Gifts
A/N: Hi all, I have retired for the most part but I am offering up a little something that I've been working on. This is mostly Elsie and Thomas in the first part and all Elsie in the second part. Charles features in this as well, but you will see what I mean. This is written in response to last month's Chelsie-Prompts Challenge: Gifts. I'm just a little late. And it's not beta read, so please excuse errors.
14 February 1946
She startles a bit and her head snaps up. She's not expecting a knock at her front door this morning. It's early yet and she's still enjoying a cuppa and bite of toast as she watches the frost gently melt away from her kitchen window. The sun is bright and she thinks that if she wears her warmest coat, pulls on her thickest gloves, and wraps her best scarf around her neck and chest, that just perhaps it will be warm enough this February morning that she may walk over to Yew Tree Farm and visit with Mrs. Mason. She's tired of being cooped up in the cottage. The winter's been a cold and dreary one.
Especially this winter.
Especially since November last.
Elsie swallows down one last fortifying drop of tea and puts down her cup beside her plate and drops the last scrap of the bacon rasher she's been nibbling on to the floor where the scruffy wire hair terrier that followed Charles home two springs ago laps it up. She reaches down and scratches the mut between his ears and thinks for the thousandth time that she never would have thought her husband would have brought strays home and yet they've had three of them over the course of their marriage. Lad may not be to the manor born, but he's a good dog and keeps her company.
She'll do the washing up after her visitor leaves. She has plenty of time for that sort of thing now. There is another knock at the door and it isn't insistent; it isn't rude or demanding. Whomever is on the other side probably thinks she hasn't heard the first attempt to summon her is all. Elsie sighs and wonders who could be out on such a morning. It isn't time for the papers to be delivered and she hasn't ordered any milk or eggs for today.
As she passes from the kitchen through the sitting room on her way to the door, she catches a glimpse of herself in the glass. She touches a hand to her hair and smoothes it across the mostly white strands; a few threads of brown stubbornly hang on, but she wonders for how much longer. She's never been a terribly vain woman, but she still keeps herself up. Even though her hips have filled out and her shoulders have rounded. She looks more a grandmother now than the housekeeper. Funny the irony of it. She isn't Granny to anyone; she has no grandchild to cuddle. She hasn't been Mrs. Hughes in nearly two decades; she hasn't a house with staff to command. She is simply Mrs. Carson and it's the simplicity of that title suits her best.
She does have Jack Bates, Anna and John's boy. He is the closest thing that she and Charles have ever had to a grandson. But Jack lives off in Manchester and doesn't get back to Downton much anymore. The war years were difficult and Charles and Elsie worried endlessly about his safety. Charles scoured the papers searching for every detail of the whereabouts of Jack's division; France, Germany, and then when he was wounded and ended up at the field hospital. Elsie had never expected her husband to take to the boy so, but he had taken him to his heart completely. The map with the tiny red flags marking the movements of Jack Bates, George Crawley, and Charlie Talbot still hangs on back of the garden shed door just as it has since the end of the war. She's seen no reason to take it down.
Perhaps one day Jack will want it as a remembrance.
It's only when she opens the door and the cold comes rushing in that she realizes she is still in her dressing gown, and she instinctively wraps her free arm around herself. But this man, the one who is standing before her so early this morning will not mind if she is still in her dressing gown and slippers because he's seen her like this many times before in the middle of the night when there was a crisis. When William and Mr. Matthew had gone missing, when flu had overtaken the house, when poor Lady Sybil had died so suddenly, and when Lady Edith set fire to her bedroom that awful night.
"I hope that I didn't wake you."
"No. Old habits," she responds fondly. "It is freezing. You'll your catch death. Come in."
Had she and Charles, like John and Anna, traveled that other path with one another when they were younger, perhaps they might have had a son. Perhaps he might have resembled this man. Tall, regal in his bearing, the paunch of middle age settled about his hips, his black hair now streaked with platinum, icy blue eyes still twinkling with mischief, and his chin held high in defiance of his rank, this man is much like them in ways. In ways that her husband would never admit to this "son" of theirs. The lessons were hard learned, but his father was never one to spare the rod and spoil the child and this man has transformed from the unsure footman of his youth into the confident butler of his middle age.
