As always, my thanks to chelsie fan.
He knocked on the door, more to inform her that he was coming in than to ask for permission to enter. She twisted towards the sound of the door opening, hoping she didn't look as unhappy as she felt.
"Charles," she greeted him hesitantly. She was still trying to muddle through her thoughts and make sense of them all. She didn't even know what she wanted out of their conversation, much less how to get it.
"Elsie," he returned, smiling. "I've got a surprise for you." He'd taken the time to arrange her meal much like he would for upstairs, even though the visual effect would be lost on her.
"Oh?"
He put the tray down on the table and lifted the lid off with a flourish. The smell of roast chicken filled the room. "Your favourite," he announced proudly.
He expected her to smile, but instead she scowled, knowing full well that chicken had not been the menu for this evening. "Did I not tell them about making a fuss?"
She could be so tiresome on the subject! Mr. Carson suppressed an aggravated sigh. "Pick your battles, Elsie. Mrs. Patmore making chicken tonight instead of next Sunday is not one of them."
She knew she was being silly, but everything they did seemed designed to hammer home that she was leaving, whether they meant it to or not. She felt as if she might shatter into tiny pieces, even over something so mundane and insignificant as supper, if she were to let her guard down for one second. "I suppose you're right," she conceded, shifting awkwardly in her seat.
He busied himself with his own meal. She made no moved to touch her own. "They're just trying to be nice. They care about you," he pointed out. I care about you, he added in his head.
"I know that," she said a little too sharply. She could see them all in her mind's eye, each member of the staff that she loved so well. She didn't know how to care for them, and it was driving her mad.
Mr. Carson winced at her tone, but chose to ignore it. He watched as she laced and unlaced her fingers instead of eating.
"Do you need a hand?" he asked her. "Here-" he moved to help her with her cutlery, but she pulled away.
"I'm not hungry," she said shortly.
"Elsie, you have to eat."
She turned away from the table in defiance. "I have to do many things, but eating a meal I never asked for is not one of them!" she snapped.
"There's no need for that." He could not entirely hide the hurt from his voice, and Mrs. Hughes felt even guiltier than she had before.
She pressed her hands to her face in dismay. "I'm sorry. I'm horrible. I'm sorry." It bothered her no end that she was coming across so ungrateful and unkind, but she couldn't seem to stop. The words flew from her mouth unchecked, to Anna, to him, and silently towards herself in an internal monologue that seemed to find fault with everything.
He abandoned his own supper to move his chair closer to her. "You're not horrible."
"I am," she insisted, unable to get past her own unkindness. "You should be glad to be rid of me."
"Don't say things like that. You know they aren't true."
She gave a short humorless laugh. "Aren't they?"
"No," he said seriously. "They're not."
Tears pricked her eyes, but she blinked them away. "Thank you," she managed. She picked up her fork in an honest attempt to eat something, but set it back down. She couldn't do it. He watched her, concerned.
"Charles?" she asked quietly. She felt like he was already so far away, when he couldn't be more than a few feet from her.
"Yes?"
"I don't feel anything like myself."
She sounded so little and defeated, his heart ached for her. He got up and crouched in front of her, taking her hands in his. "I know you don't," he said soothingly.
It felt better to hold his hand; it made her feel braver somehow and less alone. "And I don't know how to do this," she confessed.
"Do what?"
"Say goodbye." she whispered. "To you, or to them, or to any of it. This is not how it was supposed to be."
He did not disagree with that, but there was little they could do now about circumstance. Still, he wondered if she had something specific in mind as to how things were 'supposed to be' between them. His own ideas about the two of them had been cloudy at best, hidden behind a veil of propriety even in his own mind for years, but he could not deny their existence.
"How was it supposed to be?" he asked.
She knew instinctively that he was talking about them. "I don't know," she said slowly, thinking such confessions had no place now. "But not this," she admitted.
"No," he agreed, giving her hands a squeeze. "Not this."
All thoughts of supper had been forgotten, and he studied her carefully. He was dying to know what was happening in that head of hers, what future she'd imagined for them that was causing her so much grief to have lost. He could be way off the mark. There was no way to be sure she wasn't simply upset over the loss of her job or the leaving of her home, but he wondered. He knew her to be perceptive and forward thinking. What if she'd been forward thinking about him?
"Do you think…" he began uncertainly. "Do you think we could have made a go of it?"
She inhaled sharply. She'd never thought he'd bring it up himself. She'd resolved not to speak of it, thinking it would be easier for both of them, but she hadn't imagined he'd be so forthcoming. It wasn't like him. But then again, she didn't feel anything like herself.
She could feign ignorance, but she didn't see the point. She was not going to spend her last evening with him lying if she could help it. "I don't know. Maybe," she said.
"Maybe," he parroted, looking down at their hands, regret washing over him. "Maybe, if I'd done things properly."
"If you'd done things properly?" she said, frowning.
"Yes," he said resolutely. "If I'd done things properly. If I'd been honest with myself and with you. If I'd told you-"
"Charles," she said warningly.
