Hi, hello there, all you lovely, wonderful people. I'm sorry I'm not great at responding to comments, but I want you all to know I read . . and each one puts a silly grin on my face and gives me that extra little kick to keep writing. I'll be the first to admit that I've no idea what I am doing, but my sincerest hope is that you continue to read and enjoy, and engage. It means the world to me to be able to share with people who are as invested as me. Anyway, sorry for the longwinded note. Hope you enjoy chapter four! xx
Elsie finds herself quite in her own mind as she carefully kneads the pastry dough, occasionally adding drops of water to make sure it stays moist.
She's never been much of a cook — doesn't have the patience. Elsie is about proficiency and results. She can appreciate the artistry of cooking, can even admire the methodical mess of it all, but it's not for her.
She'd helped her mam, of course, and been a scullery maid at the start. She'd even helped Mrs. Patmore now and then, in a pinch. But Beryl knew better than anyone she couldn't be relied upon for much more than a few stirs, simple mixing and kneading, and boiling.
She thinks briefly that it has perhaps been a blessing that she was never taken as a wife early on, lest her man, whoever he might've been, Joe or some other, would have found her utterly lacking.
She'd scraped by on the farm, with Glenna's tutelage, but only just.
She sighs wearily as she carefully balls the dough, sets it aside covered gingerly with a cloth.
She hadn't intended for her thoughts to become quite so maudlin, so grey, but with Glenna off to buy more apples and Arthur out plowing his fields, she'd found herself suddenly surrounded by more quiet and less diversion than she's had in quite some time.
She wishes fervently that she could distract herself. She so desperately does not want to get stuck in one of her moods. She needs something. Music or reading or mending or idle chatter in the village, or drinking, anything to keep her from dwelling.
She wonders idly if Glenna might have some nice whiskey stored somewhere, then she remembers the aching in her eyes and her dry, scratchy throat and thinks maybe it's for the best she doesn't go poking around.
Still, the peaceful silence along with the mechanical movements of her hands had allowed her to meditate on exactly what it meant to be alone as she was. To know that even in Glenna's kitchen she was separate. Glenna had her own life, her own husband, her own sweet Maggie newly married to a local farmer's son. So much that Elsie didn't have.
Not that she wanted it.
It was only that it was strange to think how isolated one could become. How easy it could be to share your life with no one but yourself. It had been what she was trying to avoid by leaving Downton. Well, that along with the other thing. That deep down, drown-it-with-whiskey little mite that dug and burrowed at her breast until she was raw and lonely and scared.
It was a pity she'd found it anyway, even here amongst the purple clover.
Elsie nearly jumps out of her skin as the door flies open so fast that it smacks against the cottage wall.
"Gangway!" She hears Glenna shout before she sees her, leading a hulking, behemoth of a man along behind her, forcing him to sit over his stifled protests of "Mrs. Scott...really, please...totally unnecessary, minor flesh wound..."
Elsie is convinced she's possibly, probably, finally gone mad.
"Don't just stand there, puss! Give me a hand!" Glenna gestures toward Elsie with frantic little jerks of her wrist, but Elsie couldn't move if she wanted to, is still staring at her sister and the man who is very obviously, so very obviously and impossibly Mr. Carson, with a gaping mouth and wide eyes.
"What the devil is the matter with you? Get the kit, he's bleeding! I knocked him over, you see and, well, there was a tree, and frankly, I'm not really sure how it all happened Mr. Carson, are you because...?"
Glenna is babbling now, as she always does when she's nervous or ashamed or most especially when she's lying, but Elsie isn't listening because she's said it now and - it is. There's no denying that it is Mr. Carson. In her sister's kitchen. Bleeding.
He can't see her of course, not from where she is in the hall and Glenna's hand holding an unfurled kerchief up to his eye, probably doing more damage than good, and for a split second Elsie thinks she will run. She thinks she will run right past them and gather her skirts like a young lass and run all the way down the road to the farm. She can't, of course, both in principle and for practical, boning and cotton-type reasons. Probably wouldn't make it down the lane, but it's a nice thought. A calming thought. She stares.
"Elsie. May. Hughes." Glenna chastises, and Elsie sees Mr. Carson stiffen, sees his breathing stop entirely. "What is wrong with you? Are you still mad with it? Get over here with the kit!"
