A/N: Thank you for all the wonderful reviews, you've been most kind to me… I don't think I deserve it!

This chapter has been somewhat inspired by Lovisa Cansino's dream. I'm using parts of said dream with her kind permission.

Perhaps I should point out that the next chapter will be the last, and the rating might end up closer to M again… Does anyone mind?


Chapter 3, or: Silence is not golden

"Oh, Mrs. Hughes… it's wonderful! When did you ever find the time?"

Elsie smiled sadly in response, and brushed some imaginary dust off the fabric. "I found myself looking for things to do this past week, milady."

Lady Mary looked down at the beautiful, lace-trimmed veil and sighed deeply. "Mrs. Hughes… I know we don't always see eye to eye, but I would like you to know that—I'm very sorry. I never thought—"

"Neither did I," Elsie cut in, determined to keep the conversation short and impersonal. Delving into the fact that she had neither spoken to Charles nor spent any time alone with him since the ill-fated celebration of St. Patrick's Day, was not on her agenda for the day.

Getting through the wedding unscathed, on the other hand, was.

She turned back to the task at hand, that is: aligning the ruffles on the wedding dress, and pinning the veil to Lady Mary's dark curls. Lady Grantham, currently occupied with attending to her American relatives, would join them in a moment and take over, but Elsie wished to see everything through till the end. It would at least keep her hands occupied, and blur the edges of despair residing in her heart.

"I like this dress," Lady Mary said, clearly uncomfortable with the forced silence. "Is it new?"

Elsie looked down at the pale-green frock with appreciation. "Actually, Mrs. Crawley was kind enough to lend it to me."

"You should consider not giving it back, then. I could make some excuses for you."

"That's… very generous of you, milady, but I have to decline."

"At least wear this with it, if you will."

Elsie looked down at the tear-shaped crystal pendent on a fine silver chain, and drew in a shaky breath. "Thank you, milady, it's very kind of you."

"Nonsense. You should be pretty today, Mrs. Hughes. For yourself… if not for anything else."


By the time she reached the church, she felt a little as if it was herwedding. And it hurt even more.

Everybody seemed to have made it their mission to make sure she looked astoundingly pretty. When she went down to the kitchen to inspect the maids' outfits, Miss O'Brien even gave her two rosebuds to pin on her hat, and Mrs. Patmore complimented the shade of her (borrowed) dress.

Elsie was starting to feel like a victim of some vicious scheme. This was all too good to be true.

And now she was standing in the crowd occupying the back of the church, watching Lady Mary Crawley marrying the man she'd loved for years, and felt numb, numb and cold, as if somebody replaced her heart with a chunk of ice.

She let everyone walk past her as the happy couple exited into the sun, and hovered in the emptied building, half-listening to the laughter and cheers outside, clenching her gloved hands into fists over and over again.

She wouldn't cry. Not yet, not until she was back in her room, as cold and empty as her heart.

It served her right, wanting too much, pushing too hard, when things had been so wonderful, and… No, she shouldn't go there again, not if she was to supervise the reception back home.

The noise outside died down a little. Elsie let out one last sigh and turned on her heel, walking briskly towards the door in hope to catch up with the crowd before the servants reached the house.

She opened the half-closed door, and wrinkled her nose as the sun shone straight in her face.

There was a faint, whooshing sound, and something light and soft hit her squarely on the chest.

She held out her arms instinctively, blinked against the bright light—and found herself cradling an armful of a wedding bouquet, as the cheers erupted all around her.

This was how a rabbit caught in a battue must feel, Elsie decided as she looked at the cheerful assembly. The Crawleys, their wedding guests, the servants—everybody was there, clapping and hooting, and apparently having a great time watching her embarrassed expression, and the way the pale green of her dress accentuated the brick red of her complexion. She managed a weak smile and stepped forward, extending the bouquet to Lady Mary.

"Forgive me, milady—I believe you dropped something."

Mr. Crawley laughed and patted her arm gently, pushing the flowers away. "It's a tradition, Mrs. Hughes. The fate chose you. Keep them; you never know what's in store, do you?"

