Chapter 4 – The Whole Story
A/N: Hi lovelies! So, this story feels very small to me, very intimate. It's about all of those little details. It's about that murky time that sometimes happens in life, between two people, when they both realize something else is going on here. I've been there. I know lots of you have too. That time and space when both people feel something starting, something different, but aren't exactly sure what it is yet. I think that's what this small story is going to be about. That time.
~CeeCee
NB: The reference to Hound of the Baskervilles is a nod to my Chelsie opus "A History of Moments". If you want to know a bit more about it, you can check out Chapter 9 of that story.
She was glad to be back at Downton, where everything made sense again. Something…something had been happening inside of her whilst they were in London. She'd been…reckless? No, she'd not been, not really. But she'd felt a little reckless, deep inside of herself, that final week they were there.
She sighed, closed her ledger. The long hours of a standard work day at Downton were ebbing at last, and she could set her task aside without guilt. She'd done enough today, to get the family entirely settled back at home, to get the staff settled out of their holiday mood.
Is that what is was, Elsie? A 'holiday mood'? Is that why you feel so fluttery today, and yesterday, both? She breathed out something between a grunt and a laugh in response to her musings. She wasn't even sure what that meant, exactly, as it pertained to her. Oh, certainly, she'd enjoyed the excursion to Brighton, but it had been for the staff, mostly. And to save herself from being bored to tears by the Crystal Palace or Madame Tussaud's.
Hadn't it?
She shook her head, listening to the sounds filtering in from the hall, from the kitchen, coming through her door which she'd left ajar. They were the sounds of a house bedding down for the night, and there was something satisfying about this time of day. There was still time to relax, enjoy a quiet moment, before collapsing into bed and starting the whole merry-go-round spinning again on the morrow.
Charles Carson would be by momentarily, with the dregs of whatever vintages his lordship had not finished during their tasting earlier. A small sip of the finer things in life, Elsie. Isn't that enough? She thought and smiled a little. Thought of her Mam and Dad, and Becky, sweet, simple Becky, who wouldn't know Bordeaux from Champagne, nor anything in between.
A taste was certainly enough for a farm girl from Argyll. It was probably just the right amount. It's not about the wine anyway, you ninny.
Now why on Earth had she thought that?
She shook her head again and pulled a novel from her drawer. If Beryl Patmore popped her head in the next few minutes, she'd tease her mercilessly for resting on the job. But no matter; Elsie loved a good mystery, and she loved rereading Conan Doyle's series of stories about the most famous literary detective in the world.
She usually took them in order, but she'd pulled this one out and tucked it in her back for the train ride to and from London this summer. Not that she'd had much time for reading whilst going in either direction, but she had been able to sneak a few chapters in here and there.
She opened to her place in the book, which she had marked with an old receipt. She lost herself for a few minutes in the thrilling tale of the spectral hound that, in the end, was a mere mortal mastiff mix covered in phosphorous. What she loved most about Sherlock was his methodical, unwavering quest for the truth of the matter, despite appearances of a situation.
She remembered when the tale was first published, in installments in The Strand, over twenty years ago. How she'd missed a few chapters and abandoned the story, not wanting to skip to the end without all of the facts. Now, she sighed, and flipped to the front of the novel in her hands. Gazed down at the inscription there, which she'd read many, many times in the past few decades:
'To E. Hughes – I gift you the gift of the whole story, which is something we rarely get in life. Warmly, C. Carson'
Something fluttered high in her chest, gazing down at the proof of Charles Carson's long regard of her. They had been friends back then, at the turn of the century, to be certain. She recalled being deeply touched by the gift of the novel and telling him so. And now they knew each other, had witnessed so much more of each other's lives, in the interim.
And yet…
She felt their friendship grew more complicated as time wore on. Why must that be so? She wasn't sure. Or…maybe part of her was, and she wasn't interested in listening to it right now. That reckless part of her, tucked way down. That had no business existing inside of a housekeeper well into her middle age, with a litany of responsibilities to her name, from enormous and insignificant.
But it was still there, that small, reckless piece of her. And it was clamoring for her attention, more than the story, more than the old inscription at the front of the novel.
"Mrs. Hughes."
She started, put her hand to her chest. "Mr. Carson, good evening. I was wool-gathering, I'm afraid. Please, come in."
She glanced up at him, framed by the doorway. He had a bottle of wine and two glasses in one hand; a brown portfolio tucked under his other arm, and he closed her office door behind him.