Thomas Barrow pulls off his hat and Elsie puts it on the table near the door and as Thomas folds his gloves and pushes them into the pocket of his coat, Elsie tells him to make himself to home and then retreats to the kitchen to fuss with the kettle. The water's gone cold and after she's filled it and lit the burner, she slices two pieces of bread and fixes them between the grates of the toaster. As she rustles about in the kitchen she hears him shuffling about. He hasn't sat yet. She knew he wouldn't. Not until she has returned.
It hasn't taken the kettle long to re-heat and the bread has toasted.
Thomas holds the back of her chair and and pushes it forward after she's taken her seat. His manners are always impeccable and though they've had their fair share of disagreements over the years, time has caused most of those heated arguments to dull. They are family after all and time has a way of healing most wounds.
"There you are. It'll warm you up." She hands a cup of steaming tea to her guest after he's seated and begins to butter a piece of toast from the plate in front of her. As she sets about her task, Thomas smiles. He knows that she has finished her breakfast and that she is doing all of this for him. No one has buttered his toast since he was a boy and his older sister saw to it that he had porridge or toast and something to drink for breakfast.
Thomas takes a nice long sip of tea and lets it wash down the back of his throat. He doesn't enjoy taking tea as much as he once did. Not since Mrs. Carson retired as housekeeper. Though he enjoyed Mrs. Molesley's company, even she could not brew as fine a cup of tea as the redoubtable Elsie Carson. And certainly, this new woman, this Mrs. Brown who comes in from the village every day doesn't measure up; not by half.
"It's been a while since you've visited." Her words hang in the air between them thick with meaning. Thomas pretends not to notice.
"I saw you last week at church and I spoke to you on the telephone just two days ago," he answers back before hastily taking another sip of his tea and biting off the corner of his toast.
"That is not what I said." She'll not let him off that easily and he should have known better. They are both older and they know each other better than most people know one another. They've a lifetime of memories and understanding, both said and unsaid.
"You've not visited in months Thomas."
"I've been busy." The lie rolls off his tongue easily. Even still when he's tried to curb the habit of doing so, old habits die hard and she's caught him out.
"Hmmphf."
"Now that sounds familiar. That grumble. You picked that up from him," Thomas chides as he breaks off the corner of his toast and offers it to Lad who sits patiently, but expectantly at his feet. Elsie cannot help but to laugh at Thomas's observation.
"I suppose I did," she agrees lightly. "Perhaps you might come walk with Lad on occasion If you like. I think he misses a man about the place," she offers as she watches Thomas run his hands over the dog's coat and scratch his ears.
Thomas looks up with a tight smile and appreciation Even after all these years, all that Elsie knows about him, after all of their disagreements, her having to stand in between him and her husband over heated arguments during the transition from Charles's tenure as butler to Thomas's, she still treats him with kindness. He's tried to follow her example, that of her and Mrs. Molesley's, to mellow in his middle years. His affection for Miss Sybbie and Master George has helped to smooth away the rough edges from his heart.
"I'd like that. Very much. Thank you," he answers, affection for Elsie evident in his voice.
Thomas finishes his toast and Elsie refills his teacup once more as they settle into conversation. He fills her in on the goings-on up at the house though he is certain that she already knows exactly everything that goes on without his telling her. But she lets him, just as she let Charles. In a funny way, nostalgia swells in her heart. It brings back the old days when she was still housekeeper and she and the Butler sat in her parlour or his at the end of the day and raked over the day's events. Of course when Charles was butler, their conversations were more personal, but she revels in the feelings of yesteryear. She remembers how Charles told her he no longer felt "a part of things" in those early years after his retirement and how she kept up their little ritual of evening talks over a glass of sherry discussing matters of the house she'd learned from Mrs. Patmore. Those talks seems to ease his burden; to make him feel relevant, a part of things. Somehow, she feels that Thomas is doing the same for her now.
But as Thomas prattles on about miscellaneous things, about a houseguest who is spending the week visiting Lady Mary, Elsie knows that there is something more important on his mind.
"As much as I appreciate your visiting Thomas, I can't help but think that you've something on your mind." Thomas looks at her with questioning eyes, but knows that she can read him very well. He's been at Downton and in her presence longer than with his own family. Elsie and Phyllis Molesley know him better than most people ever will..
