He's been thinking on the prospect for sometime.
It's time to move on.
Charles never intended to stay this long; never intended to spend the entirety of his working years confined inside the hulking, suffocating brick walls of the workhouse. He never intended to spend his days so ordered and confined methodically walking miles of endless corridors where his feet march in time against cold, stone tiles.
The workhouse has hardened him. It has buried the romantic heart that beats in his breast. The wall around his heart is as heavily bricked as the walls of the workhouse. It has to be this way he tells himself. Day after day of disappointment. Sarah's death. The baby's death. Those inmates - such a vile word - he cannot help. Those who refuse to be helped. Any idealism that simmered in him has been tempered. What good would it do anyone to see him break down at the sight of those he cannot help. After all, what good is he if he cannot be useful, cannot be helpful?
He's not always been like this. Not with Sarah. He would have loved their son. Did love him. He cares deeply for Miss Hughes.
He needs a change.
He passes into the Men's Sick Ward and stops at the bed of old Tom Black. A pitiful soul who's dying of throat cancer. Charles has seen him waste away over the last few months, unable to take nourishment for a week and now unable to drink even a droplet of water.
It'll not be long.
Unable to speak Tom contorts in pain, his body twisting into first this shape and then another. Charles rubs his hand through Tom's hair, resting his hand upon his forehead, and offers a prayer. Feeling the sincerity of Charles' touch and words. the dying man closes his eyes and settles. Charles hopes he's brought some comfort; for that's all that he can offer.
Charles runs a tight ship but tries to lift up the downtrodden to the best of his ability. Mrs. Crawley works tirelessly to find positions for many of the able bodied men and together she and Lady Grantham have placed many of the women in households in the area. And then there are those who whom there is no help. Those who, for whatever reason, have given up on life and are content to accept their lot as it is; perhaps, they've been forced to accept what life has thrown their way. Those women like Mary Sadler who suffered at the hands of a drunk and abusive husband, blinded in one eye and her face permanently marked scarred rendering her incapable of earning a living.
And then there are those whose family has forgotten them. Charles gazes on those who like Alfred Black, have some undefined malady, arms and legs wracked in some spastic struggle and whose minds seemed locked away in some far away place.
As he walks the halls of the men's quarters, Charles counts the ratio of red tiles to black tiles on the floor and muses on the fact that his life seems to have fallen into a similarly predictable pattern. When he'd packed up and his left his parents' home for the cricket pitch, Charles envisioned a much different life. A life of adventure and excitement.
The position of workhouse master is one he'd never have considered had he not come home broken like a kicked pup with his tail between his legs. Every congratulation, every free pint offered him at the Dog and Duck, he'd accepted with enthusiasm. He was Downton's favourite son, their collective hopes and dreams bound up in Charlie Carson, sure to be England's next great cricketer. And when his knee crumbled beneath him during a match with Middlesex, so too did his dreams and all the talk of leaving the sleepy village of Downton for the excitement of the cricket circuit came back to haunt him.
But Charles isn't much different than anyone else who sleeps under this roof; necessity brought all of them here. Though necessity keeps many in the workhouse, it's duty that keeps Charles from leaving; first duty to the job, then duty to his wife, and now duty to her memory. And something else. Something he can't name but that strangely feels akin to guilt; as if he is trying to make up something to Sarah. Trying to atone for some sin.
His morning rounds complete, Charles pushes through the doorway and into his office, closing the door hard behind behind him. Scrubbing a hand through his hair Charles remembers the bravado of his youth.
You thought Downton so quaint, so boring. Told anyone who'd listen how you were going to break free from country life.
Showed them, didn't you?
Hmfph.
Charles slinks down into his chair and shifts hard, banging his knee against the sharp corner of his desk. Pain jolts through his flesh and into the joint like lightning striking a tree and coursing through its branches. Between clenched teeth, a swear word rolls past his lips as he reaches down rubbing his leg as if he can massage the pain away.
As he looks up, Charles sees the newspaper that Timmy delivered this morning. Reaching over, Charles retrieves the newspaper that rests neatly on the corner of his desk. Carefully, he opens the paper and scans each section, reading the headlines until he has time to properly retire to his private rooms, settle into his leather chair, and enjoy catching up on the day's events. With the prospect of starting a new life continuing to gnaw away at him, the newspaper spread on the desk in front of him, he turns to the situations wanted section. There are plenty of situations for labourers, servants, and adverts for positions in other villages. Nothing appeals to him until finally, two items stand out.
"Head Valet. Downton Abbey. Experience Required"
"For Sale. Bed and Breakfast. Grantham Arms, Downton Village. Inq. Jno. Wilkins."