"I have a fairly good idea, sir. The 'tradition' is likely to be wasted on me—but since you insist, I won't offend you with declining." She brought the pale pink roses to her face and inhaled their sweet, delicate scent, suddenly feeling positively giddy, and no longer caring for propriety. "These are wonderful, thank you. Now, if you excuse me, I need to make sure your reception is as perfect as the service has been…"


Four hours later, she still hadn't had the time to put the flowers in a vase. They were going to waste away, lying abandoned on her desk: much like her own chances for a happy marriage had done.

Elsie found it rather appropriate, though very, very sad.

She spent the afternoon walking between the rooms on the ground floor, the terrace and the kitchen, scolding overly chirpy maids, adjusting tablecloths, making sure the guests had enough food and drink, overseeing everything and every now and then fixing Thomas with a level glare to let him know she knew exactly how many glasses of wine he'd managed to gulp at.

She was glad to be busy: especially since she seemed to be choosing all the right places to be, for she never once bumped into Charles. She didn't think she could face him, not on this day.

"Mrs. Hughes?"

She turned to Anna, checking for any signs of sadness or exhaustion in the girl's face—but no, Anna was a brave, strong woman, and she wouldn't let her mistress' wedding ruin her mood, not even when her own husband was imprisoned for a murder he didn't commit. "What is it, Anna? Have we lost anymore glasses?"

"Oh, no, Rosie has paid attention after the first time… It's Mrs. Patmore. I thought I saw her go into your parlour when I was downstairs a moment ago, muttering something about the store cupboard key…"

Elsie felt her blood boil. The key was safely attached to the hoop at her waist, but if that bleeding woman did something to her flowers… "Can you manage here alone for a moment, Anna? I won't be long."

"Of course, Mrs. Hughes. Take as long as you need."

There was something peculiar about the girl's smile, but there was no time to ponder over that—a cook in a rampage was never a good thing to deal with. Elsie cast one last glance at the wedding guests, and headed downstairs.


The door to her parlour stood ajar, and it only aggravated Elsie further. She pushed at the door with slightly more force than necessary. "Now, Mrs. Patmore, kindly explain what on Earthare you doing—"

She stopped dead in her tracks.

It wasn't Mrs. Patmore invading her parlour.

It was Charles.

He stood by her desk, running his fingertips over the delicate petals of Lady Mary's roses—Elsie's roses—which were no longer thrown across the accounting books and notes, but placed in a crystal vase, obviously borrowed from upstairs. When she opened the door, he quickly withdrew his hand and stood at attention, the tips of his ears turning pink. "Elsie, I—"

She was furious. She'd been tricked to come down here, in the middle of a very important day, and what for? To have him say her name for the first time in… how many days, exactly? Seven? Eight? To see that he'd put her flowers in water, like an obedient lady's maid would?

What was he playing at?

She would have none of this, not today of all the days.

"Excuse me, Mr. Carson," she interrupted him with a bite in her voice, "but I don't have time for this conversation just now. As you may have noticed, the house is in quite an uproar, and somebody should try to control it all: especially since it looks like the butler has forgotten his duties, and decided to lurk downstairs instead of tending to the guests. I'll be heading upstairs now, and I recommend you do the same!"

She turned on her heel, ready to rush out of the room and run up the stairs if necessary, but he stopped her, grasping her left elbow and turning her back towards him. "No, Elsie, please—I have cleared this with his lordship, it's perfectly alright if we stay here a moment longer, and… I have something to say to you." He sighed and ran his free hand through his hair, mussing it terribly. "Would you please listen to me? I know I have no right to ask this of you, but—"

Angry as she was at him, she didn't appreciate a grovelling man. "Fine," she spat, relaxing her shoulders a fraction and crossing her arms before her. "Whatever can be so important as to have you leave the wedding reception of Lady Mary, of all the people?"

"You."

She blinked and frowned. "I beg your pardon?"

Charles let out after deep sigh and pulled her towards him, putting both his hands on her elbows. "Elsie, I know I have hurt you, and I cannot begin to tell you how bad it makes me feel. I didn't know what else to do, I…"

Elsie swallowed heavily, fighting back the tears. "You simply could have told me, Charles. You could have said you didn't want to, that it would complicate your life, both our lives, if we did, and I would have… well, maybe I wouldn't have understood, not right away, but… I like to think I'd learn to live with it…"

He gaped at her, furrowing his brows. "Lived with what, exactly? Elsie, what in Heaven's name are you on about?"

"I'm talking about you… not wanting to get married to me."

