A/N: Thank you all for the kind reviews so far. This chapter contains one of the original set pieces which ran through my mind and made me want to write this. As guest reviewer TeresaGreen noted in one of the earlier chapters, the overarching themes of this entire story are love and death; a trend which I am afraid continues here.

This chapter is set in 1945, and I thought it would be useful to remind people of everyone's ages: Charles = 89; Elsie = 83; Mr Molesley = 72 (he was 51 in 1924); Miss Baxter = 65 (I would imagine she would have been mid 40s when the series ended); Anna = 59 (According to the Downton wiki she was born in 1886, making her older than I'd originally thought. Mr Bates would be at least 10, if not 15 years older than her, so he's late 60s early 70s); Daisy = 48 (15 in 1912, I would think). The following don't appear in this chapter, but just for reference: Beryl = 81; Isobel = 85; Lord Merton = 85 (who knows, pure artistic licence); Cora (and probably Robert) = 77. The younger generation: William Bates = 19; Frank and Peter Parker = 17; Rosemary Parker = 15; Sheila Parker = 14; Harry Parker = 9.

My thanks to the wonderful DaniiShep for reading this through for me and discovering Anna's true age. She would like me to warn you all to have tissues at the ready and not listen to any sad music whilst you read this.

Chapter 4: China (1945)

Christmas Eve, 1945, began brightly enough for a winter's day and whilst it was not exactly sunny, the lightness of the clouds – now relieved of their heavy burden of snow – were enough to make a cheerful atmosphere.

Elsie Carson awoke, feeling the happy excitement of the season settle in her mind and smiled to herself even as she allowed her eyes to remain closed. There was no rush, after all. Stretching languidly in bed, her hand brushed the cool sheets on the other side and instantly her eyes were wide open and the relaxed, happy, feeling of her mind was dispelled.

The bed was not cold because he had risen early and gone downstairs to light the fires or prepare breakfast. She would not find him in the kitchen sitting with a cup of tea and a welcoming gleam in his eye as she entered. He would not be anywhere anymore, because he had died forty days ago and she had returned to sleeping alone – something she had done for the majority of her 83 years, but the last twenty had provided such close comfort that it was exceptionally difficult to move backwards.

There was no use lamenting her situation, however. Tears would not bring Charles back to her, and so, after allowing herself a caress or two of the sheets, she got up and dressed to meet the day.

It was lunchtime before events conspired to make her weep. She'd been clearing the table after her meal and grasped the beautiful Delft china milk jug Charles had discovered in a little Ripon antique shop, proudly presenting her with it for their 20th anniversary eight months ago. The handle, he had been warned, was a little weak, and therefore it should have come as no surprise that it would choose this moment to crack and slip out of her hand, meaning that she was now faced with the irony of crying over both split milk and broken china on her kitchen floor. She sank into the nearest chair and stared at the mess, unable to do anything but let the tears roll down her cheeks.

This was how Anna and Daisy found her, as they bustled through her front door, calling cheery hellos, only to be brought to a concerned halt as they entered her kitchen.

They stood frozen for a moment before Anna moved towards the weeping elder woman who had turned towards the table to try and hide her tears. Anna drew a chair round near to Elsie and sat, squeezing her hand until she felt strong enough to raise her head, whereupon Anna simply smiled and nodded in understanding.

Daisy, who had hung back a little, unsure, even now she was in her late forties, about how to deal with the tears of a woman who had been such a bastion of strength in her younger days, moved forward to gather the pieces of china in her hand. 'I'm sure Andy will be able to put this back together.' She said, shaking droplets of milk off a large piece, which had half a church depicted on it. 'It might be unusable, but at least it'll be whole.'

'Thank you.' Elsie spoke quietly, glancing at the puddle of milk in which shards of china gleamed. 'I'm sorry you had to see me like this.'

'Don't you dare apologise' Anna said fiercely. 'It's the smallest things which bring the tears. Why don't we go into the other room?'

'I'll bring some tea through.' Daisy said brightly, already hurrying about as if the kitchen were her own. Elsie nodded, stepping around the area of destruction, Anna's arm loosely about her shoulders, and the two women moved to the warmth of the sitting room.

