Sorry for the pitiful delay. Blame a complicated mixture of AQA, The Open University, Acorn Antiques and Macbeth. Hence the haziness of this chapter.
It was probably a bad idea for Charles to be in that particular room at that moment. Not that he wasn't supposed to be- far from it. It was just moderately inconvenient to him to have to stand and appear impassive as the whole future of Downton Abbey was discussed, and none too delicately, by members of Lord Grantham's family. Although in his head he knew that they had more than every right to, it was after all their property, he could not ignore the stab of indignation he felt, and had to hide: it was as much his home as it was theirs.
But perhaps he was being selfish; at least decisions regarding other people's livelihoods did not lie in his hands. Watching the expression on his Lordship's face from where he stood, he experienced a brief pang of thankfulness that the biggest decision he had to make at that very moment was who needed their tea re-freshened. As it happened, it was Lady Violet; Charles busied himself for a few moments, glad to have some distraction from the conversation taking place, lest he hear something that he really didn't want to.
"The fact remains," his Lordship was saying by the time Charles began paying attention again, "That with Matthew gone we can expect work on the estate to decrease by a long way. And then, of course, we shall see our income fall drastically."
Charles stirred himself to keep standing straight, though the words made the hairs on his neck stand on end a little. His Lordship was not usually one to place too much emphasis on financial matters unless there was the potential for serious problems. Falling incomes in times like these, when there was a large house and estate to be run was never a good thing.
"Are you sure you need leave?" much to his surprise, Isobel Crawley spoke the mind of nearly everyone in the room when she addressed her son. Though he had disagreed with her many times in the past, Charles found himself conforming emphatically with what the woman said, albeit for different reasons.
Predictably, the eyes of nearly every single person in the room swivelled towards Mr Crawley.
"Yes, mother," he replied, rather shortly, "We have already discussed this."
Mrs Crawley pursed her lips, but did not press any further. Charles thought he beheld a twinge of pity in Lady Violet's expression as she watched the other woman from the other side of the room- though maybe it was just the light. Where she sat beside Lady Edith, Lady Mary was staring determinedly at the floor. The room shuffled uncomfortably.
"How much?" her Ladyship asked carefully, noticing the heavy frown line across her husband's brow, "How much might we stand to lose?"
In spite of himself, Charles found himself holding his breath. He tried not to appear to goggle as his Lordship gently rubbed his hand across his forehead, as if to placate his thoughts.
"Not too much, hopefully," Charles could not help but feel that some very strained optimism was being employed here, "The main problem is that work on the land is likely to halve, and we may lose a few tenants but we should be able to find away to make up some of our losses there. Besides, it is likely that there may be some use for the house that we can benefit from. It will keep us busy, even if we don't profit."
Charles was now listening intently, never mind catching the odd ends of sentences. Along with most of the room, he was waiting for Lord Grantham to explain what he meant.
"There has been a suggestion," he continued, "That large country houses open as hospitals, or at least places where men can recuperate."
There was a murmur of understanding, perhaps of approval, around the room. However, Charles could not quite share in it. Hospitals would bring their own trained staff. He stood there stock still for a moment, hoping that his face remained blank. The thought that he might at one point be surplus to requirements at Downton had never before crossed his mind. Now that it had, everything was strangely clouded and grey.
"What about the servants?" Lady Sybil was frowning as she asked the question, as if she failed to see the likely- and horrible- outcome that Charles did.
Suddenly the other occupants of the room seemed uncomfortably aware of Charles' presence. Clearing his throat, he turned away towards the sideboard and pretended to tidy the tea things, hoping to put them at ease. As he did so he noticed that the door was slightly open. Irritated that he had not noticed before, he almost made to go and close it. But just before he did, he caught a glimpse of someone standing in the shadow behind it. His immediate reaction was to make an excuse so he could go and soundly berate the individual with the temerity to eavesdrop on a conversation between his Lordship and the family. But the pair of eyes- and he could just make out that they were brown- stared intently back at him. And foolishly, he found he could not bring himself to be angry with their owner.
…...
Once the family had, finally, departed and gone their separate ways to prepare for dinner, Elsie slipped into the drawing room and joined him, where he was clearing up at the sideboard.
"I take it you heard everything," he asked levelly, handing her a tray of dirty teacups, attempting vaguely to be stern but settling for rolling his eyes at her.
