Author's Note: You know how people can have the best intentions but can also underestimate their habits? Like, they'll say, Yes, I may be the butler of Downton Abbey in the middle of the Great War but by golly I'll actually take a break for once?
Yeah, about that… I'd say more, but I think I'll let said butler speak for himself.
Enjoy!
Spoilers for Series 2, Episode 2
For all of her husband's talk of things being different this time, Elsie didn't quite believe the man. She knew he meant well, but they were nearly three years into the war with no end in sight. And Charles could mean well all he liked –– he was just as prone to overworking himself now as he was back in 1900.
At first it'd been little things. Tasks normally delegated to footmen, things only a maid should spot. And then it grew. She should have stopped it then and there, but he managed to –– for lack of a better word –– manage so many of the little things she hadn't realised how bad it was getting.
It was this morning. That was when she began to see the truth.
"Why on earth are you doing that?" Elsie'd been shocked to see him stooped over, snatching up pieces of wood and transferring them to the appropriate basket as though it were the end of the world.
"Someone's got to."
"Yes, indeed they do, and that someone is William or one of the maids." If he took up everyone's jobs, he'd have a collapse any second now! But she needn't make her rebuke too sharp. If she kept the truth light and threw in a tease, he'd see his folly at once. "You're making work for yourself, Mr. Carson and I've no sympathy for that."
"I'm not asking for sympathy!"
Charles? The woman's face fell as the butler stalked away.
So much for that doing the trick.
_._
It was true: sympathy was not on things Charles Carson asked for in life list.
But if there were one thing Charles Carson never wanted in life, it was a lack of footmen in the house. Which, speaking of, it was time for William to officially announce his departure to the family: "I've only got a few days before the medical, milady."
Yes, William, we are all quite aware of that.
"Then go and tell your father." Her Ladyship was frustratingly gracious when it came to accepting these circumstances. Personally, when he'd heard the Dowager had gone so far as to try to save the footman from war, he'd thought she had done the perfect thing. "You don't mind, do you, Carson?"
"We must manage with no footman at all from next Wednesday, it'll be no different if we start now."
"And you've always got Lang." Was that intended to help?
Words could not describe the aggravation that arose at the thought of Lang. In fact, aggravation was too kind a word for the sensation that did arise. Vexation seemed meek, irritation soft. No, he couldn't possibly begin to describe the disdain that flashed into existence at that indecent suggestion.
"We wish you every good fortune, don't we, darling?"
"We certainly do. Good luck, William."
"Thank you, milord." A handshake? The deserter was receiving a handshake for abandoning ship?
And, no, there wasn't time to listen to his Lordship's ensuing comment. Nor did Charles have the inclination to witness the wistfulness that inevitably accompanied the aristocrat's dismally quiet tone. If they were seconds away from losing any hope of standards, he didn't have the time for anything but work.
If only Elsie understood him. Her teases, her comments, her worries, they were suited to another time. When they'd lost Mr. Bates, all this was still fairly manageable. Now that they were losing William, nothing could be further from the truth.
And still she insisted they ought to step away from their duties to the house. In the short span of time that elapsed between the conversation with his Lordship and the preparations necessary for dinner, she'd managed to sneak into his pantry and gone so far as to lay a concerned hand on his shoulder.
Fortunately, he'd been called out of the room before he could snap off a cold remark about his new responsibilities. Really, couldn't she see how important it was to manage their jobs before anything else? Couldn't a reminder of their life together wait until he had made it through these tiring days?
She apparently thought otherwise. But Elsie was wrong. If the house were to survive William's departure, they needed to set aside their personal worries and attend to the duties at hand.
With that in mind, Charles re-organised his day with a ruthlessness that couldn't be matched. Well aware of his wife's schedule, he made sure there would be no more chances of a supposedly well-meaning moment. He threw himself into every task he could, painfully aware that nothing would get done if he didn't do it himself.
It was the cork that threatened to put a stop to it. The stubborn wine cork that refused to yield to him, that incessantly––
The world threatened to blur for a moment as air escaped him. Was it a breath or gasp? He found he didn't give a flying fig. That the cork continued to taunt him was all that mattered.
"Mr. Carson, are you quite well?" Did Elsie put her up to this? Because asking Anna to keep an eye on him was exactly the sort of thing his wife would have done.
