Disclaimer: You may notice a portion of chapter two has been added to the end of this one. Interesting how these things reveal what they want to be the further you get into writing them. I beg your forgiveness in my edit. I think it serves the story better this way. Hoping to have the next chapter posted either today or tomorrow. p.s.- you are all gorgeous and generous. XO


1870

The cow and goat were milked, the chickens fed, and he had helped his father, a groom for Lord Grantham of Downton Abbey, muck out the stalls of the stable; there was no way ten year-old Charles Carson was going to miss the annual village fair that was set up just off the square in Downton, as it had been every first week in September of his childhood. The boy had done his best to anticipate any chores his mother or father might see fit for him to perform, taking no chances that they would find fault with his behavior and cancel the outing. Almost tripping over his own large feet several times, the gangly young man had run every step of the mile between the Abbey stable and his parents' small cottage. His mum had said as soon as she was done with the day's laundry they could go.

He smiled brightly at his mother as he helped her pull the laundry off the line, careful not to let a thread touch the ground, joining her in humming a simple folk song she had taught him. He was delighted to see they were almost finished as his mother retrieved the last sheet from the bottom of the basket, handing Charles two ends of the linen.

"You are certainly working hard today, Charlie." The boy smiled, pleased his mother was aware of his efforts. He was walking towards her with the half folded sheet when she added, "I have been thinking and I don't feel we should attend the village fair this evening."

Charles lost hold of the sheet as he looked at his mother in shock, "But, but you said…"

"Ugh, Charlie!" His mother scowled as she waited for him to retrieve his end of the sheet. Charles scrambled and almost fell as he furiously grabbed at the ends of material.

"The fair will come again. If you work as you have worked today, between then and now, I will be more than happy to take you this time next year."

Charles bit his lip to keep from crying, he was quite sure his heart was breaking.

Alma Carson was not a cold person. She loved Charles very much and was certain he knew this. She had been raised by an abusive father after her mother had died a very early death. She knew the difference between cruelty and constructive parenting. Charles was a good boy, but he wasn't as motivated as she would like. He had a tendency to act the clown, always the first to sing a song or make a joke in an effort to entertain his friends. She and her husband repeatedly had to remind him to complete his chores, often having to go behind and finish them in his haste to join other village boys in friendly games of cricket. Charles would only attend school one more year. They feared his work ethic was not strong enough to assure him a job as a hall boy and eventually a footman at the Abbey. Benjamin Carson wanted more for his son than a life in the stable. Alma hoped this last minute strategy would be the proverbial foot in the rear her son needed to acquire some maturity.

Alma Carson looked at her son's pained expression, "I know you are disappointed, but today you showed your father and I that you are quite capable of doing things without us having to repeatedly tell you to do them. Pleasures aren't owed you, Charles, they are earned. You want a position in the Abbey, don't you? A good future? It is time you began acting like it."

Charles fought to still his quivering chin as he looked at his mother, "Yes, Mum." He helped her complete the folding of the sheet and turned his head away, looking down to collect the loose pegs that had fallen from the empty line. He was determined to keep her from seeing the tears rolling down his cheeks.


The next morning and every morning for months, Charles Carson woke at dawn and completed all his chores with nary a word from either of his parents. He uncomplainingly helped his mother with the wash, tended to any repairs needed to be made around the cottage or the shed out back that served as their makeshift barn. After school and on days he didn't have school, he joined his father at the Abbey to serve as a stable boy in return for meals and a few shillings a week. Charles carefully saved his money, his thoughts drifting to all the wonderful things he would be able to buy and do at the fair in the fall.

In May, his mother began to feel unwell. She and his father told Charles she was just "under the weather" and he need not worry., but by August, she was unable to leave her bed and Dr. Wilson, the local physician, began visiting her once a week.

Alma Wilson had noticed a strange knot under left jaw bone the previous Christmas, but had felt no pain at the time and decided to ignore it. Unbeknownst to her, the knot was a malignant tumor that had rapidly metastasized into her other glands, eventually moving to several other organs. Her body was eaten up with cancer by the end of the summer.

Charles' father, couldn't afford to miss work, so it fell to the newly turned eleven year old to take care of his mother. Knowing his father needed rest, the young boy began sleeping in a chair in the corner of his parents' bedroom while his father slept in Charles' room. Charles slept very little during those summer months, frequently rising to fetch a cool cloth to wipe his mother's brow or to help her on and off the chamber pot. Having taken after his father's side of the family, Charles was as tall as his petite mother which made it possible for him to support her steadily wasting frame.

