Love let me down ...
So I tried to erase it, but the ink bled right through,
Almost drove myself crazy when these words led to you.
And all these useless dreams of living alone.
So come let me love you ...
First of December, 1918
The train arrives just ahead of schedule, and Charles hopes it's a sign of a very good, very lucky day ahead. He nods to the young man who's taken down his trunk and suitcase and obtained a small cart for them, and as he presses a coin into the man's hand, Charles thanks him aloud.
"New to the area?" The man's demeanor is cheerful, easygoing, and Charles finds himself smiling. It's only a second or two later, however, when it occurs to him to wonder: How did this young man escape the war? Perhaps a lung issue, he muses, or perhaps he's the last son of the family.
"Not entirely," Charles replies. "But it's been a very long time since I was last here, so I feel almost new."
"Well, I'd wager that won't last long. Not much changes in Downton as the years go by."
Their attention is drawn by a call from across the platform - a chauffeur, apparently waving at Charles, and so he bids the younger man goodbye and pushes the cart over to what he now assumes, given the look of it and the way that the green-liveried chauffeur seems to know him, is Lord Grantham's motor.
"You must be the Reverend," Tom says.
"Well, not anymore," Charles admits. "Just Mr. Carson now."
Tom holds out his hand. "Tom Branson, at your service."
Charles shakes his hand tentatively. "He really should not have sent a car," he adds, muttering. "I'd have managed just fine."
"His Lordship told me you'd say that," Tom answers, "and he told me that I am to ignore your protestations and instruct you to get in."
Charles sighs but does as he's asked.
"If it makes you feel better, I had to run into town anyhow." Tom shuts the door firmly and climbs behind the wheel.
"Only a bit."
They don't talk much on the way to the cottage, and Charles finds he's grateful for the chauffeur's quiet demeanor. He remembers brief mentions of the man from both Mrs. Hughes and Lady Sybil, but he can't quite recall what they were about, specifically. It doesn't matter, and he forgets about it completely as he watches the landscape go by out the window. The rolling hills and a smattering of sheep make him smile. There are few buildings that he doesn't recognize from his earlier days working at the Abbey, although he's sure that many of the families are onto a new generation by now.
Or not.
The sadness of the war still lingers within him, the loss of lives and the horrors of things he's seen, and it comes up behind him at the unlikeliest of times, grabs at his heart and clutches tightly for a while until it slowly fades in the background again, waiting ...
They turn down a small lane, and Charles sits up a bit straighter in the seat, looking out and spying his new home just down the lane. It's just as Lord Grantham had said, with the small hedgerow, perfectly trimmed. The cottage seems to have been waiting for his arrival.
"Here we are, Mr. Carson."
Tom opens the door for Charles and then retrieves and carries the trunk to the front step. But when he returns for the suitcase, he has to smirk at how Charles already has it in hand.
"I'm happy to bring those in for you," he says, but Charles declines.
"No, Mr. Branson, I won't keep you. I can manage with these just fine. But I thank you."
"You're welcome, Mr. Carson. I hope to see you again soon."
"I'm sure you will. Oh, and Mr. Branson? One more thing."
But Tom taps his finger over his lips. "Mum's the word, Mr. Carson. No one is to know you're in town."
Charles smiles, relieved. "Just so. I'll be up at the house soon, but I'd rather tell them myself. Only Mr. Barrow, his Lordship, and her Ladyship know for now. And you."
"Well, if Mr. Barrow knows, then you'd better make it quick." Tom smirks, and Charles knows instantly that Lord Grantham must have mentioned that Thomas and Charles had encountered one another on the front.
Or perhaps Mrs. Hughes did, he thinks, and then he blushes a bit at the knowledge that this is the second time he's thought of her in an hour.
"I'm afraid you're right, Mr. Branson. Thank you again."
Charles watches as Tom drives away before turning toward his cottage. He fishes his key from his coat pocket, his hand completely calm as he opens the door to his new life.
"It's … quiet," he mutters, looking around at the sparsely-furnished space.
He drags the trunk in and places it by the foot of the staircase, thinking he'll do better to carry the few items inside up in small armloads instead of bringing the entire thing up in one go. The suitcase, however, is another story, and Charles easily finds the bedroom and smiles at how that room, at least, seems to have some comforts of home: the bed is made, the windows curtained, and there are logs by the fire.
Back downstairs, he examines everything with a critical eye and realizes it may not be as empty as he'd initially suspected. There are curtains on the windows that face the road, and the fireplace is full and ready to be lit. A quick examination of the cupboard shows enough food for a day or two, and he's sure the larder is somewhat stocked with necessities as well.
