On the last day of the year I was still suffering from dampened spirits caused, I thought, by my return to London.

Mrs Tomkinson and Betsy were working minimum hours until the Season began in earnest, so I blamed the emptiness of the house for putting me in a sombre mood. My own company throughout the day, it seemed, was proving to be insufficiently meaningful.

Here, there was no fussing about keys or rosters, no constant interruptions as I completed my administrative tasks, no butler distracting me endlessly as he looked over my shoulder.

In fact, many times I found myself whirling around, thinking another servant was in the room. Usually it turned out to be simply my own reflection. I would catch a glimpse out of the corner of my eye and be startled. Along with the ones in the upstairs rooms, there were mirrors adorning a wall in my downstairs sitting room, my attic bedroom, and the servants' bathroom. Perhaps Mrs Bute's idea of going without mirrors held some merit after all.

I stared at my likeness in the sitting room mirror now, tucking any loose tendrils of hair into the fringes of my hat. A light blue flower made from ribbon cheered up the dour grey headpiece, but I ignored its frivolity and obstinately focused instead on my undeniable plainness.

I had been been in service almost my entire adult life and had aged as such. I'd no children to cheer me up over the years, nor a husband to keep a spring in my step.

I'd actually resigned myself to that last part a long time back, but now I had the chance to alter my future absolutely if I accepted my Christmas Day visitor's proposal.

I had been completely tongue tied when I'd opened the door to him. He told me he'd written to say he was visiting. I guessed then, and discovered for certain later, that his letter was one in the pile waiting for me at my desk.

"Peter's joined the army. He's at a training camp near Shepherd's Bush. I travelled to London to visit with him for Christmas."

After my initial shock at learning my old beau would want to seek me out for a visit on Christmas Day of all days, politeness left me with little choice but to invite him to join me for the afternoon.

Joe offered to pay for a meal at a restaurant or pub, but the idea of making others wait on us for Christmas didn't sit well with me. So, trying to block out the yearning for Mrs Patmore's planned menu for those staying at Downton (it included roast pheasant, goose and a glazed ham), I concentrated on pulling together something edible for a guest.

"I can offer some bread sauce. The stove will keep us warm," I said, attempting to add a festive note to my tone, "and it we'll really be able to talk."

After eating, sipping on sherry Mr Carson had left behind between softly singing carols, Joe had proposed marriage.

Marriage. If I should accept his hand, I would no longer be a spinster housekeeper. My title would no longer be one merely borne from respect.

There were many advantages to such a situation.

I would need to work still, of course, but it would be a position less ruled by an aristocratic family and more by the ways of the land.

I would not need to ever fear the family casting me out. Joe made it quite clear that there would be money enough even if he should fall ill. He'd done his sums and both I and Becky would be provided for adequately should the unthinkable happen.

"You've put a lot of thought into this," I noted as I served us up a half a meat pie each later that evening.

At Downton Mrs Patmore was serving up a yule log, plum pudding and brandy butter. I'd urged her to consider fruit mince pies some months ago. When leaving Yorkshire she'd handed me a box containing four. "Give one to Mrs Tomkinson so she knows how one should taste," she'd encouraged slyly.

I forgave her as I had been just as sly really. After all, the sweet pastries were Mr Carson's favourites, not mine.

As I spooned warm custard over the treat, I realised I had no idea whether or not Joe would like them. And therein was the problem. I knew nothing of the man Joe had become. All I had were my memories, and some of them were sure to be unreliable.

"I've thought of little else over the past few months, Elsie. I want to make this as tempting as I possibly can," he said with an unexpected warmth.

It was tempting. But to make vows before God and-

An earsplitting sound filled my sitting room, stopping my train of thought. I swung around and stepped towards my desk. Before I could take any further action, the noise abated by itself. This had happened several times in the last week. Ever since the 27th day of December.

One of the requirements of my position was to keep an inventory of everything we used and bought at the London house. At Downton, where the family spent the majority of their days, my employers could easily see if household accounts were balancing with usage. Here, we were out of sight, and it was up to me to prove to them that the house needed that bottle of paraffin or box of soap flakes like I claimed, and the servants weren't selling wares for a tidy profit.

As such, I was busy jotting down all the new purchases Mrs Tomkinson had made whilst I'd been at Downtown when I was to be interrupted by another visitor, this one using the back door bell.

It wasn't Bert with the mail, nor any of the other regular suppliers who came to the house.

"Mr Bromidge," the caller announced his name as he doffed a beret which had been merrily squatting on his very round head.

I was quite at a loss. Mr Bromidge had a look of tradesman about him, but I was unaware of his business with the house.

"Mrs Hughes, I take it then?" he asked in a roundabout way before I could follow up on his identity further. "I've got strict instructions to place one in your sitting room, but you can choose where the other goes. Usually I put one up and one down."

