Day 11
Prepared
He prides himself on being prepared for any occasion, on of being a step ahead of the next man. On having the ability to read a room with a glance. To anticipate the needs or desires of his employers before they know themselves. A well-placed guiding hand here, a cup of tea perfectly prepared; being inconspicuously present when needed. A talent that makes him good at his job. Ensures that should he ever need a new position, one will be waiting. He has turned down plenty of offers throughout the years. Offers from larger, more prestigious houses trying to pinch him from Downton with lures of more money and plays to his vanity with dreams of serving at a finer house. He has never considered any of them; he's only ever considered leaving Downton once and that was to go to a considerably less prestigious house. One bought with new money in a man's vain attempt at respectability. He'd have only gone then to protect his favorite; to prepare her for her new life. Set up her house and help her to manage it. He had prepared himself to leave; reconciled himself to the fact that for her he would leave the only place that he ever truly called home. He thanks heaven above that he never had to.
No, he's nothing if not practiced, prepared. Except for this.
This fluttering in his chest; the soft thumping occasionally racing out of control like a steed charging toward the finish. This knotting of his stomach; a sinking feeling, though not necessarily unpleasant. He wonders if he is ill. If he is taking flu or perhaps overworking himself again. But he has two footmen and even though Molesley grates on his last nerve and he bristles at James' preening smugness, they are efficient, capable, and things are finally running smoothly again. Mr. Barrow is managing to stay out of trouble and now that Miss O'Brien is gone, he has not found anyone else with whom to conspire. Yet.
Lady Rose's coming out has been an unqualified success and he cannot remember a London season that he enjoyed more thoroughly. Even the trip to the seashore, though he at first felt defeated, he looks back at it with fondness. All had a good day and he has lived a little at Mrs. Hughes' gentle urging.
No, everything is running like a well-oiled machine.
Perhaps he is ill. This must be the explanation. The heart flutters. The odd sensation in his belly. He looks at himself in the small mirror above his mantle. Checks his eyes for signs of illness. They are not red and there are no dark circles under them. He sticks his tongue out; sees no white spots or red ones for that matter. His cheeks are not flushed and he has not a fever, he thinks. He lifts a hand and touches the back of it to his forehead and it feels cool. But how can one judge one's own temperature that way? Perhaps he will ask Mrs. Hughes to be the judge. And there it is again. The flutter in his chest, the stomach twisting into a knot, and he notices his cheeks flush a peculiar shade of crimson. Maybe a visit to Dr. Clarkson will solve the mystery of this illness that plagues him. These strange feelings that come and go.
"Mr. Carson, I have tea ready if you'd care to join me," Mrs. Hughes calls as she enters his pantry. He turns around and suddenly his heart is beating in his ears. He feels a bit dizzy, off kilter. He'll need to tell Dr. Clarkson about this; add it to the list of symptoms that seems to be growing by the minute. He nods, smiles. Of course, tea will be nice; perhaps settle his stomach. "Are you all right?" she asks with concern. Her eyes narrow as if she is examining him.
"Yes, why?" he responds as she moves closer.
"Well, you haven't seemed yourself since we returned from London. If you're ill…."
"…..Well, I do feel a bit…" he begins but before he finishes he feels her hand pressed against his forehead.
"You aren't feverish," she states, drawing her hand away slowly and it comes to rest on his forearm, a gesture of concern.
"No, I suppose not," he says quietly realization dawning. She is standing very close and the fragrance of rosewater fills his senses. Her eyes are so very pretty and blue and remind him of the summer's sky that day he took her hand; the day he agreed to live a little. His eyes draw downward to her mouth, her lips. He thinks of what it might be like to feel them against his own. And the flutters return, the ringing in his ears, a flush across his cheeks.
"Mr. Carson, are you sure that you are all right?" she asks again, her fingers squeezing his arm firmly. "If you'd like me to ring Dr. Clarkson…"
"No, Mrs. Hughes," he assures her covering her hand with his own. "I think that I will be just fine." He wants to tell her that Dr. Clarkson has no remedy for what ails him. That there is no magical preparation for the chemist to compound. That only she has the cure.
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