A/N: Thank you all for your continued, lovely reviews. This one's for OSUSprinks, who sparked a little idea.
xx,
CSotA
Close your eyes and think of me
And soon I will be there …
Soon I'll be knocking upon your door.
Late April, 1921
Mrs. Hughes raises her hand and knocks once on the door to the butler's pantry, pushing it further open as she does so. He never really closes it during the day although she feels that, for his own sanity at times, he really should.
"You wanted to see me, Mr. Carson?"
He doesn't look up from the wine he's decanting, but she approaches his desk and watches him finish, her hands clasped before her.
"I did," he replies, righting the now-empty bottle with a flourish and before setting it down on the desk. He's frowning, despite the presence of what appears to be perfectly-decanted wine sitting before him.
"You don't seem terribly happy about whatever it is you have to tell me," she observes. "If we've any unexpected guests arriving, we're more than ready, I can assure you. The girls have been –"
"It's not guests," he interrupts, rising from his chair. He tugs at his waistcoat, a familiar action which indicates he truly is uncomfortable about something, and he gives a little sigh.
She watches him, waiting patiently for whatever news he has to deliver.
"His Lordship has informed me that he and her Ladyship will, in fact, be spending a bit of time in London for the Season this year."
She feels her eyebrows shoot up as her heart is sinking to the bottom of her chest. No …
"Will they? Well, I am surprised by that."
She refuses to give in to the overwhelming sense of melancholy she feels; she and Mr. Carson had discussed this between them two months ago, when Lady Grantham had mentioned to her housekeeper that they'd likely skip the Season again this year, what with Lady Mary's condition and Lady Edith having no interest in most of the social events being offered anyhow.
"As am I," he frowns. "They'll be bringing minimal staff, of course. Just Mr. Bates and Miss O'Brien – and Anna, if Lady Mary joins them."
"And you." She says it with a tiny sigh, but it does not go unnoticed by Mr. Carson.
"And me, naturally. Mr. Barrow will take over here, of course."
She rolls her eyes. "Yes, I suppose he will try," she says drily.
"It will be an abbreviated trip," he reiterates. "We have some time to organize."
"How long?"
"We'll leave two weeks from tomorrow."
"No." She shakes her head. "I said that poorly. For how long will you be gone?"
Anyone passing by the open door might think they were having any old conversation about rotas or the weather, but the atmosphere is thick in the pantry, and Mrs. Hughes feels as though she is struggling for air. She's trying her best to hide it; after all, he's gone every Season and why should this one be different?
Because it is different, she thinks. Because they didn't go last year. Because now we have … because we've acknowledged … sigh.
She realizes too late that he's speaking again; blushing, she has to ask him to repeat himself.
"I said we'll be there through the end of July," he says slowly. "And I asked if you'd mind telling Anna. I'd rather her hear from you and not Mr. Bates, I think."
He's concerned about the housekeeper all of a sudden; he didn't expect her reaction to be enthusiastic, but she's usually a no-nonsense woman and yet she seems to be struggling. And he couldn't ignore her choice of words, either: 'How long will you be gone.' Not they. He certainly isn't anxious to be away from her for this long, not after ...
Well.
But it's his job, and he does it proudly, despite whatever personal feelings he harbors.
"July," she whispers, calculating. Three full months … Likely thirteen weeks … One letter every few days, plus the phone call …
"Mrs. Hughes?"
She snaps her head up, then shakes it. "Of course I'll tell Anna," she says. "I agree; it would be unprofessional of me to leave it to her husband. And I can't imagine Lady Mary not wanting to take in some of the Season, if she's able."
He moves out from behind the desk, nearer to her, but stops himself before infringing upon her personal space.
"We've two weeks yet, Mrs. Hughes," he says kindly. "Chin up."
She meets his eyes guiltily. "Oh, don't you worry about me, Mr. Carson," she manages, a false lightness to her voice. "We'll manage quite well here, I expect. There's always a great deal to accomplish when the family's away."
