In Response To Guest Reviewers: To the guest who spoke of the fishbowl, I never really thought of it like that before but you've made a solid point there. And, yes, having gone through something similar myself, I agree: it would be hard to share anything with Mrs. Patmore and especially Charles.

Also, I'm delighted you pointed out the role reversal! And, his admission definitely makes a difference. Finally, may I just say: reading the "The Professional and Always Correct Butler" part cracked me up!

Author's Note: Because the last one was a little rough, I made sure to include humor in today's update! And there are only speckles of angst this time. Like I said before: I can only do so much angst.

In any case, since the housekeeper's perspective dominated a fair amount of the last chapter, I'd say it's time for the butler to have a say, wouldn't you?

Spoilers for Series 3, Episode 3

Charles Carson remained bothered by that dismaying night –– the one where she gently dodged his question and pretended to be all right –– for the weeks to come. He knew better than to pry, he hoped he would never have to pry, but he remained unequivocally bothered.

She never came forth, never entrusted him with the facts. And though there were no more official hints that anything was wrong, he knew nothing had changed. She remained as tired as ever, and nothing he did could stop that.

"Anna?" Charles Carson looked up from his desk, curious. Here he was, wondering for the millionth time what was wrong, and there she was, just out of sight. "Are the flowers done?"

"Yes, I'll check them on Saturday morning and lose anything that's going over. I've kept back a few in bud. I'll be home for the dressing gong"

The man listened to the sound of metal echoing footsteps, listening carefully. He could tell a lot by the cadence of her keys. Fierce jangles meant she was on the warpath. A slow tempo pointed to an unending day.

If only those keys could tell him what bothered her, what problem was reducing his friend to undulated weariness and stress. Then he'd really be onto something.

"Oh, we'll manage." Maybe there was no point in trying to figure it all out. Maybe stepping on over to the door, leaving his desk behind to try and intercept the woman was a pointless endeavour.

Well, he had to try, either way.

Charles took a ledger with him as he walked closer to the doorway, wanting an excuse should she prove busy. He couldn't hear any keys at all, which implied the woman had come to a halt. Now could be as good a time as any to check in on her, see if there was something that would actually help.

Of course, was there a point in doing anything if she didn't trust him? His support probably meant very little these days. And why should it mean anything at all? When it had been so easy to ignore the warning signs? Why should she bother to confide in him if he was always putting his work before their friendship?

"Still no word from the doctor?" Well, that was just perfect. Mrs. Patmore just had to interrupt his thoughts, forcing him to step back into his pantry and busy himself with his ledger, didn't she?

"I'd have told you if there was." The cook couldn't have distracted the housekeeper at a later point, could she-– doctor? 'No word from the doctor'?

Charles kept very still, knowing this was as good a chance as he was going to get to find out more. It was improper and entirely indecorous to eavesdrop as such. But as he had informed Mrs. Hughes on more than one occasion, he was no gentleman.

"By heck, they don't mind stringing it out." And neither do you. If only the cook would specify what 'it' was, then he could really do something. Though should he ought to, considering the housekeeper would be the first to tell him it's none of his business? "Shall we go and see him?"

'Go and see him'? Was it that serious?

Charles nearly scoffed at his question. What an idiotic inquiry –– of course it was serious! Mrs. Hughes has been 'tired' for more than a month. Whatever was wrong with her, it mercilessly persisted.

"Why?" Elsie, don't do that. Don't dismiss that option. Of course you should go and see him. "I'm sure if he knew anything, he would have said."

Hold on a moment, what did I just say? He hadn't been paying close attention to his thoughts, but something had sounded different in his mind.

Well, whatever he'd said, there was no time to think about it. The two women were heading toward his pantry. And if they spotted him now he'd give everything away.

Though what did he know? What was he sure of?

The truth was, nothing.

There was nothing he was sure of, not in this regard.

Charles quietly snuck back to his desk, pretending to have been sitting there the entire time. Only when the two women passed, entirely oblivious to him, did he allow himself to think. Something was wrong, that much was true. Something that involved her health and something only the cook knew of.