At the thought of his wife, he inwardly groaned. He'd been a fool to suggest there was no need for battle plans to manage this war. And since he had no desire to be reminded of what a fool he was, "Oh, leave me alone."
If only the world would leave him alone. But he'd nearly dropped the corkscrew, he'd practically collided into the Dowager Countess's chair, and no matter what he did or said, it only worsened. Mr. Crawley's dreaded return, not to mention hosting a dinner to honor the man's return. News upon news piled into the room, tightening his breath and forcing his vision to wobble. And then, Lady Mary's insistence that Sir Richard Carlisle come to visit at the same time as Mr. Crawley.
Mr. Crawley might not have judged their lack of standards but Sir Richard Carlisle obviously would. And might he add that inviting Lady Rosamund would most certainly not take the edge off of things. At least––
Things dared to blur in the middle of dinner? Had his body no shame?
Charles was able to take note of her Ladyship's support, sarcastic it may be. He recovered his composure, able to disguise his moment of weakness as Lady Edith began to speak–– so much for only one moment of weakness. Why the woman thought she could take up driving a tractor of all things was–– was unspeakable.
He refused to sigh in relief as the dinner came to an end. There could be no relief, not while they were lacking footmen in the house. Certainly not when they were to entertain both the Crawleys and Sir Richard Carlisle in a fortnight.
Fourteen days later, Charles remained of the same belief. And, no, his wife would not be convincing him to take it easy. Elsie had tried on four separate occasions to garner his attention, but he'd been able to put her off with little trouble. And now that they were on the verge of entertaining, there was no need to make an excuse: he truly had no time for respites if he wanted the evening to be a success.
Speaking of success, he needed to find Lang. For he would have to be incapacitated to even think of allowing maids to serve the dinner. And though the thought of the valet's presence failed to comfort the man, it was the thought that counted.
"Oh, Mr. Lang." There was no time to wait for the valet to get out of his seat. The time to delegate was now. "As you know, Sir Richard Carlisle arrives later, and the Crawleys are coming for dinner tonight."
But that was not the most important part. The most important part, the most crucial piece of information that needed to be shared, was simple: "I really can't have maids in the dining room for such a party, so I'd be grateful if you'd help me play the footman."
"Me?" Lang needn't sound so confused. "Wait a table?"
Is there another Mr. Lang who works at Downton? One more qualified for the post?
He thought not. "Well, it's not ideal, but I'm afraid I have no choice." And neither do you. "The footman's liveries are in the cupboard just past Mrs. Hughes's sitting room. You should find one to fit you."
The very thought of his wife had him marching off as far away from her sitting room as possible. Those blurs from before had picked up in frequency, and the last thing he wanted was for her to find out. They could talk about it once the guests were gone –– he knew they would have to address it at some point. But if Mr. Lang could pull his weight with these dinners, he would find the capacity to breathe again and then he might finally be able to be with his wife again.
_._
Elsie Hughes was tired. Her husband hadn't been her husband for weeks. She knew full well what was running through his mind, this need to have control in a world of "chaos". But he was working himself to death and then some. And every attempt to reach him has failed, to the point where she'd taken on more tasks than even he realised.
But then it happened. Thomas Barrow, back at Downton. In military uniform, no less.
It seemed the war had done little to change the man, "Imagine Carson without a footman. Like a ringmaster without a pony."
How dare he speak so lowly of Charles? She'd thought herself incensed before but she knew the truth now! "We'll have none of your cheek, thank you, Thomas."
"I'm very sorry, Mrs. Hughes, but I'm not a servant anymore. I take my orders from Major Clarkson." Well then she would be having a word with Major Clarkson the moment she could.
But for now, she would have to settle for Mrs. Patmore.
Only, Charles needed to know that Thomas was back. Then again, the man was desperate to prove he could handle himself –– why would he want any help now?
She knew she wasn't being kind but she wasn't in the mood to be kind. Kindness wasn't the point. The point was simple: this couldn't go on. And by now, wasn't she partially to blame if he did have a collapse?
Elsie gave the matter considerable thought for the rest of the day, consistently coming back to one fact: they really needed to talk. He couldn't keep ignoring her and she couldn't keep letting him get away with it.
