IV:
It had not been a good day. Charles had spent most of it wishing he had been at the hospital rather than the Abbey; Barrow had been infuriating, Alfred had been testing his patience, and even the arrival of Mrs. Patmore had done nothing to assuage his grumpiness. In fact, if anything, it had made him more irritable to see the cook in such good spirits after her short time away. He hadn't had any time to speak to her or inquire about Miss Hughes, so there was yet another ball to juggle in the air.
He didn't know how many more things he could keep suspended before the world came crashing down around his shoulders; he really didn't.
He paused outside Elsie's room, surprised to hear a voice coming from within the room. "You were always the brave one of us, Elsie. Mam always said so – always made me feel so badly because you weren't home to help because I was worthless to her and you were so much help. You were so brave because you left and made your way in the big wide world." The voice changed, became softer, but slightly mocking. "'You know your sister isn't exactly the sharpest tool in the shed, but she can make a bed with tighter corners than anyone I know. Elsie May isn't the prettiest lass, but she's got strong hands and a good heart and she'll last a long time in the world with those things, Becky Anne. Our Elsie lass is a good lass – she may climb everything in sight, but she's fearless and she'll stare down the Lord God Himself if he tried to take one of us away.'" The voice trailed off into a sardonic laugh. "I don't mean to be cruel, but if Mammy could see you right now, she might smack you into next Tuesday, Elsie."
Charles swallowed hard, torn between wanting to rush into the room and confront the woman who was being so cruel to Elsie when she could not fight back, and between being too afraid to hurt the woman who was fully conscious of the hurt that had already been inflicted. In the end, he stayed silent and lingered in the corridor shamefully, no better than Barrow with his eavesdropping.
"I used to be jealous of you," the voice continued softly, the brogue thicker and warmer than Elsie's. "Because you got to get away and do things that I didn't. Because you didn't have to listen to Mam and her incessant nagging. If I didn't do everything just so it weren't good enough and lor', how Elsie would've done it so much better." There was a heavy sigh. "But you're my little sister. And you helped me – I love you. Of course I love you. Ever since we were old enough to know what it meant to love each other, I've loved you."
There was a long silence, then a quick inhalation of breath.
"Do you remember when the roof half came off the barn in that storm?" she said, her voice rising a little bit. "You couldn't have been more than… fourteen? Fifteen? I think it was right before I turned sixteen, because Da couldn't afford to buy me a gift that year because the harvest was bad and we hadn't got anything. We were going to starve because the roof was leaking on the barn and the grain was rotting and… and you got up there in your petticoats and pantalettes and shift and a pair of Da's old bracers and your corset and said if all the men in Argyll were too cowardly to fix a barn roof, you'd do it yourself, and by God, a little slip of a girl put the roof back on our barn. You got your bum blistered by Mam after, but I've never been so proud of you. My strong baby sister, fearless and strong."
Another long silence.
"Oh, Elsie… Won't you please open your eyes and look at me?"
The tears and anguish in her voice were Carson's ultimate undoing. He knocked on the door and cleared his throat. "Excuse me," he said softly, "I don't mean to bother, but it's time for Mrs. Hughes's feeding."
The woman jumped up from Elsie's bedside awkwardly, grabbing her coat and handbag, dropping both things repeatedly as one of her hands never ceased to be in furious motion. "I'm sorry – so sorry," she stammered.
"Don't apologize, you've done nothing wrong," Carson said gently. "You must be Miss Hughes. I am Charles Carson. Your sister –"
"Has told me all about you," she assured him with a small smile. "Except she did not say that you were… quite so tall."
He smiled wanly. "I wish she had told me about you," Carson said, his voice low and soft. "I would liked to have met you before now."
"She's always been very protective of me," Becky said, looking over her shoulder at Elsie as she lay in her bed without movement. "Ever since I came home from school, she's made it her mission to watch out for me. She means well, I know, but…" The woman bit her lip in a gesture that reminded him so strongly of her sister that it almost made him weep. "Have you ever wished, Mr. Carson, that you could be free? Really, truly free? From everything – that you didnae have to work or think of the family you serve or… or get up in the morning or go to bed when the sun went down or you could eat chocolate cake for breakfast or – or fall in love?"
He hesitated for a moment, tried to put himself into her place. She had been coddled and prodded and passed around, treated like a commodity, with Elsie the only person who actually cared enough to really see to her welfare, but never really understanding what lay beneath the fragile, cracked exterior.
"Miss Hughes," Carson said gruffly, attempting to restrain his emotions, "I will never know freedom again until your sister opens her eyes."
Becky looked at him, startled. "Oh," she gasped softly. "But she never – she never said –"
"She didn't know. Before… before it happened. I am ashamed that I did not tell her."
"Why didn't you?" she asked, eyes wide.
"Oh, never you mind, miss," he said softly. "It's time for you to go home with Mrs. Crawley for the night and get some rest. You'll never do our girl and good at all if you're tired."
"But you'll be with her?" Becky prompted hopefully.
He nodded. "I shall be with her," Carson agreed. "Go rest, Miss Becky."