After setting a few things out and hanging his coat, Charles manages to get the fire going in the hearth. He returns to the kitchen then, fires the stove and puts a kettle on for some tea.
Twenty minutes later, he's poured a relatively good cuppa and located some biscuits left in a tin. He tries out the small settee in the parlour, watching the flames dance in the fireplace as he empties both the plate and the cup without spilling a crumb or a drop.
So far, so good.
He washes the dishes afterward and puts away his few possessions, setting aside one shirt to be pressed as it didn't fare so well being folded and packed. He grumbles, the sound echoing in the bedroom, when he realizes that he'll surely need to manage that alone now, given that the woman who'd come in once a week to clean and to take out the washing certainly wouldn't be here in Downton doing the same.
That line of thinking only brings him back to the housekeeper once more, and his heart pounds once, then twice.
He reaches for his jacket and coat, putting both back on and wondering how long he really thought he'd stay away. Slipping a hand in the coat pocket, he feels for the envelope, the letter he's prepared to leave for Mrs. Hughes if, for some reason, she's not at the house today when he arrives. He's sure Mrs. Patmore will be there, though, and his spirits lift a bit more at the prospect of reconnecting with his old friend.
By the time he banks the fires and is locking the cottage, the sun is just beginning its descent in the winter sky.
oOoOoOo
It's just gone past four in the afternoon, and Downton's housekeeper plops onto her chair with a loud sigh, the busy nature of the events both upstairs and down this week nearly overwhelming her. Her feet ache, and as she slips one shoe off and absentmindedly rubs the bottom of that foot against the toe of the other, massaging away a sore spot, she takes a deep, slow breath and lets it out again. She needs to stop for just a minute, sort her mind's contents in order to move through the rest of her day more efficiently. It's a feeling she often experienced during the war, but of course then everything had been harried, frenetic, and fraught with its own exhaustion … although that was more fear-driven to be sure.
She had hoped to leave that feeling of having to work double-fast behind months ago. And while those endless weeks do in many ways seem so far away now, she knows that her present tiredness is more than valid. Things at Downton are speeding up instead of slowing down as one would have expected following the war, and goodness knows she's not getting any younger.
Her sitting room door creaks open, and she smiles faintly as Beryl Patmore bustles in with a tea tray.
"Thought you might need this," the redheaded woman says, and Elsie notes that her voice is softer, kinder lately. Or maybe that's from age, too, and shared experiences between them, knowledge of how post-war life is and of all the things it can bring.
"Thank you, Mrs. Patmore," Elsie says, waving her hand at the empty chair by her desk when she notes there are two cups and saucers on the tray. She thinks perhaps her friend needs someone to sit with as well, five minutes of peace in a house that's been providing none.
Elsie slips her shoe back on, pushing her heel into place, and her head tilts a bit when she identifies Mrs. Patmore as her 'friend' in her mind.
She wonders when that happened. There's no question about it, though.
"What's that, then?"
Beryl has noticed something, but she sees the housekeeper shake it away with a toss of her head and a soft laugh.
"Oh, don't mind me, Mrs. Patmore," she chuckles, reaching for the proffered cup. She takes a tentative sip, relishing the nearly-scalding heat of the liquid and its restorative properties. "Ahh, this is exactly what I needed. How did you know?"
"A good cuppa solves most of life's problems, doesn't it?" the cook replies, taking her own seat. "Or at least, the small ones …"
"A great many of the big ones are likely solved over the sharing of it as well," Elsie observes. "How's the menu coming along for the wedding?"
She doesn't miss the cook's roll of the eyes.
"Oh, it's fine," Beryl sighs. "Lord knows Miss Swire isn't terribly difficult. I think the challenge is more in getting her to request something, to put her foot down and be a bit demanding. And Mr. Crawley is no help in that regard. He wants her to figure it all out on her own, to allow her to get used to it all, I suppose."
"Well, he's not wrong in his thinking there," Elsie answers. "She's in for some changes, make no mistake. Running a big house like this one day …" Settling back into her seat a bit, she sips the tea again and allows her mind to wander a bit. "Miss Swire," she adds eventually. "Who'd have thought?"
"Who, indeed?" Beryl clicks her tongue softly. "Do you think she has any idea how hard it'll really be, being his wife?"
Elsie looks at her almost sharply. "How do you mean?"
The cook blushes. "Oh, you know … It's not what was meant to happen, now, is it? And now, with poor Mr. Crawley's condition, I mean. After all his Lordship went through with that awful entail business ..."
"That's not our concern, really. None of it." Elsie rests the cup and saucer on her desk and brushes at her skirt, fiddling with a stray piece of lint that's suddenly annoying her. "And they do love one another," she adds quietly.
