A/N: Thank you dillydallyy for beta-reading this for me last night and giving me a most enthusiastic fuck this shit and being the comma police. :)

i.

The first time Elsie saw Anna was while holding Jo on their back porch in the middle of February.

The baby had croup and her barking cough had woken both Elsie and Charles with a start. They needn't have called Dr. Clarkson; the illness spoke for itself. Elsie pushed the heavy covers from her body, freeing herself from their weight, from Charles' warm weight beside her in their bed, and swooped Jo up from her crib.

"What do we do?" Charles had asked her, rubbing sleep from his eyes.

"I'm going to take her downstairs and out the back for a few minutes — the cold night air will help her breathe."

"Won't she get a chill?" he yawned, pulling the covers up over himself to stave off the draught in the room since the fire had gone cold.

"It'll only be for a moment," she said, though he couldn't have heard her over the sound of Jo's hacking.

"Are you sure we don't need to call for Dr. Clarkson?" Charles grimaced.

She shook her head, "No, no — maybe tomorrow but. . ." she sighed, "I know this cough; it's croup. Becky had it all the time as a bairn because her lungs weren't strong."

Charles looked at her a long moment in the dark. Then, he sighed, throwing back the bedcovers, "I'll put on a pot of tea. You'll need to warm up when you come in,"

"Oh. . .Charles," she dismissed, with a little yawn — but she was grateful for his company. They took the stairs slowly, sleepily inching their way down. As she stepped out onto their back porch, she felt his hand linger on her lower back until the very last second, the warmth leaving her like a sigh.

Jo coughed, her entire body tightening up in Elsie's arms, her breath ghosting in front of her face, startling her a bit. Elsie laughed, though it was rather a pitiful sight. Still, Jo's endearing curiosity had a way of making even the most unpleasant moments somewhat of a delight. She pressed Jo's head tighter to her chest, trying to keep her warm as she inhaled deeply, the night air seeming to open up her throat — at least temporarily.

She hummed quietly to her, feeling her own crushing fatigue taking hold in her chest. She looked out over the yard, snow blowing off the branches of the willow, dancing in the moon's glow. Then a shadow caught her eye, almost that of a person. Jo hacked again, turning her face toward Elsie's chest, away from the cold. Elsie soothed her gently, rubbing her back and hushing.

"You're alright, my darling," she whispered, and when she lifted her gaze to the yard again, she inhaled so quickly that the frigid night air burned her throat, her lungs, and soon she was coughing in a fit nearly as bad as Jo's.

Her eyes began to tear up, and she struggled to see through the haze, but she knew who she'd seen.

But perhaps she'd not seen it. Surely she'd wanted to see it. But she couldn't have.

"Elsie? Are you alright?"

She turned, Charles standing in the doorway behind her, his face red from the cold.

"Yes," she croaked, hugging Jo tighter, "I think she'll sleep better now."

The second time Elsie saw Anna was while she was washing dishes.

It was mid summer and late evening, so the air was balmy and making her a bit sleepy as she stood at the sink. From the window, she watched Charles and Jo walking among the flowers — which had all bloomed, just as she'd been certain they would. Jo wasn't walking yet, but her legs were growing stronger each day, and Charles held both of her hands and patiently slowed his steps as they mosied around.

It was only when she looked away from the yard and back into the kitchen that she felt a chill — something that wasn't in the air around her, but almost within her. Instinctively, she turned and looked over her shoulder toward the table.

Her mind assured her she couldn't be seeing what she thought she was seeing. An illusion. A trick of light. The cruel joke of a tired mind and a summer night.

Almost as soon as she'd seen her sitting there, stilling her breathing from fear and — something else, relief?—she was gone.

It was only when she'd begun to breath again that it registered she'd dropped a dish, cutting her hand in the process, the shards of glass skittering across the floor, blood dripping down her wrist. Having heard it (and did she scream? She might have, her throat felt strangely open now) Charles appeared on the porch, then through the door, Jo on his hip, both wide eyed.

A mouse, she'd said.

A wee mouse.

