It was almost a half an hour later when we finally sat down to eat our dinner, which was now best described as dumplings accompanied by a sticky sauce. The meat Mrs Tomkinson had used in the dish was mostly burnt onto the pot's base and soaking in a sink full of soapy water.
"Nevermind, Mrs Hughes," Mr Carson announced after washing down his first mouthful of the slop with a good gulp of water. "One doesn't suppose every housekeeper started out as a kitchen maid."
At this statement, I must have looked confused, because Anna leaned forward to offer some context. "I believe Mrs Bute started her career as a kitchen maid."
But, of course she did. I imagined her regularly charming Mr Carson with her baked delights while I served up sludge as a main course.
Mr Carson went on: "Yes, her first position was kitchen hand at Downton itself, back when the Dowager Countess was still mistress."
His intimate knowledge of the other housekeeper's background made the chewy dumpling lodge in my throat. I calculated the years since the Dowager had been in residence at Downton, but conceded that kitchen maids could be as young as nine or ten, so Mrs Bute's age could still compare to mine.
"I had to make do with less in the war," Mr Bates remarked, not exactly filling me with the confidence he was hoping, considering the problems with starvation and disease in Africa.
"And I when I was young," Anna added quietly. Even though I knew no details of the recollection we'd unknowingly stirred for the young girl, my heart went out to her as she pushed the contents of her plate around despondently.
"Only a lucky few have a carefree upbringing," I offered.
"What about you, Mr Carson?" Anna asked, shaking off her bad memories and again joining in the conversation.
"Pardon?"
"Your past, Mr Carson?"
Mr Carson's knife and fork hung in midair. "What about my past?" he snapped.
"Well, I-"
"There's nothing interesting in my past," he assured us all. "I started out as a hallboy at Downton and here I am. If you work hard, you can make a success of your life."
I stared at Mr Carson as the others quickly made a show of going back to eating. He had started as a hallboy at Downton. Could he and Mrs Bute have known each other since they were very young? Had they almost grown up together? Loyalty was an important adage in Mr Carson's life, and he'd only met me last Season.
Later that night, while I still brooded over the details of the family's unplanned visit, Mr Carson came by my sitting room. He carried a decanter of what I supposed was port.
"I just wanted to check on your hand."
"Oh, I'll survive, Mr Carson," I said, waving my injured hand around vaguely to show him my stoicism. Unfortunately the truth was the cramping pain was giving me quite the headache.
"I never doubted it," he said, his voice so gentle it caused me to sway on the spot.
He stepped closer, not helping with my equilibrium by arousing my senses yet again, and bent his head towards my wounded hand. I'd haphazardly wrapped a bandage around it to cover the bulging blisters an hour or so ago, but I'd then fussed around with one job and another, meaning the fabric was now unfurling and hanging loose.
"I don't think I'm going to be in demand for my nursing skills either," I murmured, attempting humour to hide the distinct tinge of excitement growing within me at his proximity.
"You'll need someone to…" His hand hovered above mine. Then, he offered an excuse for the loose wrapping: "You can't expect to make a good go at it using only your left hand."
"Yes," I agreed softly. Then, I held my breath, waiting to see if he would offer to assist.
"You should ask Anna," he disappointingly finally suggested, stepping back.
I bit my bottom lip. Thankfully one of us still had a clear head, ensuring nothing could be misconstrued with our relationship.
"Yes, she's already offered," I admitted. "She's such a treasure," I added sincerely. "She's going to drop by my room before she retires."
"Oh." He glanced at the door as if the young maid was going to burst in and hurl accusations at us at any moment. "Do you have time for one of these still?" he asked, gesturing towards the port he'd placed on the table.
I thought about it for a moment. I really should head straight to bed, considering the amount of times I'd already acted inappropriately in front of Mr Carson since his arrival in London. The temptation to just sit and chat, however, was far too great. I fetched two glasses and offered him a chair.
Our conversation centred upon the conventional.
We sipped the port and spoke of books, poetry, and art. Only when the subject of music and theatre was broached did Mr Carson hesitate. I put this down to fatigue. He'd travelled from Yorkshire that day, after all.
I took it as a sign, however, that I should excuse myself to go and meet with Anna.
I couldn't help but compare Anna's company with Mr Carson's as we sat together. Whereas he had asked questions and really listened to my replies, she seemed completely preoccupied by the new valet, rattling off question after question about Mr Bates that I had little hope of answering.
Although I'd found her to be the most trustworthy of the servants during the last Season, I even found myself giving her my well-rehearsed spiel regarding young maids and male servants and standards of behaviour.
"You'll find yourself being dismissed," I warned.
"I'm only wondering about Mr Bates, Mrs Hughes," she insisted. But then, tellingly: "Love at first sight only happens in romantic novels."
I tried to keep my housekeeper's hat on. "Affairs of the heart, and affairs of the flesh, are considered far too distracting. Your vocation should always take precedence. According to your employers, they always come first."
"Do you believe that though, Mrs Hughes?" she asked.
I frowned, turning the way I'd been acting like a flibbertigibbet in front of the butler over in my mind before I settled on an answer.
"Affairs of the flesh, I do. Only those bound by marriage should cross over into that territory." Mr Carson's hands sprung into my mind from nowhere. "No matter what the temptation," I added, my tone emphatic.
"And affairs of the heart?"
I patted the young girl's knee. "No one can control such things, lass. The only thing we should do is control our tongue. One must wait for the man in question to tell us if we hold a piece of his heart before one makes any foolish confessions."
I would never know if she thought my advice as archaic or not. I did, however, repeat those same words to myself many times after this conversation.
I had little time to make any declarations regarding my heart to Mr Carson over the next few days, however. Both he and I were run off our feet with the demands of the household.
The guest numbers fluctuated with dinners and luncheons with numerous friends and family of the Crawleys. Mr Carson still found his way into my sitting room each evening, and I did enjoy his company, even if it was only for a few minutes or so before we both lost the battle with fending off our tiredness.
I received yet another letter from Joe, and I continued to delay with any reply. I thought it best to wait until I had more time on my hands, and less company, to write a thoughtful and detailed letter of return.
I couldn't be sure as to whether or not Mr Carson received any more mysterious personal letters as he took it upon himself to accept the mail from young Bert on the household's behalf each day. Most likely in an attempt to curb the young man's enthusiasm for idle chatter.
During the week, Lady Mary's behaviour did not amount to me altering my opinion of her. Between them, Anna and Mr Carson jumped to the eldest Crawley daughter's bidding constantly. Mr Carson even disappeared from the house a few times. I would assume to run some sort of errand for his young mistress. And as he always returned empty handed, I would guess she had sent the gentleman on one wild goose chase after another.
And, on the final morning of the family's visit, Mr Carson came to see me, early, as I still lingered in my sitting room before breakfast.
I looked up, a smile already spread across my face in greeting. It soon faded, however, given his anxious demeanour.
"Mrs Hughes, I need to talk to you about Mrs Bute."