The last weekend in August, his mother took a turn for the worse. She was delirious; her mind in a perpetual state of confusion or unconsciousness, no longer eating or drinking, her body began to shut down. Charles father was given leave from the stables, the doctor having informed Lord Grantham that the groom's wife was nearing the end. Charles sat in the chair that had served as his bed for the last few months as his father gently cradled his mother's body.

"Sing to her, Charlie. You know she loves to hear you sing."

Wiping tears from his eyes, the young boy stood up from his chair and looked at his mother. His voice shook as he began to sing the words of a Shakespearean sonnet his mother had taught him to sing to the tune of an old folk song:

"Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?

Thou art more lovely and more temperate;

Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,

And summer's lease hath all too short a date…"

He repeated the verse until he heard his father let out a cry. Alma Carson had slipped away.


Men were tearing down the red and white marquees which had housed most of the village fair's attractions as the boy and his father walked to the church for Alma Carson's funeral. Charles let himself take one look at the littered patch of grass that still smelled of bonfire and beer before returning his gaze to the ground. He told himself it didn't matter. Something had altered in him and he no longer saw the point in anything as silly as a fair.

Life went on in Downton, though Charles just seemed to let it carry him along. No longer did he participate in pick up cricket games or cut up with his friends. The song he had sung as to his mother was the last tune that his left his mouth since her death.

He finished his year of school and was taken on as a hall boy at the Abbey. He was an ideal employee, quiet, courteous and dependable, as well as a quick learner. He was promoted to footman at age sixteen, moving into the abbey along with the rest of the house staff.

Although sharing the same employer, it was rare for Benjamin and Charles Carson's paths to cross. Charles had become accustomed to only seeing his father at church during the two years he had served as second footman. They had last seen each other on Christmas Day the week before and had promised one another that they would meet for a drink on New Year's Day. The Abbey was full of guests joining Lord and Lady Grantham in ringing in the New Year, 1878. A housemaid quietly beckoned Mr. Halliwell, the current butler of Downton Abbey, into the hall.

Charles had seen the older man leave, but paid little mind as he continued to pass out glasses of wine and champagne. He was surprised to see the butler headed his way as he carried a tray of empty glasses towards the baize door.

A look was all Charles needed to prompt him to follow the butler downstairs.

"I'm sorry, Charles, but it seems that your father is gone. Young Grey found him lying in the tack room."

Charles looked at the man in confusion, "Gone…but he was found in the tack room?"

The butler shook his head as he placed his hand on Charles' arm, "He's dead, Charles. Grey found him lifeless. It appears his heart just gave out."

Charles' legs began to shake. Mr. Halliwell quickly directed to him a chair. "You can go see him if you want, but you will need to meet with Dr. Wilson. He has been called. Don't come back upstairs. I will let his Lord and Ladyship know what has happened."

The days between New Year's and his father's funeral were a blur. Mr. Halliwell assured him he was welcome to take off a few days following his father's funeral to attend to any business. Following the funeral, Charles had returned to his father's cottage to find it a complete wreck. The sink was full of dishes and bits of food and clothes littered the floor. The livestock had been sold long ago and the shed stood empty except for a few rats who had sought refuge from the cold. Charles spent the rest of that day and the following washing, cleaning and repairing the cottage in order to make it available for new tenants.

He took an old basket of his mothers' and gathered a few mementos, deciding the rest would either stay with the house or be given to the church. Upon opening the top dresser drawer, he was surprised to find a collection of his mother's things. His father had given most of her possessions to the poor, but the few keepsakes he saved had been relegated to this drawer. A pair of her gloves, a few handkerchiefs, a small book of poetry containing a pressed rose and a small velvet box was all that remained to represent Alma Carson's existence.

Charles was surprised to see his mother's wedding ring resting in the bottom of the small velvet box. He had assumed she had been buried with the woven silver band, ornately decorated with small silver leaves as well as an embedded sapphire stone. He lifted the ring, an heirloom from his own father's Scottish mother. Another surprise awaited him. Under the ring was a small scrap of paper folded into fourths. Charles slid the delicate band onto his little finger and unfolded the note.

For Charles' wife

The handwriting was his mother's.

Slipping the ring and note back into the box and returning it to its place in the drawer, Charles sat down on the bare mattress and let himself weep for his parents for the first time.


