The Weight of Hope
A/N: Okay, so, I'll not force your hand or anything, but anyone who HASN'T read AHoM might want to pop over and read Chapter 17 ("House Hunters") as there will be references to it herein. And, well, I really AM one for canon writing, but after a lovely PM chat with CSotA, I might veer a little in the next few chapters, nothings mad, mind you, but things might happen that would strain the credulity of calling this fic "in canon." ;-)
They arrived back at Downton in the late afternoon, parting ways, for the moment, in the hallway by the kitchen. Some of the novel freedom, the casualness, of the day had been rubbed away, now that they had returned, but bits and pieces of their conversation kept floating through her mind as she hung up her coat and hat in her pantry.
"That's the point, we'd share the duties…"
"A bright future doesn't have to be the sole domain of the young, Mrs. Hughes…"
She knew Beryl Patmore was preparing dinner for the small group of the senior staff members remaining at Downton, and that it would be ready imminently, but she sat for a moment at her small desk, thinking. About how good, how right it felt to tuck her arm into the crook of his elbow. The simple joy of sharing a lunch hamper with him, without having to worry about passers-by interrupting them, or pondering the appropriateness of their interactions. Of being mistaken for a married couple.
The idea of something more from him had always caused flutters in her whole being; it still did. It was something she rarely allowed herself to contemplate fully, because it sent her whole being into a tizzy. Her thoughts, emotions, the sensations of her body, became untidy, frenetic. It was too easy to lose control. But…well, today had her thinking. She had said him on more than one occasion in the past few months, certain people seemed to chase happiness, all for naught.
She had never felt luck either favored or ignored her, until now. Wouldn't she be a bit of a fool to disregard the luck she was enjoying now, in this particular area of her life? She felt a tug, for certain, on her conscience, that she hadn't told him yet of her financial situation, or, more importantly – of Becky. However, she couldn't shake the feeling that luck was on her side, that the something they both had been waiting for had been set into motion, when Beryl Patmore received that inheritance, and came to him for advice on how to spend it.
And, as if summoned by her musings, the cook appeared at her door, which was ajar.
"Good afternoon, Mrs. Hughes," her friend smiled at her, looking well out of her apron and cap. "I've set us up, informal-like, in the kitchen for dinner, as it will just be a few of us. Thought it might be nicer, cozier, this way, especially considering Mr. Bates, and all the stress that poor man's been through."
She nodded, and her heart felt heavy, thinking of tender-hearted Anna sitting in a prison cell. But she was stronger than most people gave her credit for, and she would survive this. Sometimes, Elsie wondered that it wasn't Mr. Bates who would crumble under the pressure of it all.
"I think it's a fine idea, Mrs. Patmore, and while your picnic lunch was much appreciated, I believe Mr. Carson and I've worked up an appetite, traipsing up and down the county," she grinned.
"Any luck, then, the two of you?" Beryl raised an eyebrow at her. I hope so…
"Well, there are certainly some options with promise, I think, and Mr. Carson agrees," she spoke carefully. Both women knew they weren't really discussing boarding houses.
"I don't doubt that, Mrs. Hughes, not a'tall," the cook looked as if she might be biting back laughter.
"There's one spot in particular that Mr. Carson seems to really like the look of," she replied, knowing her cheeks were growing pink and not being able to do a thing about it.
"Perhaps small beer is more to his taste than he previously thought, eh, Mrs. Hughes?"
"Well, mayhaps your investment inspired Mr. Carson – what do you think of that, Mrs. Patmore?" Elsie retorted, deciding that she could handle a bit of well-meaning teasing from her friend.
"Maybe," Mrs. Patmore grinned. "I'm not entirely sold on that idea, though, Mrs. Hughes. I feel that his inspiration comes from another source…or, what do they call it, his muse, that's it. It's not me he wants to invest in a property with, now, is it?"
Elsie rolled her eyes, but laughed a little shakily. "I suppose not, Mrs. Patmore." She was somewhat mollified to see her friend's face flush as well.
"We understand each other, then, Mrs. Hughes," the cook's chuckles were added to hers.
"I wish I understood a bit more, to be honest, Mrs. Patmore."
"Your little finger, Mrs. Hughes," now the cook's eyes were twinkling in earnest. "Just remember, if you're lost about it all, look no further than your little finger."
Elsie knew the punchline to this particular joke. "I think I smell our dinner burning, Mrs. Patmore."
"Wrapped right around it, he is, mark my words, whether you believe it or not," she paused, giggling, to catch her breath. "Dinner'll be ready in about thirty minutes, and not a burnt dish in sight. See you then, Mrs. Hughes."
oooOOOooo
He supposed he could admit when he was wrong, even if it was only to himself. He had bristled at the idea of Daisy joining them at their intimate dinner, but in the end, the group they formed around the table, while not what he would call perfect on paper, wound up being a cozy one, even lively, at times, excepting John Bates.
