In Response to the Guest Reviewers: To the guest who spoke of Charles being bias, hehe, so true. And, yes, we can overlook it because it's so darn adorable. Moreover, all of the yeses to the giant red heart in sparkling lights in the church! And, finally, in regards to the script, you've got it! :)

Author's Note: Before anything else, thank you all for your support. I did not ever expect to receive as many reviews, favorites, follows –– any of it –– for this story. To have such encouragement means more than I can possibly say.

Now, for today's piece: this will comprise of less deviations and more complements to the script/scenes. My hope is to do justice –– not only to the scenes themselves but to this incredibly serious topic.

Also, this is the longest chapter to-date. Feel free to take it one step at a time.

Warning: We're getting into cancer-scare land here, which brings out a heck of a lot of emotions and angst.

Spoilers for Series 3, Episode 2.

She had no desire to do this, none whatsoever. But she couldn't bring herself to ignore it, not when nothing was confirmed. And now was as good a time as any.

"Oh, a bad workman always blames his tools." Mrs. Patmore's words should have been pointedly spoken, Elsie knew they had come out as such. The noise disobeyed, wobbling into her instead, heels clacking frantically alongside keys as she recognised the truth: now was not the time.

She gestured aimlessly in the direction of the oven, feeling a tightness overtake her, wanting to beat a hasty retreat, "You're busy."

"No, I'm not." The housekeeper took stock of the cook's worried glance and ignored the relief that slammed into her. Mrs. Patmore may not be a close friend, but the redhead could see something was wrong. "Well, we're eating in half an hour, but it's all done."

"Well, if you could spare a minute," Whether Mrs. Patmore could or not, she herself would be scampering into her sitting room.

Anxiety smothered the clacking and clicking of her heels, a jarring cadence riddling the air. It didn't feel as though it was indeed she who took these steps, but then she was back in her room and so it had to have been her all along.

My, my. Things hadn't felt this disturbing earlier. But then again, help hadn't been looming in the distance earlier. She hadn't been on the verge of letting some poor soul into this and–– and she was in no mood for these histrionics!

"Right then. What's wrong?" Something threatened to bubble within her, stealing her breath away for a good long moment. "Mrs. Hughes?"

"I––" But what to say? They weren't perfect strangers, but they weren't good friends. And either way, this was quite an unusual affair.

Unusual. She wanted to darkly chuckle at the description. As it was, she couldn't even scoff. She was far more liable to be sick, her mind continuing to rattle off in circles, What a quaint term to describe this.

"Elsie?"

No one had called her that in some time. Had Joe Burns really been the last one? More to the point, did any of that really matter? The woman knew that to bring up Joe Burns now was to only stall the matter. No, the only thing left to do was to speak up and get it over with: "I need your help."

"My help? Why?"

"It's a delicate situation." When had she swapped roles with the butler? After all, he was the one who tended to hem and haw away –– stop stalling, Elsie.

"What do you mean, 'a delicate situation'?" Mrs. Patmore was giving her a funny look, studying her for a long minute. But she couldn't bring herself to respond, watching beady eyes beginning to bulge, a horrified gape emerging, "You're not dying, are you?"

You're not dying, are you? How matter of fact. Straight to the point, much like the woman herself. If only Elsie had a real answer. She may very well be dying. And there was absolutely nothing she could do if this proved to be true.

"–– Mr. Carson."

"What?"

"If something's wrong," The cook looked as though she were repeating herself, but Elsie hadn't heard anything of this before, not in the last minute. "And, by 'eck it looks that way,"

"Thank you for that assessment, Mrs. Patmore." The quip lacked its natural curtness. But even if it had retained even a tenth of her typical attitude, Beryl Patmore wasn't about to let such a thing stop her.

"Then we need to go to Mr. Carson straightaway. Because, believe me, if something's wrong it won't get any better if we ignore it. I should know. Some days it feels as though that surgery of mine was only a few days ago, but believe you me,"

"We don't know if anything's wrong!" Elsie sharply protested. Besides, whatever proved to be the case with her health, the butler's involvement was the last thing she wanted.

'We don't?"

"No. We don't." Her body tightened, the woman doing her best to keep everything together. "And even if we did, Mr. Carson is the last person who ought to know."

"All right," The cook didn't look like she wanted to keep this from Mr. Carson. But she did have the air of someone who was beginning to step back and respect Elsie's wishes. And that made a difference. "So, how do we find out?"

"That," I'm afraid, "Is where you come in."

"And just how do I 'come in'?"

