On Mrs. Hughes's last day working, there were two butlers and two housekeepers at Downton Abbey. Mr. Carson and Mrs. Hughes presided over every meal and Mrs. Bute and Mr. Wendover, who had just arrived, sat lower at the table. Mrs. Bute was confident that she was ready to take charge of the house, but she couldn't help feeling a little nervous. She certainly did not envy Mr. Wendover, however, though he looked calm enough, eating his toast across the table from her. He had only arrived at the house late yesterday afternoon, but he knew as well as she how difficult it would be for the pair of them to follow Mr. Carson and Mrs. Hughes. Mrs. Bute at least had the benefit of having worked for the Crawleys before and of receiving more than a mere fortnight's training. The new butler would certainly have a baptism by fire. Mrs. Bute was glad, for the new man's sake, that Mr. Carson would be close at hand and was willing to spend an hour or two a day at the big house if he were needed in the first few weeks of retirement.
Mrs. Bute wouldn't have imagined at the beginning of the Season that she would be housekeeper of Downton Abbey before the year was out, and yet here she was. She remembered how she had worried that she was interfering inappropriately in Mr. Carson's life when she agreed to help Mrs. Patmore send him off to Yorkshire with Isis, but now that she had come to know Mrs. Hughes better, she perceived that their coming together was likely inevitable. She and Mrs. Patmore might have prodded Mr. Carson along a little faster than he would have moved on his own, but it was clear enough to Mrs. Bute that their mutual affection was not the work of a few months. They must have loved each other for a very long time. Mrs. Bute would admit feeling a little envious. She glanced again at Mr. Wendover and laughed at herself for doing so. Just because one butler and housekeeper planned to be married didn't mean everyone else would marry in equally tidy pairs. Besides that, this Mr. Wendover seemed far too serious. She thought they would get on well, but she couldn't see herself falling in love with him or anyone else. Mrs. Bute was forty years old and at the top of her profession. She had no plans to be anywhere other than where she was for a long time to come.
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Mrs. Hughes left Downton Abbey after breakfast the next morning. Mr. Carson insisted on accompanying her to her cottage so she did not have to carry her own bag. Mr. Barrow was entrusted with breakfast service and Mr. Wendover was left in Mrs. Bute's charge, with instructions from Mr. Carson that she acquaint him with some of their shared duties. If he had merely meant to walk Mrs. Hughes home and return immediately, he could have been back in less than a half hour, but Mr. Carson had accepted her invitation to tea. He would be her very first guest.
Mrs. Hughes turned the key in the lock and Mr. Carson followed her inside.
"Shall I take this upstairs?" he asked, indicating the bag he carried.
"Yes," she agreed. "I'll get the tea started and bring it out to the parlor." Mrs. Hughes went to the kitchen and put her kettle on to boil, then started taking out her tea things, and was surprised when Mr. Carson appeared in the kitchen a minute later. "I told you I'd bring tea out to the parlor, Charles," she reminded him.
"I don't want to sit alone in the parlor when I could be in here with you," he told her, coming up behind her and kissing her cheek.
"Just for a few minutes."
"A few minutes too many." He kissed her neck. "I'll miss you, Elsie."
Mrs. Hughes opened her mouth to point out that she would not be far, and that he shouldn't talk nonsense, but instead she said, "I'll miss you, too, Charles. Silly, when we'll barely be a ten-minute walk apart."
"Not silly," Mr. Carson contended. "For the last twenty years we've been in the same house all day, every day."
"Except during the Season," she reminded him. "Perhaps we should pretend I've gone off to Grantham House."
"I'll have to write you letters, then," he told her.
Mrs. Hughes turned to face him and slipped her arms under his coat. "That sounds nice," she said softly.
"Will you write me back?"
"Of course," she answered. "What else have I to do?"
Mr. Carson smiled. "I'm sure you will have plenty to do. But write me anyway?"
Mrs. Hughes smiled back. "Of course I will. Now kiss me."
"I thought you'd never ask." Mr. Carson took her face gently between his hands and bent down to touch his lips to hers. At first they were both still, but then the kiss deepened, and Mrs. Hughes took her arms out from under his coat to caress his chest. He let his hands fall from her face to rest on her waist and pulled her gradually closer to him. The kettle began to whistle and they pulled apart.