Having worked diligently the first day and a half, Charles decided to take a cart to Ripon on his second free day.

Having no set plans, Charles noticed a public house called The Old Monk. He decided a drink might be exactly what he needed.

Walking through the door he was dismayed to find it teeming with patrons. His eyes finally landed on an empty seat next to a man with thinning ginger hair. The man smiled as Charles stepped up next to him, "Hello, friend. You look like you could use a tankard of the finest bitter this establishment has to offer." Charles was surprised by the stranger's friendly greeting.

"Charles Griggs," the smaller man stuck out his hand, "Actor, singer, juggler, performer extraordinaire.

Charles had never met a real performer before and he eyed the man warily. "Charles Carson," he supplied as he shook the man's hand. "Footman, Downton Abbey."

"Ah! The big house. I haven't seen it, but have heard. What is that like, being a footman?"

Charles thought for a moment. "Steady?" It was the only word he could summon.

"Hmmm…that doesn't sound too exciting...I am only in town for the next few nights, filling in for a dog act. Apparently they all ate some tainted meat and died."

Charles gave him a started look.

"Their own fault. Not so talented if they can't tell if something's off or not."

Charles had nothing to offer and was relieved when the bartender placed a tankard in front of him.

"You have quite a deep voice. How old are you?"

Charles swallowed his first mouthful, "Eighteen."

"Do you sing?"

By three o'clock that evening, Griggs had plied Charles with many more tankards of beer. Having only shared a single glass of beer or wine with his father on occasion, the lanky young man had far exceeded his level of tolerance. His head swimming in a way that disconnected him from reality, Charles found himself standing in the middle of the pub, his arm over Griggs' shoulder as the two of them sang a duet of "The Jolly Brown Turd," a bawdy song they had each heard in their youths.

The crowd gave them a rowdy round of applause which gave Griggs time to skillfully remove a few shillings from Charles' pocket.

"I shall pay our tab and we will move out into the sunshine and discuss some business on our way to the Dog and Duck, Mr. Carson."

Charles could barely walk, much less concentrate on the soliloquy Griggs was spouting as the two men made their way towards another pub only blocks away. They had almost reached the door when Griggs turned around, "…and so you see, double acts are far more desirable. You have the gift of voice, Charles! The rest I can teach you. And the name, why that's simple! Charlie and Charlie- we'll be the Charming Charlies or the Cheery Charlies…No! The Cheerful Charlies! I can see it printed on the posters!"

Charles Carson stared at the smaller man with confusion. "You want me to join you? On the stage?"

Griggs rolled his eyes, "Have you heard nothing I've said? I know it seems sudden, but I have a nose for this sort of thing, Charles Carson. This is going to change your life!"

The visit to the Dog and Duck was filled with more beer and bawdy songs, and was followed by a stop at the "Whistler's Way" before the two ended up back at Griggs' dirty hotel room.

The following day was a blur of nausea and pain in a strange bed for young Charles Carson. Without his consent, or even knowledge, Griggs wrote a letter to Lord Grantham informing him that Charles Carson was taking a leave of absence from the Abbey to pursue an exciting new vocation. Using more money from Charles' pocket, Griggs posted the letter and got the timetable for the rail station in Downton. They would work out the act on the way to the theatre whose manager owed Griggs a favor.

"You what?!" It was before dawn the next morning and Charles head was pounding, but he was quite sober as he responded to the information Griggs had just shared.

"You puzzle me, Charles. You were quite agreeable last night!"

Charles flew out of the bed. "I was drunk off my tail, sir! I don't even know where I am!"

Griggs gave Charles' back a quick pat. "It's done, Charlie boy. Now, how much money can you get your hands on before our nine o'clock train?"

Charles tried to reason with Griggs, but it was of no use. The damage had been done. He couldn't deny it. His job was no longer his. What could he do? Griggs had a connection at the livery stable and managed to hire a cart for he and Charles to take back to Downton. There was nothing at the Abbey that needed retrieval. He was wearing his only suit and pair of shoes that weren't part of his livery. They stopped briefly at his father's cottage. Quite certain Griggs had been systematically picking his pocket, Charles carefully stowed the small box containing his mother's wedding ring into a handkerchief and placed that in an empty Carter's Liver Pill box. Wedding ring safely tucked in his bag, Charles and Griggs traveled to the post office where the distraught young man withdrew the contents of his post office box. Seven pounds now folded neatly in his inside jacket pocket, the men made their way to the rail office.

