A/N: This chapter refers heavily to events from "Music of the Heart," my first-ever fanfic story which is the precursor to "Music of Our Lives." So if you're coming here as a new reader, I wish you a hearty WELCOME, but I encourage you to read that fic first, if you so choose, and then the previous chapters of this one. You don't have to understand the past that Violet and Charles share, but I think that if you do this chapter makes more sense.

Shout out to tumblr's silhouettedswallow, whose valuable input on characters seriously changed how this chapter looks (as in, characters were replaced with other characters, and you all benefit from that).

Musical accompaniment: "Violet," from the Downton Abbey soundtrack album … of course. I've put it on the Spotify – my Username is ChelsieSouloftheAbbey and the playlist is "Music of Our Lives."

T/W: Major character death. I don't often cry when I write things, but I did when I wrote parts of this.

I answer the heroic question, "Death, where is they sting?"

with

"It is here: in my heart, and mind, and memories."

~Maya Angelou

October, 1931

"Elsie?" Charles called. He closed the door behind himself and hung his coat on the rack. "Elsie?"

No answer. That's odd.

He went into the kitchen - no Elsie. Furrowing his brow, he made his way up the stairs, finally locating her in their bedroom. She was fast asleep in the middle of the bed.

Charles chuckled and moved quietly over to the bed. He sat at the edge and ran his hand gently up and down his wife's arm. "Elsie," he called softly, "wake up, darling."

He was so thankful for her soft breaths, the ones that let him know she was actually fine, albeit deeply asleep. She rarely took naps in the late morning, and he moved his hand to her forehead and the side of her face, wondering if she were febrile. But, no, her skin felt normal to him. He was loathe to admit it, but they were getting on. He'd be seventy next year - he could hardly believe it - and both he and Elsie often felt their age beginning to catch up with them at times. Charles was grateful that his wife had come up to bed for a rest instead of pushing on and just making herself sick.

Just then, Elsie stirred, turning her head sideways and kissing his palm in her sleep. "Mm," she murmured, her voice almost a ghost of its normal self.

"Elsie, wake up. It's almost lunchtime."

Her eyes finally opened. "Charles?" she asked, confused. "Oh. I thought you and Richard were meeting with Lord Grantham?"

"We did," he assured her, "and I've only just returned. It's not like you to go back to bed this late in the day. Are you feeling alright, love?"

Elsie sat up in the bed and rubbed her hands over her face. "I think so, I was just so very exhausted after you left. I dozed off for a bit in the chair while reading my book, and thought I'd do better to just come to bed before I got a crick in my neck. How did the meeting go?"

"Very well," he answered. "Richard seems comfortable with the proposals that his Lordship put forth. As we assumed, he will be overseeing the war artifacts at the Downton Museum once it opens. One day per week will be spent training and overseeing staff, but the rest of the time will be Richard's to shape the museum as he chooses. He will have free rein to arrange for special lecturers, or even give presentations himself if he'd like. He's already been asked by another gentleman, whose name I cannot recall at the moment, to give a lesson on the medicine and treatment methods that were available on the front, and what improvements have been made in that area since."

Elsie swung her legs over the side of the bed and scooted over to her husband, who put his arm around her waist and squeezed her gently as she laid her head on his shoulder. "Well, that's something that could certainly be useful," she said approvingly. "Though heaven forbid we ever need that information."

"Hmm, you're right. 'The war to end all wars,' but how history has so very often told us that will not be the case. These uprisings in Germany are frightening, groups like the one responsible for poor Mr. Gregson's death." He shook his head, disheartened by the gravity of the conversation as well as by the truth he saw in it.

Elsie's stomach growled then, drawing Charles's attention back to her.

"Did you say it was almost lunchtime?" she asked with a small laugh.

"I did. Shall we eat by the lake, or would you prefer the patio?"

"Oh, I think the patio today. I'm not sure I'm up for the walk, to tell the truth."

"Fine by me," he answered, dropping a kiss on her head.

oOoOoOoOoOoOo

Just as Charles was scrubbing the last of the luncheon dishes, the phone rang. Elsie put down the drying towel and answered it. "Carson residence," she said, smiling.