'To what do I owe the pleasure?' Elsie asked once Daisy had joined them with the tea. 'Not that I mind such lovely company, of course, but I'm seeing you all tomorrow.'

'Beryl threw us out.' Daisy said, cheerfully enough, laughing as she passed the others a cup of tea. 'She said she couldn't be expected to produce Christmas lunch for twelve if we were all under her feet and less helpful than Ivy when she was making eyes at Jimmy. The boys have taken Harry to build snowmen …'

'Boys!' interrupted Elsie, rolling her eyes. 'William is twenty in a week and has spent the last year dropping bombs on Berlin, Frank and Peter are 17, and wish they'd been doing that, and all three of them are taller than their fathers. They are hardly boys.'

'William will always be my boy,' Anna said softly, sharing a knowing smile with Daisy.

Elsie's own smile grew as she recalled the wait Anna had had for a child of her own before turning to Daisy. 'Did Beryl not want your help preparing the food?'

'I've been replaced! Sheila's proved herself a quick study and has been chopping vegetables with almost military precision all morning.'

Elsie smiled as she pictured the scene that was most likely playing out in the farm kitchen. 'She's doing alright at school though still?'

'Oh, she is. I'm only sorry Mr Molesley retired before she takes the matric, although he's been kind enough to offer to coach her whenever she wants.'

'Well,' mused Anna, 'he's bound to be at a bit of a loose end during the day, given Mrs Molesley is still showing no signs of retiring. John sees him in the Grantham Arms most lunchtimes.'

'Mrs Molesley is just sixty five, I'll thank you young ladies to remember! I was only a year older when I left, and I like to think I could have continued for another decade if Mr Carson hadn't retired.' Elsie's eyes dropped to her hands for a moment, as her mind conjured images of her husband, but she pushed the latent sorrow to one side and smiled as she looked back at Anna. 'I'm so glad you and Mr Bates took the lease of the pub rather than moving away. It means a lot to have you close.'

'Oh, I know. I thought at first that staying in the village would make it difficult to leave the past behind, but Lady Mary was so kind when William was born that it felt wrong to give that up.'

'And William's so good with my brood.' Daisy added. 'I never had cousins or close family when I was young. Downton blessed me in so many ways.'

'It blessed us all,' murmured Elsie, smiling fondly, if a little sadly.

The three women fell to silence as they drank their tea, thinking over all the opportunities that they had experienced and never thought to have when first they went into service.

Daisy glanced down at the floor, seemingly in thought, her eye catching Anna's. She had shared the real reason for her visit on the walk to the cottage, but having found Elsie in tears, she now did not just want to complete her task as bluntly as she had planned. Looking around the sitting room, she saw the bookcase in the corner, and remembered Mr Carson mentioning something which would help ease her into what she had to do.

'Oh – I almost forgot – Sheila asked if she could borrow your copy of Jane Eyre?'

'Of course – you know where it is.'

Daisy stood and moved to the bookcase, pulling the book she sought off the shelf. She flicked through the pages, bursting into giggles as she looked down at one in particular.

'What's so funny?' Anna asked, guessing Daisy's plan, but surprised that she should have found something to laugh about. She got up to look over Daisy's shoulder and laughed herself, casting an amused glance in Elsie's direction.

'Mr Carson inscribed a message on the flyleaf, did you know? It says 'Rest assured there are no mad women in the attics of Downton, you'd have found them out by now. I can't promise the same for the wine cellar.'

Elsie snorted, rolling her eyes fondly. 'I'd forgotten that one. I've not picked it up in over five years. He bought and inscribed them all for our first anniversary.'

'Paper,' whispered Anna, smiling as she turned over the page. Elsie noticed her smile fading before she shared a quick, questioning, look with Daisy. Her eyes turned back to the book, and she gave a little cry of sympathetic heartbreak as she pressed her hand to her mouth.

'Anna?' Elsie queried.

Daisy leaned her shoulder against Anna's in a silent gesture of encouragement and support, whilst Anna took a breath and moved back to Elsie, sitting next to her on the sofa.

'He's written something else. It's dated November 1st of this year.'

Handing the book across, Elsie looked down at the page. There, Charles had, indeed, inscribed a further message in a far shakier hand than the earlier one. 'I know the cord that binds us will stretch as far as heaven and whilst the tension will tug at your heart at times, it will stand the strain.'