Elsie did not bite her lip. She did not wring her hands. She plainly explained the situation and the necessary procedure, her mind shutting up as her mouth began to move. She silently watched the cook nod along, detachedly noticing the woman straighten up as the truth finally came into focus.

Soon enough, buttons had to become undone. A shudder came over her, the urge to avoid it rolling back into sight, but she remained determined to get this over with.

"––a lump all right." When had they gotten to this point? Elsie's hands remained closely drawn to her breast, a dazed horror sneaking out through her sigh. "There's no point in dithering about that."

The buttons were fumbling in her grasp. Of course, Else knew it was the other way 'round: her fingers were trembling, unable to manage the wretched things. But the buttons felt as though they were the ones that fumbled about, as though they couldn't quite grasp her.

"What are you going to do about it?"

Were they still fumbling? She couldn't tell. All she could hear was that bloody word echoing through her. That, and the simple fact that, "I don't know."

"Well, I do. Tomorrow, you'll make an appointment with the doctor, and we'll see what he's got to say."

"But what if it's––"

"Stop!" She did, her worry sent to the side along with her hands. "If it is –– and I'm not saying it is –– it's best to know now."

Right. That was why she'd done this all in the first place, wasn't it? Even if she was regretting all of it, even if she didn't believe any of this would help, that's why they were here, wasn't it?

"I suppose so."

"Now, look." The budding reassurance fell flat, despite Mrs. Patmore's best intentions. Her gesture, her words, none of it really reached the housekeeper. "You'll not be alone for a minute if you don't want to be. But we have to get it seen to."

"And then there's expense." How could she take care of Becky with all of this? How could she take care of herself for that matter?

"If you must pay money, better to a doctor than an undertaker."

Oh, yes, that's cheered me up to no end. Disbelief swiveled on over to the tactless remark, a morbid sense of humour breaking through the emerging sobs, "If that's an example of your bedside manner, Mrs. Patmore, I think I'd sooner face it alone."

"No, you don't." The woman honestly replied, reaching out another hand as the little composure Elsie had left threatened to leave. "And I don't want you to, neither."

_._

"You have no other symptoms?"

Somehow, in this room, Elsie was able to pull herself together. She could speak of the matter far more neutrally. She hadn't the time nor the inclination to do anything else. "Not that I'm aware of."

"You're not feeling ill or tired?"

The woman didn't bother to hold back her scoff, though she knew better than to retort her opinion. Rather, she forced out a polite enough response instead, "I can't swear to not feeling tired, but nothing out of the ordinary."

"Very well." Yes, it was much easier to focus on Doctor Clarkson and concentrate on the matter at hand. Far easier than fretting away in her sitting room and wondering what on earth she was to do. "Well, I'm just going to conduct a preliminary examination."

A disquiet surged through her at the thought of a preliminary examination. The woman lowered her gaze for a moment, ignoring the nausea that threatened to rise once more. Talking of the matter was perfectly fine, but what if this examination proved to be all the proof they needed?

"Do you mind if I stay?"

Elsie turned toward Mrs. Patmore, shocked by how consoling that offer was. She wouldn't dare admit it, but there was something to be said for someone else being in the room.

"I should prefer it."

Don't I get a say in the matter? But it little mattered. Truth be told, it wasn't just the fact that there was someone else in the room. The cook's presence in particular was a small comfort. It did not make this any easier, but it somehow altered the atmosphere. And if there was one thing she didn't care for, it was an atmo––

"If I may, Mrs. Hughes?"

Well, there was no point in refusing the examination, not when they were already here. But she couldn't bring herself to observe, needing to do her best not to tremble or give way to those histrionics from before.

The examination passed by before she knew it, her actions far more mechanical this time. Buttons were still refusing to cooperate, but she managed much better, giving none of her worries away.

"––there are several stages to go through before there's any cause for despair." Why was it so difficult to hear people as they spoke? Suppose that was only a symptom of what might be?

She couldn't think like that. She needed to concentrate on learning more. "What stages?"

"When you come back in a day or two I will remove some fluid from the cyst. With any luck, it'll be clear and that will be that." But they weren't liable to have luck, were they? She had to keep going, whether luck followed her or not.

"How will you do it?" That hardly made a difference now did it?

"With a syringe."

"Will it hurt?" And that question mattered even less!

Elsie turned back to her companion, not exactly frustrated with the woman but certainly not in the mood for this attitude. "Since he has to do it, whether it hurts or not I don't see the point of that question."