"But, Elsie—I want to marry you!"


It was her turn to gape. She felt her knees go weak, and leaned against the door, closing it firmly with her weight. This was too much. Something hadto be wrong with the world, or with her: she couldn't be hearing these words, not could she?

"…you do?"

Charles chuckled and slid his hands down her arms, closing her smaller hands in his. "Of course I do. How could you ever doubt it? I was simply waiting for this…"

He fished around in his pocket, and produced a small box covered in black velvet, which upon opening revealing a ring: a band of gold with a single, blue-and-green stone.

It was quite simple, and by no means looked expensive, but it was elegant and unique in its form.

It was by far the most beautiful piece of jewellery Elsie had ever seen, and it took her breath away.

After what seemed an eternity of silence, Charles cleared his throat and raised her right hand to his lips. "Elsie Hughes, love of my life: would you make me the happiest man on Earth, and become my wife?"

She looked from the ring to his face. And back. And again. Something very strange was going on here.

"Are you trying to tell me," she said carefully, trying to control a tantrum of emotions rising in her, "that you put me through all this misery and sorrow—that you had me crying my heart out every single night for the past week—that you let me feel completely abandoned—because you were waiting for a ring to be delivered?"

Charles' ears were now completely pink, and the tops of his cheeks started to change colour as well. "Elsie, please let me explain… it's a little more complicated than this."

She slid her hand away from his grasp and crossed her arms again. "I'm listening."

Charles sighed and looked down, clearly embarrassed. "You see, this was my mother's ring: the most valuable thing she'd ever owned. When I left home to… perform… I took it with me, just as a precaution. I never meant to part with it.

"I'm sorry to say I was forced to pawn it pretty soon, and I never got round to buying it back. When I came back to Downton, my mother was so glad to see me that she forgave me for taking it, and we forgot about it for years. Only years later, shortly before she passed away, she made me promise I'd find it, and give it to the woman I chose to marry.

"I haven't thought about it for years—I mean, I have, when I first met you, but then we became friends, and we never talked about… You know very well how it turned out."

Elsie nodded, all too painfully aware of all the years they'd wasted. "So, what changed?"

"Our trip to York, when we… came to an understanding: it made me realize you were the only woman I could ever give this ring to. So I started writing letters—I must have contacted four dozens of pawn-shop owners in London before I found it, but I did: and here it is now, yours for the taking, as it always should have been…"

Elsie blinked. She rubbed her eyes with her thumb and forefinger. She pressed a hand against her lips to stifle a wail. "So you knew you were going to propose to me—even without Lord Grantham stating so boldly that he wouldn't mind if you—if we—married?"

"Yes."

"And you were only waiting for some pawnbroker to send you news on your mother's ring?"

"I was, yes."

"Then why haven't you told me anything?"

Charles' face turned beetroot red, and he wouldn't meet her eyes. A wise decision, since he'd most probably burn to a crisp if he did. "I wanted to do it all properly, Elsie…"

"By making me think you didn't love me enough to marry me? By putting me through all this suffering?"

He didn't have an answer to that. She would have been surprised if he did.

"Charles Carson, you might just be the greatest fool I have ever met."

He sighed, nodding miserably, eyes still fixed on the floor. "I know. I can only hope you'd forgive me one day, and grant me your friendship again… for I do believe this is a 'no'?"

"No, it's not."

He finally raised his head, looking at her with hope and disbelief. "It isn't?"

"Of course not." She reached out and pulled him to her by his tie. "If I didn't marry you, who would be there to make sure you didn't lose your way in the world like a child in the fog?"

The smile on his face was the most beautiful thing she'd seen all week.

Or perhaps all her life.

"Elsie," he murmured, and leaned in to kiss her hair. "My dear, darling, lovely Elsie…"

She stopped his hand as he fumbled with the ring, and closed the box shut, putting it back in his pocket. "We can take care of the formalities later, Charles."

"But—" he protested weakly, but shut right up as she ran her hands across his chest and undid his tie.

"Later," she repeated firmly, pulling him closer to her and she leaned against the door. "As of now, I'm in a pressing need for you to prove to me exactly how much you love me—I believe your negotiations with Lord Grantham have granted us more than just five minutes of time?..."


As it turned out, they have.

And he apparently loved her a lot.

TBC…