"I haven't been to visit because … because I still … well, you'd never believe it but I do miss him and …"
"… and it seems as if he's still here. At the cottage?" Thomas nods in affirmation and it does Elsie's heart good to know that Thomas can admit that he misses her husband. That even though he and Charles were often at loggerheads, the butler feels the loss of his predecessor.
Elsie reaches across the table and places her hand atop Thomas's.
"It seems that way for me too. Every place I look, he's there. I hear his footsteps, sometimes I hear him humming that silly tune," she pauses a moment as she drifts back to the sight of Charles singing as he polished His Lordship's silver after he learned that she did not have cancer.
"Sometimes late at night, the bells in the servants hall ring for no apparent reason," Thomas confides in her.
"He told me once that he thought that he would die at the Abbey and haunt it ever after. Perhaps he is." They both share a weepy laugh and Elsie pulls her hand from Thomas's and drags a slender finger under her eye as she catches a tear there.
"It's probably just a short in the electric bell system. I need to have it seen to." He pauses and then considers his next thought. " He hated when they installed that," Thomas smirks.
"That he did," she concurs, "but since it was Lady's Mary's idea, he would hardly admit it aloud." There is a pause in the conversation before Elsie adds, "It's good to remember those we care about Thomas. It's the natural way of things."
Thomas reaches into his coat pocket and retrieves a bundle of small black journals and a yellowed envelope and passes them across the table.
"You've brought me a books and a St. Valentine's Day card?" She quips until she notices the serious expression on his face and tears clouding his eyes.
"We were moving some things up at the house the other day, making room for things you see, and up in the attics there was a box in a corner marked Butler's Pantry and well … these belong to you. I don't know why they were there, who moved them, or when they were moved there. I didn't ask Lady Mary if I should bring thing to you because they aren't really a part of the house. They belong to you. They are personal." Thomas almost whispers the last word.
The penny drops and suddenly Elsie realizes the full intent of Thomas's statement. The books are Charles's but the contents of them and the card are for her. She wonders how much Thomas has read; she knows that he has read enough to know that the volumes are personal and that he's said that they belong to her. Twice he's said that they belong to her and to her specifically. She reaches for them and for a moment she suddenly feels a sudden warmth wash over her. She hasn't felt it since Charles was alive, since the last time he held her in his arms. And she closes her eyes and breathes in deeply, enjoys the sensation.
She pushes her glasses into place and then pulls the twine that is holding the little stack of diaries neatly together. She begins to thumb through the first volume and sees her name in Charles's neat black script on the yellowed pages. She sees other words: Head Housemaid, diligence, intelligent, promotion, Housekeeper, recommendation, stubborn. She smiles as tears fill her eyes and she looks up to Thomas.
"Are they all like this?"
"I know you'll not believe me, but I didn't read them all," he confesses. "Just enough to see that what they were. I do believe that they might be. He wrote them before he retired."
"And the envelope?" She asks as she puts she diary aside and reaches for the envelope.
"I didn't steam it open if that's what you're asking," Thomas smirks.
Elsie raises an eyebrow at Thomas's cheek. She slips a fingernail under the flap of the envelop and immediately thinks of how Charles would find the gesture so inappropriate; that only a proper paper knife would do. She reaches inside to find a postcard that she knows well. Once she had pinned the postcard to the notice board in Charles's pantry at Grantham House. Hot tears fall in earnest, as she remembers the day on the beach all those years ago when she dared him to take her hand and he finally plucked up the courage to trust her with his heart. She turns the card over to find where he'd written something on the reverse.
"Oh Charlie," Elsie cries as she brings her hand to her mouth. Thomas pulls a pristine white handkerchief from his pocket and offers it to her.
"Perhaps I shouldn't have brought them," he worries. The last thing Thomas wants to do is upset Elsie especially at this stage of her life.
"No," she assures him. "They are such a gift. A blessing to me. Really." She reaches out to grasp his hand and holds it tightly. "You and Charlie have given me a wonderful gift."
