Chapter Ten:
Distractions
She reaches down into the coldness, her hands searching, desperately grasping.
Nothing.
Nothing but empty, cold, darkness. Her hands burn as if she's touched hot flame and she flinchingly recoils. Peering down, she searches. Flat, black water, so murky that the moon refuses to shine upon it, and so she sheds her shoes, and then her stockings. She casts them aside with little care or concern. Plunging in, she breaks the surface. Breath leaves her lungs in one searing gasp as if a thousand swordsmen have plunged in their daggers at once, but then behind her closed eyes her mother's face appears and her voice fills her ears and she calms.
Sinking down, she reaches out. Fingers stretching, fingertips searching. At last. Just there. Yes. Just there. She reaches just further. Come on. Come on Becks, reach just a little. Try. Try for Els. Come on. That's it. Good girl.
Hand in hand, Elsie kicks hard for the surface. She ignores the cold, the searing frigid pain in her bones, and she pushes to break the surface.
At last. The surface of a clear water breaks and the sun shines behind broken clouds.
Sisters sit on a sandy beach.
Her work at Kirkgate House is a distraction. A distraction from the dream that plagues her sleep and the worry that Becky is continuing to slip away under the surface of a dark abyss where Elsie, reaching down to snatch her up, one day, will not be able to save her. As Elsie smoothes the linens across the bed, she hums an old work song that she learnt whilst at the feet of her grandmother on the old farm. Soon, the melancholy is driven away and she's smiling. It's a nice feeling, the pull of her cheeks into an upward curve, the crinkle of her eyes in happiness. Elsie knows that even though times are hard, that things aren't ideal, that she has it better than many. She has a stable position, a roof over her head, and can provide for Becky. And the church bazaar is Saturday. Perhaps she will see Mr. Carson. He's often the subject of another series of dreams, much more pleasant ones.
Weeks have passed since their visit to the tea shop and their conversations at church have become more personal, more than the requisite Good Morning or How are you? He inquires after her sister; shows an interest in her position at the hotel. She asks after his well-being and of how the search for the new workhouse matron is going.
For some reason, Mr. Charles Carson has found a place in her heart, if only in guarded friendship, though she thinks it foolish to even fathom it. She knows that he certainly doesn't feel the same about her.
Kneeling, pulling the corner of the sheet tight, she's busy about her work when the door opens.
"I'm sorry sir," Elsie apologizes, turning around, and scrambling to her feet. "I'm just finishing up. The front desk should have sent you to another room. Perhaps I can do that for you."
"I'm sure there are a great many things that you can do for me," the blonde-haired, blue-eyed, well-dressed man drawls, as he sets down his case. "But another room isn't one of them. I'll wait whilst you finish."
Her skin raising in gooseflesh, Elsie breathes in deeply trying to remain calm. As a woman in service she's always been on guard about things like this: being alone in a room with a man, especially a man who's looking at her the way this man is looking at her now. She's heard of maids being attacked by men who present themselves to be gentlemen, only to corner them in a dark corridor or coax them into a stateroom before shoving a hand across their mouths and attacking them.
"But sir, it isn't really the way things are done," she replies, her tone insistent yet polite. She reaches for the bell pull next to the bed and knows that a porter will arrive soon. "If you wish to have this particular room, you'd be much more comfortable waiting in the Gold Room whilst I tidy the room."
Elsie watches as the man's eyes rake over her; he's sizing her up and she's frightened. Where is that porter?
Finally, the knock at the door comes and Elsie breathes again. The man who's paid for the room smirks; he knows that his plans have been thwarted.
"Mr. Carlisle, how may I help?" the porter asks cheerfully.
"Jack, I have not completed the room quite yet and the front desk sent Mr. Carlisle down early," Elsie explains as she moves toward the door. "Perhaps you could see him to the Gold Room and arrange something for his inconvenience? Perhaps a nice …"
" … whisky neat," Richard Carlisle supplies with a tight smile.
Shelves filled with books and ledgers containing all the names of every person who has entered the gates of Downton Workhouse whether inmate or employee and the large oak desk that sits squarely in the center of the room, heavy and foreboding make Charles Carson's office an intimidating place to be and the man who sits behind the desk is looking particularly imposing himself this morning. Charles sits with his fingers laced across his stomach and his eyes are squinted in concentration as he listens to the woman in front of him rattle off her qualifications for the position of matron. She's the fourth applicant he's interviewed and if he's honest with himself he hopes that this woman may be the right woman for the job. He's tired of searching and none of them have been exactly right.
He has interviewed one widow who he didn't think would have the stomach for the job; she was too soft-hearted, and Charles saw tears in her eyes when he took her on a tour of the women's ward. A matron certainly needs sympathy to be sure, but she mustn't cry at the sight of every woman wracked with rheumatism who struggles to thread the needles and repair sheets or linens. And It would not do for her to weep when forced to separate mothers from their children when the children have to attend school or move to separate quarters. While he may be sympathetic, Charles can't change rules the government makes.
The third woman he interviewed was a young woman who had yet to marry. Charles knew that she would not stay long, that some young man would catch her eye and she would soon turn in her notice and he would be on the search for yet another woman to fill the position of matron. Or worse, he would have to worry that she would slip down to the men's quarters late at night and engage in activity unbecoming to the character of a workhouse matron.
