A/N: Hi lovely, wonderful readers! Thank you, so much, for your detailed, thoughtful reviews. I've had so much fun writing this fic and exploring these characters. So…this is the last pre-canon chapter. After this, I'll take the jump to 1912 and have to review Chelsie, Carson and Hughes-inclusive scenes, which will sound like something like this in my house:
Me (feverishly rewatching every detail and second of every Chelsie scene, FF'ing through the rest).
Husband: "What are you doing?"
Me: "Watching Downton Abbey."
H: "Ummm. You literally just fastforwarded through basically the entire episode WHY ARE YOU SKIPPING MAGGIE SMITH WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU?"
Me: "I am writing my fanfiction, you know how I am about canon."
H: "You've watched that one-minute scene eleven times."
Me: "You're right; I'll watch it again."
H: "You are completely insane."
A/N, #2: THOUGHTFUL OPINIONS DESIRED: So, generally I feel that these characters and the writing for them is consistent and fabulous (in contrast to my other 'ship, which is on The Walking Dead, and is written very unevenly.) HOWEVER, there's one things I can't quite reconcile as being character-driven, because, well, we all know it's not: WHY DIDN'T SHE, IN OVER THIRTY-FIVE YEARS, TELL HIM ABOUT HER SISTER? The answer, of course, was Fellowes struggling to come up with an admirable, in-character reason for why she wouldn't have retirement money (and thus giving Carson the impetus to propose, which he's wanted to do), and he suddenly remembered giving her a sister in the first season (like the rando kitchen help would know about Becky but Carson wouldn't). BUT I NEED REASONS. And I think I have a decent idea, though it isn't very flattering to Carson in the moment. Would you guys be interested in my exploring this? Or just…let it go? TIA!
TL/DR: Canon storytelling starts next chapter! And also: HELP! Why doesn't Carson know about Becky aside from YOUR PLOT IS SHOWING FELLOWES? Should I attempt to explain?
May, 1908
Deep in thought, Elsie watched the countryside roll by from her window seat on the train, feeling her muscles relax the minute the crowd of London buildings gave way to patchwork farmland, meadows and greenery. She was a country girl, and always would be, though she did enjoy the excitement and bustle of the city, albeit in small doses.
The Crawleys had requested she travel with them at the beginning of this season, which would be Lady Edith's first, as they were replacing Grantham House's housekeeper, and they needed her to fill in the gaps for a few weeks. And now, she was heading back to Downton. Back home.
One of the really lovely things about her trip to London was she had gotten to see her old friend, Margie. When Margie and Peter first left Downton, they had stayed in the village for several years, and Elsie had been able to see her friend and husband frequently, including their firstborn, Ella. But then Peter got a job with the railroad, and they packed up and headed to the city, the result being she hadn't seen her friend in nearly a dozen years. They had kept up a steady written correspondence, but, Elsie thought, it's not quite the same.
Until yesterday.
They had met in a ladies' tearoom, and the minute Elsie walked in, Margie's excited voice rang out:
"Mrs. Hughes, why I never!"
Elsie turned, and saw her friend, standing over a table set for afternoon tea, waving her over. The smile and auburn curls were the same as ever; but now, the sassy young housemaid had been replaced by a respectable, attractive, middle-aged housewife and mother of three, outfitted in a simple but stylish dress with alternating dark blue and green stripes.
Forgetting herself, she hurried over and embraced her friend, both of them tearing up unabashedly. She finally let go, wiped her eyes dry.
"Look at the two of us, acting like green girls," she smiled at her friend. "And none of that 'Mrs. Hughes' nonsense!"
"Oh, Elsie, it's been far too long! You're almost too refined for the likes of me!"
"Funny, Margie, I was just thinking the same thing."
They sat and both began talking, the words tumbling over each other in their excitement to finally be together, at long last. After two cups of tea and a scone apiece, they finally came up for air. Margie smiled at her friend, suddenly slightly bashful.
"I've a photograph of the whole family, if ye'd like to see it? 'Twas taken at Christmastime, as a gift for Peter's parents. We decided to get two taken, one for us, and one for them."
"Are ye daft? Bring it out at once!"