But whatever it was hadn't been officially confirmed. Else, Mrs. Patmore would have taken an entirely different tone. She wouldn't have had to ask about the doctor or suggest they go and––

Doctor Clarkson. He would have the answers to whatever was going on. Even if he couldn't confirm any results, Charles knew the man would have an answer. A hint, if nothing else.

All right. He would make an excuse to run an errand, one that would just so happen to take him near the hospital.

But won't Mrs. Hughes be displeased? She was a proud woman, make no mistake. Very proud indeed, and very liable to bite his head for interfering in her affairs. But if this was something serious –– and he had no doubt it was –– then he would rather her be upset with him than her be ill.

Or, Charles grimly thought to himself, worse.

But he couldn't bring himself to think like that. He had to get back to his work and figure out what was wrong. Because he really would take her being alive and profusely upset with him over anything else.

_._

If Charles thought eavesdropping on Mrs. Hughes and Mrs. Patmore was bad, he was in for shock. Faking an errand, pretending to be busy when he got into town, fending off gossips whilst he waited for Doctor Clarkson to emerge –– it was all an incorrigible business.

"And how are you today, Mr. Carson?" Speaking of gossips, it was time to dodge Mrs. Gaunt. "I must say, you've gotten much better at answering your telephone."

"I am well, Mrs. Gaunt," He didn't bother to dignify that last part with a response, inwardly scowling. How many years ago had he been practising his call? Was she really so catched up in her work she still begrudged him that incident? "And how are you?"

"Well, if you must know," Mrs. Gaunt began to speak with a rather haughty tone. Honestly, he couldn't why some people took themselves so seriously. And considering her job was to only manage telephone lines, he really didn't–– oh, there was Doctor Clarkson now!

"Oh, I am sorry, Mrs. Gaunt, but I'm afraid I must speak with Doctor Clarkson," He hastily bade her a good day, actively ignoring her outrage over his unexpected departure.

"Well, I never,"

Charles didn't care what she thought of his exit. He had far more important matters to attend to, such as picking up the pace and reaching the man in question, "Oh, Doctor Clarkson?"

He was turning around, thank the Lord. It meant he wasn't too busy to speak. Charles quickly tossed out any thoughts of Mrs. Gaunt to the side, hastening over and mentally preparing himself for this next bit, "Do you have a minute?"

He'd caught the doctor by surprise, that was good. He didn't like to use underhanded tactics, but he would use any tactic he could to get to the truth. "One minute, yes. Do you mind if we,"

Charles could agree to walking and talking, that was no problem at all. In fact, he found that it made the man more likely to speak plainly. When people were in motion, they were distracted. And distractions could lead to the truth coming out much faster than it might otherwise.

"Only I know that Mrs. Hughes is suffering from a condition," Confidence was the key to this. Confidence and acting as though he was simply confirming additional information. He wouldn't find out anything otherwise. "And I wondered if there was anything I could do to help her."

"You can help by lessening her duties." He had been trying to discreetly do just that. Taking on a task normally designated to her, doing little things here and there to make her day just a bit easier. What else was there to do? "That's really all I can say."

"But you can't tell me how serious it is?" It was a gamble to speak as such. It could indicate to the doctor that he had no real idea as to what was wrong. But he was willing to risk it if it provided him with more information.

"I'm afraid not." Charles maintained his stare, keeping an eye out for any clues. "Even if I knew, which I don't."

The doctor's words were professional but not grave, a good sign. Yet his lack of knowledge was concerning. Surely if things were all right, he would have at least given some sort of hint. And for things to remain up in the air for over a month did not speak well of the situation. "Good day to you, Mr. Carson."

Charles eyed the doctor's retreat with a great deal of solemnity. The meeting had not reassured him. It had only confirmed his suspicions that this wasn't just exhaustion or the flu. This was something much worse. There was really only one thing he could think of that would take this long to confirm. And that was not reassuring, not in the least.