Charles kept his hat pulled down and avoided making eye contact with anyone. His heart ached as his stomach flipped and flopped the entire walk to the station. He felt trapped and completely out of any sort of control. Three minutes before their train was due to arrive, Charles quickly ran behind a tree and vomited the entire contents of his stomach.


1879

He was certain Griggs had said to meet him back at the hotel at four. Charles Carson fished his watch from the pocket in his waistcoat. It was now twenty minutes after. Had he misunderstood?

The tall, lanky young man paced up and down the pavement gazing as far as he could for any sign of his friend. Perhaps he was supposed to meet him at the theatre? It was the Monday after the end of their two week engagement at the Royal, a small, unimpressive music hall in Leicester. He swore Griggs said he would pick up their weeks' pay from the man backstage, meet him at the hotel and then they would make their way to the boarding house where the Neale sisters were staying before catching their late train.

"Sir?" a young boy around ten years of age was standing to his right, looking up at him. "Are you Mr. Charles Carson?"

Perhaps the lad had seen he and Griggs perform their Cheerful Charlies act in the past weeks. No, he wouldn't know his last name. Charles gave the youngster a confused look. "I am. How did you know that?"

"The ginger man said to give this note to a very tall man with dark hair and a big nose."

Charles grimaced at the smiling urchin as he snatched the note from his hand, "Be off with you!" He watched the boy run away, "Cheek…" Charles unfolded the piece of paper and recognized Griggs' hand writing:

Charlie-

Hate to do this to you, but Alice thinks it is the best for all of us. I have asked her to leave with me and she has agreed. I know you have been unhappy with the act and will not be terribly upset by my departure. Alice wants you to know she appreciates the kindness you have shown her as a friend. We will both miss you, chap.

-Griggs

p.s. Afraid our travel arrangements require the entire amount I was issued at the theatre. Consider it a loan. Will repay you at the first opportunity. -CG

They were gone. Charles Griggs and Alice Neale, his only friends, and they had left him high and dry in Leicester. Alice wants you to know she appreciates the kindness you have shown her as a friend… As a friend? He couldn't believe his eyes. He had courted Alice Neale for more than three months. He had escorted her to dinner many evenings after their performances; he had even accompanied her to church the last three Sundays. He knew Griggs had flirted with her, but she didn't act as if she even liked Griggs, much less felt strongly enough about him to run away with the man. He had to read the note three more times for the reality of it to set in.

It couldn't be right. This was Griggs retaliating for Charles wanting to leave. Griggs knew Charles had resented the sly way he had coerced him into joining him on the stage, not to mention the torturous first few months they had suffered breaking in the act. Charles had diligently learned the songs and dance steps, as well as spending countless hours practicing juggling. It had been daunting, but like every other endeavor in his life, Charles Carson had kept his head down and worked hard. It was obvious that he had the better voice and quickly became a better juggler than his partner. It was Charles' talent that was getting them booked. Griggs knew he had a meal ticket in the form of the six foot two baritone that stood on his right.

Having seen the small silver band Charles would fish out of his bag every now and then, Griggs knew it was only a matter of time before Charles quit the act and asked Alice to marry him. Angry and jealous, Griggs had dedcided if Charles wouldn't be his partner, he would make damn certain Alice Neale would.

Charles Carson was unaware of the various gifts of jewelry and flowers Griggs had begun bestowing on Alice. Griggs knew how to talk to women, a skill at which Charles was woefully lacking. Promises of a better, more exciting life of travel and excitement had lured Alice Neale from the kind, stable arms of Charles Carson.

Charles felt sick. He knew the man was selfish and petty, but this betrayal was beyond that which he thought Griggs capable.

What if he had taken Alice against her will? Perhaps he had threatened her into going with him? He might have time to catch them at the train station. He wasn't sure if they were traveling by train, but it was his best option.

He tucked his satchel under his arm and began running with every ounce of energy he could muster. It took him almost fifteen minutes to reach the station. The platform was full of passengers both arriving and departing. He wove his way through the crowd, but didn't see them. He had made one length of the platform and was beginning a second trip when he saw her. She was seated next to the window on the train that had just started to depart. He ran with all his might, shouting her name when he could catch his breath. She couldn't hear him given the noise of the moving train, but she happened to look over her shoulder, locking eyes with him. She placed a hand on the window and mouthed, "I'm sorry." He lost the ability to move his legs any longer. He struggled to hold his head up to look at her, his body prostrate with exhaustion. Within seconds she was gone.