"I need to speak with Carson," Lord Grantham's voice said in the receiver. "It's urgent."

"Charles?" she called. "It's Lord Grantham."

Her husband moved quickly to the telephone, taking it from Elsie's hands. "Milord?"

"Carson, you'd better come quickly. It's Mama - she's asking for you."

Elsie watched as the blood drained from her husband's face, and she reached out to for him when she saw him stagger a bit.

"Charles?" she asked softly. His hand started shaking, and he almost dropped the phone. She took it quickly from his grasp and spoke to Lord Grantham, garnering all the information she needed in a few short words.

"We'll be there within the half hour," she said, then promptly hung up the phone.

"I'll get your coat," Elsie told Charles, and she led him to a chair and forced him to sit. When she returned, he'd not moved. She grabbed a glass, poured two fingers of whisky in it, and handed it to him.

"Drink that," she ordered, and he knew there was no room for argument. He downed it and cringed at the burning, but it seemed to bring him back to his senses.

"Elsie …" he whispered, his eyes filling with both tears and fear.

"Don't," she warned. "Not now. Let's go, and we'll see what the day brings, alright, love?"

"Alright."

oOoOoOoOoOoOo

It was Edith, not Denker, who greeted them at the door of the Dower House, and Charles was immediately whisked away by Richard to Lady Violet's bedroom. He started to sputter about the impropriety, but Richard silenced him with half a dozen simple words: "She's dying, my friend. Just come."

"Mrs. Carson, please, come and sit with me," Edith said softly, taking Elsie's elbow and leading her to the settee.

As soon as Charles turned the corner, however, Elsie's own tears spilled forth at last. Spratt appeared wordlessly out of nowhere with a tea tray, which he left on the side table just before disappearing once again. The entire house was silent save for the soft, barely audible sounds of Elsie's crying.

When she'd gathered her wits somewhat, Elsie acknowledged Edith's presence.

"I'm so sorry, Mi- Edith," she said, remembering the young woman's choice to relinquish the title. "It's just that he's going to be so lost without her. I don't mean to say that the rest of you are not, of course …"

"No, it's quite alright," Edith replied with a watery smile. "And I'm sure you've been rallying your strength to be strong for your husband - it's alright to need a bit of bolstering yourself, you know, along with some time to fall apart a bit."

Elsie nodded thankfully, reaching out to pat Edith's hand. "I appreciate that."

"We've all known she was ill for a while," Edith continued, "and Mary, Tom, and I have made our peace with it. But I understand that Mr. Carson hasn't seen her for some weeks?"

Elsie acknowledged somewhere in her mind that Edith always insisted on referring to Charles as 'Mr. Carson' and not simply 'Carson.' It's strange that it would be Edith, and not Lady Mary, who would do that, Elsie thought. It's as if she recognizes that he's a man in his own right, and not just the butler. Although, perhaps it's not that strange for Edith to think that ... Only ...

She shook her head, trying to make her mind function properly enough to answer the question she'd been asked. Get it together, Els!

"No, he hasn't. We were away for a bit, and we've been so busy with the grandchildren since we got back. Lady Mary did send a letter a while back, and so we knew your grandmother was ill, but not the extent of it ... not until last week. Even then, Richard and Isobel seemed to still have hope."

"Granny tells me that Mr. Carson practically grew up at Downton," Edith began carefully. "She mentioned to me that they were very close during his childhood. I don't think my sisters and I ever knew how long he'd lived here. I'd always assumed he'd come in as a footman, I suppose."

"Yes," Elsie nodded. "I'm not sure how much Lady Violet told you, and it's not my place to elaborate on much of it. But, suffice to say, she has been somewhat of a mother to him in many ways. In the ways that matter, she's always watched out for him. Charles's parents died when he was just a boy, you see …" Her voice trailed off because she didn't wish to share anything more; even if Lady Violet had spoken to Edith, Elsie had no way of knowing how much of the story she'd divulged. Elsie knew that she and Charles were privy to some of Lady Violet's deepest secrets - one in particular, of course - but, as far as Elsie was concerned, they were secrets that they'd both be taking to their own graves.

