In Response to Guest Reviewers: To dsky, I totally understand those feelings! And that's a really great perspective –– I wish the three of them could have come together as a team. I really think it would have made a difference.
Author's Note: Before anything else, as you've probably noticed, updates have been a bit sporadic. The short story is, it's been one heck of a start to the new year –– to the point where I'm going to have to step away from writing for a bit. It should be no more than two weeks, but I wanted to say something.
On a lighter note, the (cheeky) alternative title to this piece is, "And They Decided to Call it 'Jazz'". Jazz is one of my favorite genres –– I simply had to let it be the inspiration for today. As a related aside, that alternative title comes from a lyric from the musical Victor / Victoria.
In any case, I sincerely hope you enjoy today's piece –– we've got fluff and lots of liberties being taken!
Disclaimer: Don't own any of the songs referenced here (or Downton, for that matter)
Spoilers for Series 4, Episode 6.
Enjoy!
While she hadn't shared Beryl's desire to jig about to jazz, Elsie had thought the band sounded good. Days after their performance, she found herself recalling many of their tunes fairly well.
And she wasn't the only one.
She'd nearly caught Daisy softly singing an off-key version of I'm Just Wild About Harry –– only, the assistant cook had changed the given name to another. In any other instance, that would have normally resulted in a reprimand.
In this one, however, she could only share a tired look with Beryl and move on.
That would have been bad enough, except that girl wasn't the only one. Truth be told, Elsie was touched that Anna had grasped a tune for herself. The poor dear needed something to hold onto, what with everything.
But when Mr. Moseley destroyed–– hummed a rather dramatic rendition of Rhapsody in Blue –– a rendition complete with improvised movement she could only assume was dance –– she had to put an end to it.
So now, a day or two after managing all that, the woman was pleased to report that the house had quite literally quieted down. Any tunes were respectfully faint and most certainly out of sight.
Or so she had thought.
"Though April showers may come your way,"
Elsie looked up from her papers, unsure as to whether she could be hearing this right. Because she could swear she heard Mr. Carson–– but that couldn't be possible.
"They bring the flowers that bloom in May,"
Hands kept a hold of keys, fabric doing its best not to rustle against the wooden chair as it straightened. A stealthy gait hid the clicking of heels as she wandered over to the closest wall, eyes shutting in an effort to hear better. Old wives tale or not, she wanted to take every possible advantage she could.
"So if it's raining, have no regrets,"
A smile trickled to life, eyes remaining closed. The door to her room was shut, his was quite the same. No one else would be catching this anytime soon. And if someone dared to knock she could pretend to be studying something in the room. There would be no need for embarrassment, not on her end.
"Because it isn't raining rain, you know."
It's raining violets. The woman soundlessly finished, silently tiptoeing back to her seat. She could only assume he was polishing the silver again, much like that other time.
Looking away from her work, basking in that other time for just a moment, Elsie closed her eyes once more and gave one last smile. There was no need to betray this secret or tease him for it.
Not this time, at least.
_._
With the accounts taking Mrs. Hughes' attention for the night, they couldn't share a nightcap. Honestly, seeing as how it was nearly time for his evening patrol, he should've been long since on his feet.
Well, given as how should've was the key term there, it was obvious the man had yet to move. Truth be told, Charles didn't have the heart to leave behind his papers. He just couldn't bring himself to abandon his pantry, not yet.
What he could do was listen in an admiring silence as she hummed some sort of tune from her sitting room. The butler couldn't catch the melody from this distance, but he suspected it had to be one of the pieces from that band.
Were they all under a spell? It certainly looked to be the case. From Madge crooning a few lines on the stairwell –– why the girl didn't think she'd get caught, he couldn't possibly say –– to Mrs. Patmore jigging about on three separate occasions, he found his fair share of musical culprits.
And, yes, if someone had asked the butler about his own behaviour, any instances of either singing or humming would become conveniently forgotten.