"Thank you, Mr. Carson," she murmured, stifling a yawn. "I'm really very… ve-" The word died in her throat as her eyes rolled back in her head and her body went rigid. She fell to the floor, convulsing.
"Mrs. Crawley!" Carson shouted. "Nurse Hanley! Miss Hughes is –"
Mrs. Crawley was in the room very quickly, pulling Becky onto her side and making sure she was able to breathe, but otherwise not restricting her bucking movements or interfering. "It is a seizure, Mr. Carson – she has them several times per week," Mrs. Crawley explained crisply. "There we are, Becky, that's a lass – that's a girl… almost over, lass," she murmured. "She's overtired. We should have gone home ages ago."
"She was trying to tell me she was tired," Carson said very quietly, horrified that he had seemingly been the cause of the seizure. "I can't – will she be –"
Becky went limp and began to breathe normally again, leaning into Mrs. Crawley's embrace with disoriented exhaustion. "So sleepy," she mumbled.
"I know, love, I know," Mrs. Crawley murmured. "Carson, will you please help carry her to Crawley House? I wouldn't ask if I didn't have to. I know it's past time to feed Elsie, but –"
He didn't mean to sound cruel toward Elsie, so he would never speak the words aloud, but she could wait a few minutes longer for the enforced cruelty of having a tube shoved down her throat and gruel poured into her stomach. If he had his way, she would never have to face it again. But she was being bloody stubborn.
"Of course," he said.
It didn't take very long to get Becky to Crawley House and situated in the guest room with help from Mrs. Byrd. Then he was back in the hospital, taking in the scene before him. "Nurse Hanley?" he called.
"Mr. Carson?"
"Have you seen to Mrs. Hughes since I left?"
"No one has been in here since you left."
He hesitated, then licked his lips and said, "She moved. Her hand moved."
"Mr. Carson, it must have been on her stomach and slipped," Nurse Hanley said kindly. "She hasn't really moved on her own. I'm sorry. I wish she had; it would be so nice if she had."
Carson closed his eyes and stifled a cry. "Oh, god, I wish… I wish she had," he rasped.
"We all do," Nurse Hanley murmured. "I'm so sorry."
"We… we need to feed her," he muttered, focusing on the here and now again; routine, structure, control what could be controlled. "I'm sorry – I shouldn't have been so eager to jump to the conclusion that she was regaining consciousness just because gravity came to call."
"Mr. Carson, we must live in hope," Nurse Hanley said. "Or else we will always live in a shadow of darkness."
His smile wasn't exactly heartfelt.
The weeks became months. Life didn't just end because Mrs. Hughes was in hospital, though Carson sometimes wished that it had. Anna had taken over her housekeeper duties and was keeping the house running smoothly, but it wasn't the same. He still caught himself expecting to run into her in the corridors and had to stop himself short.
When Lady Sybil had died, it had very nearly broken him. He knew if Elsie woke and found her gone, it would probably send her straight back into her oblivion again. The stress of mourning and grieving both the young woman he had considered to be almost a niece and the woman he considered practically a wife was taking a heavy toll on him.
He and Beryl had decided to split the costs of Becky's care – after much shouting and cajoling and outright bickering, fighting, and dirty blackmailing. Becky, for her part, was just happy to be able to come to Downton and see Elsie once a month for two days, and see Charles and Beryl, who she considered to be just as much her family as her sister was.
And it was so that a year had passed since Elsie Hughes had taken her unfortunate tumble down the stairs.
Dr. Clarkson waited for Carson to arrive for the evening; that was how Carson knew something was wrong. "She is showing no signs of improvement," the doctor said. "It has been a year. We need to consider the very real probability that she will not awaken and that the merciful option may be an overdose of morphine."
Charles rounded on him. "How can you – how can you stand there and ask me to make that decision, Dr. Clarkson? How can you look me in the eye and ask me to choose to end her life because it is less painfully inconvenient for us to do so?"
"Carson, no one who has seen you with Mrs. Hughes in the last year questions your devotion or your commitment of affection toward her," Dr. Clarkson assured him. "And, as such, you are the only person in this world that is qualified to make this decision. I am not – I need you – you must think about – Carson, you must think about her soul. What must she feel like, trapped in this body, between worlds?"
"You cannot ask me to do that."
Dr. Clarkson sighed in frustration. "Yes, well… I'd thought that maybe because you loved her so very much, you wouldn't want to be selfish – and you'd let her go."
"You thought wrong." Carson's voice was hard, steely. "Good night, doctor." When he was certain Clarkson was gone, he settled in at Elsie's bedside and clutched her hand in his, pressing it to his lips. "I love you," he whispered. "I do. I love you, Elsie Hughes. And if that makes me selfish, so be it. I am not letting you go, damn it."
He thought he'd imagined it; her finger twitched. But then another finger moved, and he found himself kissing both fingers ever so gently, trying to reconcile what he was seeing with his own eyes. Then he glanced up at her face, and her eyes were open just a tiny slit, peering out at him.
"I've such a headache," Elsie Hughes rasped, the first words she had spoken in a full year.
And he had never heard sweeter words.