She began to see Anna in the shadows, in the daylight, around corners and the top of the stairs.

Her nightly ritual with Jo faded away as the wee babe's teething slowed. Still, Elsie rose and downed a glass of scotch, made her eyes heavy so that when she dragged herself upstairs and back to bed she wouldn't be able to tell the outline of Anna from any other house ghosts that haunted her.

One evening, after Jo had been tucked up, Elsie sat in the den, struggling to mend a dress, the needle seeming to slip from her fingers every other stitch. Charles appeared in the doorway, the bottle of scotch in his hand and a deep crease of worry on his brow.

"I was going to suggest a nightcap but. . ." he shrugged, his mouth empty of words.

Elsie stiffened, halted a moment, then steadied herself and focused intently on her sewing, hoping he wouldn't notice how her fingers shook, "I've been giving a little to Jo at night, for her gums," she said, "And before you admonish me for it, you should know that it was suggested by Her Ladyship," — it wasn't a lie, not really, she had suggested it. . .though after the fact.

Charles balked, "How much have you been giving her? By the looks of this bottle, she should be positively squiffy."

"Only enough to wet her gums," Elsie huffed, letting her sewing fall into her lap, "And I might remind you that we're not at Downton anymore and there's no need for you to be policing our spirits."

"I'm not policing them," he said, "I only made to set about pouring us each a glass and realized there's hardly enough left for one," he took a step toward her, which she took as an accusation, "I'm merely confused."

She felt anger welling up in her, a dangerous drone that rang in her ears, made her hands tingle and twitch, her mouth pressing itself into a tight line, "It seems to me you've an idea," she spat, "go on, then, scold me. Clearly you wish to imply that I've been on nightly jags so you might as well get on with it," she laughed bitterly, picking up her sewing with a flourish and casting it aside as she pushed herself unsteadily from the chair, taking an uncertain step forward, "If you think I'm a lush, go on and say it. The conservative English butler marries a penniless Scot, what was he expecting? I masqueraded myself as a proper housekeeper, a proper woman, for decades but you never knew what I came from," she hacked out a laugh, "You knew me for twenty some years before you ever knew about Becky, and even then, there's more unsaid than spoken, and if you knew, you'd hate me for it," she felt her eyes beginning to burn with unshed tears, but she stilled herself, she would not cry— she wouldn't.

"Elsie," he said gently — but she put her hands out in front of her, keeping him away.

"I don't come from fine stock," she said, her voice a harsh whisper, "I've tried my whole life long to make myself into something I'm not, something better than I am — and like a witch I must have hexed you into loving me, because if you knew what I was — what I am," she lowered her gaze, her chest tightening, "The daughter of a sot and a slag, with an infirm sister who'd just as well kick you in the face as says she loves you, all of us destitute . . ." she lifted her gaze to look at him then; his face was not as she had expected. Instead of his usual wounded look, he was staring at her with hot anger and it immediately terrified her.

"Stop it," he commanded, his voice a low roar. He took a step toward her and she cowered. Seeing it, his gaze softened, then turned to shame, "Oh, Elsie, I don't mean to frighten you I'm just—" he ran his fingers through his hair, as though he was physically trying to keep his head on straight, "Perhaps I should step away for a moment. I am scared and. . .angry. . .and I don't want to say something that I will later regret."

She narrowed her eyes at him, "Well, well isn't that most high and mighty of you, taking the high road," she shook her head, her lips curling up into a bitter grin, "Wouldn't you much rather just give me a slap across the face and be done with it?" she took a step toward him, crossing her arms, "Or is that not how things are done at Downton Abbey?"

His lip curled up in disgust, "Any man worth his salt would never strike a woman,"

"Is that what they teach you? When you're a boy learning to be a butler? You come out the other side knowing how to polish a knife — but you wouldn't have a bloody clue what to do if someone shoved one in your face!"

"Elsie, you're not yourself right now — you're being wicked and it doesn't suit you,"

"Doesn't suit me?" she yelled, "Doesn't suit you, more like it."

He hesitated "It — it doesn't suit anyone, Elsie, but especially not you. It doesn't become you to be so unfeeling."