Elsie eagerly took the photograph her friend proffered and bend her head over it. Margie and Peter were seated on chairs slightly facing one another. Peter's crooked nose and half-smile made Elsie grin, especially given that most folks didn't smile for photographs, aside from children. Directly behind Peter was a sweet-faced girl of about nine, with a mop of hair Elise was sure contained at least hints of red. That'd be Claire. Margie looked almost regal in her formality. On her lap was her smallest, named after his father. Behind her, with one hand on her mother's shoulder, was a lovely girl just entering womanhood.
"Oh my, Margie. Ella. We don't feel the passage of time, not every day, but I certainly feel it now," she handed it back, thinking of her friend's eldest bouncing on her knee. "What a lovely family you have."
"Don't let that photograph fool you, Elsie," Margie tucked it away, grinned. "Young miss there suddenly thinks she has all of the answers for everything, and Peter's just as much of a fool as he's ever been." Despite her words, Margie radiated a great contentedness that did Elsie good to see.
And they fell deep into conversation again, whiling away the afternoon as the shadows grew long. Margie spoke with pride about Peter's job with the railroad, how he was always working his way up the ranks, and how Claire, as young as she was, had already stated she wanted to be a teacher. She admitted that little Petey had been a bit of unexpected joy, and how pleased she was to give her husband a son.
Elsie told her friend how the Crawleys hadn't had such luck, but what fair and reasonable employers and patrons to the estate they were. About the amusing sourness of Miss O'Brien, and the colorfulness of Miss Patmore's language. She spoke of her evening glasses of wine with Mr. Carson, how peaceful it was to come together with someone as an equal at the end of a day, regardless of what that day had brought. About the Crawley girls, her general dislike of Mary, pity for Edith and affection for Sybil.
"We've done well, the pair of us, haven't we, Elsie?" Margie smiled, leaned over and took her friend's hand.
"I believe we have, Margie," she gripped her friend's hand tightly, knowing that the both must leave soon, and not knowing when the next time she might see her would be.
"Might I…might I say somethin'?" Margie asked, looking slightly nervous.
"Of course, though, at this point, we may have said it all!"
"It's only that, I don't want to offend you, and I want you to understand: what I am sayin' isn't in jest or teasing; it's in earnest," Margie's eyes were wide.
"Well, now ye must be out with it. I shan't rest until you are, whether or not I am offended!" Elsie was deeply curious, and suddenly her heart began to pound a little. Part of her knew what her friend was going to say, or near it. It wasn't a new thought; it was just something that had never been said out loud, by her or anyone else.
The two women's hands were still clasped upon the table. Margie looked at them, then up at Elsie, held her gaze. "When you speak of Mr. Carson, you remind me of myself – when I speak of Peter. All of it. The pride, the annoyance, the camaraderie, and mostly – the partnership, the shoring up in certain moments, and the reliance that the other will shore you up, when ye be needin' it. Ye love him."
Ah, there it is. It's been said, not by you, but does that matter, really? Elsie thought. Nothing Margie had said surprised her. And it was all true. It was the biggest thing, really, in her life, so big she let it sit there, existing, as there didn't seem to be any need to change it – nor, really, any way to change it. It simply was.
"I have offended ye," Margie said at last.
"No, you haven't," Elsie replied. "And you're not wrong. It's hearing it, out loud, in those words. It's like someone describing your bedroom to you in great detail: you already know everything about it, all the nooks and crannies, you could find your way around in the dark. It's comfortable, and safe. But someone turns a light on, and points it all out to you, all the things ye've shoved into the corners, or under the bed. The secret things. Ah, I'm rambling at this point, but yes, Margie, I do. I don't really see any way 'round it."
"You two are suited, really," Margie replied. "As Peter and I are."
"Ah, but Margie, that's where the similarities end. Mr. Carson and I, we've chosen a life in service. I don't believe he could imagine any other sort of life, and I, well, I made my decision long ago: a husband and family or this career, the steadiness of it, the surety that Becky would be cared for."
"It's never too late…" Margie trailed off.
"It won't do, Margie. You and Peter, you chose each other, then built something together. Mr. Carson and I…we chose our careers, and the result is that we've come to…we've come to be very fond of one another, in our own way," Elsie decided, there and then, if she ever mentioned the word 'love' as it pertained to Mr. Carson, she'd be saying it to the man himself.