Edith twisted her hands in her lap, unsure of whether or not to speak her thoughts aloud, but she forged ahead anyhow.

"Aunt Rosamund told me the other day that she imagines Mr. Carson is closer to Granny than even she and Papa are."

Elsie wiped her eyes with her handkerchief, then nodded. "I suppose that could be true, yes. But Lord Grantham and Lady Rosamund were raised in a time when one kept some sort of emotional distance from one's family members, of course."

"Yes, she said as much," Edith replied. "I gathered there was more to the story that even she did not know ... I'm sorry, I don't mean to pry. It's just that I get the feeling that Mr. Carson has always been more a part of our family than we'd been led to believe ... certainly more than just an employee. I suppose I wish I'd always known that."

Elsie contemplated the younger woman sitting before her, then nodded slowly. "Yes, I suppose one could say that," she said cautiously. "I will say this, Edith: you are more like your grandmother than even you realize."

Edith laughed, a short, shocking sound in the otherwise silent house. "Funny, Aunt Rosamund said the same ... right around the time that Marigold was born, actually."

Edith reached forward to pour Elsie a cup of tea.

"Here," she said kindly. She handed the cup to Elsie, who took it gratefully, silently appreciative of the warmth it offered. Neither woman dwelled on the fact that the Lady was serving the housekeeper; in their own ways, they'd both moved past that divide over the past few years, and the role reversal simply didn't bother them now. Elsie needed a bit of caring, and Edith was happy to give it to her.

They sat silently for quite a while, rising only to acknowledge Lord and Lady Grantham's arrival and, eventually, departure. Lady Rosamund also came by, as did Lady Mary. No one could bear to stay, and Elsie didn't blame them. Lord Grantham did stop to chat for a few moments on the way out, and voiced his thanks to Elsie that she and Charles were able to see his mother through until the end. He clasped Elsie's hand as he spoke to her, and his red-rimmed eyes expressed all the words that he could not say. Elsie valued the fact that he didn't appear jealous but, rather, he seemed grateful that it was Charles whom Lady Violet wanted to be with her at the end. She returned the gentle squeeze of his hand and nodded her understanding.

Edith chose not to go up and see Violet again, saying she'd had her time to say goodbye over these last few days that she'd spent at the Dower House. She had been right there alongside the Clarksons, doing what was needed and, Elsie knew, likely holding the whole mess together from behind the scenes. As the clocked softly ticked on, Elsie and Edith stayed in the sitting room, making small talk that neither of them would remember afterwards.

And then suddenly, at approximately half nine, Elsie felt a shock of sorts. She wouldn't be able to describe it very well later on, when Charles would ask, but she'd realized that her entire body had taken on a coldness that she knew instinctively had nothing to do with the temperature of the room. Elsie looked up at Edith and a feeling of dread settled in her heart. It was the same feeling she'd had when Becky had died, and she knew right away what it meant.

"She's gone," Elsie said simply.

She moved closer to Edith on the settee, and held the younger woman in her arms as Edith finally allowed herself to break down, crying tears which soaked through the fabric of Elsie's favorite dress.

A few moments later, Richard appeared, astonished that they already seemed to know the sad news he'd come down to share.

"You already knew," he said wondrously to Elsie. "I'd ask how, but …"

"But it doesn't matter," she finished for him. Richard indicated the way to Lady Violet's room with a motion of his hand, and Elsie scurried off, leaving Richard to comfort Edith in her absence.

When Elsie entered the Dowager's bedroom, she was amazed at how peaceful and warm it was. She wasn't sure what she'd find, but she'd certainly expected a feeling of deep of sadness; she'd expected to see people in there crying, perhaps Denker or even Spratt; she'd expected it to be cold.

The only bit that was exactly as she'd imagined was the image of her husband, sitting beside the bed and holding Lady Violet's hand in both of his, with not a trace of tears on his strong, handsome face.