I blinked, uncomprehending. "Sorry?"

"I'm sure that's what we did in Yorkshire." He flipped over a ledger he'd been balancing beneath his arm and referred to his set of tidily handwritten notes. "Yes, that's right. The hallway of the great house, and Mr Carson's pantry."

There was one familiar name, at least. I didn't immediately become any the wiser upon hearing it, however. "I'm sorry, Mr Bromidge, you'll have to start from the beginning."

Mr Bromidge actually laughed aloud at this comment, before replying with an unexpected wink: "Never a truer word has been said, Mrs Hughes. Telephones, you see, they're just the beginning."

Several hours later I sat once again alone in my sitting room, eyeing the new contraption that took up far too much space on my desk. Mr Bromidge had tested it, and assured me it was working.

It definitely rang, I knew that now for certain. I had yet to speak into it, however. Each time I got too close it would fall silent.

Mr Bromidge had explained to me this was the operator calling more than one house at a time. Eventually, when upgrades were made, the rings would be distinct and I'd only need to pick up when it was an agreed amount of chimes which were allocated to this residence's telephone. At the moment though, the operator spoke to whomever answered, searching for the correct recipient. Most expecting a call sat by the phone waiting, he told me.

Oddly, as Mr Bromidge had worked, he'd also quizzed me about Gwen.

Perhaps I should initiate my first telephone communication and contact Mr Carson. He might have some more knowledge about this Bromidge's deep interest in the young maid. Given Gwen's intelligence, and usual sensible nature, I didn't want her to ruin what would surely be a promising career by getting entangled with some older man.

I hesitated only because I needed to sort out my own entanglement first.

I had, for my entire life, been the most sensible of women. In this case, the sensible thing for me to do was accept Joe as quickly as possible so that we could both return to the farm.

I wished I had someone with whom I could talk about it. I saw a brief image of Mrs Patmore's sympathetic face the day I left Downton. I had wondered then if we could become friends in time. I knew I could never say this about her counterpart, however.

Mrs Tomkinson had been harpy about the situation from the start, claiming I was neglecting my duties.

The truth was, however, after the enormity of Downton, organising an empty London house took little effort.

I had rushed through the bulk of the jobs I'd deferred so that I could travel to Yorkshire within the first few days of returning to the city. After that, other than a general 'spring' clean, all I had to do was arrange for temporary staff to work during the Season and juggle their, and the Downton staff who would be coming to London, rosters to fit in with the dates Mr Carson had given me for the planned family visits.

Besides, Lady Grantham had made it clear I could take some time off once I returned to London, considering I had barely a tea break when in Yorkshire, save the few hours I was ill. Usually I would have ignored such an order and kept to one half day each week, as was the normal arrangement for staff. Joe's arrival forced me to have a change of heart.

I thought it prudent to get to know him a little better in an impartial setting before I made any decision. .We'd dined out twice, picnicked once and, daringly, watched a motion picture (David Copperfield!) together. And tonight we intended to join the crowd ringing in the year along with Big Ben's bells.

And I was going to be late if I dilly-dallied any further, I thought, heading for the back door. Dinner had already been served, and I thought I might be able to slip out unnoticed. Alas, I had no such luck.

"Off to see Prince Charming again? Familiarity isn't leading to contempt, then?"

"Thank you, Mrs Tomkinson," I said, keeping my voice as steady as possible despite the fact her tone was grating upon my nerves.

"So much for your ambitions to be housekeeper at the Abbey. I'm sure Mrs Bute would never carry on so. Mr Carson agrees," she added smoothly.

I froze. Surely she was simply winding me up. She couldn't have spoken with Mr Carson since Christmas.

Betsy, the dear, saved me from confronting Mrs Tomkinson regarding her duplicity. The young girl prattled on about Big Ben and the bell until I finally bid them both goodbye and headed out into the early evening.

Joe was waiting for me at the first corner. He wasn't too comfortable in Mayfair, he'd told me more than once, and who was I to blame him. Our clothes were mere rags compared to the residents of Mayfair's finery.

We walked along with the crowd towards the famous landmark, I realised I would need to give him my answer tonight. He had insisted he wasn't in a rush but I couldn't in all conscience keep him waiting much longer. His time in London would need to come to an end. A farm could not be ignored; his cousin's generosity in the caretaking arena could not continue forever.

It was obvious Joe loved the farm and wouldn't dream of living elsewhere. He was most effusive when speaking on the subject of his rural patch of land.

I kept up my side of the conversation until we strolled past Buckingham Palace. The setting reminded me far too much of a certain monarchist butler. I managed to use the noise and the press of the crowd as my excuse for my sudden reticence.

Soon, the clock struck twelve.

"Happy New Year, Elsie."

"Happy New Year, Joe," I said, carefully keeping a distance between us. Many of our fellow revellers were publicly kissing but I certainly wasn't ready for such a step.