It was true. She had chosen Charles Griggs over him.

He never saw her again.


Charles had just enough money to buy a fare back to Downton. He was unsure what he would do when he got there, but he had the entire train ride to think about it.

His saving grace came in the form of a thirteen year old boy. Robert Crawley, the heir to the Grantham title, was a pudgy young man with rosy cheeks and a mop of curls who had always adored Charles Carson. He had been quite distraught when his father informed him that the tall footman had sent word that he was leaving the Abbey to try a different line of work.

Violet Crawley, Lady Grantham, had been almost as upset as her thirteen year old son. She found Charles Carson to be a dependable footman, mature beyond his years. He was a positive influence on the somewhat spoiled Robert and she had great hopes that the butler would serve as valet to her son and eventually become butler when Robert assumed the title.

Lady Grantham happened to be passing through the gallery when Mr. Halliwell appeared with the afternoon's post. "Milady, a letter addressed to his Lordship arrived with the name "C. Carson" noted on the back. The return address is the Downton Post Office."

Her husband was away in London on business. She couldn't shake a sudden feeling that it was imperative for her to open the letter. "I'll take it, Halliwell. Thank you."

Lord Grantham,

It is with deep humility that I write you this letter. I have disgraced not only myself, but my father, as well, with my actions of a year ago next month. Poor decisions have left me without position or accommodation. I humbly ask that you consider allowing Mr. Halliwell to write me any sort of recommendation that I may use to secure employment to support myself. It is with a humble heart that I declare to you my intention to lead a life dedicated to honest work for an honest wage.

I understand if my request is deemed unreasonable. I appreciate your kindness in even reading this letter.

I will always remember Downton Abbey as the finest of estates, you and her Ladyship, the most respected of employers.

With deep gratitude,

Charles Carson

c/o Downton Post Office

Violet Crawley couldn't help but smile as she re-read the letter. The tall, gangly boy with the large nose and expressive eyes needed their help. She made her way into the library, ringing the bell just inside the door.

Mr. Halliwell appeared in a matter of moments, "Milady?"

"Would you ask Nanny to send Master Robert to see me. I wish to have a little talk with him."

"Very good, milady."

Robert quietly made his way into the library. He had managed to make it through the Christmas holiday without a dressing down from his mother. With only a few days left before he was to leave for the beginning of the new term, he wondered what he had done to upset her.

"Come here, my dear. Do not worry. You are not in trouble."

Robert breathed a sigh of relief, "Yes, Mama?"

The conversation was thrilling for Robert. It was the first time his mother had treated him like an adult. She let him read Charles Carson's letter and asked his opinion on whether they should let Mr. Halliwell provide the young man with a letter of recommendation.

Robert was quiet as he considered the situation. He rubbed his chin as he had seen his father often do when making decisions. "I don't think we should, Mama."

Violet was surprised by his response. "Really? And why not?" She was curious as to his reasoning.

"I don't think he needs a letter of recommendation if we let him come back to work at Downton."

She had not expected this. "He left us with no notice, Robert. A person can't just up and leave their position and expect to have it given back to them."

"Charles is not like that, Mama. His father had just died and he has no family. Perhaps he was confused and just needed time to determine what he wanted to do with his life."

She had definitely not expected this mature reasoning from her son. "Where on God's green earth did you come up with that?"

"Papa. I was upset when he told me Charles had left. He is the one who told Charles was confused because his father had died and he had no family." The young man looked at his mother expectantly, "Don't you think that might be true, Mama, or at least possible?"

Violet Crawley knew what it was to be confused and to make bad decisions. Robert had only been a baby when she, herself, had almost made a life shattering decision. The actions of a spurned woman on a cold night in Russia had been the source of her second chance at respectable life.

She looked at the pleading eyes of her son, "I will have to speak to your papa when he returns this evening. You will know our decision in the morning."

Charles Carson was sleeping on a small cot in the station master's office. Mr. Wembley was an old friend of Charles' father and had felt sorry for the lad who had turned up penniless. Certain he would hear something from the Abbey the next day; he had gratefully accepted the station master's charity.

"Charles!" Mr. Wembley shook him by his shoulder, "Charles, wake up! The Lord's carriage is here. You are to take it to the Abbey!"