"Well," she huffed, "There's the pot calling the kettle black,"

"I've had quite enough of this," he bellowed. She opened her mouth to retort, but from upstairs, Jo began to wail, presumably woken up by their row. He turned and looked toward the stairs, and when he turned back to Elsie, her face was slick with tears.

"I can't," she said quietly, "I can't,"

He sighed, "Put on a pot of tea. I'll tend to her. But we're not done here," he said, eyeing her.

He started for the stairs but doubled back — taking the bottle of scotch with him. Elsie followed him with her gaze, watching until he disappeared from view. She hesitated a moment, then made her way into the darkened hallway to the kitchen. When she rounded the corner, she immediately froze. A scream escaped her before she could cover her mouth, and she retreated back into the hallway, pressing herself against the wall, tears streaming down her face.

She waited a moment, listened to Charles upstairs soothing Jo. When she peaked around the corner into the kitchen again, Anna was gone.

ii.

She didn't tell Charles. Or Beryl. Kept it to herself in case she was going mad.

In case she wasn't.

She couldn't be seeing Anna. Anna, sweet lass, would have gone straight to heaven the way she'd suffered, her kind, sturdy heart, her beautiful soul.

The questioning of her faith, of life after death, commanded her attention and she began to feel herself in a spiral of fear, of pulsing anxiety. Her body ached in a new way — not from age, or the English rain—but from doubt.

One afternoon, in early August when the air in their home became heavy, and the feeling of anything touching her skin was unbearable, Daisy offered to take Jo for a walk up to the abbey so that Charles and Elsie could have some time to potter around. Dear, sweet Daisy with her innocence still so very intact, even after what life had thrown her by way of anguish.

Despite the fact that her skin was sallow from the mugginess and her body thrumming from the dizzying heat, Elsie allowed herself to be pushed back onto the bed, found the feeling of Charles' touch electrifying, the pain almost searing — but in a gratifying manner. His lips against her neck, his fingers lightly tapping her clavicle, she sighed with relief that she'd giving up wearing stockings around the house.

It didn't take long, however, for that sinking feeling to return, resting itself heavily in her stomach. A heat rose up from her chest, up her neck to her cheeks but it wasn't from how he was loving her — but nervous humiliation. She knew—, as she had known for several weeks now— that she would not be running toward that ecstasy that he'd brought into her life. It had eluded her as of late but she couldn't discern why. He wasn't doing anything different or wrong; it wasn't that her body wasn't trying — because it was, and she was, and they were — but it was like trying to close a jammed door. She could feel that now familiar sense of anticipation building, she took pains to deepen her breathing, soften and open herself to him — but then, nothing. And of course, at first, he had noticed — and worried, and been ashamed, thinking he was doing something wrong. And it wasn't him — she was certain of it — but she had nothing to say in proof to convince him otherwise.

Then, one afternoon while Jo was napping, Elsie stole away to use the loo and had a rather humiliating and odd epiphany. No sooner had she begun to enjoy the one, fleeting moment of her day when she was entirely alone that Jo began to fuss from her crib. The sound— so sharp in the silence—startled her such that she tightened up; and realized perhaps for the first time in her life that she had some control over her insides. If she could stop a stream of urine . . .she huffed, what a vulgar thought!

But it stayed with her, and that night, as he lay next to her, stroking the length of her thigh with the tips of his fingers, letting them come to rest on the warm, flushed skin of her belly, she stiffened at his touch and began to wonder if there was more of her body to be controlled than she knew.

The first time her body had lost control of itself she had been fascinated and vaguely disgusted. The way her insides rhythmically pulsed around him, how her legs kicked out and her spine arched — all synchronized yet not, intentional yet seemingly accidental. She felt all at once powerful — yet powerless.

That sensation, she thought, could it be replicated? Not for herself— but for him? To spare him (and her, oh, to spare her that look of disappointment on his sweet face in the dark?) the feeling of having failed her, but only until she could right herself?