Elsie was dimly aware of Daisy sitting on the other side of her as she struggled to master her emotions, sick to death of weeping which would not change things. It was only as she felt Daisy's tentative touch that she was brought back to the present.

'I'm alright, I promise.'

'I know you are. But I've got something that might help.'

Daisy reached for her handbag and pulled a thick envelope from it, hesitating for a fraction of a second before she placed it in Elsie's hands. Looking down, Elsie was shocked to see her name in Charles's wavering script, and she glanced swiftly up at Daisy in confusion.

'He gave me that on November 1st. He said I was to give it to you on your next anniversary, the proposal or your wedding, whichever came first.'

Daisy and Anna shared a glance as Elsie's attention remained fixed on the envelope, her fingertips tracing her name, and Anna leaned forward to touch Elsie's shoulder.

'We'll leave you to read it.'

'No, don't go just yet,' Elsie replied, sending a wavering smile to both women. 'This will keep. Stay a little longer.'

They did, and another hour of happy conversation was shared until Daisy deemed it safe to return home. 'Andy will come with the car to drive you to church tomorrow,' she promised, silencing Elsie's protests that it was unnecessary by pointing to the snow outside. The women made their way home, knowing that their friend would have an emotional journey to go on that evening.

It was not until close to 9p.m. that evening that Elsie finally allowed herself to open the letter. If she had to receive such a thing on this anniversary, she wanted to enjoy the comfort closest to the time she had actually agreed to become Mrs Carson, although she'd not actually taken note of the hour when he'd spirited her away.

She retired to the bedroom, changed into her nightgown and turned all but the bedside lights out. Pausing by the wardrobe as she hung up her clothes, she brushed her hand over Charles's dressing gown, the only item of his clothing she had kept, and then pulled it off the hanger, wrapping it around herself. The scent of his aftershave, tooth powder, and the slight hint of silver polish that had lingered long after he had stopped using it pervaded her senses as she was enveloped by the fabric, the hem of which pooled at her feet, the garment being double the length she needed.

She climbed into bed, propping the pillows behind her, slit the envelope, drew out the enclosed pages, and began to read. The fingers of her left hand gently touched her lips in reassurance as she took in the handwriting.

Dearest Elsie June 1945

Do not be alarmed, my love, when you open this and see the date, and wonder if I have kept some lingering illness from you. My decision to write has nothing to do with my health. At present I feel perfectly well, and I sincerely hope that it will be years before I have to hand this over to someone for safe delivery.

The idea I have had is simply to provide you with some comfort on the anniversary closest to my death. I hope it will be delivered on our wedding anniversary, which might sound strange, but I know you understand, and indeed agree with me, that my proposal was somehow more precious, given the fact we concealed our love until that moment. If events should conspire against this, however, I hope that this letter will prove to be a solace. I cannot bear the thought of your unhappiness.

I think it is the joyful prospect of the end of the war that has me contemplating my life and my union with you. True, the conflict is not completely at an end, but last month we celebrated victory in Europe day, listened to his Majesty on the radio give thanks, and shared the joy of Downton's many families as they rejoiced in the safe return of their children. Well, most of them. We have some more names to add to the village memorial, but that sad thought is for another time, and we honour those that we have lost in the celebration of peace.

I hope I've showed you, these last twenty years, how happy you've made me? We may well have had our disagreements, and I freely admit to acting like a fool in those first months, when I found it hard to adjust to what being a married man really meant, but through all of it, I have never loved you any less than the day I laid my heart bare and offered myself to your tender care and protection. In fact, I have loved you more each day, and in all your moods.

Do you know how beautiful you look when you are angry with me? Your eyes glint, your cheeks flush – it's really quite intoxicating. In fact (and I only admit this knowing that I will be safe from retribution when you read this) I have, on one or two occasions, deliberately incurred your anger, just to see your spirit flare.

I have just chuckled to myself, drawing your attention from whatever it is you are stitching. I've brushed it off as nothing, claiming I'm writing to Lady Edith (there, I have capitulated on that form address at last) on the information I've uncovered on the link between Mr Talbot's illustrious ancestors and Mary, Queen of Scots. You have settled back to your task in the evening light, the sun low behind the trees of our little garden, bathed in the glow of the table lamp by your side, switched on at my insistence so that you do not strain your eyes.