Then, along with the new year, it dawned on me that Joe had not once shown any sign of ardent affection towards me since our reunion. He hadn't taken advantage of the jostling crowd, or the darkness of the theatre, or the uneven ground of the park. He had never reached out to hold my hand or grip my elbow. He'd not leaned in close or snatched a quick kiss when no one was looking.

I turned to stare at his profile. He was not unattractive. His beard was new, as was the redness of his face, but it was the same nose I'd bumped, the same lips I'd stolen a taste from, when I was a wee lass all those years ago.

As the off-key lyrics of Auld Lang Syne began to sweep across the crowd, I remembered that Joe had been married and known a woman, had a child. How could I explain to him that he had been the last and only man I'd kissed? That our youthful fumbling pecks was the limit of my experience?

By the time we turned around and began to walk back to the house, I had worked myself up into quite the state. I could never broach the subject directly. "You and Ivy… You had a good marriage?"

"You must think I'm wicked. That way. To be asking for your hand within such a short time frame. But it's not what you think. In fact, it's just the opposite."

I raised my eyebrows. I wasn't sure how Joe assumed what I was thinking when I was yet to determine it myself.

"I won't be comparing you with Ivy, Elsie. You'll have to forgive me, but I don't think I could ever feel like I did for another woman like I did my Ivy."

I flushed and turned to make the pot of coffee I'd offered to keep him awake for his walk back to his boarding house. Embarrassingly, I rattled the cup and saucer as I placed it upon the tray.

"I want you to know I'm not looking to replace her," he confirmed as we sat to drink the beverage. "I'd like you to be my wife for other reasons."

Sweating over a boiling copper after sloshing through fields of muck immediately came to mind.

"No, Elsie, I don't need a drudge," he insisted when my imaginings must have shown in my expression.

"But if it's alright with you, Elsie, I'd just rather let that part of marriage be. There's two good sized bedrooms in the farm house which means you'll have one of your own."

My face must have been bright red. His reasoning was not unexpected, though, considering my lack of looks. My body was no longer plump and full of curves that a man might adore. My skin now sagged and my hair didn't curl. I was no prize.

"I didn't think you'd mind, seeing as you've reached this age without such distraction."

I pursed my lips. Obviously Joe hadn't had much contact with those in service over the years. It was quite often difficult to keep up with who was bedding whom in some houses. Mr Carson ran a tight ship, however, and insisted no such nonsense would go on, but Joe couldn't know this.

"I'd like company, you see," he said.

I remained mute, my rebellious thoughts returning to Charlie Carson and his stern features, and how much I enjoyed his company.

"It's quiet on the farm," he went on. "This could work for us both. You can't be a housekeeper forever. "

I gave him a sad tender smile. "No, maybe I can't be a housekeeper forever." I leaned closer and pressed a small kiss to Joe's cheek. "I don't know why… But... The truth is, I want to be a housekeeper forever."

After he left, in the early hours of the morning, I cleaned up the cups and returned to my sitting room. I stoked the fire to warm me and sat by the table Mr Carson had gifted me and never felt more alone since my parents' deaths.

I must have dozed in the chair because the next thing I knew I was being woken by the sound of dishes and bowls clattering in the kitchen.

In a sleep deprived fog, I rose, planning on visiting the bathroom to spruce myself up at least a bit before facing Mrs Tomkinson. As I walked past my desk, however, I saw that the instructions Mr Bromidge had left me on how to telephone Downton were no longer in my top drawer. Instead, they were spread out and tucked beneath the base of the instrument.

Before I could think any more about it, I flattened them out further and read through them again.

Next, I followed them carefully.

The whole thing was a fairly long process. There seemed to be a lot of rigmarole necessary to talk to anyone; it was a lot less simple than Mr Bromidge claimed. Finally, however, there was a slightly different tone to the buzzing in my ear, and then the operator told me my call was connecting. I jumped a little when someone on the other end was saying hello and demanding to know who was calling.

It wasn't the deep masculine voice I was expecting. Instead, it was an accent similar to mine in many ways but I could discern the distinct upper class sound as she spoke, even with those few words. This was no farm girl from Argyll.

"Hello, Mrs Bute," I greeted the other woman. "It's Mrs Hughes from London calling."

I thought I should ask about the weather or her health, or even perhaps offer condolences for her sister, but instead I immediately asked, "Is Mr Carson available, by any chance?"

Her answer came as a shock.

Apparently I couldn't speak to Mr Carson on the telephone because he wasn't in Yorkshire. He had travelled to London, and he had arrived safely. She knew this because he had telephoned to inform her of his arrival last night just before midnight.

He had also told her he wasn't disturbing me by using the telephone because I was not here.

No, he'd instead informed Mrs Bute that I was out - walking out - with a man.