To Chelsietx: The site was repeatedly glitching when it came to responding to your review. Therefore, I'm putting my response here ––

Heh, I have to admit: I loved that alternative scene, too! It really works so well with the wasted chance part. In fact, writing that little scene has persuaded me to test out an idea –– one that I'll be mentioning in the second author's note for today's piece.

In any case, it is absolutely my pleasure! Hope you enjoy today's update :)

In Response to Guest Reviewers: To the guest who loved the alternative ending, I'm so touched to hear that! Moreover, I've got an idea about all that, one I'll be bringing up in the second author's note ;) :)

Author's Note: This week has been a time to be alive. Because of that, this piece will be all about fluffy cricket shenanigans. Aka, consider this to be a, "Four Times Charles Carson was Distracted by Cricket, One Time He Wasn't."

Enjoy!

Warning: My cricket knowledge comes from online research. But having played and watched softball for a fair amount of years (the Chicago Bandits are the best team in that city, and nothing will change my mind), I understand the basic mechanics.

Spoilers for Series 3, Episode 8.

"Oh, there's absolutely no question that some people have a feel for it. I think cricket's like anything else."

Charles scoffed as he recalled the drivel Mr. Moseley had been doling out earlier. That whole conversation wouldn't stop playing over and over again in his mind, something that did not help his mood.

"When you learn it as a child, there's an understanding that's hard to come by later. And with a father like mine, I was brought up with cricket in my blood."

The butler scowled at the very thought of such arrogance. Joseph Moseley hadn't ever played for any of the teams, he hadn't even volunteered to keep score. If these acts of cowardice were supposed to be a demonstration of his understanding of the sport, then the butler was a giraffe!

"Mr. Carson!" Just how long had she been standing there? His gape was unwitting, his gaze frozen in mortification, "I've knocked on your door for more than five minutes! Whatever is the matter?"

Swiftly looking in the direction of the housekeeper, "Beg pardon."

But he couldn't manage much more than that. And because he couldn't get anything else out, she took over the reigns of this exchange, "Don't tell me Mr. Moseley's fan club's distracted you?"

"Of course not!"

Mrs. Hughes looked as though she wanted to chuckle. But then she took another look at him, those eyes of hers widening in disbelief, her mirth dying off, "Mr. Carson, Ivy was only joking when she mentioned it!"

"I'm sure she was, but she shouldn't encourage him!" Wait a moment, "How did you know about Ivy's idea of a fan club?"

When would she have had the time to eavesdrop? More importantly, how could she have done so? It had been hard enough catching the conversation from his room, not that he'd been purposefully eavesdropping. In comparison, her room was miles away!

"Mr. Carson, I am friends with Mrs. Patmore!" She shook her head, continuing, "I don't suppose you've an explanation for why you were listening in the first place?"

He didn't dignify that with a response.

_._

"Mrs. Hughes," Elsie looked up from her work, sensing something was afoot. The butler looked to be in quite the mood, judging from that scowl. Not to mention she'd heard his footsteps storm down the hall instead of keeping a collected pace. "You don't consider me to be a liberal, do you?"

Inappropriate it may be, she wanted to guffaw at the question. Charles Carson, a liberal at heart? Old Lady Grantham was a likelier candidate, and that was saying something.

"Certainly not," That looked to appease the man. Still, she knew it wouldn't last. Instead, she'd have to distract him, "Unless, of course, you're referring to cricket?"

That worked better than any reassurance she could have offered, "What do you mean?"

"Well," Elsie slowly began, making sure to have his full attention, "I seem to recall a few years ago, before the war, when you had made the suggestion that––"

"Mrs. Hughes!" He was caught up in embarrassment, thank the Lord. She didn't like to embarrass him–– oh, that wasn't true. She rather enjoyed teasing him and watching the man profusely blush as he bumbled about. Which, speaking of, "I would ask you not to remind me of that."

This time, she did chuckle. The bumbling about, the flustered tone, all of this worked in her favour. It would either press him to tell her what was going on, or it would give him a necessary respite from whatever bothered him.