And it while it would be entirely understandable for the man to be distracted and morose, he seemed to rouse himself, possibly because of the hope Mr. Murray's meeting presented, but likely also due to the warmth and friendship around the table. The trio of ladies kept the conversation flowing from topic to topic, Elsie Hughes prompting Daisy to discuss her studies, with Mr. Molesley as an eager listener.
He realized as Mrs. Patmore brought a simple pudding over to the table, he'd not enjoyed an evening meal so much in ages. He was in his street clothes, rather than his livery, not presiding at the head of the table with the required up and down of the staff, the scraping of the chairs in and out.
As Elsie Hughes poured out a small digestif for everyone, he caught her eye, and she smiled. He rather liked being seated beside her; it was a very different sensation than sitting caddy-corner. He couldn't see her as well as when they dined in the servants' hall, but he could feel her, the warmth radiating from her body. He could smell her, lavender and vanilla and something else, just the smell of her, familiar yet so enticing.
They all lingered long after the food and drink were gone, with John Bates excusing himself first. Elsie Hughes rose up as well, and stepped around the table to grasp his arm.
"We'll be thinking of you both, Mr. Bates. Please let us know how everything goes. You know Mr. Murray will do all he can, his lordship has seen to that," she held the man's gaze, and Charles noted that each of them had tears hanging precipitously in their eyes, though none had fallen.
"I thank you, Mrs. Hughes. I thank you all, for your support," and with a nod, he was gone. They all fell silent, and they all felt it: the evening, the dinner, was over. Everyone stood, nearly as one.
"Mrs. Patmore, Daisy, I would like to thank you for the delicious meal, and the wonderful conversation," he said, and both women looked as if they'd been smacked with frying pans. Daisy's cheeks grew pink.
"You're quite welcome, Mr. Carson," she nodded, cleared the last of the glasses from the small table.
"I daresay you enjoyed it more than eating with the housemaids?" Beryl Patmore grinned, but there was no malice in her teasing.
"I daresay I did, thank you very much, Mrs. Patmore," he paused, cleared his throat. "It was a rather…comfortable dinner party you arranged for us all."
The cook's face softened a little, and he saw her eyes dart over to Elsie Hughes, whom he could see, from the corner of his eye, was taking in the exchange. "Well, you're quite welcome, Mr. Carson. It was rather enjoyable."
The small group dispersed with goodnights, and he found himself in the hallway outside of his office with Elsie Hughes. He wanted to invite her into his study for another glass of wine, but, for some reason, the invitation suddenly seemed fraught with…complications. No, no. That wasn't right. With…possibilities.
It was the culmination of this entire day, spent by her side. Sometimes, her arm tucked into his, lingering. Their conversation over their picnic lunch, happily people watching. The lovely young couple, excited by their own good news, mistaking the pair of them for husband and wife. He'd not denied it. He felt her tense when the young lad who'd just found out he was going to be father made the erroneous observation. At first, he thought she was embarrassed by the mistake. But…no. She was worried he would be bothered by it.
And now, they were standing here, on their own, the trappings and duties of their daily lives nearly invisible, aside from the house itself surrounding them. What happened to the rules, now? What would happen to them, if they were behind closed doors?
They both were just standing there, in the hallway. He realized it had been a longer time than necessarily usual, but he wasn't sure exactly how to proceed, nor, obviously, was she. He had a well-thought out plan for it all, as his mother and aunt had advised him all of those years ago. The house, the investment property was the first step…then a marriage proposal. But at the end of this long, rather wonderful day, why did that seem…out of order? Or…did the order really matter?
She finally cleared her throat. "Well, Mr. Carson. I best grab my coat and hat from the pantry, and be off to bed." She was looking everywhere but at him.
"Mrs. Hughes…would you like to join me for a final nightcap, before retiring?" His heart was pounding in his throat, the blood rushing in his ears, waiting for the answer.
He saw how she suddenly stilled, sighed. Her eyes finally met his, and he could see how flushed she was, her cheeks stained pink. The seconds stretched out interminably, and he was considering that he had, perhaps, offended her. Suddenly, all of the safe, known things about how they related to each other seemed difficult to navigate.
"Would I…" her words trailed off, so that he wasn't sure if it was a question, a statement, or a wish. Maybe it was all three. She shook her head a little, and smiled. He wasn't sure, exactly, why that smile looked….a touch rueful.
"This was a lovely day," she said and he almost fell over. He wasn't sure he'd been so surprised by her words since that day on the beach in Brighton.
"I certainly agree, from start to finish." His heart was still racing, but not uncomfortably so. He felt a rush of warmth, from head to toe. They were still standing in this blasted hallway.
"And…I do believe, I must retire, Mr. Carson," she replied. His heart fell a little, but then, oh, then:
Before he could quite understand what was happening, her hand was on his arm, and her lips pressed briefly, chastely against his cheek. He felt her sigh, smelled lavender.
Then, she was gone, her hurried footsteps clicking down the hall, leaving him with the warm imprint of her lips on his face, and the warm weight of hope in his heart.
