Chapter 3
September 1906
They're still a couple of maids and a footman down; it happens some years after the season, and the heated months of summer. Mrs. Hughes has been interviewing countless girls for two days straight—he wishes he had as much luck with potential footmen, but he doesn't, not this year. Only two candidates responded to the advertisement, and though they might have been adequate for a house smaller than Downton, the definitely couldn't see them working for Lord Grantham.
He's starting to get impatient, irritated, overstretched.
Which is why he all but grits his teeth when Miss O'Brien stops him in the corridor, her customary cigarette and a box of matches in hand. "Since when does Mrs. Hughes interview the footmen, Mr. Carson?" she asks with false innocence, batting her eyelashes as she passes him.
He looks at the closed door to housekeeper's sitting room for a mere second before stepping forward, knocking energetically and opening it without waiting for the answer.
A young couple is sitting on Mrs. Hughes' settee, teacups on their laps. The girl is no more than twenty, twenty-one at most, and wearing a wedding ring; the young man next to her is no more than two, three years older. They seem comfortable enough, relaxed: as if they'd already pocketed the jobs.
When did she usurp his rights to choose the male staff?
"Mrs. Hughes," he says through clenched jaws, trying to control his anger, "would you care to explain what is happening here? Why are you conducting the footmen interviews? And is it customary to offer potential employees a cup of tea?"
She doesn't answer him directly, but turns to the young couple instead, smiling pleasantly. "I think we should perhaps continue this later… this evening, or maybe tomorrow?"
The girl nods, giving him a disbelieving look, and stands up. "We'll be staying at the Grantham Arms until the end of the week," she says to Mrs. Hughes, and leans in to receive a soft, fleeting kiss on the forehead.
"I'll come as soon as I'm free," Mrs. Hughes promises, and squeezes the young man's arm. "It was lovely to see you again, Jerry. Take good care of her, will you?"
He no longer understands anything.
"I shall," he answers and shakes her hand, before turning to the butler, still occupying the entrance to the room. "Beg pardon, sir. We've taken up too much of your time."
And with that, they both leave, the young woman raising her eyes to gaze at Charles with curiosity. Her eyes are very, very blue.
He knows that colour.
He turns to Mrs. Hughes with a sudden realization. "This wasn't an interview."
She shakes her head, amused rather than angry, which he strongly believes to be a good thing. "No, Mr. Carson, it was not. Whoever told you I was interviewing footmen, in the first place?"
"Miss O'Brien," he admits, begrudgingly. "Perhaps she didn't manage to fit in after all."
"Miss O'Brien has a tendency to let her own insecurities cloud her judgment," Mrs. Hughes answers, and pours a fresh cup of tea, adding a drop of milk and a spoonful of sugar: exactly the way he likes it. "I'm rather amazed you felt the need to check on me based solely on her comment."
He accepts the proffered cup, and rubs the bridge of his nose with the fingers of his free hand. "I do apologize, Mrs. Hughes. I've been rather…"
"Mr. Carson," she interrupts him gently, and gestures to the emptied settee, "won't you sit down?"
So he does, and drinks the tea, and before he knows it he's told her about all the problems with finding a proper footman, and the juggling with work between fewer members of the staff, and…
He isn't usually one to grumble, to complain about his lot. He tries to keep up appearances, face all the problems on his own. Isn't this why she admires him? His ability to face the storm, alone, standing proudly against the wind and the rain, never giving up?
Naturally, she sees right through him.
When she leans over to pick up his empty cup, her fingers brush his for the shortest moment. "Sharing your burdens with a friend is now the same as having someone carry them for you all the time, Mr. Carson," she says matter-of-factly, piling the dirty utensils on a tray. "And asking a question, or relaying one's doubts to somebody, doesn't make one look weak in the eyes of a friend."
He looks at her, and thinks of all the reasons why she should be mad at him right now. He barged into her room all but shouting at her, accusing her of something she hadn't done. He had thus interrupted a private conversation she had: probably with a relative, though that's still to be asked about. And then he almost came apart, burdening her with all his problems.
"This shouldn't be your concern," he grumbles, averting his eyes.
"How so? I am every bit as responsible for running this house as you are."
"I know you are, Mrs. Hughes. But you never come to me for help."
She smiles, and picks up the tray. "Perhaps I do, even if you cannot see it."
She leaves him there, dumbstruck, thinking about keystones and linchpins, little things keeping much bigger things upright and steady.
Thinking of her, the keystone of this house. How is it that he'd never seen this before?
Two days later, it's a Sunday, and the young couple Mrs. Hughes had been talking to in her sitting room join her in front of the church. He watches then from afar, warm smiles and casual touches, the way she adjusts the lapels of the girl's coat, squeezes the young man's forearm affectionately. After the service, the girl puts her arm through hers, and hauls her away in the direction of the village. She turns her head and looks at him questioningly, but he simply nods and waves her away. She deserves a moment of peace.
"Your niece?" he asks her that very evening over a glass of leftover wine, watching her brush her fingertips against the surface of a small wedding photograph. She smiles and nods.
"Sally. My sister's eldest. And Jerry—they grew up together, and I've always hoped that…"
"You're very fond of her, and she of you." This isn't a question, there's no room left for doubt in such obvious a situation. "Do you see her often?"
A slight shake of the head. "Last time I saw her was when the family went to spend the winter holidays in London, two years ago."
"You must miss her a lot—your whole family, in fact." Being a single child, and having lost both his parents year ago, he doesn't quite understand this connection, this need to see people of one's own blood, of the same heritage: but seeing her with that young couple, smiling and smiled at, and apparently adored by both of them, makes him wonder: does she ever wish she lived closer to them? Saw them more often?
Had a family of her own?
These are not the questions one would ask their friend. He would like to know the answers all the same.
But he doesn't speak up.
"My life is here now, Mr. Carson," she tells him, looking into her glass. "I have made my choice, and I am happy with it. I don't know what must have happened to make me leave Downton now."
"I understand," he says, because he does.
And yet, he cannot help but wonder.
They never speak of it again, not until much, much later.
TBC…