I do so love you in the lamp light (as you are well aware). The softness of it truly brings out your beauty. And you are so very beautiful. I have always thought so. I have never told you, tucking this memory away for some unknown reason, but when we first met, some forty six years ago, my first thought was that I had better keep a close eye on the footmen, as they were sure to be entranced by the new head housemaid's good looks.

Perhaps they were, I don't really remember now, but you soon proved yourself to care little for any flirtations, and within three years of your arrival you had become housekeeper. A testament to your skills, my darling.

I was never immune to your charms, although I only realised my attraction had deepened to something much, much more lasting and true at the time of your illness – as you well know by now. But sometimes, you would glance my way, turn your head just so, twitch your lips in amusement, or the light would fall on you in a particular way, and I would be struck by how very lovely you were.

I can hardly keep my eyes from wandering over to you at this very moment. You are sitting with half your body turned to the light, your head twisted in what must surely be an uncomfortable pose, to ensure you do not cast a shadow over your stitching, and it gives me a wonderful view of your neck … Your tongue has just darted out between your lips and the tip is fixed there as you concentrate … It's no use, Elsie, the rest of this missive will have to wait. I need to kiss my beautiful wife.'

Elsie expelled a soft breath as she remembered being drawn from darning an old sock by Charles's unexpected movement to sit beside her on the sofa. He had pulled her face towards him and kissed her fully, passionately, tenderly, love and adoration pouring from him in waves, and she had never really known what had inspired his actions. All he had whispered was 'I love you, Mrs Carson' as she had sighed in breathless desire, and they had retired to bed early, holding each other, kissing and making love slowly, their bodies for once belying their age and allowing them the full expression of their passion.

It was, she realised, the last time they had joined together as man and wife, although they had never ceased to kiss and touch each other tenderly, even in his final days. A true and full marriage indeed.

Elsie's hand drifted from her lips to settle over her heart, as she turned the page and began to read once more.

August 1945

I confess myself to have been distracted. You see what your beauty does to me? I have deemed it to be safer to continue whilst you are out on errands in the village.

I never thought that marriage could be such a fulfilling thing. Even in my younger days, when I thought it was all I wanted, I did not actually understand what it would mean to me. The example Lord and Lady Grantham showed, and still show, should – I suppose – have told me that soul mates exist, but it was not until you agreed to be mine, until we were actually wed, and on this precious journey together that I fully grasped a most important fact. There can be no one else but you Elsie. No other woman in the world would ever have been able to complete me as you do. As Henry James once wrote, 'It has made me better, loving you.' You have challenged my prejudices, softened my gruffness, and filled this heart of mine to completion.

I love you, have loved you, and will continue to love you with every fibre of my being and every particle of my soul.

I think this will suffice for now. I am going to put this away and only return to it when I believe I am near the end. It amuses me to know that at present I feel so well, I could almost believe we will make thirty years together. We shall see.

Coincidence had caused the page to come to an end at the same time as his sentiments, and Elsie took a long and shaky breath before she felt the strength needed to turn the page. She was shocked to realise when she did so that the handwriting did not belong to her husband.

1st November 1945

Darling,

Fate perhaps thought I was being over confident when I last wrote, and the three months interim have brought about a rapid change of health. A lingering cold, turning to bronchitis and now, Sybbie (or should I say the soon-to-be Dr Branson) believes, pneumonia, have left me considerably weaker, and I do not feel I have the strength to fight it off as I did seven years ago.

You know all of this, I could not conceal it even if I wanted to, and I believe you know the end is near even though we don't discuss it. I wanted to finish this letter, but the constant coughing, and my shaky hands, make it hard to hold a pen for any length of time. I have asked Daisy to come and take dictation, whilst I have sent you off for a bit of respite with Isobel.

Daisy will deliver this for me, and it breaks my heart to know it will most likely come to you on Christmas Eve. We have stuck together through thick and thin for so long, my love, I only wish I could be stuck with you for a little longer. [I've just made Mr Carson pause in his dictation to explain that odd phrasing, and he has told me exactly how he proposed, something I never really knew until now. That's honestly the most romantic proposal I've ever heard.]