"What I want to know," She continued, a familiar weight coming back to her, one that she'd only felt during the war. But this time it came with something far heavier than mere exhaustion. "What happens if the fluid is not clear?"

"It will be sent away for analysis."

"Because it may be," Her voice would not crack. And she would not hide away from this, much as she may have wanted to. "Cancer."

"It may be cancer," Elsie's eyes never left him, clinging to the possibilities in his tone, both good and bad. "But I am fairly certain it is not."

But you're not entirely certain. And that was what made a difference in cases such as these.

"There you are. It's very, very unlikely." Mrs. Patmore, kindly shut up. She knew the woman meant well, but the patronisation was not appreciated. "Isn't it, Doctor?"

"If the doctor treats me like an adult, Mrs. Patmore, why do you insist on treating me like a child?"

The cook shifted back and forth between the two individuals, flustered from being put on the spot. In typical Patmore fashion, being flustered meant she was seconds from changing the subject, "Should we say something to the others? It'll be hard for her to come back here so soon, not without good reason. And you can only run so many errands in a week, when you think about it."

"'She' can manage it well enough, thank you." The housekeeper sharply interrupted, hoping that would put an end to that conversation.

That stopped Mrs. Patmore. It did nothing to stop Doctor Clarkson.

"Well, I don't think there's a need to involve anyone else, not yet. But," Elsie fixed a cordial smile upon her face, eyeing the doctor warily. "I do recommend that you consider mentioning something, to be on the safe side of things."

"Of course." Not bloody likely. She would not be involving another soul, not now. But if agreeing to consider his request was necessary, so be it.

_._

Martha Levinson would be the death of him, he simply knew it. With Mrs. Levinson's arrival, everything near and dear to his heart seemed to be chucked aside. Standards were belittled, the importance of style and presentation dismissed, every single detail was disdainfully scorched to pieces by that patronising American.

With such an attitude entrenching the upstairs, he needed all the support he could get from his colleagues. But that wasn't happening, not by a long shot.

Current case in point? The glasses.

"Mrs. Hughes," How could the housekeeper not ensure the glasses for the pudding wine had been laid out? It was a ghastly oversight on her part to say the least! "There don't seem to be any glasses laid out for the pudding wine."

"Oh, are they having one tonight?" Dear Lord, what was the point of it all? What was the point of going to such lengths, of orchestrating every single detail necessary for success, if even she paid no heed to his efforts?

"It's on the menus." Charles emphatically informed her, severely unimpressed with the woman. "I don't write them for my own amusement!"

"No," And why was she lollygagging as such? Her words were slower, her eyes a little foggy, her movements far too sluggish for his standards. Was Mrs. Levinson's frustrating manner the cause of this, too? "I dare say not."

No, this attitude was probably not thanks to Mrs. Levinson. So, where were her thoughts then, back in Scotland? Away with the faeries as she was wont to say? Well, it simply wouldn't do! Not one bit. "Mrs. Hughes, I am trying, and so far failing, to persuade his lordship to bring the staff levels back up to snuff. But until he does, it is vital that you pull your weight!"

Charles gave up on the matter, huffing away his disbelief as he stormed off back toward his duties. If she were caught in some sort of ridiculous spell, one that further derailed tonight's proceedings, on her own head be it. He would not set aside his orchestrations in order to pander to whatever nonsense her sentiments were partaking in.

Truly, he could not partake in anything but maintaining the highest of standards. No one was spared from his exacting demands, demands that only frothed away at each and every sardonic critique made.

And speaking of critiques, did he have notes for the housekeeper and the cook! Only a little while later after the pudding wine incident, he spotted the two in the most incorrigible of positions. Standing stock still in Mrs. Hughes's sitting room, no doubt gossiping over something entirely trivial when his world was falling to pieces!

"I wish you could get those maids under control!" Or are you too busy gossiping the night away? "They've broken one of the serving dishes this time, and we've the dinner next week."

His glare only hardened as he watched some form of emotion come to life. It looked as though the supposed Scottish Dragon was unearthing, though he could only deem such an attitude to be childish tonight!

"We're short of a footman, we're short of a kitchen maid and one house maid, at least. That's if Anna is to be a proper lady's maid, which is what Lady Mary wants."

Was she truly daring to critique the natural standards of an estate like Downton? Did she really mean to join in on the belittlement to such an extent? "Well, naturally. She likes things done properly."

"For heaven's sake," He bristled at the accusations reeking from her tone, the impertinent stride she took! "We can't do things properly until either his Lordship allows us the staff we need or until you and the blessed Lady Mary come down from that cloud and join the human race!"