"It's time for me to fix our tea, Charles."
"Must you?"
"That's why you're here, isn't it?" she asked, her eyes twinkling.
"I suppose so."
"Don't forget we'll be having tea in the parlor on that charming little settee."
Mr. Carson's eyes brightened. "You're right. That charming little settee."
Mrs. Hughes put everything on a tea tray and was about to pick it up when Mr. Carson swooped in and took it from her. She followed him to the parlor, where they each fixed a cup of tea and then sat down close together.
"This is nice, Elsie."
"Mmhmm," she agreed. "I look forward to many more times taking tea sitting close to you on this little settee."
"I'm glad the Crawleys left it too near the window and had to get rid of it. It's the perfect size for us."
"I have a confession, Charles."
He raised his eyebrows and his eyes twinkled. "Do you?"
"When I looked at all of the old furniture with her ladyship, I chose this settee on purpose for that very reason."
Mr. Carson looked confused. "But that was before-"
"I hoped you might come live with me someday," she admitted. "I liked the idea of sitting here with you, all cozy with our tea or under a blanket on a cold day."
He smiled and kissed her cheek. "Are there any other things you did in anticipation of my living here?"
"A few things," she answered evasively.
"Such as…?" Mr. Carson prodded.
"I made curtains I thought you would like."
"And you chose well. They're very nice, Elsie. Anything else?"
Mrs. Hughes blushed. "Well, I asked Mr. Branson to exchange the bathtub that was here with a larger one from a nearby cottage. You're very tall and I thought it might be more comfortable."
Mr. Carson's eyebrows rose. "I hope that's not the reason you gave him."
"Of course not!" she exclaimed. "Although I think he may have suspected I was lying when I told him I was worried my niece's children might not fit in the tub all at once, and I thought they would visit soon."
He laughed. "But he didn't say anything?"
"No, he just tried to hide his smile and did as I asked."
"What else did you do for me, Elsie?"
"Oh, this and that," she answered vaguely. "I can't remember every single thing."
Mr. Carson took her tea from her hands and set it down beside his. "You're hiding something, Elsie," he murmured, leaning close to her.
Mrs. Hughes was flustered now. "I can't tell you about it. You'd be embarrassed."
"Then we'll be embarrassed together, if the color of your cheeks is any indication of your mood," he told her mischievously.
"Fine," she agreed. "It's about the bed. That large bed you didn't want to talk about when we discussed retirement. Satisfied?"
Mr. Carson turned a bit pink as well, but was not deterred. "What about the bed?"
"Well, it's larger that what one medium-sized spinster needs."
"But just right for a medium-sized wife and her large-sized husband?" he wanted to know.
"I'm sure I won't know what to do with myself for the two weeks I'll be sleeping in it alone. I'll probably sleep right on the edge, as though I were still in my narrow bed at the Abbey."
"You were right, Elsie," Mr. Carson remarked gravely. "We should have avoided this topic."
"You started it," Mrs. Hughes pointed out.
"I have a feeling I will be getting very little sleep in my narrow bed at the Abbey for the next two weeks." He kissed her cheek and whispered in her ear. "Will you show it to me, Elsie?"
"You must be mad! After the conversation we've just been having? Absolutely not."
Mr. Carson frowned. "You don't really think I'd try to seduce you, do you?"
"I don't know what I think," she answered honestly. Maybe I'm just afraid you wouldn't have to try very hard to succeed, she thought.
"Well, I'm not going to try. Not until the day we're married."
"Then I can't think of any reason you need to see the bed now," she replied.
"It's not the bed I'm concerned with now," he commented. "I want to see the curtains."
Mrs. Hughes couldn't help laughing. "You'll see them in two weeks. I think you'll survive the suspense, Charles."
He sighed in defeat, but gathered her into his arms. "Very well. I suppose I should be getting back to the house now. Thank you for the tea."
"You're welcome, Charles," she mumbled into his chest. "You may visit anytime you like."
"I will. As often as I can." He pulled away from her and rose from his seat, but grasped her hand and drew her toward the door. Mrs. Hughes gladly followed.
"Goodbye, my dear," Mr. Carson murmured, kissing her hand.
"Until next time," she replied, smiling into his eyes and standing on tiptoe so he could kiss her once more.