"I'd want my ears seeing to if I didn't," she remarked dryly.
He smiled in spite of himself.
"That does tend to be the case when you press yourself up against the door," he pointed out, picking up his own tray and following her out of the room.
It was his turn to have eyes rolled at him. Then the seriousness of what they were discussing seemed to set in and they headed down the corridor towards the stairs in uneasy silence.
"They'll surely be able to find room for us," Elsie told him quietly, with the definite air of someone trying hard to convince themselves as well as someone else, "Houses like this don't keep themselves, after all!"
He cast an affectionate glance at her wild optimistic logic. He had not counted on her seeing him do so, and she coloured a little when she did- evidently realising that though apparently calm, there was a hysterical edge to her and what she said. Once the hysteria had dulled, he knew there would be a melancholy. It was no wonder really, he thought, everything was tremendously vague yet at the same time deadly serious at the moment. Like walking through a foggy lightening storm. There was one, however, they could settle on:
"We don't let anyone else no about this," he recommended in a low voice, "None of the other servants, that is. Everyone's upset enough without feeling that their jobs are all on the line too."
Elsie nodded her agreement.
"You're right," she concluded, "Wait until we know something for definite."
"Something that we're supposed to know," he teased a little, reminding her of her unscrupulous activities.
It worked: she shot a rather feisty smile sideways at him, and he was hard-pressed not to laugh out loud. It was as if he had stepped under a gap in the clouds. He was wonderfully glad that he'd decided to try to lighten the tone of their conversation. While he was making her laugh, making her feel better, unemployment and dissolution could wait.
"You're not going to live that down, are you?" she asked lightly.
"Now, if you'd caught a housemaid doing what you were, would you?" he shot back at her testily.
He saw her stifle a laugh.
"Probably not," she admitted.
The light tone of their voices- winding each other up- was fresh in contrast with the greyness of what day to day life was now, and was it might become. He sighed in the weird sweetness of it. At least, if things did come to a horrible screeching halt in the near future, even if he never saw her again after today, he had a whole library of memories such as this to play back over in his mind.
"Charles?"
She was watching him, in mild confusion. He realised he had not altogether kept his countenance amid the wave of stolen meditation. He smiled at her, a little wearily. He noticed an even more pronounced weariness in the thoroughly sobered-up smile he received in response.
…...
And he had been right, he noted with a pang of triumph in the vague recesses of his consciousness. But it was firmly sidelined by every other emotion that came teaming into being when he saw Elsie that evening; emotions with a rawness that amazed him further, he was quite sure that he hadn't felt them so painfully in years.
She was sitting silently on the settee in her pantry, knees curled up to her chest. It frightened him; her posture was almost childlike; her skin even more pale than usual; her expression eerily blank. But there was a solitary tear on her cheeks.
"Elsie?"
He could scarcely believe his eyes. Tears on Elsie Hughes' cheeks were rarer than tears of gold were on anyone else's face. The hollow optimism of earlier in the day had clearly dissipated- it probably should have been predictable that it would. He sat down in the chair in front of her, taking hold of her wrist in his hand. She blinked a little, as if suddenly able to see again.
"Elsie?" he repeated firmly, needing a response.
"You weren't supposed to see me like this," she told him softly, making no movement whatever to free her arm from him.
So the mask had slipped. He saw it now, she was as worried, as terrified by all of this as he was. And that was the single thing that frightened him the most.
"Come on, Elsie," he told her softly, trying to buck her up a little, "You are the strong one. The house might have actually collapsed by now if weren't for you. If you give in to all of this madness, I don't know what I'll do."
She stared at him for a few moments, as if completely unable to comprehend, to accept what he'd said. He mentally scanned backwards, trying to think of what he had said that could have caused offence. The lines of her face were showing definite signs of distaste now.
"You stupid, stupid man."
He had a feeling he was about to find out. The words, despite the fact that they should have pierced him, they echoed emptily, he could not absorb them. Though she almost looked visibly angry now and tears were freely running down her cheeks, she had still not shaken her hand from his. He braced himself a little, but it was no where near enough to prepare him for what he was about to hear.
"Sometimes I wonder, Charles, if you can see past the end of your nose, I really do. I'm not strong, I'm anything but, and the end of the day that's all a face I put on. Is it beyond the stretch of your imagination that I might just love you back?"
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