And as they lay there, she without her stockings in the balmy air of early August, she waited and waited and waited as he carried on with his ministrations, and she tried to empty her mind to make room for him, but she kept getting pulled back.. Her heart pounded so harshly against the cage of her ribs that she began to gasp, and then and only then did she push him away, deeply ashamed of herself. And afraid.

More than anything else, afraid.

"Elsie," he grimaced, "I'm so sorry — did I—?"

"No," she croaked, and before she could speak further, the torrent of tears began. For a solitary moment Charles only watched as she sobbed, the choked crying of someone who, even if they could speak, would not be able to properly articulate what grieved them so.

He waited. And after a moment, when she had begun to calm, he gently inched himself closer to her, taking her into his arms and pressing her face against his bare chest.

"You've been resisting this for quite some time, haven't you?" he said, kissing her hair softly. She only cried harder, bringing her hand to her mouth to muffle her sobs, which were beginning to embarrass her beyond measure; yet another aspect of her existence she'd seemingly lost control of.

"I'm unraveling," she hiccuped, grasping for him, pulling herself up and letting her arms hang limply around his neck. He rubbed her back soothingly, resting his chin on her shoulder as he hugged her tighter.

"I've got you," he said, turning his face slightly to kiss her cheek, "You're still here, still whole, I promise."

"I don't know what's the matter with me," she whispered wearily, settling herself fully into his lap.

"You're wracked with grief," he said, but she stopped him.

"It's more than that," she said, wiping her fingers across her lashes, "I've. . .there's something wrong with me, inside of me somehow."

His chest tightened, his breath stolen. Could she be sick again? As before, that time when she was sick with worry about an illness that never existed but could have? That still could? "Elsie — it's not—?"

She lifted her face to look at him, eyes gone wide, "Oh, oh Charles, no, I don't think so, anyway. It's just. . ."

He lowered his eyes, his cheeks rosied up at the insinuation, "You've not quite been. . .enjoying our. . .time together."

She exhaled smoothly, treading lightly, "It's not that I haven't been. . .enjoying the time it's just—"

"I hope it doesn't seem coarse of me to say but. . .it's not felt the same. I could sense that something had changed but. . .it's not something I could articulate and even if I could, I doubt I have the capacity to fix it," he grinned nervously, "I may be an old man, but I'm like a skittish schoolboy in these matters,"

She reached up, giving him a sad smile as she pressed her hand to this cheek, "We're both learning," she said gently, "And it's not that you're doing anything wrong. It's just. . ." she bit her lip, "Something's hindering it. I climb and climb, just as I always did but —" she felt her face grow hot, tears beginning to stream down her face again, "That mirth you bring me — and only ever you — it's as though it's stolen from me at the final moment and —" she stopped, trying to catch her breath, gather her thoughts, "— I don't know what's happening to me, Charles. I've lied to you, things I've not said, things I've done to try to hide the truth and — and that's not the woman I am."

"I know that, Elsie,"

"But I've lied," she whispered, covering her mouth with her hand as though she wanted to shove the truth back inside of her where it could wallow.

"Not to hurt me," he said, "Not with malice,"

"It doesn't matter," she said, "It sets a precedent,"

"What's brought this about, Elsie?"

She sighed, letting her eyes flutter closed, "Anna," she said simply.

"I see," he said, "I know it's wearing on you still, but how can I possibly do anything to alleviate it if you don't tell me?"

"It's not the grief," she said quietly, "I think . . .I sometimes think that I see her,"

He didn't speak, but felt air rushing into his mouth, drying his tongue, and the look on her eyes made him realize he must be staring agape at her.

"I'm going mad," she said, turning away from him, "I'm certain of it,"

"No, no," he hushed, "Elsie, please. Come here,"

She flicked her eyes up at him, hopeful.

"Elsie," he whispered, "Please, let me hold you."

She sighed, falling into his arms again. When she'd settled, her ear against his chest, the sound of his heartbeat strangely comforting, she felt him clear his throat.