How dare–– "I can only suppose that you are overtired." For he was not in the mood for anything else. "I bid you good night."

"You see, she's––"

"Good night, Mr. Carson." He fixed his stare on Mrs. Hughes, unable to believe that she would let simple tiredness stand in her way. "We will discuss the dinner in the morning."

That suited him just fine. Frankly, he couldn't pretend to comprehend the woman, not today. But he had more important matters to attend to. Such as relieving Alfred from his duty with Mr. Crawley and ensuring the rest of the evening went as smoothly as it could.

That's when the night began to improve, letting up at last. And once that happened, he found himself relenting just a tad.

It was only then that a trace of memory prickled away at him. Something Mrs. Patmore had tried to say during their last conversation, something that felt distinctly odd.

But whatever it was, it hadn't stuck.

Therefore, it couldn't be that important, now could it?

_._

This visit to the hospital was harder. It wasn't impossible, she wouldn't allow it to be. But it was harder.

"I'm sorry to keep you waiting, ladies." He wasn't getting to the point. He was stalling. It was a tactic she recognised at once, and one that didn't speak well of the situation. "The fact is, it's not quite as simple."

"Oh, my God."

"Mrs. Patmore," Elsie did not have the capacity to comfort the woman. "Will you please leave the hysteria to me?"

Quickly drawing in another breath, struggling to steady herself but determined to continue, Elsie turned back to the doctor and focused. Whatever he had to say, at least they would have an answer.

"I'm afraid the test was inconclusive." So much for an answer. "I had hoped that the fluid from the cyst would be clear, but there are traces of blood in it." Of course there are. Why wasn't she surprised? "Not enough to confirm the presence of cancer, but a little too much to exclude it."

Her eyes centered on his desk more so than the man himself. She wouldn't dare meet the frazzled gaze of Mrs. Patmore and she certainly had no intention of witnessing the doctor's pity any longer than she had to.

Unfortunately, she did have to look at him for this next bit, "So, what happens now?"

"I send it away for analysis." Right. He had mentioned that the last time. Had she really been so stupid as to have forgotten that? "And this stage will take some time."

"How much time?"

"Anything up to two months."

"Oh, my––"

Desperation flicked through Elsie's eyes, her stare silencing her friend. She couldn't speak, she couldn't think, but she would certainly keep the hysteria as far away as possible.

"Until then, please try to take it a little more easily. Sit down and put your feet up, if you can."

"Oh, chance'd be a fine thing."

Elsie would not roll her eyes at the cook's barbed comment. She would get to her feet, ensure there was nothing left to learn, bid the doctor a good day, and get on with it.

"Would you like me to say something to Lady Grantham?"

Not in the slightest. "No, thank you, Doctor. I'll speak to her myself, if I need to."

And since that would never be happening, all that was left now was to say her thanks.

As for what she was thankful for, heaven only knows.

_._

This had been, without a doubt, the worst night of his career. The oven breaking down, the picnic in the house –– atrocious. Everyone gathered round, crooning out "Let Me Call You Sweetheart" as though they were all on the stage –– unspeakable! Absolutely, without a doubt, unspeakable.

What he had witnessed tonight was most certainly not a party. Yet despite his best intentions to soldier on, his colleagues were failing him. Spills commenced left and right, more than one dish had been dropped, the whole lot. It was all a severe disappointment, to say the least.

But no one disappointed him as much as she. Every single time he caught sight of Mrs. Hughes, she was bowled over by that ridiculous spell from before. Tiredness was simply no excuse, not when their world was crashing down all around them!

Fortunately, she agreed with his remarks, unlike Mrs. Patmore. The cook should know better than to excuse such behaviour, but at least the housekeeper redeemed herself by acknowledging the accuracy of his statement. If only she could do more than that, if only she had proven capable of handling tonight's ordeal!

_._

"Oh, I wish you'd let me talk to Mr. Carson."

No. If she had it her way, Mr. Carson would never learn a thing about this. And if Mrs. Patmore let anything slipped, he would learn far more than Elsie ever wanted.

"I don't want to be a sick woman in his eyes for the next two months. Or a dying one in the months to come after that." She'd been able to mostly deny it until now. But panic was whirling her away from the cook, a hand lifting to cover any and all signs of distress. She would not, could not, lose control down here.

Beryl did her best to discreetly reach out, joining her in the doorway and muffling the stricken sobs with her words, "I know it'll be all right."