But considering Mrs. Hughes was not liable to mention a thing –– undoubtedly content to bat any and all concerns away –– that meant he only had one option left to him. It wasn't an option he wanted to take, but if he wanted to know the truth he would have to go to the source.

Or, rather, the source's apparent confidante and newfound friend.

_._

The door to the housekeeper's sitting room was closed, the woman suitably distracted by the accounts. And with lull in the proceedings upstairs, now was the perfect time to obtain another answer.

In the end, it hadn't been all that difficult to step away from the family. Nor had it been terribly difficult to garner Mrs. Patmore's awareness. Charles simply had to stand just out of the kitchen's reach and let every concern from the last month show, if only for a second.

"Can I do something for you?"

Now it was a matter of bringing back that confident act from before. The one that came with a lighter tone, as though he already had all the answers to every question he needed to ask.

"Well, I'd better get back upstairs, but, erm," Charles leant in a little, content to use every trick the theatre taught him to get the facts. In this moment, that meant acting as though he wasn't entirely in the dark. "While you're here,"

She followed him easily enough, needing no real invitation to walk alongside the butler. Once again, he had no qualms using a walk as a distraction. Not only would it lower her guard, it would take them away from Mrs. Hughes's sitting room, the last place he wanted this conversation to be in earshot of.

"I saw Doctor Clarkson today." Using his peripheral vision, another trick from the trade, Charles took stock of every reaction she had. Mind, she wasn't exactly keeping her countenance under strict control. But he deemed it vital to pay full attention to his audience, needing to see every detail for himself.

"Oh?" Her eyes looked to be particularly terrified, her body tensing. What, did she think something with wrong with him? That he was ill? Yes, well, he wasn't. And the only thing wrong with him was his lack of knowledge when it came to Mrs. Hughes.

But there was no use lecturing himself now. Not when he had the perfect opportunity to find out more and make a real difference. "I'm worry about Mrs. Hughes."

Disbelief smacked into recognition, all of which happened in seconds. And was that relief mixing in with her initial shock? Of course, if he was correct, Mrs. Patmore had wanted Mrs. Hughes to go to him about this. Why else would the cook have sprinkled in so many hints all those weeks ago? Hints he'd been too blind to spot, but hints, nevertheless.

"We're all worried." Excellent. She was more than a little indignant, probably upset that he thought himself the only one worried. With indignance came thoughtlessness. In short, he could be seconds away from hearing the truth at last. "But I don't think he should have told you."

Even better! She thought he knew everything already. That increased his chances tenfold.

"He said it would help if we lessened her workload." He didn't like to think of that idea as bait, but it was. Lessening her workload would indeed prove invaluable, no matter what. But it was an obvious suggestion. It would undoubtedly prompt her into further exasperation, giving away more information.

"I'm sure it would, but she won't be pleased he's been talking about it before it's been confirmed."

Oh dear. As far as he knew, there was only one thing that would take this long to confirm. And if that were indeed the case––

Pull yourself together! Doctor Clarkson had hinted as such earlier. This wasn't a new possibility. More importantly, he couldn't afford to be overtaken by horror. He had to confirm his suspicion once and for all.

"So, it is cancer."

"Not until it's confirmed." He couldn't keep looking at Mrs. Patmore, not now. Not when all the moments of the last month scampered about him. It was exceptionally obvious how incredibly stupid he had been, now that he'd learnt the facts. "Don't say anything. She'd hate to think the doctor had told you."

Mrs. Patmore's words brought him back to the moment at hand. Much as he wanted to keep on berating his stupidity, there was no point in that now. Nor was there a point in lying to the woman.

"He didn't tell me, Mrs. Patmore." Charles did feel some remorse for having to trick the woman into telling him. But he could not regret this, not one bit. "You told me."

He couldn't linger here. He needed time to understand how absolutely stupid he'd been.

Oh, and there was still a show to maintain upstairs, wasn't there?

Yes, well, the family wouldn't need him for a little while longer. And now that he knew the truth, he knew he had to do everything in his power to help. If that meant taking a minute or two to think up a new plan, so be it.

