It's been a busy few weeks. And I was already having some difficulty writing this chapter. Also, I'm sorry to say, but I'm slowly losing inspiration for this fic, but I'll try to keep it up bc I hate to see fics go unfinished.


A Charlie That Came To Dinner


"You're back." He hadn't recognized her at first. From a distance, she looked like a young lad—so much so, he was unsure if the boy beside her was actually a boy, or just another Charlie in disguise. He never found out, for he—or she—fled before Carson could get a closer look.

"I am," he said, adjusting his vest. The train whistled its departure behind him as he stepped off the platform and made his way towards her. The ground was wet and filled with puddles, but the sky had brightened since morning. "You sound surprised."

"The train for Downton doesn't arrive for another hour," she told him simply.

He cleared his throat and shifted his stance. How did she know? He, of course, had known—he had checked the route before he left. But how did she? He wondered if Elsie told her—he hadn't told Elsie he was going to check it, though. "I... I didn't go to Downton," he said formally. His eyes drifted to the boy—or girl—running from them. "Who's that?" he asked, hoping to change the subject.

Charlie too looked at the distant figure. "Little Robbie Willoughby. I go to school with him, or... I did," she told him. Her eyes lingered a bit on the boy before she turned back to Carson. "I thought Lady Mary wanted you to go back to Downton."

"She did, but..." But he would not go, could not go—no matter how much he desired to do so. And he did not feel comfortable explaining himself to her. Not until he discussed things further with Elsie. "But... you really shouldn't be listening to other people's conversations."

"Neither should you," Charlie said, her eyes sparkling. He hummed, wondering if Elsie also knew he had been awake last night. "It's all right—I don't mind. Not really. You and Elsie can go back to Downton. It's where you'd both much rather be." It might be true for him, but not for Elsie—that much he knew; she would rather be wherever Charlie was. "And I can stay here with Joe."

"Joe's not your father," he said without thinking. But he did not regret saying it. Charles Carson was her father, not Joe Burns.

She fiddled with her hands and avoided Carson's eyes. "I thought he was," Charlie confessed, and Carson felt an ache in his stomach. "With Ivy—I think I always knew she wasn't my... Well, she always treated Peter differently than me," she continued. "But it was never bad; it was just... different. And then there was this one time when Elsie visited the farm, she, er, kissed my cheek." A hand covered in dirt and dried blood lifted to rest on her right cheek. "No one had ever kissed me like that before—at least, I don't think." Her dirty hand fell quickly back to her side and she awkwardly looked back at Carson. "But with Joe... I dunno. I guess I never really had a moment like that with anyone else."

He stood awkwardly staring at her, his hands fidgeting in the same way her own hands had moved. He thought to kiss her cheek right then and there, to prove to her that he was her father, her provider. And she looked up at him, her chin at an angle, and her eyes... Her eyes. Whose were they? Not Elsie's, he was certain, and certainly not his own. But there was a familiarity to them. His mother's eyes, perhaps. But he couldn't really tell; it had been quite a while since he had seen those eyes. He should have leaned down and kissed her cheek but... he lost his nerve quickly. Instead he cleared his throat and looked up at the sky. The sun was beaming bright, not a storm cloud in sight.

"I'm headed back to the farm to check on Faye," Charlie continued softly, and his attention went back to her.

"Faye?" he questioned, and he quickly recalled the cow called Faye on Joe Burns' farm. "Er—the cow with the... who's with child," he added, answering his own question, and feeling his face heat at his own awkward mumbling.

Charlie nodded. "Elsie's resting back at the house. She slipped and fell into mud earlier."

He straightened. "Is she all right?"

"A bit bruised, I think," said Charlie. "She hates farming."

"Yes, well"—he cleared his throat and adjusted his stance—"I should, er, go tend to her, then..." But neither of them moved. His eyes drifted to the ground. Charlie wore work boots, battered and covered in mud. His shoes weren't quite as dirty, but he did step in something—he wasn't quite sure exactly what—while touring the factory with the owner and a few of the workers. They all laughed, told him he would have to find proper footwear come Monday. Maybe Joe had some old boots he could borrow—though the man was so small, Carson might not fit in them. He could easily buy a pair at some nearby shop.

"I'm sorry I got you in trouble at Downton," Charlie said, and his head lifted to meet her gaze.

He got himself into that trouble at Downton, not her. That was what he should have told her. But instead he found himself saying, "That's... all in the past. You needn't worry about it now."

"I know it was wrong of me to leave like that, but... well, you know." He did know. Life of a servant was not for the stouthearted, and Charlie was filled with more fire than any child Carson had ever known—though, he had not known many children. The truth even Elsie later admitted was Charlie should have never been brought to Downton Abbey. But if she hadn't, he might have never known of her existence. "I'd much rather live on the streets than be ordered about by an old blind hag." His eyebrows rose in shock, but he said nothing. Perhaps one day he might find the courage to discipline her. She huffed and kicked the puddle beneath her; water soaked Carson's shoes and damped the cuffs of his trousers. "Elsie won't admit it—maybe to you, but not to me—but she wants to go back to Downton. You both do."

"That isn't..." he started, but he could not bring himself to lie to her. The sun shone brightly above them and birds chirped in the trees near them. But the guilt in his gut only grew stronger.

"Joe's invited you to dinner tonight." She turned swiftly in the direction of the farm and began walking. "Elsie's cooking—but, just to warn you, she isn't very good at it."