"Oh, I know," Beryl replies. "Anyone with half a brain can see that. I hope it's enough, though. Sometimes love isn't. Not in their world, anyhow."
Elsie's eyes are far away, staring down at the swirling fabric of her skirts … swirls that are becoming a sea of faces and places and voices … kind eyes, soft and gentle with the offer of a different life, suddenly sad … a small child who'd never be hers, blonde hair and a toothy smile … a sister's letter, opened in a rush as the war raged around them all … a deeper voice, kinder eyes, a brush of fingers across her cheek ...
"Nor ours," she whispers.
"Mrs. Hughes?"
Elsie inhales sharply, startled from her reverie. "Sorry," she mumbles. "Away with the fairies, I suppose."
Beryl, in an unusual turn of events, remains completely silent.
The knock at the door surprises them both, although Elsie is used to its muffled sound after all these years, and she and the cook both rise as Downton's butler enters the room.
"Mr. Barrow. What can I do for you?" Elsie asks.
"Might I have a word, Mrs. Hughes?" he asks, the tone of his voice indicating a hint of unusual concern. "It's rather important."
Elsie turns to Beryl, but the woman already has the tray in hand.
"High time I got back to work," she mumbles, nodding at the butler before heading out.
Thomas closes the door behind her then turns to face his housekeeper, who is now very grateful, indeed, for the fortification brought by the tea.
"What is it?" she asks tentatively. "Is something amiss upstairs?"
"No," Thomas replies. "Not upstairs." A pause. "I think you should sit down, Mrs. Hughes."
Elsie plops back into her chair without question. She sees more in his expression now than just concern, but she isn't sure what all of the feelings he's hiding are. He's a tricky one to read, sometimes, and she's not quite got the knack of it yet. But she knows whatever it is that he's about to drop in her lap is probably going to cause no amount of trouble in the house.
She sighs.
"Well, then," she tells him as he sits across from her. "Best get it out, Mr. Barrow, so that I can get on with my day."
He pauses, and suddenly she's worried. She files through them all in her mind …
There's a hubbub coming from down the corridor, and a quick glance tells Elsie that the hour is later than she remembered.
"You'll need to ring the gong soon," she reminds gently.
"We have a guest," Thomas tells her abruptly, and his head tilts in the general direction of the servants' hall. "To see you. I believe he's probably being served a cup of tea at the moment. And he's still sitting in my chair, no doubt."
She blanches; she can feel it, as her heart sinks into her stomach. She has no friends, no family, none beyond this house …
… except one.
"Surely not," she whispers, her voice catching somewhere in her throat.
Thomas reaches out, hesitantly, and gives her hand a brief squeeze. "Mrs. Hughes," he says quietly, "go on. He's certainly not come to see me, after all. And then, perhaps step out for a bit and chat. You'll get no ounce of privacy down here, not with everyone running to and fro."
"I couldn't," she protests. "There are things that need to be done."
"Which are not vital for you to complete at this time," he reminds her. "Dinner service isn't your domain, is it? You'll hardly be missed. If you are, I'll …" He pauses, then smirks. "I'll say you've fallen victim to a nasty headache."
She sees the amusement, the quirk of his eyebrows, and she remembers … and laughs.
"Right you are," she says, and they stand. She tries to say something else, but the words fizzle out in her throat and so she simply thanks him.
He mimes a tip of his imaginary hat. "At your service, Mrs. Hughes."
She watches him go, then catches her reflection in the looking glass.
"Goodness, woman," she chides herself as she checks her hair.
The walk to the servants' table is the longest walk she's ever taken. But then …
She recognizes the familiar sound as the butler's chair scrapes across the floor, and suddenly Mr. Carson is standing before her; she almost didn't stop walking, and when she did, she was so close to the man that she had to take a step or two back to avoid reaching out and brushing his chest with her fingertips.
"Mrs. Hughes."
His voice rumbles, resonating in the room and even somewhere in her chest, and she smiles.
"You're actually here." They're the first words that came to her mind, shaky as she utters them, and she regrets letting them fall from her lips. They make her sound like some lovesick, lonely girl longing for her lad to return.
"I am," he replies with a soft smile. "You must be busy; it's nearly dinner."
She glances over his shoulder, sees Mrs. Patmore collecting his teacup and saucer and bustling away, leaving them the only two at the table for a few seconds.
"I've a few moments," Elsie manages. "Perhaps we should step out into the courtyard. This place will be teeming in five minutes flat."
"As you wish." He picks his hat - the familiar bowler - up from the table and sets it atop his head.
Elsie fetches her coat and returns to the servants' hall, where he opens the door for her and allows her to pass before him into the courtyard. Her senses are filled with the familiar, lovely scent he carries, and she breathes it in deeply.