She would inevitably find out the truth. That was what happened in this house.

It was simply a matter of when.

_._

"Mr. Carson?"

Was it worse to be distracted by Moseley's drivel or to be caught holding the air as though it were a cricket bat?

"This isn't about being called a liberal, is it?"

It was decided. The latter was worse. Far worse.

_._

When Elsie had found Thomas curled up outside, she knew she was on the verge of solving the "liberal" mystery. She didn't know why, but she knew there was a connection. And though she thought that had been the end of the mystery, she'd been surprised to hear there was more.

Now she was cross. Because that vain and silly flirt should not be putting them in such a position. It was an odious situation to try to blackmail Mr. Carson and Thomas, one that seemed more like Miss O'Brien's doing than it did Jimmy's.

But continuing to broach that particular subject was proving to be a mistake. It seemed her butler had gone into that overly distressed state he was so well known for. And while she remained cross about the situation, wanting to change everything about it this very instant, nothing could be done.

Not now, at any rate.

No, this discussion would have to be left alone for tonight. Instead, it looked like she'd have to guide the subject toward a different direction. "I don't suppose he'll hold his tongue for now? There is a match to consider, after all."

"One can only hope." Mr. Carson groused in discontent. Fortunately, she knew better than to try to offer reassurance. Offering that tended to do the opposite and that was the last thing they wanted.

Instead, she went on to remark, "I hear Mr. Branson is considering playing for the house team."

Elsie didn't know that for a fact. But she had her suspicions. Either way, there were more important things to attend to. For instance, she could have sworn the butler darkly mutter, "He'd better, if he knows what's good for him."

"What was that, Mr. Carson?"

"Nothing, Mrs. Hughes." Fortunately, it looked like he would be explaining himself soon enough. "I just hope you're right."

So much for a proper explanation, not that she really needed it.

The housekeeper quietly took the information in, thinking back to their previous conversations tonight. Yes, the butler looked to be at his wits' end when it came to Thomas and Jimmy. They would have to keep away from all of that.

But what to talk about instead? Household affairs would only further exhaust them and she was not in the mood for small-talk.

In the end, there seemed to be only one subject worth broaching, "You never did tell me how you got into cricket."

"I didn't?" The housekeeper shook her head, keeping a smile off her lips at the excitement that clutched those words. Too much sentiment from her and he would clam up. Worse still, he would think she'd gone soft. "Well, if you must know, it was entirely by accident."

"My, my. I think I have to hear it now." She ought'n be so facetious, seeing as those were the very same words she'd said to Thomas. But Mr. Carson was none the wiser, and she really did want to know what he meant.

"Right." The butler cleared his throat, suddenly distracted, "Well, when I say 'by accident', I must point out that what I really mean is,"

Elsie leaned forward, lifting an eyebrow as she tilted her head, letting a bit of cheek sneak into her stare. The message, you ought to get to the point, Mr. Carson, was as plain as day.

"Yes, well, anyway," At least he looked to have received the message, "The point is, they'd put me on the field on a whim, my first time."

"Really?" She couldn't help but be drawn into this confession, curious. With his obvious admiration for the sport, she wouldn't have pegged this to have started on a whim.

"Yes." The man was emphatic to say the least. "It was only a practice, not a game, so there was no pressure to do well. Which meant even I could play this time."

It sounded as though whomever he'd been playing with didn't have high hopes for the butler. She didn't particularly like the implication, but she knew better than to get caught up in it now.

"So, what happened?"

"We practised." Mr. Carson stated this so matter-of-factly she couldn't help but snort.

"And?"

"And to be honest, I didn't know if I had it in me to play, not at first. They'd explained the rules –– more than once, I might add –– but I wasn't getting it. That's not to say I didn't understand it. Only to say, well, there's a difference between learning the rules and learning the mechanics of the game."

"What changed?"

"Well," Mr. Carson paused, taken with whatever was now coming to mind, "It happened."