But she would need a plan if she wanted to do this right. She'd already tried to talk to him on different occasions, she had to consider different tactics if she wanted this to work.
The housekeeper was still pondering the situation when she was interrupted hours later. That Anna came in without knocking spoke measures. Clearly the lass was under some sort of duress. Nevertheless, Elsie couldn't assume a thing. She had an obligation to find out what exactly had gone wrong, "Is everything under control?"
"Mr. Lang seems a bit nervous." She had been worried about that. But at least Anna didn't speak of Mr. Carson exploding on them.
Dismissing her original concern, the housekeeper supplied the most obvious reason, "Stage fright."
Whatever the case, Mr. Lang would have to manage on his own. The real question –– other than when on earth will my husband collapse? –– was rather simple, "But what about you?"
"Oh." Poor Anna. To the untrained eye, she seemed a bit off but nothing looked to be terribly wrong. To Elsie, the young woman was denying every bit of discomfiture and pain she could. "I'm a trooper."
The housekeeper knew that well enough. But Anna didn't have to troop through everything.
"And we can't complain, can we?" Why's that? "Not when you think what's going on in France."
That may be true. But the girl's diminishment of her pain didn't take away from the reality, "Still. A broken heart can be as painful as a broken limb."
Unfortunately, that sentiment failed to reach the maid.
Why on earth did everyone in this house feel the need to put up so many blasted walls? Charles by scampering off into standards, Anna with her little sighs and stares. Pretending to be fine would hardly serve them in the end.
But there was no use in saying that. Not now, at any rate.
"Don't feel sorry for me, Mrs Hughes –– I'm not." I don't suppose you'd care to tell me why?" Elsie wasn't one for pity but she was curious all the same. "I know what real love is, and there aren't many who can say that."
Dipping her head a little, the housekeeper couldn't help but think of her own real love. Despite everything that came out of the last three years, the overarching twenty or so had been wonderful. There could be no denying that.
"I'm one of the lucky ones."
Those confident words brought the her head back up in a heartbeat. She didn't know if she could call it luck in Anna's case, not with how it ended, "If you say so."
That confidence remained with the lass even as she left the sitting room. As for the older woman, her face fell at the thought of the maid's plight.
She could only hope her own real love didn't end similarly.
Melancholy continued to taint her thoughts and inveigle the woman into remaining in her sitting room. But melancholy wasn't what helped their marriage thrive all this time. It had been their honest conversations, the moments wherein they made their marriage a true one.
She could continue to let melancholy eat away at her desire to intervene. Or, alternatively, she could set it aside and make a real plan to talk to him, not this pondering nonsense she'd been at all day. She was the Scottish Dragon, after all. Surely there was a way to sit the man down and make him see sense. He'd been able to do it before, he had to be able to do it again.
Glancing in the direction of her papers, the woman knew she wouldn't get any work done. What she needed to do was properly call him out on this foolish behaviour and see if she could smack some sense back into the man.
With that in mind, Elsie felt a great deal more confident and determined about this. This war may have started to sap her of her strength, but the woman felt a second wind coming on.
That was when she'd heard the news.
That was when she raced upstairs in a panic, barely remembering that they were only colleagues in the eyes of the world around them. But that was also when she was greeted with a sight she never wanted to see again: her husband red faced and reduced to pain, unable to sputter indignations let alone stand.
Within this horrid scene, nothing else mattered but Charles. The family's voices buzzed around her, nattering away, indistinguishable. But their voices didn't matter. All she could hear was the sound of her own heartbeat thundering in her ears.
All she could see was him.
"Lady Sybil and I will take him upstairs," Mr. Matthew sounded so muffled, so apathetic as he blocked the path to her man. "If Mrs. Hughes will show us the way, please."
That was her. They were asking for her. She needed to move. Lady Mary and Lady Sybil were quibbling over something. It was time to move. She couldn't stay frozen to this spot forever.
It was her husband's protests that got the woman moving.
"I'm not sure that's not necessary, my Lady." Whatever it was that'd been suggested, Elsie was sure it was absolutely necessary. She would smack her man for daring to waste his breath, if she didn't have to contend with being terrified beyond belief.
But it was pointless to live in terror. The only thing that would make a difference would be rounding up the staff and giving them their new orders. Then she could ensure her husband was well enough to be throttled for such idiotic behaviour!
