A/N: Thank you everybody for being so nice about this story, I can never say enough how much I appreciate it. Now when you read this chapter, please keep in mind that sudden flames only burn shortly and that sometimes lost trust is returned as swiftly.


Bea's night was filled with bad dreams about beatings she received from the nuns and the harsh words her mother used to speak to her. The dreams didn't stop until the early hours of the morning, the dawn waking her much too soon to feel moderately rested.

She is slowly eating a piece of toast, her hand wrapped around her teacup, trying to get warm. Next to her Mrs Hughes pushes around her scrambled eggs, not actually picking any of them up. There are dark circles under her eyes. Mr Carson stares into his porridge until Mrs Hughes spoons in some extra honey. He smiles at her warmly and Bea's heart flutters until she sees Mrs Hughes not returning the smile.

She realises she has come between them with sudden clarity.

Her coming here has been a mistake of epic proportions. She has not found what she was looking for and she has disrupted the lives of a devoted, loving couple. She sighs deeply, the crumbs on her plate move feebly.

"Miss Matthews," The Butler addresses her and she looks up, slightly startled. "I'd like to see you in my pantry after breakfast if it's not too inconvenient for you."

She is surprised at how calm and even her voice sounds when she answers she'll be joining him soon.

Apparently Mrs Hughes doesn't need an invitation to follow the Butler and it looks like she doesn't much care what anyone thinks as she stalks after him, her shoulders tight. Bea finds nobody even looks up, they all get on with their assigned tasks and hastily empty their teacups, brushing crumbs off their clothes.

Mr Carson and Mrs Hughes going off together doesn't strike anyone as strange.


She doesn't sit, but stands by the door and watches Charles and Beatrice intently. Charles words ring in her ear, his promises of not being the girls' father repeating time after time and in the early light of morning she finds their eyes are not the same colour. His seem deeper (which could be her love for him clouding her judgment), hers brighter. His hair is only the same colour as Bea's because of the pommade that keeps his curls in check.

Remains only that Bea is taller than most girls. She is a little broader than usual. But Charles said that he didn't think he was the only tall man of June's acquaintance. He is not prone to lying in general and so far he's hardly ever kept anything from him. If anything it is her who keeps things from him (she shudders when she thinks of Anna's horrible ordeal).

"I… appreciate how difficult yesterday must have been for you." Charles says and Beatrice worries her lip, nods slowly. "And I wish to help you, if I may. Perhaps I do see someone else in your photographs, or recognise a name in her diary that might prompt a memory."

Beatrice nods again. "I have my things upstairs. I know you have work to do and I don't know if you've time, but I would very much appreciate your help, Mr Carson. It's very kind of you to offer."

"I could spare half an hour or so now, if you'd get your things."

Beatrice smiles - the girl is beautiful and more so when she smiles, it lights up her face, her eyes sparkle - and quickly leaves the room.

Elsie strides over to Charles, grabbing his arm. "Her eyes are not at all the same as yours…" She tells him.

"I am not her father, Elsie. I really am not. You must remember that when I came to you, you had to teach me everything? You must recall that mere touches made me shiver and that I had never felt a girl's skin under my hands."

She looks at her feet, her and still digging into his arm, unable to let go. "You were on the stage." She whispers.

"Not as an actor, Elsie. And you of all people should know I am a terrible liar."

"That is true."

She looks up at him and they both laugh at that last statement.

"So… You're not…" She asks quietly, one last time, to be quite certain.

"No. No, I'm not."

"Oh, thank God…" Her words tumble from her lips and she lets herself fall against Charles, a tear or two staining his pristine livery.


When she returns with her mother's diary and the publicity that had once adorned the walls of theatres and dancehalls, things are not as dire as she thought at breakfast.

She had expected to be shouted at and intimidated when she was called into Mr Carson's pantry at breakfast, but instead he had offered her his help. Mrs Hughes had looked pale and unhappy, but when she returned with her mother's belongings, there was more colour in her cheeks and the room no longer filled with an icy atmosphere.

Mr Carson opens up an old ledger, picks up a pencil and starts researching right away, leafing through posters, writing down names and dates, asking for cross references in her mother's diary. He makes lists and crosses out things after asking her when her birthday is.

He works relentlessly, half an hour turning into an hour, an hour into two. Mrs Hughes brings them a pot of tea and a plate of biscuits, her hand comes to rest on Mr Carson's shoulder for a few moments. Bea expects that when if they had been alone, Mrs Hughes would have kissed Mr Carson on the top of his head and that she would tell him not to work too hard, not to strain his eyes.

"I am very sorry, Mr Carson." She says, breaking the silence that hangs comfortably between them.

"For what, Miss Matthews?" The Butler looks up from his ledger.

"For disrupting your life like this. I doubt you asked for someone to come in, claiming to be your child." She looks at him. Now she's slept on it, he doesn't look as much like her as she initially thought. Greg had said so, but she didn't want to listen. She had liked the idea of someone who made her mother happy to be the one who had fathered her. She wanted it to be someone she would be able to trust and who maybe in time would learn to love her.

"Not something I had expected, but there is no need to apologise, Miss Matthews."

"Wouldn't you call me Beatrice, Mr Carson?"

"I couldn't possibly." He answers with a smile.

"If you had known me as a child you would have called me Beatrice." She tries to reason.

He smiles at her. "Knowing myself, the man I was back in those day, I would have come up with all sorts of names for you." He stares into the distance. "Some of the others in the troupe we had little ones. I'd call them 'peanut' and such. I'd tell them stories when their parents were doing their acts and I'd buy them sweets."

He looks forlorn. Bea knows Mr Carson is happy with his chosen profession. He is - as she learnt while searching for him - well-respected and well-known. It's obvious to her Mr Carson runs a tight ship, Mrs Hughes more than simply his second in command, both of them governing parts of the household, working together seamlessly.

"I was never small and slight, though. Peanut would not have suited me." She muses out loud, turning a page of her mother's diary.

"I may have come up with something else. Bessie maybe." He turns back to his ledger, crosses out another name. He mumbles, but Bea can still make out the words.

"Elsie would have called you 'pet'."