_._

Charles had decided it would be best to continue discreetly sending her work his way. Nothing too obvious, just a task here or there. He already knew what going straight to the woman would result in.

I'm afraid I don't know what you mean, Mr. Carson.

Mr. Carson, why would anything be wrong?

Are you sure you haven't got too much on your plate, Mr. Carson?

Her inevitable response would take the form a cheeky inquiry, a response that would do its best to distract him from the facts. The only other probable response was her putting up a wall between them, something to ensure he really was kept out of the loop.

So, no, he was not going to mention his concern to her. His plan was to remain inconspicuously helpful and–– and why did she look so perturbed, glaring down at that sheet of paper as she walked past?

Charles had his answer in seconds: "There's been a last minute change of mind about the wedding menus."

And why are you in charge of this? "Couldn't Mrs. Patmore do it?"

"Mrs. Patmore has given me her new order list. She's done her job, it's time for me to do mine."

"I just don't want you to get tired." The words leapt out before he could stop them, the man inwardly cursing himself for being so obvious. Perhaps she hadn't caught the worry in his voice? Maybe he lucked out in that regard?

Apparently not. She was frozen to the steps, no doubt horrified he'd found out something. But her stillness had only lasted a second, the woman swiftly pivoting back to him in alarm, "Who have you been speaking to?"

"No one!" Charles was struggling to keep it together, finding all theatre techniques escaping him when it came to her. All he knew was that she couldn't find out about this. "What do you mean?"

"Nothing." Good. She hadn't caught him out in his lie. If she had, she would be interrogating him instead of dismissing the matter. "I don't mean a thing. Now, let me get on."

He could do that. He didn't want to, but he could do that.

Really, the man had to be more careful in the future. In fact, it might be more suitable to change tactics altogether. Perhaps a real difference could be made if he were to go to the one person who had the authority to help.

_._

"Might I have a word, m'lady?" Charles didn't particularly care to plot or scheme. Simply put, he wasn't Thomas or O'Brien. But not only was this the best opportunity to speak with Lady Grantham, it looked to be his only chance before the wedding.

"Yes, of course, what is it?" Years of training held him in check, the butler aware that he needed to keep a professional façade if he wanted to ensure a successful conversation.

"This is a slightly awkward request, what with the wedding tomorrow." Really, it would have been infinitely preferable to have mentioned this much sooner. However, considering he had only just found out himself, needs must.

"Tell me." For once, he was thankful for the American's nature. It allowed him to get straight to the point.

"Mrs. Hughes is very tired." Charles had made sure to practice this well in-advance, wanting to anticipate any and every angle of this conversation. Judging from Lady Grantham's obvious confusion, his previous rehearsals would prove a boon to this moment. "I wonder if it might be possible for you to divert some of her work my way?"

Because he could only divert so much on his own. He really should have gone straight to Lady Grantham the moment he knew something was wrong. But, and perhaps this was his own foolish pride speaking, Charles had wanted to find out the truth before doing anything official.

"I don't understand. What do you mean, 'tired'?" The butler looked away from the aristocrat, reluctant to share much else. He didn't want to hand too much information over if he didn't have to. And considering his Lordship was calling for his wife, perhaps it would be better to leave it at that. "Carson?"

Oh, he never could have left it at that. Nor did he ever really want to. He just wished none of it were true. "The fact is, Mrs. Hughes is ill, m'lady. She may be very ill."

At least she understood the severity.

He could have left it at that. However, habit and decorum dictated that he continue, "I'm extremely sorry to trouble you with this at such a moment, but I don't want the wedding to sink her."

"Of course not." Gratuity came forth at this, threatening to reveal itself in the corners of his countenance. "But, my heavens, how will we manage without O'Brien and now Mrs. Hughes?"

That was not something he had anticipated, "Miss O'Brien?"

"She told Molesley––" "Cora, please!"

He would never think rudely of his Lordship. But he did wish the man could have given them at least ten more seconds to discuss the matter.

"I'm coming!"

The butler closed the door to the motor car with a sense of unease. Now he had to contend with Miss O'Brien leaving? And on top of everything else?