Charles drums his fingertips on the top of his desk as he considers the possibilities. Head valet to the Earl of Gratham is a senior position in a respected house. It would afford him the opportunity to travel. Though London is noisy and dirty, the city is exhilarating and to experience it during the season would be exhilarating. Months in London with plenty of time on his own might prove just the thing he's looking for. He also knows that His Lordship is widely traveled and being valet to Lord Grantham would afford him the opportunity to see foreign environs. In his youth Charles remembered seeing the trinkets His Lordship and Her Ladyship brought home from their travels to Russia; exquisite pieces of exotic finery that even a boy could appreciate. He hasn't the experience that some valets have but he knows the Crawley family well and certainly that must count for something.
But then he thinks of her, of Elsie, the woman with whom he attended the fair and whose smile and voice fill his mind when he's not consumed with matters of the workhouse. Valets haven't much of a personal life; they are married to the job. He's no longer interested in being married to a job, but rather ….
Married.
The passing thought of the word causes his chest to tighten in ways that are both pleasant and a bit melancholy. Charles eyes flicker to the framed picture of Sarah that occupies the right corner of his desk. That he loved her he has no doubt; theirs was a sweet love that grew over time. Yet something stirs in his breast and it frightens him because he feels ashamed because of the odd thought that enters his mind. It disturbs him all the more because it isn't the first time that it's niggled at his conscience.
He's never dared speak of it; once, when he was working in the stables with his father, some months after Sarah and the baby died and after he'd met Elsie, Charles had considered speaking of this guilty feeling, this sneaking suspicion. But why should he place this burden on another? Why plague his father and, by extension, his mother with these guilty and sinful thoughts? How disappointed they would be in him for even thinking such a thing. Yet still he cannot erase it from his mind.
Charles wonders if he would've married Sarah had they not been thrown together? Had the matter of convenience not come into play would they have made their way to the altar? Sarah was a fine woman and he had loved her, but he was never drawn to her the way he's drawn to Elsie and the thought of that both haunts and hurts him. Perhaps the child would have changed that; the bond of parenthood and the creation of a child, a family, together might have drawn him to Sarah in an altogether different way.
Sarah was pretty with a bright smile and a caring manner. She was a confidant and friend to all who met her. She was a good wife and would have been a good mother. But there is something about Elsie, something that Charles can't put his finger on.
Elsie is exquisite what with her high cheekbones and deep blue eyes. Her rosy cheeks and inviting smile. She's elegant of statute and carries herself more like the lady of the house than the lady who sees to its upkeep. Her laughter is like fine whisky all smoky, husky, and uninhibited when Becky or Robbie do something amusing or joyously diminutive and tinkling when she's visiting with the group of village women after church.
But it is more than Elsie's physical beauty, more than physical attraction, though there is that, or the way she makes him feel instantly at home when he visits her little flat or dines with her at the tea shop.
Charles feels connected to her. As if he has known her a lifetime if such a thing is possible. Is it possible for one to feel instantly connected with another? For one to fall into step with another so easily?
He was afraid to admit all this to his father, to anyone. Afraid to give voice to it.
And surely Elsie cannot feel the same.
Especially not so soon.
Again, Charles glances down at the advertisement for the inn. He's doubtful saved enough for something on this scale; not that the Grantham Arms is grand by any means, but Charles is paid a living wage and even with what he's managed to save and the inheritance from Sarah, the dream of owning such an establishment is surely out of reach for a fair number of years.
Though he imagines if it weren't.
Charles imagines being the proprietor of a little place like the Grantham Arms with his name on the shingle hanging outside the door and a group of regular customers gathered around the fire. He imagines a woman, perhaps Elsie keeping it all in order, keeping everything neat and tidy, them running the whole operation by day. And by night …
"Mr. Carson? Mr. Carson?"
"What?" He startles. "I mean how can I help?" He hates that she's caught him out; it makes him feel like a schoolboy caught peering out the window during lessons.
"Are you well, Mr. Carson? Only you've been quite distracted lately," Miss O'Brien replies knowingly as she places a stack of receipts on his desk.
"I don't know what you mean," he protests, scowling at her impertinence.
"Since the fair you've …" The woman is always pushing. Why must she push in at every turn? Why must she make everyone's business her own?
"That's quite enough Miss O'Brien," Charles barks, his tone deep and authoritative.
"I'm sure that you've business to attend. I know that I do." Charles reaches for the newspaper and folds it closed. He pushes back from his desk and stands to his feet, the fingers of his right hand tugging at the edge of his waistcoat. "If you'll excuse me."
The moment he is out of the room and watching to make certain that he is down the corridor, Sarah O'Brien gently pushes the door to his office closed and makes her way over to his desk. Discreetly slipping her slender fingers under the fold of the paper, Miss O'Brien peers down at the page that Charles was reading.
"Well, well, Mr. Carson," she whispers under her breath. "I wonder what you're planning?"