"Mr. Lang!" She quickly repeated the man's name far more sharply than she needed to, but she was oblivious to its sting. The only thing that mattered was returning to Charles' side as soon as she could. "Anna and Ethel, I must trust the dinner to you."
"Well, I'd say the first course was a thing of the past."
Elsie was in no mood to berate the younger woman, preferring to get on with it, "Then clear and leave the hot plates. Daisy, you fetch the beef and the rest of it and, Anna, you'll have to serve the wine."
She nearly marched off after that, briefly remembering there was only one more task to be dealt with, "Mr. Lang, you can clear up the mess."
"I'll do that."
Sarah O'Brien, offering to help? That was the last thing they needed. "There's no need."
"I don't mind." She seemed sincere enough, even if her motives were questionable.
But there was no time for such petty deliberations. Charles needed her and if she lingered any longer she was quite liable to give everything away. "I thank you. Mr. Lang, you better go downstairs."
It was easy enough to catch up to Lady Sybil and Mr. Crawley. The hard part was listening to her husband suffer as she showed them the way. The worst part was he was doing his best to pretend all was well –– stupid, daft, irresponsibly reckless man.
"I have to ask," Elsie glanced back at Charles, realising he was talking to her. Her scowl hardened, well acquainted with that tone and in no mood to be talking to the butler at this time. "Mr. Lang needs guidance, that much is clear, but I trust he's been left to finish the dinner? I can assure you there's no reason to bring maids into––"
She would throttle him. Right here and now.
"I wouldn't worry about the dinner, Carson." Thank heavens for Mr. Crawley. If not for him, well, who knows what she would have said?
"Yes," The youngest Crawley daughter agreed at once, "I'm sure Mrs. Hughes has left it in capable hands."
And there was the proof that Charles was worse than they realised: he eagerly accepted the two at their word, too unwell to continue questioning the subject. No, had he been all right, those answers would have been entirely unacceptable in his eyes.
As for her eyes? As to what she found entirely unacceptable?
To put it bluntly, everything was unacceptable. He'd been foolish to keep pushing himself and she'd been utterly foolish for letting him get away with it.
"Why are we here?" Elsie turned at the question, not realising how bad his condition was. Charles had been breathless throughout this little journey but now he looked to be terribly disoriented. He didn't seem to be aware that they'd made it all the way up to his room, only now registering the change in scenery.
"We're here," Mr. Crawley gently chimed in, "Because you're in need of a rest."
"But that's not necess––" She scowled at the butler, cutting off that ridiculous statement at once. If he protested anything else, she'd pin him to his bed for at least a week.
"Mrs. Hughes, while we settle Carson in, can you see if Major Clarkson has arrived?"
Elsie wanted to do no such thing. But she did do just that and he had already arrived. And soon enough the doctor was making an examination of her husband, revealing what she already knew: this was bad but it could have been much worse.
_._
In retrospect, perhaps he truly had "overdone it". Charles couldn't even recall what detail had failed him. His impeccable capability for orchestration and maintenance had plunged into darkness, abandoning him right in the middle of dinner.
Without any real warning, no less.
Repeated knocks at the door put an end to self-beration. The only thought was that of hope: perhaps his wife would take some sort of pity on him before she unleashed one of her infamous lectures. Not that he thought he deserved pity; more like he didn't know if he could take it in this condition.
"May I come in?"
Lady Mary was quite possibly the last person he expected to see! At once, Charles was pushed toward a groggy sort of hastiness, his heart in a frenzy over this surprise, "That's very kind of you, milady, but do you think you should?"
"Let's hope my reputation will survive it." The butler gave a weak and vague attempt at a smile, never really one to joke about reputation. "And rest easy, please."
Oh, he was being absolutely incorrigible! Conversing with her in his pyjamas, forcing the woman to reach for the nearest chair –– he might be a fool but he wasn't an invalid!
Only, he could imagine his wife's response to his attempt to be useful. And given the inevitable ire the woman had to be holding, he felt it best to lower his outstretched hand and let the aristocrat sit.
She did so regally, "I gather it isn't too serious?"
Charles sighed, not entirely sure. He knew conversations had been recently held in this room. As for recalling what had been said? That was another story.