He nods his head in agreement, then watches as she turns to leave.
Just before she reaches the door, she hears his deep, rumbling voice.
"I do hope you'll write, Mrs. Hughes."
She turns and smiles at him brilliantly, and her emotions catch in her throat when she sees the unguarded look in his eyes, that little something that tells her he'll miss her, too, and she gives him a gentle nod.
"I always do, Mr. Carson."
oOoOoOoOoOo
The next two weeks are, of course, unnaturally busy. Anna travels twice into Ripon with Lady Mary, whose upcoming trip requires two visits to her dressmaker in order that she might have suitable clothing that fits her expanding body. Mrs. Hughes has seen the pained look carefully tucked away in Anna's eyes, and she worries for her girl as she wonders what has been preventing the Bateses from starting a family.
There is the ongoing power struggle between the footmen, keeping Mr. Carson on his toes more than he'd like; truth be told, the butler is somewhat looking forward to a quiet, abbreviated Season in London. Her Ladyship isn't likely to host more than a few dinners, meaning that opportunities to take some of his half-days, which he usually saves up for time in London, should be easy to come by.
Mrs. Hughes keeps herself busy doing menial tasks, even helping in the laundry room in order to keep her hands – and mind – busy. She vacillates between being frustrated with herself for not spending more time with Mr. Carson while he's still here and chiding herself for behaving like a foolish young maid who is looking for ridiculous excuses to be near her beau.
And he's not that, she reminds herself, and she reaches for another shirt to scrub furiously against the washboard.
June, 1921
"Letter for you, Mrs. Hughes."
"Thank you." She takes the envelope from Mr. Barrow with barely a glance, and lays it beside her teacup.
"Mr. Carson appears to be writing rather frequently."
"Who's to say it's from Mr. Carson?"
Mr. Barrow smirks. "Well, it does look like his handwriting."
She glances at his stack of mail – all invoices, she can tell.
"Comparing it to the ones you've received?" She knows she should have left it alone, but she's hot and tired and really not in the mood to deal with him today.
"I've not received any letters," Mr. Barrow replies, hesitating in the end as he realizes he fell right into her trap.
"Really? Well, then, I thank you for keeping track of mine, Mr. Barrow. I daresay you'll let me know if any more arrive?"
She sips her tea and meets Mrs. Patmore's astonished gaze from across the room; the cook has been standing in the doorway to the kitchen, watching the entire exchange, and has to turn on her heel and hurry off before she erupts into a fit of laughter.
Mrs. Hughes brushes her pinkie over the envelope as she rests her teacup on the saucer, pondering how much time is enough time to wait before rushing to her sitting room and ripping the damned envelope open. Another glance shows it to be thicker than the last three, and she can tell without even touching it again that he must have needed two pages instead of one.
oOoOoOoOoOo
It's barely ten minutes later that she finds herself at her desk, her door closed (not tightly, though), and sliding the letter from its envelope.
20 June, 1921
Dear Mrs. Hughes,
Thank you for your last letter, in which you so thoughtfully explained Lady Mary and Mr. Crawley's plans for next week. I am happy to hear that she is feeling well enough to travel, of course. I was concerned when she chose to wait before joining Lord and Lady Grantham. I am still not convinced it's a good idea, but I do accept that it is not my decision to make.
She laughs at that; he would think Lady Mary incapable of travel in so "delicate" a condition.
Not much has changed in London, I'm afraid. I believe I wrote previously about expecting dinner guests. The gentleman was a friend of his Lordship's from their days together at school, and he and his wife have been guests at Grantham House twice since. Not much else has been happening, although tomorrow her Ladyship plans to visit the art museum.
I find myself missing Downton more and more with each passing day. Perhaps it's from not having come here these last couple of years, but I expected to be quite pleased to return to London and yet I have found myself somewhat disenchanted with it all. The city is the same, of course. Perhaps I am just getting on, Mrs. Hughes, and less interested in the lights and bustle. I've a half-day coming tomorrow, and I believe I'll spend it at the British Museum.