The gravel crunches beneath their feet as she leads him a bit away from the door, heading for a small space by the bicycle shed that affords them a bit of privacy from prying ears and eyes.
They turn a small corner, and before she knows it her hand is engulfed in the crook of his elbow. She looks up, startled.
"I've missed you terribly, Mrs. Hughes," The words tumble from his lips slowly, as if he wants to be sure she hears and understands each and every syllable.
"And I, you," comes her honest reply.
They stand for a moment, each drinking in the appearance of the other.
"I can't believe you're here," she says after a bit. "What about your new placement? How can you afford to be away? For how long are you away?"
"Well," he starts, and he clears his throat. "For good, actually."
Her brow furrows. "What?"
He takes a deep breath, turning from her as he looks past the lawn and trees and at the darkening sky.
"I've left the church," he says softly. "The priesthood. Retired from it, I suppose."
"Oh, you haven't!" she exclaims. "But … why?"
Charles licks his lips and then turns to face her again. His hesitancy takes her aback, but when he looks into her eyes, she knows.
"Mr. Carson?" It's a whisper, one he'd not have ever heard had he not turned around and stepped infinitesimally closer still to where she stands.
"I've settled back in Downton once again," he tells her, and he moves closer still; to her credit, she doesn't step back. "After all these years. I've been offered a new position. Here. And a cottage down the way."
"You're working here?" Now she's definitely on the back foot, and feeling quite unable to catch up. "In what capacity?"
At this, Charles laughs. "I'm to manage his Lordship's wine cellar. I'll be sent away occasionally to find new varieties, but mostly to rotate it all, to be sure he always stays on top of the newest, best types. And to be certain the selections match Mrs. Patmore's menus, of course."
Her laugh echoes his. "Ah … a sensible solution for Mr. Barrow's decided lack of knowledge in that area."
"Evidently."
"But ... wait a minute." She pauses, passes all that information through her mind again, then continues. "How did he know to look for you? The last any of us knew, you were to be leading the huddled masses at St. Felix."
"It was Lady Sybil," he says. "Or, at least she played some small part. His Lordship wrote to me once, said she'd mentioned me in a letter home and he wanted to know how I was faring." Charles pauses, not wanting to divulge the entirety of the letter to her at this time. "In short, he ended up saying that if I ever found myself back at Downton, that he'd appreciate it if I'd be willing to educate the butler about the wines. I'm certain that he meant it as a joke, but then … Well, it's a long story, and you've not much time. I contacted him once I'd decided to leave the church, and now here I am."
"With a new job," she chuckles. "And a butler who knows even less about your favorite topic than even Mr. Molesley did."
"Yes," he answers, meeting her gaze once again.
"Well," she says, her eyes shifting to stare at the ground, "he's fortunate that you were interested in coming back. I always assumed that when you left, you couldn't get away fast enough, and that there wouldn't be any instance in which you'd call Downton home again."
"Some things are different now, after all those years," he murmurs.
Her mouth is suddenly dry. "Such as?" she whispers, and he takes a half a step closer; their bodies are nearly touching.
"You," he replies simply. "Such as you, Mrs. Hughes."
Her head snaps up, and her eyes lock on his, the deep color of blue filling him with wonder. "Me?"
He smiles, hesitant, worried, and waits.
But her reserve crumbles at last and she leans forward, leans into him, and his arms move to encircle her, drawing her closer as he tips his head forward and rests his chin on the top of her head, careful not to muss her hair and give the other staff something to discuss around hidden corners.
Elsie wraps her arms around his waist and squeezes, resting her cheek against him. It feels so natural, as if no time has passed at all, as if the end of the war hadn't nearly kept them apart forever.
"You," he repeats, and her heart sings, filling up with all the things she hadn't even known she was missing.
And all these useless dreams of living alone.
So come let me love you,
Come let me love you
And then colour me in.
"Colour Me In," Damien Rice
A/N: Thank you to everyone for your reviews and kind prodding to get me to continue on with this fic. I promise I would never abandon you, but it was a rough few weeks and I didn't want to get this one wrong.
A note about Mr. Bates, because someone asked: I decided to ignore the god-awful "The Bateses Go to Prison" plot completely for the purposes of this story. They deserve a bit of background happiness, after all, and so we can assume that Mr. Bates continues to be valet to Lord Grantham … and is probably suitably annoyed AF that Thomas is now his superior. It is AU, so here we are.
Initially, this was planned to be about 15 chapters, give or take, and so we're approaching some key events on the horizon. I'd love a review to see what you think of this new chapter.
xxx,
CSotA