Hey there, hold the tomato throwing please.
I know I haven't updated this fic in months but I haven't forgotten it. Sadly, writer's block, school and real life are a bit difficult to deal with.
This chapter is not betaread (sorry for any typos) because I wanted to post it as soon as possible. I will correct it when my beta Angie will check it.
I know you probably will have to read this story from the start and I'm sorry. I'll try to update more often.
I hope you enjoy the reading anyway.
Chapter Twenty One: An Uncertainty
Charles cleared his throat when Lord Grantham was finally left alone at the table during breakfast.
"What is it, Carson?", his employer demanded, not raising his eyes from the article he was reading.
"I had the intention of taking a half day off today, m'lord," he began carefully. "I hope it is agreeable to you."
There was a moment of silence, in which Robert considered his butler's request carefully.
"Of course it is," Robert replied after a moment of silence, only partially listening to his butler.
"I'll leave Mr Barrow in charge, he's perfectly capable of serving tea and ringing the dressing gong. I'll return in time for dinner," Charles continued the explanation of his plans.
"I see no reason why you shouldn't take the evening off as well," the other man suggested.
Carson widened his eyes in stupor. "Milord, what about dinner?"
"Barrow is under butler now, isn't he? I suppose you've trained him properly?"
"Of course, m'lord," Charles replied, puffing out his chest proudly.
"Well then, all is settled."
Lord Grantham finally raised his eyes from the newspaper. "You've worked hard in this Season, Carson. I had promised you an half day off and here it is. You're free from this afternoon after lunch till tomorrow."
Robert was going to make a joke, recommending him not to return too late, since he would have to be up and about the morning after, but he bit his tongue, not wanting to embarrass him by questioning his professionalism.
Carson had always been dedicated to his work, even to the point of exhaustion.
He had always been a constant in Robert's life, years before Cora became his wife.
He had seen his marriage, the birth of his three daughters (one of whom he had mourned with them), had seen all of them get married (almost) and the birth of his two grandchildren.
To patronize him, a man of integrity and honor, would be too much.
Carson cleared his throat, clearly ill at ease. "Very well, m'lord. As you wish."
He didn't even know how he was going to do until late at night, or tomorrow morning.
He supposed his... outing with Mrs Hughes wouldn't last long.
"Certainly not all night," he thought. "That wouldn't be proper".
Not that they had many places to go to after midnight, anyway.
. . .
Elsie finished buttoning her blouse, looking at herself in the mirror.
Her face couldn't stop smiling; despite her trying to quiet the frantic beating of her heart and to suffocate the excitement of the butterflies in her stomach, her body wouldn't cooperate.
She shook her head at her own silliness: it was just a friendly outing with a man, it was not as if she hadn't experienced that before - it had happened with Joe, twice... a long time ago though.
She sighed and moved her hands to her head, rapidly freeing her hair from the pins that confined it and adjusting it in a softer way.
She wondered if he would notice her change in hairstyle: it made her look younger, the lineaments of her face appeared less sharp.
Her reflection in the mirror seemed to glance back at her, smirking.
Elsie blinked once, twice, thinking she might be seeing things... but it was still there, staring back into the blue of her eyes in an arrogant manner.
Suddenly she saw herself differently. She didn't seem any younger, but much older.
Her face was gaunt, her cheeks pale and hollow, her wrinkles a mark of the passing of the years.
Her new hairstyle only emphasized the white and grey streaks in her once chestnut hair, her blue eyes appeared milky, vacuous.
She saw herself for what she really was: an old woman.
She was old and decadent, she shouldn't waste her time in such frivolities and trivialities.
Mr Carson was only going out with her as a friend.
Why hadn't he done the same during the previous years? They had always been close after all.
Maybe he was thinking about retirement, maybe he was looking for a woman to marry, for companionship.
She suited the role, really. They had known each other for years, they had worked together for a long time, in perfect synchronization, as if she could read his mind and he could read hers.
They would work nicely in their new house as well, she knew. They had been captains of the ship that was Downton Abbey for years, things would run even more smoothly in a much smaller house.
She tore her eyes away from the mirror. What were they after all, if not butler and housekeeper, perfectly trained machines with no heart but only gears?