"No, you don't." None of us know a thing. Despite that reality pressing into her ever so harshly, she took the cook's hand and did her best to muster on, "But I appreciate the sentiment."

Footsteps could be heard from upstairs, separating the two friends all at once.

"Mrs. Hughes, really, if you insist on lollygagging in the halls, I must insist you go to bed."

"Mr. Carson," Two glares were flung in the direction of the cook, the combined intensity shushing the woman at once.

"I'm quite all right, Mr. Carson. What is it you need?" Because she hadn't been joking before. She would maintain an image of competency and capability right up until her last breath if she had to.

She hoped it wouldn't come to that, but she would manage it all the same.

_._

For the time ever, Charles Carson was grateful for the end of the show. The quiet that came after dinner was abnormally refreshing, a blessed respite.

The chaos of Gomorrah, indeed, he grumbled to himself, the steps leading downstairs coming into sight. Hopefully they wouldn't see any other nights like this. Better still, Mrs. Levinson might clear out any day now. He could only pray for such a thing, yearning for a return to life without the American around.

Truly, the silence here and now was tranquility at its finest. The nightmare had ended at last. And with it all so blissfully quiet, Charles Carson found himself coming to an unexpected pause.

An image of the housekeeper from today flickered to mind, but this time he saw things he hadn't recognised. Haggard eyes he claimed to be foggy. A taut expression that didn't bother to bat his tirades away. A terribly subdued air he had once deemed as lollygagging. The finer details were revealing themselves in this recollection, and tranquility was beginning to vanish.

She hadn't been under some trivial spell of tiredness, had she? No, it was something else. The more he thought about this, the more it looked as though she were hiding something from him.

Knowing Mrs. Hughes as well as he did, that did not reassure him. Plainly put, the woman didn't hide things and certainly not from him. But how else could he explain her responses tonight? Her tired agreement, the way she deflected him and gave nothing away –– it pointed to dismaying possibilities.

Worse still, he didn't know why she was doing this.

And it was that lack of understanding that distressed him the most.

Over the course of their time together, he had only seen the woman like this on a handful of occasions. Most had been handled in due course, but there was one that stuck out. When the Spanish Flu had plagued the house and she insisted she was perfectly all right despite her continuing to fall ill.

Charles didn't like the thought of those days. Those were the times when he had been so distracted by his recovery he never noticed her own suffering. He had been oblivious to her needs, and such unawareness had almost cost him everything.

Strangely enough, a bell was beginning to ring at that recollection. One that rang out a hint about today's events.

She wasn't ill, was she?

Well, surely she would know better than to keep any illness a secret this time round? Surely she would be able to trust him with such information?

Then again, it could prove wise to check in the housekeeper and get an answer for himself.

Charles nodded at this idea, quietly making his way over to her room. He didn't know what he ought to expect, really. Would she be chattering away with Mrs. Patmore, proving all of his fears wrong? Asleep at her desk, all thanks to exhaustion? Bored to tears over some last-minute glances at the accounts, having recovered?

It turned out to be none of those things.

It was worse.

The sight of her reaching out toward the fireplace, leaning against it as though she carried much more than keys, was not a sight that brought him comfort. And that worn down sigh of hers was even more distressing. That she remained unaware of him, her body slumped in the direction of the flames, did not help matters.

"Everything all right?" Something was wrong. She wouldn't be this taken aback by his arrival, not if she were only exhausted. And she could try to school her features as she wanted, but he'd long since begun to recall the other images from before, images that spoke of something distinctly off-putting. He knew something strange was afoot here and she wouldn't be able to convince him otherwise.

"Certainly." Charles didn't believe her. He couldn't believe her. "Was there something you wanted?"

Whatever was wrong, she wasn't opening up. And since he hadn't a clue as to how to broach the subject, he opted to help her in his own way. Perhaps a well-deserved compliment was the best thing for now.

"The kitchen managed well tonight in difficult circumstances." She remained indifferent to this praise, worryingly so. "His Lordship sent his thanks."

"Was the evening a success?"

Not in his book. But if he were to judge solely based on the reaction of the crowd, "The odd thing is, I think it was. Though for me, everyone sprawled on the floor, eating like beaters at a break in the shooting, that's not a party. It's a works outing!"

Truly, he didn't like to think of this as the future, not in the least. It bothered him so much he'd forgotten why he'd stepped in here in the first place, "Where's the style, Mrs. Hughes? Where's the show?"

"Perhaps people are tired of style and show."