Mr. Carson then nodded, squeezed her hand, and left the house. Mrs. Hughes stood in the doorway watching him until he was out of sight, before returning to her empty parlor. A part of her felt lonely, missing the man who had just left her. But she was also content to be standing in her own home, for the first time in her life. She cleared away the tea things and went upstairs to change her dress. Mrs. Hughes would keep her dark housekeeper's garb, but from now on it would reside in the very back of the wardrobe, or perhaps in the bottom drawer of her dresser. She felt light and merry, and now she would look it as well. Although she had planned to save it for another occasion, she chose to dress in the skirt and blouse that she had worn on the outing to the seaside. It reminded her of new beginnings, and today was certainly the start of something new and wonderful.
Once Mrs. Hughes had changed out of her dark dress, she unpacked the bag Mr. Carson had carried for her and left in her upstairs corridor. There wasn't much in it, but she felt that unpacking it would be the final step in making her retirement real. Her impending marriage would make her retirement complete. Mrs. Hughes was not entirely surprised to find a letter from Mr. Carson in her bag. She left her unpacking unfinished for the moment and sat down on the bed to read it immediately. Even that was a luxury she could not boast until today.
My dear Elsie,
I can hardly believe this day has come. You will leave Downton Abbey, and everyone in the house will feel your loss, most especially me. It is only two weeks that we will live under separate roofs, I know, but I miss you already, though you do not leave until after breakfast.
The more I think about it, the more I believe that you and I must have belonged to one another for much longer than I knew. I look forward to the day when I will put a band of gold around your finger in front of our friends, making you fully mine, and becoming fully yours. I also look forward to every day after that, when we will enjoy together everything that we have had for years, as well as this new and sacred belonging. How fortunate it is that calling you my dearest love does not oblige me to leave off calling you my dearest friend.
I must conclude; it is almost time for breakfast. I will end by expressing my hope that you are as happy as I am. I love you, Queen of my heart.
Ever Yours,
Charles
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On his way back to the house, Mr. Carson noticed the letter in his pocket. She must have slipped it in there when she had her arms inside his coat. He was still a few minutes from the house, so he tore it open and read her words as he walked.
My Dear Charles,
Many of the letters I wrote you this summer were love letters, but I would not have admitted that to a single soul but myself. Now, however, it is no secret that you hold my heart, and I will write you a true love letter, that you may have written proof of my feelings, as I have of yours.
I have loved you for a long time, my dear, and have watched over you as best I could. You had no mother, no sister, no wife, to see that you took care of yourself. I did not always succeed at keeping you well, for I was not your mother, your sister, or your wife. A woman may do many things in support of a friend, but if she is to keep her love a secret from its object and from everyone else, there are lines she must not cross. I learned quite early where all of those lines were drawn, and for a long time I was cautious, even after I became aware that I loved you. In recent years I stopped being quite as cautious, and occasionally even intentionally crossed a line, though never for long. I was always careful to step right back into my proper place before I caused any harm. This summer, however, I crossed a line one lovely day by the sea, and I didn't step back to where I had come from. I could speculate all day on what made that day different from all of the days that came before it, but I am thankful for whatever madness led me to continue crossing lines in the days that followed and for whatever pushed you to follow me into this new season of our lives. I hoped that someday you might love me, but I never anticipated the intensity of feeling that would accompany those three special words when they were finally spoken. To feel my own mouth form the sounds and to hear you say them back to me is a wonder like none I have ever felt before. You must promise to say them to me every day, even when I vex you, which I know I will.
I remember you told me that you felt sometimes like you were going mad during the time we were separated this Season. I now feel something similar, I believe, although we have been living in the same house. In the early days of loving you, I had all of the symptoms of new love, but with time I became more comfortable, as long as I knew you would be beside me always. After our visit to Westminster Abbey, however, I felt once again as though I had just discovered my feelings for you, and ever since that day I have been haunted by you. There are times when I am consumed with thoughts of you, and moments when I yearn for you and feel the world will end if I am forced to go another second without touching you or kissing you. I am smitten. I am delirious with passion and with tenderness. Quite simply, I am mad for you. Soon, however, this madness will take a new shape, for you will belong only to me. I love you.
Ever yours,
Elsie
To be continued...
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