He barreled on. "Elsie, you have to know that I-"
"Charles! Please," she pleaded, jerking her hands away. Then, much more quietly: "Please don't."
"What?" he asked, hurt and confused. It had taken all his courage to put words to how he felt, and she'd pulled away.
Mrs. Hughes took a deep shuddering breath. "Charles, if you finish that sentence I may never forgive you."
He was stunned speechless for a moment, but soon recovered. "So, you know that-"
"Never forgive you," she repeated tearfully, recoiling further.
She'd started to tremble, so violently he could actually see it. At once, he felt hopelessly selfish. What was it he was trying to accomplish? To get it off his chest? To make himself feel better? How dare he put his own conscience above her? This was not helping, only hurting, and he couldn't imagine what possessed him to push her.
"Come now, don't do that," he said softly, reaching out to her. "I'm so sorry, Elsie. Don't do that."
Relieved that he was going to let the subject drop, she let him comfort her. He ran his hands up and down her arms in slow soothing motions. She was certain he would only say such things to make her feel better, not knowing that they would make her feel worse. One last kindness from him that she didn't deserve, much like the kiss they'd almost shared.
She felt she owed him some kind of explanation, but she couldn't string together more than a few words at a time. "I can't…" she mumbled, "I just…can't…I can't."
She couldn't let him lie to her. There was no need for that to be on his soul for her sake. She loved him far too much to make a liar of him, and far too much to bear hearing him speak false affection for her.
"It's all right. I understand," he intoned. "I understand."
Feeling that perhaps he truly did understand she leaned into him, letting his shoulder support her head. After a moment she lifted it, sure that he couldn't be comfortable kneeling on the floor in front of her. As she suspected, he took the opportunity to stand up.
"What can I do?" he asked her, desperate to make her feel better.
She thought for a moment. Every second closer she came to leaving, the more apprehensive she became, and she had no more work to distract her from the clawing feeling in her stomach. She felt her hands shaking again. It was becoming impossible to hide.
"Will you just hold me? Like you did before?"
"Yes. Of course," he told her warmly.
He took her hand and helped her up out of her chair and over towards his. He marveled at how much easier it was to guide her than that first awkward day. He sat first and then arranged her carefully on his lap. It wasn't entirely comfortable for him, but that was the furthest thing from his mind. She pressed her head gratefully against his chest.
"Better?" he asked her, running his hand up and down her arm.
"Yes," she whispered into his jacket.
Being held by him was a strange and wonderful feeling. She was so rarely touched by anybody, but this past week had changed all that. She'd had people touch her all the time, helping her with her clothes and her meals and getting from one place to another. She was gaining more independence each day, but without question it still was a drastic increase in physical contact. None of it was quite like this though. All of the rest of it was necessary, even clinical at times, but this was different. It wasn't something she required, it was just something that she wanted. She'd never fancied herself someone in need of affection. She was quite fine the way things were before, but it was just nice. He smelled nice, and the feeling of being pressed against his broad chest felt nice, as did the way his arm snaked around her waist and the circles he traced on her back with his free hand. In his arms all of her fears didn't seem quite so insurmountable.
She tried to think calmly and rationally about what tomorrow would bring. She was to catch the mid-morning train, which would get her to Blackpool at the prescribed time of two o'clock. That meant leaving shortly after breakfast. Anna would go with her to make sure everything went smoothly, and to help her with her luggage. Martha and David would meet them at Blackpool Central and take her from there, leaving Anna to return to Downton on the next train.
It was all very tidy, really. The logistics were not the issue, but they were much easier to fixate on. Beneath her, Mr. Carson shifted, into what was presumably a more comfortable position and pulled her close. He reminded her of what she truly feared leaving behind. She'd spent most of her adult life at Downton and he'd been an intrinsic part of that. He was weaved into her perception of what home was.
"May I at least tell you that I'll miss you?" he asked her carefully. It was harder with her in his arms to keep control of his words, but he thought he understood now what she needed to hear and what she didn't.
"Yes," she said, blinking back tears. "You may."
"Then know that I will miss you, Elsie. So very much."
She longed more in that moment than any other since this entire ordeal began to see his face. To be able to look into his eyes and trust that he understood all the things she found so impossible to voice. She lifted her head off his chest, but there was nothing but a dark blur before her. All of her gratitude and her apologies and her love stayed hidden in shadows she could not clear.
"What is it?" he asked, seeing her lip tremble.
"I miss you already."
"Oh, Elsie," he said stroking her cheek. She collapsed back into him, willing herself not to cry. That was not the last memory she wanted of him, and that thought was enough to stem her tears.
"I'm scared," she mumbled into his chest.
Even in his arms she was still shaky, as she tried desperately to ignore her trepidation about what lay ahead. "You're going to be fine," he reassured her. "You are the bravest woman I know, and you're going to be fine."
"Thank you," she managed. "Charles? I'm so…sorry."
He was too choked up to reply so he just squeezed her tighter, grateful that she couldn't see him cry. There she was in his arms, but somehow she was already a hundred miles away, forever out of his reach.
TBC...