"I doubt he's leaving," Thomas drawls, a cloud of vapor escaping from between his lips. "Where would he go? Washed up cricketer with a tricky leg and master of the workhouse. Hardly glowing credentials"
"I'm telling you. He's planning something," Sarah presses. "He's been walking out with the Hughes woman."
"The one with the idiot sister?" Thomas takes a drag from his cigarette before passing it to Miss O'Brien. "She's hardly a catch. Who'd want to take her on? What with that sister in tow? Not any man I know."
"Maybe not you but Mr. Carson's sweet on Elsie Hughes I can tell you that. I've never seen him more sparkly-eyed that when he came home from the fair."
Thomas considers, thinks back on the number of times recently that Charles has taken his half-day to visit the Dog and Duck or the Gratham Arms for luncheon or supper with Miss Hughes.
"Maybe you're right," he allows. "Maybe."
Elsie has never dreaded work, never dreaded the sound of the scullery maid banging on the door at six o'clock in the morning.
Well, maybe she's dreaded rising early a few times.
The times when her work stretched into the wee hours during that special time of day when the moon's muted light yields to the bold sun of a summer's morning. When the guests of the family's house party revelled until their legs could no longer hold them up and they wobbled off to bed long after the strike of midnight, leaving maids and footmen to make everything appear as if it had never happened. A scant few hours to return the house to a state of perfection and perhaps catch an hour or so of sleep before the call to gather in the servants hall beckoned them once again.
But Elsie's always welcomed work because it means she's healthy and has breath in her lungs and going to work each day means she's her own person and can earn. Yet she's been summoned to the office of her employer, Sir Richard Carlisle, a man of new money and rough manners, who makes her more uneasy than an injured cat, and always confident Elsie nervously fidgets with bit of the starched lace that lines the edge of her apron.
"So, how do you think things are going Elsie. I mean to say do you think everything is running as smoothly as it could?" Carlisle begins as he enters his office from the hallway shutting the door behind him.
Elsie doesn't respond. She realizes that Carlisle isn't so much asking for an answer as he's providing a prelude to the topic of their conversation. And it isn't as if men like him value the opinions of women like her much anyway.
"I want to bring Kirkgate House up to standard," he continues taking a seat in the large leather chair behind his desk. I want our patrons to receive first class service from the moment they arrive at the door until the moment they leave and I'm prepared to make the changes necessary for that standard to be met. But rest assured your position is safe."
"Thank you. I am very appreciative, sir." Elsie breathes a sigh of relief.
"There are some changes to your position however that I hope you will be able to accommodate."
"Accommodate?" Elsie has a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach; the kind you get after a moment of relief only to have the proverbial "other shoe" drop.
Carlisle leans across the desk, fingers steepled together, peering at Elsie as she stands before him. "I will need a Head of Housekeepking that oversees the completion of the daily and weekly rotas and the scheduling of the maids much as Mrs. Thomas did. Housekeeping will be a more professional operation from this point forward and I want you to assume the Head Housekeeper position. It will, of course, mean a significant increase in wages."
"I surely can't argue with that," Elsie laughs nervously.
"Commensurate with the additional responsibilities of the position, of course," Carlisle adds. "It will mean longer working hours. I should suspect an hour so two before breakfast service to just after supper service. Sundays off unless there is a special event. Will this pose a problem?"
"No sir. No problem. Thank you." Elsie hears the words roll off her tongue before she has time to consider the implications of the proposal that Carlisle has put before her. Elsie knows by reputation that while a hard task master, Carlisle pays well and when she is ready she'll have a good reference to present to a new employer. But how will this new situation affect Jane? Or Becky?
"I know that you have a sister for whom you provide care ..."
Though it niggles at her that he knows about Becky, the offer seems generous and while it means longer hours, he isn't requiring her to live in residence and Elsie is hopeful that she can afford someone to help look after Becky and perhaps she'll no longer need to take in others washing and mending to make ends meet.
" … Yes sir, I do. But I will assure you that I will make accommodations."
Carlisle pushes back from his desk, stands, rounds the corner of it, and extends his hand. Elsie takes his offered hand and they shake to seal the deal, but before letting go, Richard Carlisle takes his free hand and caresses the top of her hand. The colour drains from Elsie's face, gone is the pinked flush from the high cheekbones, replaced by the sickly paleness of shock. Quickly, she releases his hand and excuses herself.
Once in the safety of the outside corridor, Elsie sags against the wall and brings a hand to her mouth, stifling a cry as tears fill her eyes. If only Charles were here to wrap his arms around her and dry her tears she thinks. If only.
TBC...
A/N: If cannot make excuses for why this chapter is so late in coming except to point you to my Tumblr page by way of explanation. If you are still following, I appreciate it. I think that life circumstances have now calmed and that I will be able to pick back up with this one. Thank you for taking time out of your day to read it. xo