Elsie never makes it to Yew Tree Farm to visit Mrs. Mason that day. Instead she pulls Charles's dressing gown from the cupboard, wraps it around her, and then settles on the settee with a kettle of tea on the table in front of her, the stack of diaries beside her, and Lad curled at her feet. Each diary she opens is like a love letter from her husband; each a record of their lives together from the time she arrived at Downton as head strong Head Housemaid who refused to quake in the face of his posturing, to the confident Housekeeper who kept everything afloat including the Butler when his confidence faltered. There are the entries when, between the lines, she reads of his anguish over the decision of leaving the Abbey and her for Haxby and in the end his relief over not leaving after all. Then there are the entries written in the late hours of the night, the nights after they had shared a small glass of sherry and she'd gone up to bed exhausted while he'd stayed in his pantry, staring at the four walls wondering what the doctor's report would say. His words are filled desperation pondering how he could help her and other words riddled with fear that she would die; they cause her heart to ache even now. And just as her heart breaks because of his anguish, anguish that he could not express then and she could not help him heal, there is an the entry filled with broad upstrokes of jubilation and thanksgiving at his knowing that she would live. In the hundreds of words that she's read, Charlie's not admitted that he loves her. Never yet committed the words to the page, but she sees them all the same and she knows that if Thomas has read any of the entries, he has seen Charles's declarations as well.
In other books there are the pages where he has worked the sums for the houses that they had visited, the properties that they had considered for purchase. The ones that were to be strictly "a business venture" to provide for their retirement. Her eyes crinkle in the corners as she smiles remembering the day that he nervously tested the waters of their relationship with that proposal. "As if I would have refused him," she remarks aloud. She traces her fingers over the numbers that are pressed so precisely into the pages. He had calculated the sums three times over and yes, the house on Brouncker Road was the best deal of the lot. She expects to see an entry with Becky's name and perhaps an explanation; expects to read of his reaction to her story of her invalid sister and the reasons why the bonds of their business partnership had to be broken. Instead, there is simply a page reading, "Brouncker Road. Meet with the agent Friday noon. Register it both our names. Elsie should approve when I tell her. Christmas Eve."
The guest house has provided well for them. Charlie has provided well for them indeed.
The handwriting in the last book isn't as crisp and the lines are far from the fluid gracefulness of the earlier ones. Elsie heart aches a bit and she pulls Charles's dressing gown just that extra bit tighter around her. He has written of the palsy that has afflicted him, that has caused him to give up the job that he has loved, that he is known far and wide for. He's worried that he will drive her mad being around the cottage all day and that he will be as useless there as he has become at the Abbey. He worries that Thomas will muck it all up, that he will do something compromise the integrity of the house, perhaps not today, or tomorrow, but some day in the future when he is not around to keep an eye on things or when Elsie retires and can't hold his nose to the grindstone.
Just as Elsie is about to put the little tome down, about to console herself with a brisk walk around the grounds with Lad, she turns a few pages and finds an entry of steady handwriting and more confident language. The entry is dated months after the last she read and her Charlie has come to the realization that Thomas will do well as butler, that he is more than capable, and though it may take both Mrs. Baxter and Lady Mary to do the job of the outgoing housekeeper to keep him in line, the house will run smoothly after all.
Elsie finds her name peppered throughout the page. They've set a date! They are due to retire together, he and Elsie. Charlie is pleased that they will walk out of the servant's hall and down the lane to their cottage together. He still worries that he will that he may drive her mad, but he knows that she is up to the challenge; she always has been.
"Yes, I always have been," Elsie chuckles to herself. "Daft man." At her voice, Lad jumps up to join her on the settee and Elsie tugs him close. "Come on boy. You heard me talking about your Da, did you?"
Elsie holds both Lad and the little book close as she continues to read. Charlie writes of what what he looks forward to in their retirement; a life of early nights and late mornings, Sundays filled with church and friends, long walks, and a return to the little hotel in Scarborough. Elsie closes the last of love letters her husband has written her and holds it close to her heart. She closes her eyes and imagines their first and last days at the seaside and all of their days and nights in between.
"Happy Valentine's Day,Charlie," she whispers.
Suddenly, her cheek is flush with warmth and for the briefest of moments she imagines that Charlie's lips are pressed there once again. She almost feels his breath against her neck and his words softly in her ear.
"Happy Valentine's Day, Elsie."