A chuckle broke through his thoughts, his unwitting companion now clearing her throat. If he had to guess, her voice had struggled to maintain a hum. Yes, well, he could have told her that. His time on the stage taught him that it was easier to manage a tune if you either sang or whistled. Humming could be more discreet but it tended to take a lot more work.
Briefly, Charles wondered why Mrs. Hughes wasn't doing just that: singing. She had a nice speaking voice and he'd always thought the same of her when she sang. But she didn't tend to like to do it by herself. No, the housekeeper preferred to quietly chime in with a crowd whenever there was a tune.
Right. She was back to humming, faint enough he could've convinced himself he was imagining it–– "It's raining violets."
The butler gave a start, managing not to drop his pen as another chuckled sounded and a lilt gently remarked to herself, "I'm sure it is."
He paused in his own task, not wanting to miss a thing. With a comment like that, he suspected this was all he would be hearing tonight. But maybe if he kept quiet for a minute longer, she would let another line slip through?
His enthusiasm dampened, his grip on the pen readjusting, the minutes marching on in silence. But he understood the silence well enough. He tended to keep any tunes in his mind. It wouldn't maintain decorum. No, music tended to escape him only when he was oblivious. The one exception to that was––
Well, that was now three years in the past. No need to think on it now. He had his work before him and nothing, not even a vanishing melody would––
"So keep on looking for a bluebird," The housekeeper spoke more than she sang, but it was an enchanting sound all the same, "And listen for his song."
"'Whenever April showers come along.'" Too late did he realise he'd voiced that, hushed the words may have been. But she was distracted by whatever was on his mind and he was more than happy to finish his work in silence, and they would be none the wiser for it.
Author's Note: Now, for those who are wondering who Madge is: she's the kind of character that gets referenced by name but one we never have a solid interaction with. Similar concept to the character Maris Crane on the TV show Frasier, though any mention of Madge tends to be far kinder.
But enough about Madge. If you're still reading this, it may be because you're wondering if there's a fluffy bonus scene for the post-show/movie era. In today's instance, you would be proven correct!
Hope you enjoy today's piece! 'Till next time ❤︎
Bonus Scene Disclaimer: My knowledge of 1920s technology (both the tech itself and the installation process) is a bit sketchy.
Spoilers for post-show and post-movie!
Post-Show/Movie Bonus Scene:
"But why do we need one?"
Elsie rolled her eyes at the incessant grumbling. She'd explained herself several times throughout the process, she wasn't going to go through all of that again, "I already told you!"
"Those weren't explanations!" He was being quite the bear, wasn't he? Well, this was change and he was not one for change, was he? "What would be the point of living if we didn't let life change us?" A likely story, indeed. "This wasn't Mrs. Patmore's idea was it?"
"If you must know," The woman paused in her work, turning around and fixing him with yet another look, "Your precious Lady Mary was the one who made the suggestion!"
She even forced me to take it as a gift, not that I'll be sharing that with you. Elsie thought the idea to be far too much of an imposition, but the aristocrat firmly insisted it as a thank you present for their help with the Royal visit.
If you cannot accept it as a gift, Mrs. Hughes, the woman had calmly informed her, an insufferable glint in her eye, you will be receiving it as a bonus.
Charlie gaped, undoubtedly horrified, "She most certainly did not!"
"Were you there?" Honestly, she should have taken the aristocrat's suggestion and hired someone to install it. But they wouldn't have been able to afford the cost and Elsie was sure she had it in hand.
When her husband remained reticent, unwillingly so, "I thought not."
"But," Her glare cut off any further protest, the woman turning back to the device. Consulting her instructions –– the aristocrat had insisted on this, if nothing else –– she completed the last step and triumphantly folded the paper.
"Wasn't something supposed to have happened by now?"
"Charles," Elsie warned, her patience past fraying as she wracked her brain for a plausible explanation. Upon finding a decent one, "I don't suppose it needs time to warm up?"
"Right." If he made one more remark, he would find himself in charge of tonight's meal. As it was, whether he said anything else or not, she might put him in charge of it.
