarmed him by agreeing, instead of rejecting what he'd said. And she'd unsettled him, too. "Yes, I indulge her," he said softly. "She is like a child to me. And the relationship between a parent and child is never an equal one, is it? But you needn't worry I'm being shortchanged."

She wasn't ready to surrender on this one yet. "Well, you're fooling yourself if you think you're that important to her. She doesn't need a father. She's got one. And a mother. And a sister." She moved hastily over that last one. No one could argue that Lady Mary and Lady Edith gave each other anything worth having. "And a string of suitors as long as your arm. She doesn't need you, too." There, she said to herself. I've said the thing I shouldn't have said. The reason why they shouldn't be talking at all.

"Well, maybe I need her!"

This burst from him with a fury he did not recognize as his own. He hauled himself to his feet and for a moment they both thought he might bolt from the room. He didn't. But he did move away, going over to stand behind the door, his back to her. He ran a hand through his hair as he took deep breaths, trying to compose himself. He hadn't realized what a sensitive issue this was for him.

"Charlie..." You should have told him to go away, to give you some more time to cool down. It was a losing battle. She didn't like losing battles, but this was one she should never have embarked upon. Now she had that even more difficult task of mending an unnecessary wound. "I know what she means to you," she said, by way of an apology.

There. That was the way she was supposed to say his name and it soothed him almost as much as his long, slow breathing. "No," he said heavily. "I don't think you do." And he realized, as he said it, that she didn't. How could she? She had only ever known about him and Lady Mary from the outside. He'd never explained it to her before. Perhaps he ought to do so. He turned around.

"I'm sorry."

It was the last thing she expected to hear from him. "Oh, Charlie." There he was, giving in again that they might move back to more comfortable ground. She made to get up to go to him, but he held a hand out to forestall her. She paused.

"We've had our disagreements about Lady Mary," he said, and she nodded. Hadn't they. Over long years he had never entertained a bad word about the eldest of the Crawley girls and she had been ... well, ...less uncritical. "And I've told you what a sweet child she was. But ... there's more to it than that."

He came to stand in front of the table, the toe of his shoe touching the side of her foot. He put his right hand down on the table top, his fingers drumming a slow march there. Her eyes were fixed on his, but he looked a little to his left, away from her.

"When I came to work at Downton the second time, after my ..." He still had trouble acknowledging his colourful past, "... time ... on the halls ... I was ... in a dark place." He spoke calmly, but with great feeling. "Charlie Grigg had ...," he sighed, rolled his eyes upward for a moment, and then looked away again, "... had proven himself a worthless and unreliable partner and friend. He stole everything that wasn't nailed down, engaged in behaviour that - even apart from the stealing - I found loathsome. And not finding that enough to torment me - although I don't think he ever did anything on purpose to hurt me - convinced the woman I loved that I would never act on my affections and that she could only count on him." He laughed hollowly. "And he wasn't far off, was he? Look at us. Twenty-five years in the same house and still not gotten to the church yet."

She heard a hint of bitterness and despair in his voice and reached out to take his agitated hand. "It's not the same thing, Charlie, you know that." He clutched at her as at a lifeline, and she held onto him.

"Perhaps not." He shrugged. "But I came back here thinking that there was no cure for a broken heart so I must instead dedicate myself to a life in service where a loveless life was not an anomaly." He spoke firmly, not seeking pity. "And determined to take satisfaction in a job well done."

"And you have," she murmured.

"And I have," he echoed. "And that was that. Or so I thought. And then... she was born. Mary Josephine Crawley." He sighed and his voice softened. And then he did turn to look at her and she saw in his eyes a semblance of the feeling she had seen there so often in the past few months. "I'd never seen a baby before. Not properly, I mean. And there she was." He shook his head. "I don't know what it was, but I loved her. Right then. And well before she could talk and charm me with all those endearing little quirks of hers, I knew that I could go a different way. That there were other kinds of love - like the love of a child, and the love for a child - and that I might enjoy that. She ... saved me, you see. I might otherwise have turned into some heartless curmudgeon who could never have contemplated falling in love with the housekeeper, rather than one who managed it in a quarter of a century."

