What remains of the Past

A/N I have no idea if you are all still with me because chapter 3 didn't get a lot of comments. But anyway, I'd really appreciate it if you'd let me know if this story is still interesting although you'll have to read a lot about Viola :D but I promise to make longer Carson/Hughes passages soon.

CHAPTER 04

2013

Viola stood in front of the mirror and put on different veils while her sister had disappeared into the fitting rooms with one of the shop staff to try on a 'dream of a dress'. Viola found the dress hideous, too much lace, too voluminous, too white. She sipped her champagne then checked her watch. 4:30pm. Only thirty minutes had passed since their arrival.

She wondered how long she would be stuck here, away from the suitcase and the letters. What she desperately needed was a good excuse to go back to Downton Abbey. A call from her editor asking for last minute changes on one of her articles, or a sudden crisis at the office. Both things were as unlikely to happen as an earthquake in the middle of Yorkshire. She emptied her glass and took the veil out of her hair. Another glimpse at her watch told her that only two minutes had passed since she had last checked it. What was taking Claire so long in there? And why couldn't she take one of her best friends with her?

"Are you ready?" Her sister's voice emerged from behind one of the curtains of the fitting rooms. "Close your eyes, little sister."

"I am ready but I won't close my eyes. Just come out there." Viola put on a fake smile and waited impatiently for Claire to step forward, wearing that ugly dress.

"Spoilsport. This is meant to be fun!" Slowly the lady who worked in the store withdrew the curtain and Claire stepped into the showroom. The dress was still too white, too big and did not suit her.

Viola kept the smile on her face. "Well. That's a nice white dress."

"So you like it?" Claire turned around in a circle and the long train wound around her feet.

Should she be truthful and be trapped here for another hour or two, or tell a lie and congratulate her sister on her sense of style. Then she might be on her way back to Downton in a few minutes and could continue reading the letters. Viola opted for a combination of both.

"Not really. The cut is okay but the rest? There is too much lace? And too much of everything. Claire, why did you ask me to come?" Maybe this would help to get her out of this.

"Why didn't you tell me you dislike helping me choose the dress so much?" She crossed her arms and Viola knew what the piercing look on her sister's face meant. I've done so much for you can't you do one thing for me? She was tired of it. Just because Claire was her older sister did not mean she had to feel responsible for everything. Viola was living her own life, made her own decisions and did not require the patronage of her older sister or her parents.

"Because…", she started. "I don't know. I didn't really think when you asked. I am not good at such things, Claire. And you will not listen to any advice given to you anyway. So why take someone with you in the first place?"

"Go. Just go Viola. I'll text Laura or Julia. My friends will help me with this. They will enjoy choosing a wedding dress. And don't you dare ask me for a favour in the months to come." With that she turned around and vanished into the fitting rooms, leaving Viola alone in the showroom. She only shrugged her shoulders. Claire had always been like this. Her threats did not mean a lot. Viola was not even hurt by her words. All she could think of was that she now had the rest of the afternoon free to discover more of the letters between Mr Carson and Mrs Hughes.

Before Viola made her way back upstairs, she tried to conceal that she had taken the attic key out of the old bureau. Everything looked exactly the way she had left it hours ago. Her mother had not been in the room yet, no maid had been sent in to clean the mess. She heaved a sigh of relief. Not that her family would interrogate her why she had looked for the key when she could simply ask for it. No, what Viola was more worried about was her mother's reaction if she had seen the room in such a state. Marjorie hated disorder, chaos, things out of place. And although Viola was no longer a child, she felt small and helpless when her mother was in a bad mood over something Viola was responsible for but which was not necessarily something bad or despicable such as not being a tidy person. As fast she could, Viola sorted the many tiny bits and pieces, stacked everything on the right and left of the small desk, put the photographs back into the drawers and hoped that no one would notice things out of place. It took her not more than fifteen minutes.

Afterwards she quickly packed one of her large tote bags with the necessary equipment. A torch, a small netbook, pen, notepad, a bottle of wine, some snacks. With a blanket and a cushion under her arm she quietly made her way back upstairs to the attic. No one crossed her path this time and the darkness in the corridor and the small passage was no longer threatening. In fact, it felt like returning to a secret place no one else knew about. A place in the house Viola would never be disturbed or found. It was her very own refuge.