And Mr. Carson has begun to move now, he's making frantic little motions, trying to figure out how he can move Glenna's hand from his brow without touching her wrist, can lean forward to peer further in Elsie's direction without pressing himself against her middle.
Glenna senses his desperation, although perhaps not its cause, and sighs heavily before she says, "Well then at least come over here ya daft ninny and hold the cloth. If you aren't going to be any use to me the least you can do is use that fancy training to help our guest. Lord, I thought you were meant to be cultured."
She rolls her eyes, and Elsie doesn't remember walking closer to Glenna, but the next thing she knows her sister is pushing her hand against the warm cotton she'd know anywhere, even stained crimson, and is gently guiding her to stand at Mr. Carson's knees, and then she's gone, and Elsie is left, dumbstruck, staring into the thunderous eyes of Charles Carson.
They stare at each other silently for a moment, both with thoughts racing faster than they can possibly process. He thinks wildly of the way her freckles seem more prominent, her eyes bluer than he remembers. She thinks of the heavenly scent of him, the softness of his brow. They both think they must be dreaming.
"Hello." She says, finally, quietly, because someone has to move them forward and it might as well be her.
"Mrs. Hughes." He grumbles, the disbelief evident in his voice and his gaze hasn't shifted from her face, seems to be cataloging her every feature, and she's feeling so uncomfortable now. The heat of his brow is permeating the cloth and she feels overwhelmed. She doesn't know what to say or where to look.
"Mrs. Hughes, I…" he starts, but she doesn't want him to speak, can't stand the deep tenor of it, the feel of his breath on her wrist, she can't. She can't bear it at all, and she's about to pull away, to leave him bleeding and start running — to hell with her corset and skirts, but she's saved, isn't she always, by the sound of her sister clambering toward them, holding a bottle aloft.
"Found it! Found it. Here."
She shoves the bottle at Elsie.
"Use the antiseptic. I'm still digging for the bandage."
And it's true, Glenna's up to her elbows in medical supplies, muttering to herself about Arthur and a cut on his hand, and having just seen the bandages.
"I can."
Elsie registers the deep rumble of his voice and meets his gaze as he stares up at her. His eyes are soft. Whatever had been there when they'd first clapped eyes on each other has vanished, and he seems smaller now, somehow, like a child.
"If you don't— you can't— I can do it myself." He fumbles, gesturing for her to give him the bottle.
She stuns them both by holding it out of his reach.
Flustered, surprised at herself, "that won't be necessary, I don't think, Mr. Carson." She says.
He drops his hand, looks up at her with an almost pained expression.
"Alright then." He says.
Carefully, she lifts the cloth of his kerchief from the gash. It's nasty, but not deep. Her brows crease anyway.
"How'd she manage this?" She whispers, more to herself than anyone. She's half very seriously annoyed with Glenna for hurting him, somewhere underneath the shock of it all.
"It was my fault." Carson says, shifting agitatedly in his seat. "I was standing smack in the middle of the road. If it wasn't her it would've been someone else."
Elsie doesn't respond because she can't. Her heart is beating in her throat. This is insane. This whole situation and yet, here they are, falling into old rhythms, so easy, it's too damned easy…
"Found it!" Glenna says again, wildly, causing Elsie to jump, and Carson to wince as the movement jostles her fingertips onto his cut.
"Give it here, then." Elsie demands, readjusting her grip, and holding her free hand out to Glenna.
Glenna dutifully hands her some gauze pads and the bandage pack.
She bites her lip.
"I truly am sorry, Mr. Carson." She says, and then, "are you sure you've got that, puss? Do you need help?"
Elsie scowls, but she's facing Mr. Carson so there's no way for Glenna to know.
"I'm sure." She clips. And then, after a beat, "don't call me that."
Glenna cocks a brow, but says nothing. Her gaze flitters between her sister and this big, hulking man, Mr. Carson.
"This will sting." Elsie says.
"Yes." Mr. Carson says back.
And Glenna suddenly feels as if she's intruding on a very intimate moment.
"I'm just going to pop round the back, see if Arthur's on his way back for lunch." She says, but neither of them turns to acknowledge her.
She can't help but smirk as she leaves the kitchen. Well all right then, she thinks, perhaps she's not lost forever after all.