His mind wanders to Miss Hughes. He's heard, because he hears everything, that her character is impeccable, and that she's a good worker, and that the other maids at the Kirkgate House respect her. He certainly respects her. He enjoys her presence next to him at church and their little discussions. She's a bit opinionated, but all the important women in his life are. He wonders why she hasn't applied for the job of matron. Surely, it would mean a pay increase and surely, she would covet the job security. Were they not sufficient enough friends for her to even contemplate it?
But this woman who sits before him seems to suit the job. She is the right age; neither too young nor too old. She's unmarried but neither on the search for a husband either. She has been married to the positions that she has previously had - devoted to her work by all accounts and good at it.
Before he offers her the position, Charles purses his lips and he considers all the he's been told. Shifting forward, he shuffles through the character references she's presented. Everything seems in order and he recognizes some of the names, so he has no reason to doubt them. Nonetheless, something niggles at him. He's somewhat off put by the dark-haired spindly woman who sits before him. She's a bit of a haughty woman he thinks, what with her head held just a bit too high and the hint of sourness that laces many of her words. He wonders why her last post has an Ireland post and why she's recently moved to Yorkshire. There's a story there he's certain, but her references are in order she's answered his questions satisfactorily.
"Miss O'Brien, the rigors of working here are quite different from those of working in service, you see," Charles begins. "We have all sorts here. And sometimes, there are special cases who require special care. "
Sarah O'Brien simply looks at Mr. Carson and waits for him to continue. She is shrewd enough to remain silent waiting for him to clearly indicate exactly who he means. She knows that all sorts enter workhouses from those who have fallen on hard times, to drunkards, to unmarried women who find themselves alone with no means of support, to widows, and the ill, infirm, and insane. It doesn't matter to her; she sees them all as inferiors, socially and morally. If they were her equals they'd have figured a way to have kept themselves from being degraded and shamed.
"I understand Mr. Carson," she answers. "I think that you'll find that I can complete any task that I am assigned with the upmost integrity and appreciation for the circumstances of our residents."
"Well, then Miss O'Brien, I suppose you may start tomorrow if that is convenient for you," Charles offers as he closes the folio with Sara O'Brien's information.
"Thank you, Mr. Carson," she replies.
"I hope that you're prepared to get up to speed quickly Miss O'Brien," Charles replies as he stands and opens the door to his office. "We will be sure to have your rooms tidy for your move. I will send Mr. Jones in the morning to collect your things if that suits?"
"It does."
"Very well. We shall see you then," Charles sees Miss O'Brien out of his office and ushers her down the stairs and to the office of Mrs. Crawley. Valiantly, Isobel Crawley has filled in as Matron. Isobel is a woman who needs to be needed and though she'd never tell Charles, she feels a bit of guilt over Sarah's death. She believes that she should have never waited for Dr. Tapsell to arrive, but instead assisted in performing the cesarean section herself. She'd seen her husband and other doctors perform it often enough. She wonders if she could have helped save the young mother's life.
Charles asks the nurse to show Miss O'Brien to her quarters and to the infirmary. He bids his thanks to his friend, the nurse and heads down to the kitchens to see Mrs. Patmore. He seeks out a piece of treacle tart, a cup of coffee, and a bit of conversation. He's had a tiring morning already. It has been difficult to have finally settled upon someone to permanently take his wife's job; someone who he thinks might stay for some time to come.
"So, you've hired her then?" The ruddy cheeked cook pours two cups of steaming coffee and pushes one toward her old friend Charles. They've known one another since their days at grammar school when Beryl was a chubby sharp-tongued ginger who often brawled on the schoolyard grounds at Downton Grammar.
"I have," Charles answers. "Though I'm not convinced that I like her."
"Why not?"
"She's prickly." The answer elicits raised eyebrows from the cook and both she and Charles chuckle. "Point taken."
"I hope that this can be a new beginning, Charlie. Lord knows we need one around here."
Hurrying down High Street and away from the hotel, a basket in one hand and her handbag in the other, Elsie Hughes quickly heads for home. So lost in thought, she barely notices the hand pulling her back from the middle of the street as she attempts to cross.
"Just what do you think you're …." Elsie flinches, attempting to pull away.
"I'm sorry Miss Hughes but you were about to step out in front of that lorry."
"Mr. Carson," Elsie sighs deeply upon realization. "I am the one to apologize. I was away with the fairies I'm afraid. I thank you very much." Charles releases his grip on her arm, then smooths the front of his coat.
"You should be more careful," he replies only to find her face twist into a scowl. Stick your foot in it Charlie. "I only mean that I should hate for you to be harmed."
"Of course, you did. I am sorry, Mr. Carson," Elsie replies smiling. Oh, Els. He's a nice man.
"Well, then. I'll be on my way." Charles tips his hat, turns, and begins to walk away.
"Mr. Carson … I really am in your debt," Elsie calls after him. Charles stops and turns toward her. "I'd like to repay your kindness. If you would perhaps like to have supper with my sister and me tonight?"
tbc ...
A/N: In the spirit of using real names for authenticity. The Kirkgate House is a hotel in Thirsk