"I'm certain I've never told you this because, frankly, I've never told anyone," he said, "But there was a period of several weeks after Lady Sybil died when I would be walking the corridors, checking on everything before I went up to bed, and I could have sworn that I saw her in the halls. Her hair in a long braid down her back, the same housecoat she'd worn since she was seventeen years old, that little impish grin. It was just as any other time I'd see her sneaking off for a biscuit late at night," he sighed, stroking her hair gently, "And for a fleeting moment, everything was right in the world. Everything was just as it ought to have been. But, then, in a blink she'd be gone. I couldn't say for certain but — I suspect that Her Ladyship may have experienced similar transient hauntings. Sometimes I would serve tea and she would startle without reason, as though something had caught her eye, but as she turned, it disappeared from view."

Elsie lifted her head, looking up at him, "Oh, Charles, that's it. That's precisely it."

"It doesn't comfort you though. . ."

"It frightens me," she said, "If she's ghosting about in the afterlife, than she's not in heaven?"

Charles shrugged, "I tend to lean toward one's grieving mind playing tricks on them but. . ." he sighed, "I understand that I cannot be sure of life's mysteries, and I accept that I could be wrong. But," he said, taking her face in his hands and kissing her forehead, "I can guarantee you that if Anna still lingers here, it's not because she's haunting you, and it's not because she's been condemned to hell," he reached up and smoothed her fringe from her forehead, caressing her cheeks lightly with his thumbs, "To watch her little girl be so well cared for, so loved, in this world that was so unjustly cruel when she was living in it," he sighed, pulling Elsie into an embrace, "Well, I should think to dear Anna, that would be heaven."

iii.

The color began to come back to Elsie, but in only pale hues at first; the dewy leaf of a flower she was tending, the rosiness of Jo's cheeks when she laughed at Charles' stories, the depth of his blue eyes when he looked over at her from his side of the bed upon waking.

By the end of the summer, one that seemed to have lingered on a strangely long time for England, Jo's personality had become so clearly defined that no longer was she simply Anna's child; Jo Bates was a person, however tiny, all her own.

One humid night Elsie lay with her on the bed, the window open with a hot breeze blowing in. Charles stood in the washroom, dabbing his neck and face with a cool cloth. Jo fussed until finally, Elsie freed her from her little cotton smock and let her roam about the bed in only her nappy.

"Free as the wind," Charles laughed, "If only it was proper for the rest of us to be laying about in our unmentionables."

Elsie smiled, wiping the wisps of frizzy hair from her face. Jo tried valiantly to push herself up on the bed, but it wasn't quite steady enough, and she plopped down, bouncing a bit as her bottom hit the blankets.

"Almost, darling," Elsie said, reaching over to pet Jo's hair gently.

"Mim mim mim mim," Jo cooed, crawling into Elsie's lap. Playfully furrowing her brow, Elsie tipped her head to one side inquisitively.

"Yes, darling, tell me all about it. . ."

"Mim," Jo said, her little face scrunched up into a mimicked frown of her own, and she reached up to tug at the collar of Elsie's nightgown, resting her head against Elsie's bosom and popping her thumb into her mouth.

"Well Charles. . .I think it's happened," Elsie said quietly as he stepped into the room, switching off the washroom's overhead light and settling himself into bed.

"What's that, pet?"

"I think Jo's named me," she said, looking down at the sleeping child who had relaxed fully into her embrace.

"Are you sure she just doesn't enjoy the sound of the word?" he said, throwing back the covers and sliding beneath them, tickling her calves with his toes.

"She doesn't ever babble it unless she wants me to hold her," Elsie said, shrugging slightly, "She's trying to talk, trying to say what she wants or doesn't want but —" she sighed, "She mim mim mims at me, and only me. So, I think that's what, or who, she's decided I am."

Charles tried to suppress a laugh. She turned her head to him and gamesomely narrowed her eyes, "Don't you dare," she said, "I warned you, didn't I? You're next. She's listening and hearing everything you say; clearly she hangs on your words more than mine!"

Charles blanched, "I suppose you're right. Perhaps. . .I should offer her a suggestion."

"Perhaps you should," Elsie said, rocking Jo gently, "She's whip smart and could no doubt come up with something considerably daffier than Donk."