"I apologize if I am interrupting…but his lordship has gifted us an entire bottle of this delightful red, so I thought we should partake of it, sooner rather than later," he set everything down on her desk. He uncorked the fresh bottle expertly, poured them each a glass. She watched him in silence, paying attention to each motion he made. Her hand was still resting on the mystery novel she'd been reading.
"Well, that was rather generous of him, I'll say that much," her voice sounded light, and right. She was glad of it.
"Indeed, it was. I think you'll quite enjoy this, Mrs. Hughes, but we ought to let it breathe for a few minutes," he set the bottle aside after filling the glasses generously. "In the meanwhile, I thought you might like to see this." He tapped his finger on the folder he'd been carrying.
"And what's this, Mr. Carson?"
"Mr. Molesley brought it to me earlier. It's a photograph, taken at the staff excursion to Brighton. Remember, Mrs. Hughes?"
"Of course, Mr. Carson, I remember. I've not lost all my senses quite yet, it seems," she grinned up at him and walked around to stand beside him as he pulled the print out. Her heart leapt with happiness when the image was revealed.
"Well now. Isn't that just lovely? What a fine day that was, was it not, Mr. Carson?" She took the print from him gently. There was so much happiness and relaxation in the photo, it filled her with good feelings. One day, one afternoon, didn't dispel anyone's stresses, grief, or concerns permanently but wasn't it grand to take a break from them, every now and then? It was.
She found him, and herself, in the image in her hand. Gazing at each other from twenty, twenty-five feet away. They seemed to know more than she did now, those week-old versions of themselves.
"The question is, where to put it?" He took it back from her, and they each returned to their sides of her desk and sat.
"Well, the servants' hall comes to mind," she replied, smiling at him. He handed her a glass. She sipped. "Ooh, this is delightful, Mr. Carson." He nodded, took a sip himself.
"I thought of that, but it seems too…frivolous. It might give the staff the wrong impression, or any visitors, for that matter," he answered, his forehead crinkling. She grinned at that.
"Heaven forefend," she responded. "Well, what about your study, then?"
"Mrs. Hughes, I hardly think that's any more appropriate," he rumbled, one eyebrow raised. "Can you imagine, trying to give someone a dressing-down with this photograph looming on the wall? No, it won't do."
"Put it in your room, then, Mr. Carson," she answered, and for some reason her heart swooped in her chest. "Granted, the staff won't get to enjoy it, but I know other candids were taken that day. They'll have memories of their own to cherish, and Mr. Molesley did give it to you, after all."
"Perhaps I will, Mrs. Hughes," he tucked the photo away, a thoughtful look softening his features. He cleared his throat, almost spoke, then stopped himself.
"What is it, Mr. Carson?"
"Nothing, really, Mrs. Hughes. It just seems more difficult than usual to return to routine this fall, than it has in the past. Haven't you found it so, as well?"
His question startled her, caused another whoosh in her chest. It was far too close to how she had been feeling these past few days for the admission to feel entirely comfortable. She took another sip of wine to give herself a few moments.
"Aye, I have, Mr. Carson." She didn't trust herself, or this feeling, to say more than that.
"Perhaps, it's just getting older, Mrs. Hughes," he replied, settling back in his chair.
"Ye ought not throw a woman's age in her face, Mr. Carson," she laughed in response. "Though it's rather fitting, seeing as how I am rereading a gift you gave me, very long ago indeed, as a birthday gift." Why did she bring it up? The novel? It was too late to take it back now she supposed.
His face grew softer still and something loosened in her chest. Maybe it didn't have to be complicated, this long friendship of theirs. He reached over and picked the novel up, opening to the inscription. He chuckled, smiled, and shook his head.
"It's still true, this; don't you think, Mrs. Hughes?" He held the book up, waving his words from over two decades ago at her.
"Aye, I do. More than ever before, Mr. Carson," she gazed over at him. Thinking of the topsy-turvy feeling of standing hand-and-hand with him, in the foaming surf. Thinking of Becky, in her group home by the sea in St. Annes. Of all of the other missing pieces of her story, of his story, that the other didn't know, due to the passage of time or reticence or embarrassment. "The whole story is an awful lot, sometimes, don't you think?"
"That it is, Mrs. Hughes," he closed the book, and his smile shrunk, became something gentler. He handed it back to her, and her fingers brushed his. That small part of herself shivered, waiting and breathless.
She'd just realized: the story, her story, his story – their story – wasn't over. Not yet.