"Well, in my opinion, to misquote Doctor Johnson," The man straightened up, relishing in the dramatic flair he could express in such conversations, "'If you're tired of style, you are tired of life.'"

Hers was a soft chuckle, fainter than normal. One that lacked the life that tended to imbue her laughs, one that broke his concentration. It had him wonder about those moments from before. The seconds she couldn't hide from him, the ones where exhaustion had overtaken her entirely. Just what was it she was hiding?

"Good night, Mr. Carson." The man didn't have to see her to know how drained she was. He didn't have to look in her direction to know her spirit was sinking.

Right. He couldn't leave this alone. Not without one real question.

Charles pivoted back toward her slowly, deliberately. He didn't speak for some time, taking in every detail he could. Mrs. Hughes was doing her best to maintain a solid front, to pretend all was perfectly fine, but he could see that his turning around had genuinely surprised her.

And that in itself is what pushed him to finally speak.

"You'd say if anything was wrong, wouldn't you?" But her head was edging away from him, her eyes lowering for a split second. Both of which he knew were entirely unintentional and both of which helped to unravel a rather discomforting answer.

Charles earnestly continued, praying these feeble words of his would make some sort of a difference in this conversation. He suspected they wouldn't, but he had to try. "I know I've been a bit crabby,"

Crabby was putting it kindly. Even he knew that. Yet if nothing else, there was one other fact that he could share, one other thing he could point to. Something he thought apparent, but now knew had become lost in translation over the years.

"But," Please believe me when I say, "I am on your side."

She blinked. Something pushed to the surface of her countenance. He held his breath, continuing to watch, trying to spot it, wanting to put a name to it.

"Thank you for that." It had vanished. Whatever she'd thought of his words, whatever she was thinking, he couldn't catch it in time. He only saw that smile of hers. The one she undoubtedly thought was reassuring, but the one that proved to be anything but.

Charles managed to hide his grief well enough –– when had he lost her trust? Did he ever really have it in the first place? –– but he couldn't keep from frowning as he took to the stairs. She hadn't given him an official response. She had merely dodged the question by strewing gratitude in its path.

And, deprecation floated forth, bitterly accompanying his journey up the stairs, whose fault is that?

_._

Unbeknownst to Charles Carson, Elsie Hughes did not find fault in anyone tonight. Nor did she find self-pity. She found an empty acceptance and a weary concession, it was true. But not pity. And certainly not fault or blame.

"You've just missed an admirer." Her smile may have whittled down over the week, but she still held it. And praise from the butler was worth acknowledging, for the cook's sake if nothing else. "Mr. Carson says you did well tonight."

"Did you tell him?" Leave it to Beryl to get to the point.

You already know my answer. "No."

She knew the man meant well, but she didn't need his opinion of her to lessen. Nor did she care to give him this burden. He may be her dearest friend but, if anything, that only made it harder to share all this. She did not want to lose their friendship to pity, and that was something he would have in spades, she was sure of it.

Besides, the more Elsie thought of it, the plainer the truth became: "And what is there to tell?"

They were beginning to make their way out of here. And for the first time since the day she'd discovered that lump, her clicks and clacks were fairly even. Not steady, but something close. She couldn't take real comfort in that, but she could quietly observe it, let it mean something nice.

Even if it all felt insignificant.

"One day, I will die." That was a fact of life. An unfortunate one, but a fact, nevertheless. "And so will he and you and every one of us under this roof."

Elsie felt a sigh build within her, wisps of it escaping as they reached the end of the hallway. This wasn't the way she wanted things to end. But if this was how it had to end, then she would not bemoan the situation. She would take it on the chin, do her best to find purpose in the months to come instead of crawling into an early grave.

"You must put these things in proportion, Mrs. Patmore," Heaven only knows how much she's had to do that of late. "And I think I can do that now."

If anything, her conversation with Mr. Carson solidified those proportions. She may be tired of style and show, but she was reminded that others found something in it. And seeing as how this job of theirs might be her last chance to make a difference in some small way, she would be carrying on to the best of her ability.

Author's Note: Anyone else want a tissue?

The next update should be coming out in 2-3 days, if not sooner. If it's any comfort, I have half a mind to put together a separate little fix-it piece. One wherein a certain butler properly deviates from the script and gets his act together much sooner (because I can only do so much angst).

Either way, whether that happens or not, you can bet your bottom dollar this next update will end on a significantly kinder note! In any case, I sincerely hope you have a lovely rest of your day. 'Till next time!