But at least her Ladyship understood Mrs. Hughes's condition. And that meant he'd done his best to make sure the housekeeper wouldn't be done in by tomorrow.

_._

Dinner had been a worrisome affair. Oh, there was the whole O'Brien business, but he couldn't be bothered to care as much as normal. He was far more determined to keep an eye on the housekeeper.

He could tell she'd spoken to Lady Grantham, but he hadn't been able to unearth much more than that. He hadn't wanted to prod her and give anything away, after all. So, he had to piece everything together purely from observation and keep all questions to himself.

By the end of the meal, Charles felt resolved to leave it well alone. He'd done his best to help, even if it didn't feel like much. That being said, he couldn't do much more, not unless the woman confided in him and let him help. Considering how unlikely that was to happen –– rightfully so, when I think what a fool I've been –– he sensed it best to call it a day.

That is, calling it a day had seemed best at the time.

Now, a short while later, it looked to be a mistake.

Once dinner ended and everyone retreated to their spots, he had returned to his pantry to do some sorting and the likes. Only, he found his concentration lacking when it came to his papers. The only thing he could concentrate on was listening to the world outside his pantry.

Keeping an ear out for her, more like.

But he wouldn't admit as such, not for another hour. And after that hour, it took an additional thirty minutes for him to realise how late it was getting. But she had never left her sitting room, he was sure of it.

It looked like he would have to seriously consider checking in on the woman.

Ten minutes later, he had to do much more than consider it. He'd picked up the necessary keys and began to make his nightly rounds –– starting with her room, for once.

The man cautiously approached the door. He had to assume everything was all right, but what if it wasn't? What if something was wrong and he had been entirely oblivious yet again? Would he find her working away or collapsed on the floor? Tidying up her space or slumped over from exhaustion?

His hand knocked on wood long before he could second-guess himself, the door opening at once. As for what awaited him on the other side, well, there was only one way to find out.

Thank God.

It was quite a consolation to see her looking perfectly all right. Perfectly all right, barring the exhaustion written all over her, of course. Still, to see her in her chair, distracted by the task at hand and nothing more, gave him the courage to be unusually candid, "Time you were in bed. It's a big day tomorrow."

As though she didn't know. Still, he was trying his best to nudge her out the door before she had a collapse. He didn't mind sounding ever so obvious –– her words, not his –– if being obvious got the job done.

"I'll just finish this."

"Is it something I can do for you?" Please, just this once. He knew he had no right to ask, but couldn't she share a small piece of her burden?

"No." Right. He had been a fool far too many times. And she was smart enough not to entrust a fool with this.

Turning back to the door, Charles couldn't deny that this stung. It was stupid to feel as such, given he had been the one to dismiss her condition in the beginning. But he had tried to redeem himself, to be there for her as she had been for him. He wanted to help, even if his efforts were probably for naught.

"Did you," The man paused in his movements, hesitant to trust he was hearing now. Because what he was hearing now sounded like trust. Hesitant, tentative trust. "Say anything about me to her Ladyship?"

Somehow, he'd managed to turn back toward her, unsure of how to continue. He wouldn't dismiss her or silence the question, not wanting to anger the woman. But seeing as how revealing his knowledge would only ruin what little trust he had, what could he possibly say?

"I don't know what you mean." The more he thought about her question, the more worried he became. Did her Ladyship say something to upset the housekeeper? Had he bungled the whole thing as per usual? "Why?"

"Don't worry." That didn't help matters. "She was very kind, and I was touched."

That did help. Indeed, the confession only added to the honour that was this conversation. She could have kept whatever transpired to herself but she was choosing to share it with him of all people. And seeing as how she was unaware of his knowledge and his help, that meant the world to him.

"As you know, I don't worship them all like you do."

Could it really be described as worship? When he had plotted a little when it came to approaching her Ladyship? When he had wished for his Lordship to keep from interrupting him? "I wouldn't put it like that,"

"But this time," He shut himself up, wanting to know everything she had to say. Exhaustion was giving way to something serious, something inordinately precious. Something that made the trials of this last month a bit more bearable, something he was rather grateful to see. "I freely admit it,"

Admit what, Elsie?