I must confess that I have a request, Mrs. Hughes. I meant to ask you in my previous letter but thought the better of it. Having reconsidered, I wondered if perhaps I was foolish not to bring it up then.
You've mentioned several times that you're still helping out in the laundry. And while I chided you for this before we left, as it is completely beneath your position as housekeeper to do so, I feel myself in the peculiar position of wanting to take advantage of that situation.
I happen to have this blanket, you see –
Her heart flutters, and she almost drops the letter.
– and it's rather precious to me. It was a gift from a dear friend, and I fear that after several months of nightly use, it could use a bit of cleaning. But, given the delicate nature of the item itself, I have found myself unable to simply add it to my regular laundry when in residence at Downton. I mean this as no reflection on your girls, Mrs. Hughes, but I simply couldn't bear it if anything were to happen to it.
However, I do feel that I might be able to entrust it to your care. If you could manage to find the time to see to it, I'd consider it a great personal favour. It can be found tucked safely away in the trunk below the window in my bedroom.
I must close this letter for now, as it is almost time for the dinner service. But I am reminded as I glance at my calendar that I'll be phoning you in two days' time, and I look forward it.
Until then, Mrs. Hughes,
C. Carson
oOoOoOoOoOo
"Downton Abbey. This is Mrs. Hughes, the housekeeper, speaking." Her heart flutters; she just knows it's him.
"Mrs. Hughes. It is rather nice to hear your voice instead of just imagining it as I read your letters."
"Mr. Carson," she breathes happily. "I had a suspicion it would be you." She takes the telephone up in her hand and sits a bit further back in his desk chair, rather grateful, indeed, that Mr. Barrow is presently occupied.
"I hope I've not phoned at an inconvenient time."
"No, not at all. Lady Edith and Mr. Branson have just sat down to lunch." She glances at the clock. As if he didn't know that.
"Are things going well, then?"
She sighs, sparing a sad thought for Mr. Branson. "About as well as I'd expect. And you? How was your trip to the British Museum? Did it restore your faith in London?"
He smiles as he hears the familiar teasing in her voice. "It did, Mrs. Hughes."
"Excellent. I should like to visit it someday, I think."
"You've never been?" He sounds almost horrified. "That surprises me, knowing you."
She's touched that he'd realize how much she would love being surrounded by history for an afternoon.
"No. Perhaps someday."
There's a wistful pause, each considering the unspoken suggestion, the unlikely possibility.
She's the first to recover.
"I'm happy to report that the task you set me to has been successfully completed, Mr. Carson."
"Oh? My, that was quick. Thank you … very much. I knew that I could trust you with that."
"Of course you could," she said softly.
"And it's tucked safely back away?" he enquired further.
"It will be, Mr. Carson. Have no fear." There's a light laugh behind the words, and he realizes he's acting like a child.
"Of course."
They natter on for another few minutes before deciding it's time to hang up and get on with their day. With promises to write soon, and an unnecessary spoken reminder that the time in London is now two-thirds gone, they bid one another farewell.
Mrs. Hughes checks in on her girls and then heads up to the servants' quarters. She opens a few windows in order to let some fresh afternoon air in, and then goes to her own room to fetch a bit of mending.
As she picks up the basket and makes her way past her bed, she reaches down and brushes her fingers over the newly-laundered blanket, closing her eyes and imagining him asleep in his own bed with the stark white and bright blues scrunched up underneath his chin.
She wonders what Mr. Carson would have said had she mentioned that she was keeping it until the night before he returned.
He'll know, though, when he returns, she tells herself, and she bites down on her lip as she remembers how attentive her butler is … how he picks up minute details that others might miss.
He'll know, because it will probably smell like lavender.
A wee review would be just lovely. Thanks to all of you who have been taking the time to read this little head canon of mine. x