The old key opened the door once again. Viola switched on her torch and headed straight for the ladder. Nothing else was interesting to her anymore. With the tote on her back she climbed up onto the platform, then went down again to get the blanket and cushion. She felt a bit like a child building a pillow fort in her room that had a "do not enter" sign at the door. Viola chuckled at that absurd thought and unfolded the blanket. It only took her a few minutes to create a small, comfortable, attic office, including a little table made from empty suitcases. Finally she could continue her journey back in time.

Mrs Hughes's suitcase was where Viola had left it. She carried it carefully to the left side of her blanket and opened it, looking at the contents once again without taking anything out. She needed to get an overview of what she had got. Letters, books, the picture frames, the old cardboard box. Viola counted the stacks of letters. If each of them comprised one year of correspondence and 1911 was the first one of the collection, Viola had found the years 1911 to 1924. Again there was this feeling of sheer excitement deep inside in her stomach. Like Christmas when you still believed in Santa Clause and his reindeers.

Slowly she unpacked the suitcase. Letters to the left, the books in the middle, followed by the box and the picture frames. The portrait of the couple she placed on top of her small, improvised table so that they overlooked the blanket, the frame that showed the landscape she put on top of the cardboard box. A third picture Viola had not studied before, depicted a group of people all dressed in dark colours with Mr Carson and Mrs Hughes standing in the middle. The background looked familiar and Viola risked opening the old frame. She took the old photograph out and held it closer to the light. A beautiful house stood in the background, high walls, richly ornamented: Downton Abbey. Viola flipped the picture over and there they were: Names, written in pencil, in the distinct handwriting of a woman. The words leaned slightly to the right, capital letters at the beginning of each name were accentuated with tiny flourishes. Mrs Hughes had taken great care in listing up the people shown on the photograph. There were of course Mr Carson and she in the middle, to his left Viola was introduced to Thomas Barrow, 1st footman. Followed by William Mason, 2nd footman. At Mrs Hughes right stood Sarah O'Brien, lady's maid to Lady Grantham, Anna Smith, head housemaid. Next to her a taller man named John Bates, valet to Lord Grantham. The other people were simple housemaids, third and fourth footmen, bellboys, stable boys, kitchen staff.

This picture too, was placed on the small suitcase table. "Thank you Mrs Hughes", Viola whispered into the darkness of the attic. Perhaps her ghost would hear it. She grinned and continued to sort the contents of the suitcase then picked up the next letter from the 1911 stack.

Dear Charles,

Viola stopped reading. The handwriting was the same like the one on the picture. How did a letter that had been send to Charles Carson made it into the possession of the original sender? She put it aside and looked through the ones that followed June 6th. They were all from Charles Carson to Elsie Hughes. But if there was one reply from the woman she had so far only read about there must be more somewhere.

Viola decided to continue her research later and got to her feet, torch in hand. A few more old pieces of luggage were stacked in the corners all around her. She lifted them, to find out if something was stored inside and put the heavy ones aside, then began to pick the locks. One after another opened, revealed old clothes, linen, some boots. Another one contained books. Out of curiosity Viola had a look at the titles and also searched the insides for names and signatures but could find nothing that revealed more about the lives of the butler and the housekeeper. When there were only two cases left and around ten lying around with open lids, Viola was ready to give up for tonight.

"Who are you Elsie Hughes. Why can't I find your letters?" Maybe the belongings of Charles Carson were not stored on the attic. Why should they? It was only a lucky coincidence that Viola had found the first suitcase and that its locks had not been rusty. She did not want to think of the reason why the housekeeper's things had not been thrown away and instead been forgotten in the attics of her old employer. Mrs Hughes might have died while still working for the Crawley's. As far as Viola knew housekeepers never married and therefore had no family living nearby. So at the end of her life, the things Elsie Hughes had kept dear all this time, had been packed into a suitcase and stored away, being the only reminder that this woman had ever existed. Whereas Mr Carson might have left Downton Abbey to live in a nearby cottage and his personal belongings had travelled with him, out of the house, never to be seen again. Nevertheless, Viola let the brass locks of the brown suitcase click open not really expecting to find anything of importance inside. How mistaken she was. She almost let out a small cry of delight. There it was, her missing link. Charles Carson's belongings. Slowly and with caution she unpacked also this suitcase. The past of Downton's butler resurfaced. Letters, a lot of them. Also neatly stacked and probably sorted just as meticulously as Mrs Hughes's were. Some more books: Frankenstein, Jane Eyre, Dracula. But, and that surprised Viola, also some items more suitable for a woman to keep. A small white porcelain cat and a silvered hairbrush. Wrapped in a piece of linen, Viola discovered more beautiful trinkets and a small black velvet box.