"I was quite touched." It didn't matter if she looked at him for only a second. Her eyes said everything she couldn't bring herself to mention. This trust she bestowed, this admission freely given, didn't need to come with much else because it came with her. And that was all he ever needed

_._

Right. Last night, all Charles thought he needed in life was her trust. While that did remain true, what he needed today more than anything was to make sure she didn't work herself to death.

Now he had done his best to stay out of his friend's way and let her get on with the last-minute preparations. But worry crept back into his stride, forcing him to approach her sitting room one final time before the wedding, "Now, the moment you feel tired you're to tell me and I'll take over whatever it is you're doing."

Was that a challenge emerging in her eyes? "Oh, will you, now?"

Yes, it was lovely to see that fire spark back to life, not only in her stare but also her tone. To see any sort of fight was encouraging. Nevertheless, he was not about to risk anything happening to her. Even if he had to scoop her up and cart her out of the pews, he would do it. "Are you sure you want to come to the church? You could stay here and have a lie down."

Oh, dear. He knew that glare. And that glance. Not to mention that sigh. Or the fidgeting. And the sudden atmosphere that flung itself into the room.

None of that boded well for him.

"It would be so nice," Oops. Just what had he set off? "If people would wait to learn if I really am ill," How did she ever glean any hint of his knowledge? He thought himself the definition of discreet! "Before boxing me up!"

Charles shared a look with Mrs. Patmore, briefly wondering if carting Mrs. Hughes up the stairs now would be their best bet. However, he didn't bother to suggest it, knowing full well that it would only encourage the fire in front of them. Instead, he opted for a hasty, "I don't know what you mean. I don't know anything about any illness."

Her sigh brought a hint of defeat back into the room, his urge to confess expanding at once. "Don't you?"

But he couldn't do it. He couldn't risk losing the honour he'd only just received.

"I see."

Charles knew a dismissal when he saw one, immensely grateful she didn't find out the truth from him. That was the last thing he wanted, especially now of all days.

"Who told him?" The pair thought themselves inconspicuous, no doubt. As it happened, they weren't.

"I don't know." Thank you, Mrs. Patmore. That was enough for him. He didn't need to know more, and frankly he didn't want to know more. Knowledge in this case meant more lies, and he despised lying to Mrs. Hughes. It felt all sorts of wrong, even if it also seemed absolutely necessary.

Now it was a matter of keeping an eye on her throughout the day without alerting her to his actions. Shouldn't be too hard, considering everything else he'd managed to perform. He would slow down his pace on the way to the church, take on any additional responsibilities necessary, so on and so forth.

After all, the wedding itself should prove to be a cakewalk. Lady Edith was clearly in love with Sir Anthony Strallan, the same holding true for the gentleman. Sure, the family didn't exactly approve, but so long as the engaged couple remained happy, nothing could be said.

_._

Suffice it to say, the wedding had not been a cakewalk.

_._

It should have been another day. It was supposed to be a day of recovery from the wedding, if anything.

But he'd caught a glimpse of a familiar coat in the hall today, a coat he'd walked alongside for many years. And he knew, just from taking one look at the cook, that an atmosphere had kicked up for a second time in as many days.

The door to her sitting room taunted him. It had been shut for awhile, giving no clue as to what was going on inside. Suppose he ought to knock on the door, investigate the matter for himself? Suppose he ought to leave it all well enough? Suppose––

He was beginning to sound just like the very woman he worried about. Not that he didn't mind it, he simply didn't know how to respond to such information. In the end, he chose not to respond to such information. Rather, he gave a single knock against the taunting wood, ignoring the squeak of worn out hinges as the door swung open.

Her smile didn't reach her eyes. It didn't last long, for that matter. Her hands were fidgeting with the scarf and she held an air of worried obstinacy.

Oddly enough, her hands were what gave it away.

So, it's true. She had heard back from the doctor. She was probably going down to see him right now, if Charles read her movements right.