What happened? She wanted to ask. But she found herself so drawn to that distant smile of his, that spark of pride she'd not seen in some time, that this time she remained quiet. Fortunately, he was kind enough to put her curiosity out of its misery.

"I caught the ball, Mrs. Hughes." The butler plainly informed her, his smile broadening. "I'd been placed in a spot everyone knew wouldn't get hit to. Even I knew it at the time. I'd seen it earlier when I'd been watching them play. There must be something about the maths that made it impossible for the ball to be hit in that direction. And even if it was hit that way, it was unlikely to ever reach me."

"But it had," That had been easy enough for Elsie to put together. Truth to be told, she rather liked putting it together, pleased to have been given this trust. "And you caught it."

"I did." He was proud, that was a fact. "I remember watching it as it happened. I know it had been streaking through the air, but all I could see was the ball floating toward me. As though it were waiting for me to take those few steps forward and catch it."

"And you've been catching it ever since."

He nodded, eagerly continuing, "I'd seen them catch the ball before, of course. I wasn't new to the sport. But like I said before, I was new to playing it. And so to catch the ball without having practised before, to have surprised both teams by far –– well, it was nothing short of a miracle."

Only you would see this as a miracle.

Yet somehow, she could see his point. Considering Mr. Carson's tendency to only involve himself when he was confident in his skill, this must have been quite a turning point for him.

Elsie kept her thoughts to herself, letting the butler regale her with more tales of cricket glories. She found herself attentively listening, a newfound interest taking hold. Perhaps she would pay more attention to the upcoming match this time around. She might even take the time to observe the game instead of busying herself with the typical tasks.

Whatever she decided to do, she knew she would be paying particular attention to Mr. Carson this year. That, and praying the house team won. If nothing else, that victory would undoubtedly be the best thing for the butler's nerves.

Yes, she would cross her fingers and hope for the best outcome. Because even if things spiraled out of control with Thomas and Jimmy, they would have this at least.

_._

He ought to have been incensed over his Lordship's decision to make James first footman –– a decision made in between innings, no less.

She was supposed to be caught in managing the proceedings –– some of the supporters for the teams had become a bit rowdy now that the game was so close in score.

As it happened, the moment he took to the field nothing mattered but the game.

And when she looked up to see him striding across the grass, she found herself drawing to a stop, inordinately captivated.

_._

The weather couldn't be described as muggy, per se. But it certainly was late summer, what with the sun sweating down on him and the clouds looming in the distance. They'd been blessed with a day free of rain, it was true. Yet there was still something to be said for the weather, especially this late in the season.

But enough about the weather. This was it. It was his turn to bowl, and by God he would do it right. None of that nonsense Moseley was on about. A proper bowl. One that would maintain the lead their team had and allow them to win the game.

Charles held onto the ball as he stalked past the cricket pitch, fidgeting despite his efforts to get a good grip. His fingers skimmed across the leather as he focused on two things: taking his time and maintaining his form. He'd seen the best bowlers lose themselves to nerves. They'd become so fixated on doing well they had lost the game in seconds.

He wouldn't be doing that. He would take a glance at Doctor Clarkson in an effort to size the current batsman up. He would then maintain a calm pace as he approached his spot in the field, waiting for the signs to start the bowl. It would take Lord Grantham crouching down beside the wickets –– the aristocrat holding a proper stance and looking ready to receive the ball –– in order to rouse the butler into action.

Then and only then would he begin.

The man didn't bother closing his eyes. He had taken all the time he needed. The ball was positioned perfectly, his fingers grasping the correct spots, his body aligned. Now it was a matter of maintaining form, letting the practised motions come back to life.

Flecks of freshly trimmed grass brushed up against him, the ground underneath reacting to his rapid pace. There was no time to wonder or question his movements. He felt the leather rest within his hands, momentum hurtling him toward the closest wickets.

It was a balancing act, a matter of consistency. He had to race forward all the while his arms were poised to calmly fire the ball across the field. His eyes had to remain fixed on the target, else his aim was liable to stray. And he had to follow through on every bit of movement. Much like polishing the silver, this was not something for the faint of heart. He had to commit to every detail in order for this to have the slightest chance of success.

