A/N: And here we have the outtake 'name' which officially completes this fic. I probably should have posted it seperately but it wouldn't have made much sense. ;) The reason this didn't make it into the official list is two-fold: 1) it's from Mr Carson's POV instead of Mrs Hughes and by the time I had finished it, I'd already decided everything would work better if I stuck to Elsie's side of the stories; 2) it felt too unrealistic, I think - which given that the 'name' that replaced it was Lady Elizabeth, that's saying something. Still, I did like it so I couldn't bring myself to scrap it completely (and Just Inevitable convinced me people would still like to read it). Please enjoy this little dip into Mr Carson's thoughts.


Another Way: E.M. Hughes

They meet up at their cafe in Greenwich. She is late, of course and he is early, as though that makes up for it.

She makes a point to be late these days, it's something he finds surprisingly endearing about her; anyone else and he would have ended their acquaintance long ago, he is far too busy to be kept waiting all the time.

{He told her that once. She called him pompous and said she would make him into a character in her next book. She has yet to uphold that threat, thankfully.}

"Sorry I'm late." She says, taking her customary seat and smiling down at the still steaming cup of tea he pushes towards her. She is at least predictable in her tardiness.

"What kept you this time?" He asks, arching a brow at her over his own cup. She lives only minutes away from this cafe, it's why they meet here still. "A falling star perhaps? A herd of elephants making their way through Kings Cross Station that you just had to see?"

She picks up her cup, sips primly and quirks her lip. "How did you know?" She affects a shocked tone. "Surely you couldn't hear the poor things trumpeting from here?"

She is all of his moments of madness in a world he takes pride in keeping staid and proper.

"The book?" He asks a moment later.

She sighs into her cup, nods. "The book."

She has been having exceptional difficulty with this latest novel. She tells him it's because the success of her other books was nothing more than luck, something she has now run out of. He doesn't believe a word of it, but having never read any of her work himself, he keeps quiet and often lets her talk her own way out of that opinion.

He has heard her tell stories of course - that one summer that Lady Sybil had taken to following him everywhere, Elsie had been a good sport when he arrived for their tea with the young Lady in tow, had entertained both the child and himself over milk and biscuits with fantastic tales of dragons and magic.

But her novels, the adult ones she publishes, he has not touched. She has told him he won't like them, seriously and honestly, and he trusts her.

Eventually he'll read them, he supposes, but he has heard enough of the macabre topics during their conversations to believe she knows his tastes well enough.

She is afraid that his reading them will change his opinion of her. The insecurity in that is his own fault, he made her work quite hard to obtain his continued presence at this cafe and in her life. She worries that he might still walk away.

{She is a writer, an established author. He is a Butler. She had, quite stubbornly, refused to see why this made their association improper.}

He doesn't think there is anything she could write that would make him give up these afternoons in London now, or the few they have when she visits Downton. She has inexplicably become one of the foundations of his life and he does not like to shake the ground beneath his feet. The changing world is doing enough of that itself.

"So," she leans forward, hands folded neatly in her lap "tell me about the house. Has your Mrs Patmore adapted to the toaster yet?"

Her eyes are bright, eager as they always are when she asks after his life. Once, he worried that anything he told her might one day make the pages of a novel, but that was a long time ago, when he didn't know her nearly as well as he flatters himself that he does now.

"She is not my Mrs Patmore." He starts and she shakes her head at him, waves a hand for him to continue. "But yes, she has reluctantly accepted the efficiency of the contraption."

She smiles, no doubt at his bitter tone. "Didn't I tell you, Charles? I don't know where I'd be without my little electric toaster now."

"Even later for appointments I suspect."

He isn't entirely joking but he says it to get her to laugh. She may be late, but always only by five minutes.

"Perhaps I'm only late for our appointments, Charles. Have you considered that?"

If only that were true, but he has seen her rush away from their teas panicked that she will miss her meeting with the Ladies of her circle. Although he suspects she is indeed on time then, they would not be as forgiving as he is.

He tries not to like too much that he is on par with her work as something she struggles to walk away from until she must. He wonders if she has the same trouble leaving her husband behind.

Shaking the thought off he reaches for the teapot and refills their cups.

They met in a bookshop in York, reaching for the same volume. He had offered it to her, having come away from their brief tussle the victor, but she had declined, claimed to already have read it and had only thought to pick it up in a moment sentimentality. He had put it back eventually, not sure it was to his liking. {He would only learn months later that it was her own book. She never has got over her wonder at seeing her novels on the shelves.}

She talked him into tea that day, surprising him with her knowledge of literature and philosophy. He had been fascinated by her, the way she used her hands, delicate fingers twirling and pointing, as she spoke. The sparkle in her eyes when they disagreed on a topic. The fierce lilt to her voice when she argued her point.

Somehow during that afternoon she pulled thoughts and stories from him he had never spoken of before. She had been much more careful with her own history, not lying, never that, but he walked away from the tea shop with the strange idea that he knew more about her mind and tastes, than he did about her.

It made sense later, when she told him who she is, what she does.

"You're thinking again, Charles." She draws him from the past with a tap against his wrist. "I've warned you about that."

"So you have."

"And still you never listen to me, Mr Carson."

"You've warned me not to do that as well." She laughs again, re-settles her hands in her lap. She is careful not to touch him for too long. Not to talk out of turn when others are around. She is as well versed in maintaining a certain image as he is, although he knows she is this way for him, more than herself. Her husband has no concerns about them and she cares little for others' opinions.

They have argued so often over the years. She has projects, charities he can't support her involvement with. {Her last maid had been a fallen women Elsie met one day at a clinic.}

When Mrs Crawley arrived at Downton, she had strongly reminded Charles of Elsie. He doesn't think they have met, it worries him what they would do if they ever put their minds together.

"Come on Charles, you were telling me about the house."

He acknowledges her with a tilt of his head, tells her about Daisy and Ivy, about the troubles between James and Alfred. 'There'll be more trouble there if you're not careful Charles'. Tells her about Lady Mary and Mr Crawley, about little Miss Sybbie's first word.

When he turns it around, she tells him about Lord and Lady Wilmott's new son-in-law, about the whispers surrounding the Countess of Grantly and how they're better stories than she could write. She tells him who will be needing new staff and who will be letting some go.

She is his bridge between worlds, this former-farmer's daughter, this author. She may have married well, but she remains very much herself. Sometimes he imagines he can see her as she might have become had things gone another way and she is not so very different.

He wonders if he would have known her then too.

"Do you have dinner plans tomorrow, Charles?"

"His Lordship is hosting a dinner party." He answers, though he would have found another excuse if need be. She often tries to invite him for dinner, says there is nothing wrong in it, that her husband regularly has his clerks over and says she should invite him.

He can have tea with her here, can meet to talk, here where he can fool himself that they are just two people. But in her own house, he would have to face the truth.

That, he knows, could end their acquaintance.

"Another time." She says, accepting as always. She has changed his mind on many things over the years, but not on this.

They finish their tea quietly and he enjoys the time to watch her while she thinks. He has lost her to the words in her head now, the unwritten pages of a book. She'll leave soon, head home to her study. He will return to the House, change into his livery and begin the evening service.

In a week or two, they will meet again and she will tell him she has broken through this latest wall in her plot, as she does every time.

She will goad him, cajole him, call him Charles. He will smile and joke, be Charles and not Mr Carson for a few hours and very carefully call her nothing at all.

End.


Thank you for reading, I'll see you soon...