Trepidation flooded his step, caution begging him to keep from assuming. "Going out?"

"Just into the village. I have to fetch something."

"Can I help?" Please, let me help. Just this once. "I'm going down later."

He hadn't planned on going down. But there wasn't much he wouldn't do, not for her.

"No." Right. "Thank you." He couldn't blame her. Not in the least. "This is an errand I have to do for myself."

"Ready?"

"As ready as I'll ever be."

The man kept an eye on her, loathing the flickers of pain she tried so very hard to hide. He wished it were all different, wished none of this were real.

But it was real. And though he couldn't help her, she wasn't alone. She didn't have to go through any of this alone, never had to if he had any say.

He watched the two women trudge up the steps and out the door. He did his best not to imagine what would come next. Silver was supposed the only thing he had his mind on.

All he could think of was that hospital. Her. What today would bring. The time it was taking them. How long it would be 'till they came back? That is, if they even wanted to come back at all. There may be an obligation to return to work, but did such an obligation matter in the face of cancer?

He wouldn't be getting to the silver today. He could putter about all he liked, he could even go as far as to put the appropriate accoutrements on. He still wouldn't be able to concentrate until he heard the news.

The butler had been seconds from going down to the hospital –– wanting to interrogate the doctor, if nothing else –– when it happened.

The door leading outside quietly opened. They were back. Carefully lowered the silver at once, trained ears caught the footfalls of only one person. She was outside, then. What that implied, he couldn't possibly tell.

"Well?" He'd scurried on over to the cook in seconds, needing to know everything. Good or bad, she wouldn't be keeping this news from him. "Is it or isn't it?"

Why on earth did Mrs. Patmore look so terribly oblivious to his meaning? Why was she daring to delay the news, doing nothing for his nerves in the process?

"It's not cancer, no." He needed to hear the whole story. There had to be more to it. He refused to believe that was all there was to it. "It's a benign something-or-other, nothing more."

Charles could breathe again. He could finally begin to properly breathe for the first time in over a month.

And with that literal fresh breath of air, he could also realise one tiny little detail: she was bound to be coming in any second now. More to the point, if she caught him here, who knows how she would react?

"Don't mention that you've said anything. She doesn't know that I know." Which was only further proof that this month had been a taxing ordeal. For had Mrs. Hughes not been battling a cancer-scare, she would have figured out the truth in seconds.

"I won't say a word." Excellent!

Keeping a careful eye on the hallway, wanting to make sure he wouldn't be spotted at the last second, Charles bolted back to his pantry. It wouldn't do, after all, if Mrs. Hughes caught him away from the silver –– not when that was clearly the task at hand.

Still, despite his duty to focus solely on the silver, he found himself distracted. More to the point, he was bursting with relief, thrilled by the facts before him.

It was, as Mrs. Patmore put it, a benign-something-or-other and nothing more. That meant more than words could ever say. Not only that, Mrs. Hughes had never found out his little efforts to help. He'd been able to make a difference from the shadows without disrupting her work. Or, rather, he'd made a difference without ruining their friendship. If that didn't count as a success, he didn't know what would.

But most importantly of all, if their conversation from two nights ago proved anything, he had been honoured with something rather important. Just what was it he'd been honoured with? Her trust. It was budding but it was there.

And considering where they had stood only a month ago, that made all the difference.

So, yes, Charles Carson would see to the silver. But he would do so with a smile and a song. And he didn't care if he was overheard. Potential ridicule, the necessities of propriety –– none of his normal qualms came to mind. All that mattered was knowing that his dearest friend was going to be just fine.

Author's Note: To emulate a certain someone, 'allllllll of the cheesiness'. Consider that today's inspiration, if you'd like.

Either way, I sincerely hope you enjoyed that! I'm delighted to say my sister teared up (happy tears!) when we got to the ending of that episode. We've definitely got another Chelsie shipper over here, something which thrills me to no end.

Also! As much as I wanted to leave on a proper Chelsie note, it felt right to end today's update with a platonic tone.

In any case, as always, have a lovely day! 'Till next time.