Acting as though she knew what she was doing, the housekeeper consulted the paper once more. When that gave her nothing to work with, she fiddled with the device and–– "What did I tell you?"
"Wait a moment," She had been on the verge of turning the dial to see what else there was when he stopped her, a hand reaching out to still her own. "Do you hear that?"
"Do I hear what?" But he was back to shushing her, looking at the radio in awe. She looked at him in disbelief, wondering what had gotten into him. And then Elsie heard it for herself and she understood.
"And where you see clouds upon the hills,
You soon will see crowds of daffodils."
She hadn't heard this in years –– not since 1924.
"So keep on looking for a blue bird,
And list'ning for his song."
But it was Charles who recognised the tune. Her husband had been the one to catch the song and keep her from moving on. How could he have recognised it so quickly? And why did he care so much?
"Whenever April showers come along."
Elsie decided none of that mattered, not when she could keep on holding onto his hand and he hers. In spite of the sweeping orchestra signaling the end of the song, neither she nor he were stirred to movement.
"I think," Her words were far softer this time round, the housekeeper tuning out the next piece, "I prefer Jack Ross's version."
"I'm sure you do." There were flecks of exasperation in that statement even as he smiled, "I, however, always have and always will prefer your version."
"My version?" But she wasn't a singer. And she'd never performed it in her life–– "You mean to tell me, you heard me?"
Somehow, Charles managed to look both sheepish and unabashed, "I don't suppose you'd be willing to do an encore?"
"Hardly." Elsie was guiding him away from the radio and toward the kitchen, much hungrier than she realised. "Unless you plan on joining me? I do recall a time where I heard singing come from––"
"Perhaps I should cook dinner tonight?" She nearly smirked, letting her husband continue, "You did choose to spend your half-day setting up that newfangled device, it's the least I could do."
Of that, I'm sure. "That sounds lovely."
He nodded, scurrying off into the kitchen as she swiveled back to the radio, wondering how to turn it off. No point in letting it play on when the piece in question sounded more like garbled noise than anything. They could take their time figuring out that device, it was enough to know it worked.
Now that there was silence, Elsie went to take her customary place at their table. It was only once the woman was sat at her spot that she realised how knackered she was. Messing about with the wires, wondering if she was going to wind up electrocuting herself –– it had been quite a process!
Belatedly conceding that it might be better to hire help the next time she had the choice, she shook away her lingering reservations. Nothing had gone wrong, her husband was going so far as to make dinner –– that was no longer a rarity, not exactly, but it was not an everyday occurrence either –– and Charles had yet to ask how they'd manage to afford it.
So distracted by these victories was Elsie, she missed the signs of something unusual.
It took her a minute, but eventually she caught something coming out of the kitchen. It wasn't the normal chopping, whisking or mixing that came with preparing a meal. It was something far more peculiar.
A weary head lifted in the direction of the sound, belatedly tilting in curiosity. She could have sworn–– but that wasn't possible.
But there it was again?
Pushing herself out of the chair and toward the kitchens, the woman confirmed the truth: Charlie was singing it. He was singing his own rendition of "April Showers".
Elsie stayed out of sight, biting back a tickled smile as she carried on listening. An idea soon slinked across her mind, the woman perking up at once.
He was peeling the cauliflower by the time she'd snuck over to the doorway of the kitchen, her man far too invested in his task to notice. It was true: he was perfectly content in his own world oblivious to all as he gently carried on, "Because it isn't raining rain, you know."
"It's raining violets." She mischievously finished the lyric, taking a great sense of pride in watching him jolt in delight. Approaching the counter, eyeing what was left of the preparations, "And where you see clouds upon the hills,"
Charles was beaming at her, those lovely brown eyes of his misting up like the Highlands, "You soon will see crowds of daffodils."
She didn't mind looking after the potatoes, cheesy as this plan was turning out to be, "So keep on looking for a blue bird, and list'ning to his song."
"'Whenever April showers come along."