Charles jumped up, immediately hitting his head on a shelf. He rubbed his head with one hand as he used the other to pull on his shoes. Taking a quick look in the mirror, he tried to smooth his unruly hair the best he could. He pulled on his coat and quickly shook Mr. Wembley's hand, thanking him for his kindness.

Charles did his best to straighten his appearance as the carriage pulled up to the back yard of the large house.

Mr. Halliwell was standing by the door, his hands tucked behind his back. "The prodigal son returns." The butler was a kind and forgiving man who had always been partial to the quiet young man. "I don't know what they have decided, lad, but it is nice to see you again."

Charles gave Mr. Hallowell a grateful smile before following him into the house. He tried not to make eye contact as he encountered familiar faces at each turn, but was touched to see the young ginger haired assistant cook Beryl offer a warm smile as he made his way past the kitchen.

Mr. Halliwell took him directly into the library; its only inhabitant was Lady Grantham.

"Good morning, Charles."

"Good morning, milady." Charles held his hat in his hands as he struggled to read the woman's face.

"I am afraid Lord Grantham was called away early this morning, but I think I may address the question posed in your letter." She pursed her lips and took a deep breath, "I am afraid we will not be able to provide you with a letter of recommendation, Charles."

His stomach fell. He had anticipated this would be her response, but had held out a small hope that he might have found her in a charitable mood.

"I understand, milady. I appreciate you taking the time to tell me in person."

"I am not finished, Charles. We cannot offer you a letter of recommendation when you have no need for one."

Charles was thoroughly confused by her statement. "Milady?"

"If you accept, and I will think you quite the fool if you do not, but if you accept, you will be reinstated as second footman. This is a rare second chance, young man. I hope you will treat it as the precious gift it is."

"Yes, milady, I most gratefully accept. Thank you. Thank you very much."

"As to your absence, we will say no more of it. Your father was a respected member of our staff, as were you. I trust you will do your best to regain that respect?"

"You have my word, milady."

"Very well. Mr. Halliwell, please inform the staff they have a new footman."

The butler managed to sneak a wink to the young footman, "Very good, milady."

"Oh, Charles? Please make a stop in the nursery before you join Mr. Halliwell downstairs. I believe someone would like to welcome you back."


1895

Charles Carson stood in front of the small looking glass that hung by a ribbon over his wash stand. His features were slightly distorted in the candlelight by which he had dressed. It was four-thirty in the morning and he hadn't slept a wink the night before his first day as butler of Downton Abbey.

The house was quiet and still with the exception of the pop of crackling wood as the newest scullery maid moved from room to room lighting the fireplaces throughout the large house.

Mr. Carson stepped into what was now his pantry and lit the pewter candelabra that sat on the cabinet nearest the silver closet. He retrieved his keys from their position on his hip and quickly unlocked the closet which contained a selection of platters, tureens, candelabras, and various other pieces dating back as far as the Fourteenth Century. He inhaled deeply as his eyes ran over the inventory. He reached into his pocket and retrieved a small velvet box slightly smaller than a snuff box. He carefully slid his parcel behind a rarely used sugar bowl resting in the corner of the second shelf.

The symbolism didn't register with him, but in fact, he had just placed his mother's wedding ring in the most secure vault- the heart of the stately house. At that moment he subconsciously made a promise to love, cherish and obey, in sickness and in health, Downton Abbey and the family who inhabited it.

The decision to accept the post of butler afforded him a greater degree of respect from the staff and the village, but he also knew he was turning his back on a life that included a wife and family of his own. Having devoted the last sixteen years of his life as footman, valet and eventually under butler to Lord and Lady Grantham, and lately, the new Lord and Lady Grantham, their son and his American wife, he felt a greater tie to the Crawley family than any other group of people. It was a decision that had not been difficult to make.

He took one more look at the cabinet, his glance finally resting on the sugar bowl on the second shelf. "Best get on with it," his voice barely more than a whisper, he closed the doors, locked the cabinet and began the first of many days as butler to what he considered the finest stately home in Yorkshire, and if he had anything to do with it, England.


Indulgent note: My eldest niece and I were talking after seeing Into the Woods at Christmas. She asked, "Why are the mothers always dead or have to die?" She was referring to Bambi, Cinderella, Snow White... Mine died from the same cancer I issued Charles' mother when I was very young. I wrote this last chapter on what would have been her 60th birthday.