She smiled gently, appreciating how her gentle, loving husband had maintained this calm and assured demeanor for Lady Violet's sake. Perhaps that was the one advantage he'd had over Lord Grantham and all the Ladies, she reasoned. She could easily imagine that the Dowager wished to leave this world in the presence of strength and propriety, and not amidst a mass of weeping family who had lost all semblance of control. Yes, she thought, that may well have been a part of it, indeed.

Silently, Elsie approached Charles, stood behind him, and laid her hands on his shoulders. She squeezed gently, and he turned his head up to face her.

"Peaceful," he said, reading her mind as he so often did. "It was peaceful, and she was lucid right up until her very last breath."

"I'm glad, love," Elsie answered, bending down to place a tender kiss to his forehead. "Were you able to say all you needed to?"

"I was," he smiled sadly, "and so, I believe, was Violet."

Elsie noted the dropped title, but said nothing, merely added it to the list of what she'd not expected.

We're all the same in the end, she reminded herself.

"Well, then, that's what really matters," she said aloud.

Charles hummed a reply and nodded slowly, then turned toward Violet and placed the hand he'd been holding atop her other one, so that they both lay gently over her abdomen as though she were merely asleep.

Elsie held her hand out to Charles and helped him up. He stood, then turned and pulled her into his arms and clutched her tightly; it was the only sign that he was beginning to lose control, and Elsie squeezed him back. She willed some of her strength to flow into him, into this wonderful husband of hers who had so willingly lent her his own strength over the years. This ebb and flow of strength and love between them was the very foundation of their marriage; it was the root of what kept them inexorably connected with a deep intimacy that knew few married couples were lucky enough to share.

Thus fortified, they made their way back downstairs, hand in hand, where Charles picked up the phone and placed the hardest call he'd ever made.

"Milord?" he said clearly in his strong, deep voice. "She's gone."

oOoOoOoOoOoOo

The funeral was held three days later. It was a dark, dreary day, but by some miracle the rain had held off. The dark sky was almost foreboding, as though its very appearance mimicked the sadness felt by all of the attendees.

Reverend Travis had returned for the funeral service, his long-time relationship with the Crawley family evident in the difficulty he had in uttering the traditional words. His wavering voice spoke more to the depth of his feeling and less to his age, a fact that everyone in attendance appreciated and something with which they all sympathized.

Elsie sat silently by Charles's right side, in the pew reserved for the family, with Lady Rosamund, Lady Grantham, and Lord Grantham all to her right. She held her husband's hand, and squeezed it when she felt it quiver in her own.

Charles had been asked by the family to speak, but he'd declined; in his place, it was Tom Branson who had taken the podium. Elsie heard a titter from the back of the church at people's surprise that none of the more immediate family were speaking instead, but she just shook her head and ignored it. What most of them failed to understand was that Violet had influenced a great many lives over the years, beyond those of her children and grandchildren.

Tom's words rang out clear and true through the church, and after the first few sentences even the mumbling wonderers knew why he'd been chosen to speak. He spoke of the first meeting between himself and the Dowager Countess, in the days when he was what he termed 'an upstart, young chauffeur looking to make a new life for himself.' He spoke of having fallen in love with Lady Sybil, and how his late wife's spirit and spunk were clearly traits which she shared with her beloved grandmother, and how they were characteristics that both Sybil and Violet had passed on to his daughter as well. He told of how he'd come to realize over the years that Sybil and Violet had many similarities, not the least of which was a soft, kind heart underneath their passionate exteriors. He spoke of how Violet had paid for them to return to England for the birth of Sybbie, an act which was directly responsible for Tom being allowed to fully become a part of the Crawley family. He also spoke of sadder days, times when he'd almost lost his way following Sybil's death, and of how Violet had quietly and gently helped to bring him back to the land of the living, how she'd sought him out at gatherings and events and made a point of speaking with him, and how she gently and, sometimes, harshly, helped him learn how to navigate his life surrounded by the wonderful family he was now proud to call his own.