They didn't need love and affection to work, in fact they worked much better without any personal involvement.
They both lived on property and professionalism - they were inflexible, hard as steel and resistant as iron.
They weren't humans but mere shells of flesh and bone, with an heart of steel gears.
The impertinent smile of her ghost in the mirror told her just that: she had nourished false hopes that would crumble down like a house built on sand, fragile and inconsistent.
And she, they, would never succeed in building their house on solid stone.
She shook her head once again, trying to free her mind from the grip of those obnoxious thoughts.
There was no reason to ruin a nice day with him. She should be content with what she had.
A simple day spent with him at her side would be enough. Or at least that was what she tried to convince herself of.
. . .
Charles paced restlessly back and forth in his pantry.
It was almost three in the afternoon and Mrs Hughes hadn't come downstairs yet.
He was very much near panicking, but he was trying with all his might not to lose it all.
He was already dressed in his grey tweed suit, that she had once complimented him for wearing while they were heading to church a few weeks before.
She had been gazing at him for longer than necessary that day, when she had realized he was staring back at her, she had merely hid a smile and confessed in an nonchalant and unwavering voice - although not glancing at him in the eyes, but straight ahead of her - that the suit made him look really smart.
His temporary smile was soon replaced by an anguished expression; he felt as though a mailed fist had punched him in the gut and as if the soles of his shoes were on fire - he couldn't stop pacing, he probably would wear a path across the floor.
His big hands were holding the rim of his bowler hat, he felt his palms sweating.
He needed to stop worrying like this: he wasn't seventeen anymore for God's sake, there was no need to act as though it was his first date - outing, he corrected himself - with a... friend.
There had been other occasions where he had gone out with a woman: those were other times, other places. He was no more than a barely grown up lad, strolling around with his favourite girl on the arm.
He still remembered her face - not clearly, of course, more that thirty years had passed - however he remembered the spark in her youthful brown eyes, the smell of her hair, the dimples in her cheeks when she smiled at him.
Yes, Alice Neal had indeed been a very pretty girl, there was no denying... but he knew that she was nothing but a ghost from his past.
She had made him see that, unbeknownst to her own self. Her kindness had shown him the way, had led him on, as always.
If she hadn't encouraged him to let his wounds heal he probably would have continued pining away for a young woman who had rejected him for what was Charles' best friend ages before.
She had made him confront with his troubled past, that he had tried so hard to hide behind perfectly polished silver and a stern and unreachable façade.
Elsie (was she Elsie to him now?) had reached for him through the thick, invisible wall between them, she had almost bought it down - and there she was, ready to fight her way to his heart with nails and teeth.
Not that she was aware of all of that, of course.
She was able to entice him with her mere presence, he was inevitably drawn to her by a mighty, inconsistent force, like bodies were drawn to earth by gravity.
She was... he still didn't know how to put it into words, but she definitely meant something to him.
A part of him wanted to loosen up, open himself to her. The other instead feared the change too much for good. It had been his inner struggle for years, it pushed him towards her and at the same time it kept him from growing closer with her.
It was slowly wearing him out.
Charles couldn't bear to lose her: he had almost lost her to cancer and to Joe Burns, but he had been too shallow and proud to admit that he somehow needed the presence of this woman in his life.
He was nothing more than a fearful little man, too ashamed and coward to take a step further into his relationship with Elsie Hughes, too proud and stubborn to utter a simple "I need you".
He couldn't feel more foolish for fearing she would cancel their outing at the last minute.
"Come on, old man, get a grip," he scolded himself under his breath.
"Get a grip on what?" came a feminine voice, one he knew all too well, from the doorway.
He turned on his heels, his face bright red, his hair ruffled and his hands sweaty, to behold her lovely figure standing at the entrance of his pantry, smiling slightly at him.
Charles didn't know if it was the slightly warmer temperature of the day, the frustrating beating of his heart or the fact that he had been daydreaming about her and his own past for at least half an hour, but of one thing he was certain: Elsie Hughes had never looked lovelier as she did in that moment.
I know I had promised you the first part of their date, but this came out, a prelude to their outing.
I hope you're not disappointed.
Next chapter: date part one - I swear!
PS. I'd be grateful if you left a review ;)