And they both laughed at that.

"Then, I'm very grateful to her," she said with a smile, and meant it, too.

And he reached for his chair and dragged it round that he might sit before her, his knees to her hers, and speak more intimately. He took her hands gently in his great big ones and fixed her with a passionate gaze that spoke more eloquently than words ever could of his feelings for her.

"So tell me, love, is it only that she stole our time together last night that's on your mind, or is it something else?"

She didn't doubt his feelings, but a wave of wistfulness came over her nonetheless. "There's no point in talking about something that just is, Charlie," she said. "It's only something that I'll have to learn to accept. I should just get on with it. And I might have done so if you hadn't felt the need to press the issue."

"What are you talking about?"

Well, he'd asked. "I thought ... being engaged, being married ... would change things. I know it's your job, our job, to serve the family and that we must accommodate that. But I thought ... in our private time that we...that I might come first to you. And last night made me realize that it's hard to change lifetime habits, that while we're here, under this roof, that they must always come first. It was a little jolt of reality, that's all. I just have to accept that it's not realistic to expect that to be any different." She felt wretched telling him this.

As she spoke, his gaze turned from concern to sorrow. "Oh, love, if I've given you the impression that that is how it must be, then I am sorry indeed. I've handled things badly."

"No, you..."

"Please." He tightened his grip on her hands. And then he took a deep breath. "When I made the decision to ask you to marry me, I put you...us ... first. You know that if His Lordship had objected, I'd have handed in my notice. You do know that?"

She nodded. Yes, she'd understood that in the moment.

"Lady Mary is different," he conceded, and a tiny line of worry creased his forehead as he did so, "because ... I love her." He looked at her a little anxiously, but she nodded, accepting this because she did. "But ... what happened last night was my fault. I should have excused myself when she appeared, and come and told you she was there. Asked you what you wanted to do, and then acted accordingly, because you're right, that was our time." He lifted one of her hands to his lips. "I missed our kiss."

He knows how to make up, she thought to herself, and envied him a bit. He was much more at ease with the expression of his feelings, in private, than she was. She might learn something from him.

And then he was staring at her again, his dark eyes telling her as mere words never could how very much he loved her. "Don't ask me to choose between the two of you, love, because if you have to ask, then I've failed as a husband before we've even started."

"You've not failed, Mr. Carson," she said, smiling up at him. He did have a way of winning her heart.

"Charlie," he said softly, taking her face in his hands. "Hmm?"

She nodded. "Charlie."

"Now," he said, and his voice was almost its usual rich timbre again, "you think nothing has changed? That no revolution has taken place since Christmas Eve? Let me show you just how wrong you are there, Mrs. Hughes." And he took her hand, and got to his feet, and drew her up with him. A little shiver of anticipation ran up her spine. And even the fact that he'd prompted her to call him Charlie, but still refused to address her as Elsie, didn't distract her from the potential delight of whatever he had in mind.

With more initiative than he usually demonstrated, he drew her towards him, even as he stepped back toward the door. And then, as they came abreast of her sitting room door, he slid his left arm about her waist and pulled her against him, leaning down to press his mouth to hers. Without thinking about it at all, she put her hands on his chest and leaned into him. And for a long moment, they kissed.

She wondered, absently, why he held her with only one arm, and when they relaxed and she opened her eyes again, she looked for the reason why. His right arm, which might have held her to him more closely still, was planted firmly against the door, ensuring that no casual interruption might occur. When she saw this, she burst into laughter and gave his arm a light slap.

"For goodness sake, Charlie!"

The rapturous expression on his face, a lingering holdover from their kisses, vanished under a look of not quite convincing indignation. "Anyone might walk in!" he said.

She just laughed. He smiled, happy to be on her side again.

"Even revolutions - some of them anyway - take a little time to unfold," he said, and then bent his head to kiss her once more.