In the end, it was Tom's words that caused Charles to finally allow himself to weep, for the woman that Tom was so eloquently and beautifully describing was the Violet that Charles knew. It was the woman who showed the stern, tough exterior to the village but who had, behind the scenes, orchestrated for wonderful things to come to people's lives. Elsie handed him a handkerchief and caught her husband's eye, and she bit her lip and nodded at him, acknowledging with just that simple gesture that she, too, saw the connection that Tom's words were forging between himself and Charles … whether Tom had realized it yet or not. That, Elsie knew, would be a conversation for another day.

Perhaps … but perhaps some things are better felt, yet left unsaid.

oOoOoOoOoOoOoOo

The sound of the dirt falling on the hard casket was like a slap to Charles's mind. He remembered tossing it, but realized then that he'd spent the entire time since they'd walked back down the aisle in a strange, silent fog, going through the motions but registering nothing. He'd not heard anyone's steps as they'd made their way to the graveside, nor the words that the new vicar and Reverend Travis had spoken, nor the landing of the ceremonial first handfuls of dirt that Lord Grantham and Lady Rosamund had thrown in before him. But when his own contribution cascaded down he was present once again, Elsie's warm hand resting on the small of his back, her soft touch tethering him to the here and now. He closed his eyes and silently prayed one last time for the formidable Violet Crawley.

"Charles? It's time to go, love."

He nodded and smiled at Elsie, offering his arm. She took it gratefully, and they made their way to the back of the crowd to stand and talk with other members of the family - the family to which Charles had finally, after all these years, accepted that he belonged. The social lines between the Crawleys and the Carsons had disappeared at last with Violet's passing, and he found himself comforted by the family's presence and love.

As more and more people joined them, the tone of the group changed somewhat, moving from sadness and despair to a bit of calm. After a while, people began reminiscing, sharing stories of the woman that had been the Dowager Countess of Grantham. Denker's laughter could be heard at one point, along with surprised exclamations from Lady Edith and from Master George. It got to a point where everyone was talking at once in small groups of two or three, and that was why, at first, only Elsie noticed when Lady Mary slipped away from the group. Elsie was about to turn and ask Charles to go and speak with the younger woman, but then she saw where she was headed, and knew she'd been mistaken in thinking that it was Lady Mary's sadness that caused her to leave the rest of the funeral's attendees. She watched as Mary approached a lone figure who stood in the rear of the cemetery, and she immediately understood.

Elsie smiled sadly as Lady Mary offered her hand to the old man, holding it as she spoke to him while he wiped away his tears. Elsie saw his lips move in reply and, as she imagined the soft, foreign-sounding words falling from his lips, her heart filled with a combination of love and sadness as she reflected once again on the passionate woman who'd lived beneath the stern mask of the Dowager.

The wind picked up suddenly and blew through the man's long, grey locks, and Charles finally turned to see what had so thoroughly captured his wife's attention.

"I always wondered," he murmured in her ear.

"If the rumors were true, you mean?" she whispered back to him.

"No," he answered, then smiled. "I knew that they were. But I always wondered if he had truly loved her as deeply as she had always loved him."

Charles bent to look into his wife's eyes, further words unecessary. Both Charles and Elsie understood the depth and value of the love that the pair had shared. Violet's funeral, and the tender acknowledgement that Lady Mary chose to offer to the one person who would never be allowed to publicly mourn her grandmother, reminded the Carsons once again that they'd been blessed beyond measure. They were eternally grateful that, despite the challenges that life had brought and would continue to bring, they'd have the opportunity to see their love through until the very end of their days on this Earth.

And, perhaps, Elsie thought, even after that.

A/N: Boy, that reads like "the end," but it is not. I have a happier chapter to bring to you soon, but the two that follow (which will be the final chapters) will need to wait until AFTER the CS airs, I'm afraid. Please do leave me a little review and tell me what you thought of this - I do hope that in the wake of "After the Fall," this fic hasn't been completely forgotten about.

I do apologize for the sadness, but the goal of this particular story has always been to tell about Elsie and Charles Carson and their lives AFTER marriage, and I do plan to carry that through until the very, very end. xxx