1911

Dear Charles,

It was a lovely treat to read about your adventures in the streets of London. I never thought you would enjoy such a thing. I hope the young ladies treated you kindly and you did not spend the entirety of your wages.

As for William, I will talk to him come morning. He has been a great help during the past four weeks. His family would be very grateful if he would become a footman. The lad is eager, has good manners and a quick wit. You could not choose a better man for the position.

The days at Downton are slow though busy. I am taking great care that the house is ready for your return – as always. The other day I started planning the annual garden party. A nice change to my daily routine. Her Ladyship has set the date for early August. There is plenty of time left for us to discuss the topic.

I am looking forward to your next letter,

Yours sincerely,

Elsie

He smiled at her words and the ones he thought were hidden between the lines. Elsie Hughes was bored although an estate such as Downton Abbey had plenty of work to offer on every single day. Carson knew that the housekeeper enjoyed the quietness of the summer months when the family was away in London leaving the house behind almost empty. There were no dinners to plan or house parties to organise. The maids could sleep longer in the mornings and enjoy time off during the day. All in all a rather relaxing life compared to the busy London season. And still he thought he detected a longing for their usual hectic life in her words. Perhaps she also missed his company? Carson could not tell and reread her letter in the hope to find a hint he had overlooked previously. But there was nothing in it he had not seen before. Oh he wished he could abandon the season, stay with her at Downton and enjoy a break from his daily work. But he had chosen this life, the position of butler and all the duties that came with it. There was no use to ponder over what-ifs. He put her letter into the small drawer of his desk where it joined her previous ones and the small black box with the purchase he had made in town the other day. He had not spent all of his wages on it but a bit of his savings. But it was worth every penny.

He awoke after a horrid nightmare. It was still dark outside and the nearby church chimed four in the morning. Carson sat up in his small bed and took a few deep breaths to calm down. The dream that had robbed him of his much needed sleep had been so vivid, felt so real. He had been back at Downton and the house had been on fire. Although they had tried everything to rescue the people and their belongings, in the end all that was left was a heap of ash. Lady Mary had survived, he was still alive, somewhere in the distance he heard Isis, Lord Grantham's dog, barking. But everyone else was lost, dead. His home had been destroyed, the people he cared about were gone. Carson took another deep breath and closed his eyes for a second. But the images came flashing back. It was impossible for him to go back to sleep now.

He got out of his bed and put on his robe and slippers then sat down at the desk. Her letters would distract him and hopefully let him forget about the dream. He had so far received four of them and each one he had read a few times already, mostly at night as a treat after another eventful and busy day. Carson cherished her writing, loved the casual tone of her letters, and the fact that she never took anything too seriously. The first three letters he read within a few minutes but on the last one, the one he had received only today, he lingered yet again. She never thought he would enjoy the big town, the busy streets and being blatantly used by his employer's daughters as a male chaperone. How little Elsie Hughes knew about him despite their long friendship. How little had he told her about his past before he returned to Downton and how often had he wanted to be honest with her. Because he knew that his secret was save with her. Carson was certain she would understand and not make fun of him. And in the early morning hours of a Wednesday in June, he decided to write the first letter that was not about his work but contained some information about his past, private things he had not told a soul in thirty years.

Dear Elsie,

This letter might be a bit unusual; different from all the other ones we have so far exchanged throughout the many years we've known each other. I made a difficult decision this night but I know it is the right one. There are some things you deserve to know about me and my past. I trust you with this secret because I know it is save in your hands.

When I was still a young man I decided to give up my secure position as a footman and sought after a different, more exciting life. I chose the theatre and travelled all across England and Scotland, have seen all the big cities and was friends with travelling people from all over the world. A busy afternoon in London therefore is a thing I was once familiar with. I will speak no more about my past now. If you wish we can talk about it on my return. I hope these words have not shocked you.

Yours sincerely

Charles

If he would die the next day, at least someone knew about the man he was once. With shaking hands he folded the letter and sealed the envelope. There was no way back now. She would respect his privacy but he would not waste another sheet of paper for a more detailed explanation while being in London.

TBC

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