"I want you to understand, I am not unhappy or regretful of the circumstances; nay, I am grateful. Truly. As you say, I know, when I am at Downton, someone is there, celebrating my victories, and watching for when I need support. That's enough. It's everything." And she meant it.
And now, she was on her way home. And "home" she finally admitted, wasn't Downton, but its butler.
oooOOOooo
Charles was up to his bare elbows in silver polish. He felt that he may never get all of the blasted stuff off, truth be told. He looked around him at the dozens and dozens of silver pieces, all from the first floor (they hadn't gotten any further yet), surrounding him in one of the side rooms off the servant's hall. The junior staff did well enough, but some of these pieces required a practiced and patient hand.
The Season, especially now that the younger ladies were out or nearly so, was a time for deep cleaning. All of those little details that really made a house like Downton truly grand. With the family gone, Carson was happy to let some formalities slacken, as long as the staff understood that this work was essential.
"Is it true, then, Mr. Carson? We'll be havin' the evening off?" Thomas Barrow, the first footman, stood in the doorway, with two other footmen.
"Yes, Thomas, as long as everyone muddles through the rest of the day, I don't see why not."
"Then we might walk into the village then, the lot of us?"
"I suppose, as long as you remember, as staff members, you represent this house and the Grantham family, and behave accordingly," Carson responded.
Thomas gave the others a grin. "But of course, Mr. Carson. We deeply appreciate it." And he was off. Charles looked after him for a moment. Smarmy fellow, he is, he thought, though that wasn't necessarily a detriment in a footman. There was something else about Thomas, a cloud of melancholy that lurked underneath the smarm, which set Carson's teeth on edge. He wasn't sure what it meant, he just knew it made him uneasy.
He lost himself again in the nooks and crannies of silver, humming a little to himself, rolling his sleeves up to avoid staining the crisp whiteness of his dress shirt. Time passed without his noticing. He sang a little out loud, "Wouldn't you like to have me for a sweetheart? Wouldn't you like to have me for a beau…hmmm…hmmm…"
"That one's quite popular in London as well," a voice came from the doorway, his favorite voice. He nearly dropped the chafing bowl in his hand. Mrs. Hughes stood there, still wearing her traveling clothes. She had set her bag down and was pulling off her gloves. He noticed that her hat was new, and more stylish than her previous one.
"You're back," he heard himself, the informality of his words, the joy seeping out of the small phrase, but he seemed unable to correct course. It struck him that, in nearly twenty years working together, they'd never been apart this long. It's odd how he felt her absence now, in this moment of her return, more forcibly than when she'd actually been gone.
"Yes, Mr. Carson, I've returned. There was never any doubt of it," her eyes were twinkling at him. They stood there for a long moment, both of them, him with his sleeves at his elbows like a stable hand, her framed by the doorway, a soft look on her face.
"How did everything go?"
"Oh quite well, I expect. The new housekeeper for Grantham House is very sharp, and Lady Edith finally had a day that was all about her, for once in her life," she paused, stepped a little further into the room. He began polishing again, but his interest in the work was gone. "Oh, and I got the chance to visit with Margie Donovan, O'Connell, she once was."
"You two were thick as thieves, if I remember right." He stopped polishing. There was no point, it seemed. At least not in this moment.
"We were, and we've kept up letters to each other over the years. Seeing her – well, it was grand, Mr. Carson. Just grand," her smile made him smile back. "There's really nothing like being with someone who understands you." She looked up at him, still smiling. His stomach rolled pleasantly. This conversation could easily get out of hand, with that smile of hers and new hat of hers and well, just her being here, really. He went back to the chafing dish.
"You've missed a spot, I believe," she put her hand lightly on his wrist, sending a tingle up to his elbow. She took the silver from him and removed the damning smudge. Handed it back to him.
"I best get settled in then," she walked back towards the door. "I'll see you at dinnertime."
"Most of the staff is walking into the village this evening, I've given them the time off. Mrs. Patmore was going to prepare something simple accordingly. Perhaps we could take dinner in my study?"
She removed her hat, holding it in her hands. "That sounds perfectly lovely, Mr. Carson."
"Mrs. Hughes…it's good to have you home."
"It's grand to be home, Mr. Carson."