Heat thudded all around him, a heavy air pressing into him. It was time to let go of fear, to take the ball firmly into his right hand, arc his arm through the air, and send it straight to his Lordship.

Grunting at the exertion required, Charles did not take his eyes off the ball as he followed through with the bowl. He watched a blur of leather hurtle forward, his breath catching at the sight of Doctor Clarkson returning fire. If they lost this match thanks to him, he would never hear the end of it.

Moseley was shouting more nonsense in the distance along with the rest of them, but all he could hear was the cadence of his heart panicking. He knew who stood in the direction of the ball, who they were relying on to pull them through this. If Tom Branson was the reason they lost to the village––

YOU HAVE TO USE BOTH HANDS TO CATCH THE BLOODY–– Smile, just smile. He caught the ball. It was an absolute miracle but he did it. We've won. There's no reason not to smile.

Well, actually, when you think about how close we were to losing–– just smile, Charlie. Just smile.

The butler lightly shook his head, ignoring the fact that some of his thoughts had slipped into a Scottish lilt. Truth be told, hearing her in his head helped to keep him calm.

Not that he would be admitting as such any time soon.

Heaving out a sigh of relief, a disbelieving smile made its way to him as he realised what this all meant. Tom Branson had saved the day, they had managed to win the most important battle of the year and––

And she was smiling at him. Beaming, more like. Mrs. Hughes was beaming at him of all people. The last time he'd caught sight of her, she'd been tucked away in a tent, entirely dedicated to managing the event. She'd said it before, she would say it again: cricket didn't hold her interest. But now she was beaming at him and quietly clapping in his direction, as though he had been the one to save the day and not Branson.

Everything was forgotten at the sight of those lips curved so brilliantly, those eyes glowing with such delight. Charles felt a sense of thrill course through him, basking in the exaltation. He wanted to study this moment from all angles, decant and savour her admiration, commit every trace of her demeanour to his thoughts.

She looked to be bursting with pride, ignoring everything but him. Indeed, it was quite a gratifying sight. One that he wished to witness for as long as he could, one that had him trailing through the grass toward her.

"Excellent catch, Tom!" "Well done!" "Absolutely brilliant!" "Aha! Cricket is in your blood just like it's in mine! It's been lurking about in the background, I can see that now. You know, if you'd like some pointers on how to bring finesse into your style, I think I might be able to help…"

Oh. That's right. They had just won the most important battle of the year. A decisive victory they rarely obtained.

Shouldn't he be caught up in his team's unbridled joy?

Yes. Yes, he should.

But first he would take one final look at Mrs. Hughes. One last glimpse to hold onto for as long as he could. Then he would celebrate.

Of course, he couldn't celebrate a thing until he figured out an appropriate way to share some necessary advice. Honestly, Branson would have to learn how to catch the cricket ball with two hands, not fumble about with one. If he expected to get through future matches on luck, he was in for quite the rude awakening. Even if it meant personally working with the Irishman to train him, the butler would do it.

And, yes. Schooling the former chauffeur in the art of cricket was all Charles Carson was thinking about.

Not that enchanting smile.

Today's Inspiration: Moseley's enthusiasm was the main inspiration for today! I had this image of Charles secretly practicing his cricket skills in response to Moseley's talk about his innate capabilities, and thus this little piece came to life.

Author's Note: Ah, yes, the classic "Let me catch the ball with one hand instead of two and give everyone a heart attack." Better yet, the classic "I'm entirely dedicated to this game–– oh, wait, we won? Oh, I was totally distracted by the person I'm apparently in love with. Oops." Good times.

On a different note, I'm thinking of doing a separate collection of stories –– centered around the concept of Chelsie being married from the start. It probably wouldn't go through each and every episode, but instead focus on key turning points and/or favorite moments. Thoughts?

In any case, as always, I hope you enjoyed that and that you have a lovely day! 'Till next time.