Now that Daisy has ceased her aside, and promised not to cry over the paper, I have one last thing to say before I seal up the envelope.

I want you to be happy Elsie. That may sound idiotic, impossible even, but what I really mean is that I want you to carry on living. At the time of writing, you are 83, which is a fair age, I grant you, but not the right time for you to be buried.

You have so much spirit, I do not believe you would cast away the years which remain; I cannot envision you pining or wasting away for the loss of me. I do not doubt your love, not in the slightest, but I believe we have created a great many wonderful memories to sustain and cheer you through the years until it is your time to join me.

Do not misunderstand me. I shall wait impatiently in heaven for you. I'll count the days until I hold you in my arms once more, but I can be patient when the end result is that I shall do so for all eternity.

I've had Daisy bring me your copy of Jane Eyre and she's instructions to get you to read the message I will inscribe before you read this. She does not know what it says, but I hope you agree with me that although we have been parted by the only thing that could ever separate us, we are still as closely joined as we ever were.

Live well, my darling Elsie. Continue to be the support and joyful companion to your friends in the time left to you, and know I will be waiting to welcome you back into my arms when the time finally comes. I love you now as I have done for so many years, and shall continue to do so, in spirit. Death cannot stop true love, the connection between us will continue.

Live Elsie, and I will remain in your heart and soul until the blessed day we two are reunited.

With all my heartfelt love and desire, I am now and forever more,

Your Charles.

The last page of the letter fluttered to join the others as Elsie sank down under the bed covers, a few tears wetting the pillow beneath her cheek. She did not weep completely, knowing it to be futile after the instructions Charles had pressed upon her. In truth, she felt happier than she had done since the day of his death, his words having done their best to fill the cracks in her heart. The lapels of his dressing gown fell across her face and her senses were once again filled with the smells and images they conjured up which were so uniquely him.

He was right when he had declared her not to be the kind of woman to pine away, and although she missed his presence keenly, she would do her very best to follow his request.

She would count the days also, as well as the years of love they had shared, and when the time finally came for her to join him, her history would show her to be a woman of keen mind and independence, who had also known the truest, deepest love of all. Death was only a pause, a delay, to their shared eternal happiness.

A/N: Are you all alright? Because I have to confess to some tears as I typed that out. I have a stash of tissues for anyone who needs them. Musical inspiration comes from the song 'I'll count the days', which can be found on the latest Downton album. I think it's supposed to be a Mary/Matthew love song, but it fits so well here. And yes, that Henry James quote is from him (A Portrait of a Lady in fact), and not just me being snooty, and ascribing a literary provenance to a line from As Good as it Gets – in fact, I'd be willing to lay money on it being the other way around. Kudos to anyone who recognises where my film inspiration comes from (not Sound of Music this time – I know, what a shock, right!).

Sybbie would be 25 at this point, and I think would have been just on the cusp of completing her medical training – I'm assuming these things would have carried on during the war, and she would have done her studies , whilst being a nurse, tending to the wounded. I like the idea of her being a doctor. Now is not the time to go into detail about wartime conditions, although I'd love to explore what happened to Yew Tree Farm and Downton – I don't doubt the farm was overrun with land girls, and that the village would have been filled with evacuees. York itself was bombed in 1942. Plot bunnies are currently bounding all over the place in terms of Downton in WW2 – it would be fascinating (I'm thinking Home Fires, but with Highclere in the background!).

The Tudor Earl of Shrewsbury was the jailor (for want of a better word) of Mary, Queen of Scots when she fled to England – even being housed at Chatsworth for a time, which belonged to the Earl's wife, Bess of Hardwick, who was a formidable woman. The Earl fell in love with the Queen, so legend goes. Philippa Gregory wrote a novel about it (The Other Queen) which I read this week. I like the idea of our own Henry Talbot, around 28th in line for the Earldom in Downton, paralleling this romance with his very own Mary. Again, go away plot bunnies.

There is one more chapter to go. Reviews are the gold stars I get, which make writing worth while, and help me to know that I have touched you in a small way. One or two of them would set me up forever!