Blow Up – Their Voices

A/N: Post S05 E03 (Written in between classes today. Please excuse any typos or grammar errors.)

She had barely spoken at supper or looked in his direction. For his own part, his gaze had been directed toward his stew. He had been afraid to look at her. Afraid of what he might see. When he had refused her request to add the name of the young soldier to the war memorial, she gave up without a fight and walked away. Mrs. Patmore had a snippy retort for him and a few tears. He had expected that. However, her silence on the matter unnerved him. She had only been silent a few other times, the last he remembered was when she had been worried over her health and he had accused her of slacking. He did not think her to be ill. No, quite the contrary. He noticed something different about her. He could not put his finger on it, but there was something different. Pleasingly different. Perhaps he would mention it to her if she would allow him to speak to her.

She did not come to his pantry for sherry and when he left to go find her, he found her sitting room locked and the light off. He sighed heavily. He hated to disappoint her but he would hold steadfast to his convictions. He truly did not believe that the young man's name belonged on the memorial. How could she suggest it? As he moved about the corridors, checking the doors and latches, making sure that the Abbey was secure, he thought of the ways in which things had begun to change. Alfred, once so promising, had left service for the kitchens of the Ritz. Daisy was learning arithmetic and history from that socialist schoolteacher, Miss Bunting. He, himself, had been chosen over His Lordship to chair the memorial committee. Elsie was even changing. Encouraging Daisy to pursue an education, admitting that footmen might not be needed in service in a few short years, and thinking that the King should be made more accessible to the people. He looked around him and the only thing that remained a constant was the Abbey itself. Or so he thought.

The next morning saw no change in her demeanor. She sat next to him at breakfast, uttered a few pleasantries to those around them, and curtly answered the few questions he asked of her. They each went about their duties, each distracted but refusing to allow their emotions to get the better of them especially in front of the family. Finally, with his duties complete upstairs until luncheon he could take her silence no longer. He burst into her sitting room demanding to know what on earth was wrong.

"Nothing," she spat out in that clipped way of hers when she was outdone with him. She spoke into her ledgers not bothering to turn in his direction. He was dejected. Usually when he entered her sitting room, she turned and smiled sweetly. He decided to press her.

"We both know that is not true," he said flatly with accusing eyes and his lips drawn tightly.

"I don't have time for this, Mr. Carson," she replied tartly, swiveling round to stare him down imperiously. "I am quite busy." Her forced, pained smile infuriated him all the more. He did not believe that he was in the wrong. He continued to stare at her with an eyebrow raised in questioning.

"You're still angry about the memorial." She turned away quickly, reaching for an inkbottle to refill her pen. "Do you expect me to give in at your every request even when I disagree with it morally?" he countered icily.

"I was asking on Mrs. Patmore's behalf," she responded as she drew the ink up into the chamber.

"Why didn't she come to me?" he asked quietly. He wondered why Mrs. Patmore had not come to him to ask. Why Elsie had felt it her business to ask if the lad's name could be inscribed on the memorial. What had he done to make Mrs. Patmore fearful of approaching him?

She replaced the cap on the inkbottle and firmly set it back into its nesting place on the wooden well that sat on her desk. The thud with which the bottle met the wood resonated throughout the small room. She swiveled round to look at him, her head tilted slightly to one side, her eyes aflame. Passion, anger, longing. Something willing him to understand. He was not a stupid man. Far from it. She had been so very proud of the way that he convinced the committee to accept Lord Grantham's participation. She took pride in the way that he kept the household running like a finely tuned machine. Could he not see what was right in front of him? Mrs. Patmore's words continued to flitter through her mind since the moment she had said them. Everyone knows that you can twist him round your little finger. Perhaps. On the everyday things. The things concerning the house. Not the things concerned her now. The things she held most dear. She held his gaze for a long, tense moment then looked to the side and worried her lip before looking back at him.

A look of recognition flashed across his face and he set his jaw. He thought a moment before he spoke. "I see. So that's what they think." She noticed a sound of defeat in his voice; his male pride dented. Despite herself, she pressed the issue once more.

"She's our friend. Couldn't you prevail on the committee?" She wished that she could have taken the words back the moment that she had said them. Would he only think that she only worked to manipulate him?

"No," he answered coldly. "Is there anything else Mrs. Hughes."

Both had lost the point of why they were at odds. The war memorial was not the reason for their argument; it was a convenient excuse to alleviate tension. Elsie thought she was making progress since their day at the sea. That he was coming around little by to progress; she knew that it would be difficult but she had offered him her hand. She had hoped that their relationship might have progressed a little faster as well though she knew that she would need to be patient in that as well. Glaciers moved faster than Charles Carson. Elsie felt distressed and discombobulated. Twist him round your little finger? Hmmphf. Everyone, most certainly, was wrong.

They paused a moment. A temporary truce. And then.

"How could you be so very insensitive to Daisy," sarcasm dripping from her voice like venom from a snake's fang.

"Insensitive?" he barked back incredulously, his face reddening.

"Yes, insensitive!" she clipped out as she sprang from her chair. Though she could not meet him eye to eye, in that moment she felt emboldened. A wildfire within her raged. "She only wanted you to give her a bit of encouragement and all you could muster was some ridiculous comment about place and her needing to remember her station in life."

"And what is wrong with that? I don't seem to recall that you were very supportive of Gwen when she was taking a course in secretarial work," he reminded her. She shot a withering glance. Usually her maids cowered at such a look and internally he winced, but he would not let her see it. He stood his ground.

"She wants you to be proud of her."

"I don't see that it matters what I think."

"She admires you. Though with your present attitude, I'm not sure why she cares what you think."

He could not help but notice the heavy rise and fall of her chest as anger and passion washed over her. He watched as her cheeks flushed and eyes sparked, blistering blue flames. It had been some time since they had disagreed so heatedly. He knew that it was wrong to think it in this moment, but he wanted draw her to him, envelope her in his embrace and show her just how much he hated for them to be at odds.

She watched him as his eyes drifted downward. She watched as the anger in his eyes dissipated and a new kind of storm took over. Dark clouds of passion invaded and she knew that it was wrong to think it in that moment, but she wanted him draw her to him, to claim her mouth hungrily, to feel his hands on her body, in her hair. She wanted him to prove to her that he truly hated them at odds. She needed him. Could he not see it? Did he not need her? Twist him round your little finger. Not yet, she thought wistfully. If only I could.

Finally, she calmed. She understood why he was upset. Why he had been opposed to Daisy furthering her education, why he had been short with Mr. Molesley. She extended her hand, placing it on his arm as a peace offering.

"Times change. I did not want to become a farmer's wife like my mother so I chose service. You chose service. That was the alternative available to us. Daisy and those of her generation now have their own choices to make. You cannot fault them for that," she offered gently. She felt the tension leave his body as he took a step toward her.

"I suppose not. But if people no longer wish to enter service or find it a worthwhile profession then all I have devoted my life to has been…irrelevant. I have been irrelevant," he finished sadly.

Elsie traced her finger across the cleft in his chin. "No, Charles. Your job is being the butler but you are more than that." She traced the scar that she wanted to learn the story of. "You are Charles Carson, the man." Her finger gently brushed across his lips. "Perhaps it is time you found him again."

TBC…..

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