But he knew enough to recognise the truth, "I've been very stupid, my Lady. I let myself get flustered," Instead of listening to my wife, I hid behind my work. But he couldn't point out those actions. Nor he could explain just how idiotic he'd been. Instead, "I regard that as highly unprofessional, it won't happen again."
And it wouldn't. He knew how close he'd been to not surviving.
"You mustn't be too hard on yourself." When it was his fault in the first place? Not likely.
"I was particularly sorry to spoil things for Sir Richard, knowing he was a guest of yours." Although he didn't care all that much for the man, Sir Richard's connection to Lady Mary made any personal misgivings irrelevant.
"Don't be. I think he found it all quite exciting."
Exciting was a ghastly word for the mortifying affair. But now was not the time to cast about misery and grief. "Well, will we be seeing a lot of him?"
"I don't know." In this moment, he saw that little girl he'd helped to raise all those years ago. The brown-eyed brunette who had been such an enchanting guinea a minute. But he also saw hesitation, uncertainty. "Maybe."
"And Captain Crawley. Is he happy with the changes, so to speak?"
Lady Mary fell quiet, giving away a truth he'd long since known. But then again, he'd faced his own version of that truth quite some time ago. Twice, if he gave the matter proper thought.
"May I give you one piece of advice, my Lady?" She didn't interrupt him and she easily could have. With that in mind, "Tell him what's in your heart. If you still love him, let him know. And even if he's killed, and he may be, you won't be sorry.
"But if you don't tell him, you could regret it all your lifelong." He certainly had begun to with Alice. That was why it became so important to tell Elsie.
"And what about Miss Swire?"
Charles scoffed, unashamedly so, "Oh, Miss Swire –– as if any man in his right mind could prefer Miss Swire to you."
The butler scowled, but it was all an act. One that was thankfully paying off: his disdain for the woman helped Lady Mary's hesitation fade away in favour of something hopeful. It was not an easy task before her. But he knew she was up to it.
And before he could say another word, there was yet another interruption. Only, this was one he'd been waiting for. For there was only one person who'd dare to open that door without a knock.
His scowl was swept aside at once. It was replaced with a faint smile tinged with sheepishness. He could only pray Elsie didn't lecture him in plain sight of their visitor and give it all away.
Luck was on the couple's side this evening, "Oh, I am so sorry, milady! I didn't know you were in here."
"I was just going." With two of his favourite women standing before him, Charles couldn't help but feel immensely grateful it had gone the way it had. His collapse could have been much, much worse. And then he would've never gotten a chance to see them again. "Carson's been boosting my confidence."
Gratuity lifted into delight, the man pleased to hear it. But then he caught sight of his wife and how she was doing her best to remain composed. And he knew that now was not the time for delight.
"That's something I'd never have thought she was short of." So it was to be small-talk until Elsie had caught her breath. He could understand that, feeling a bit winded himself. "Then again, I suppose we all have our days."
The glass threatened to shake in her grasp, despite her best intentions. She glared at it a moment before sighing, setting the medicine down. And then she fixed her eyes on him, silent.
So much for small-talk. But was silence really the best option? For once, Charles couldn't read her. He didn't know what could be done or if anything should be done.
"Don't think I've forgotten about this. You will be taking this soon enough," His wife gave something of a gesture in the direction of the medicine, but it was lacking her normal determination. "It's only that, well,"
There was an answer in that silence. More than that, there was an invitation.
He held out a hand at once, relieved to see her take it. She was trembling by this point, and frankly she was not alone. Tonight had been far too solemn a reminder that he couldn't simply bury himself in work –– that is, unless he wanted to become buried in every sense of the word.
Now, the butler would probably be up to his normal antics by noon tomorrow. But tonight was entirely different. He needed to remember that he couldn't take this for granted. And she needed to know he was truly alive and well.
Had it been any other night, there would have been much more than holding hands. But she didn't dare risk his condition and he remained too weary to protest. Fortunately, this was proof enough that they still had each other.
And eventually, when they'd finally settled into discussing the events that had transpired, "I can only be glad we didn't lose you tonight."
Charles fell silent, the reality once again pressing into him. He could feel it in the weight of his chest and the way the world had weakened. At least, his world had weakened tonight. Significantly, at that. And he didn't like that one bit.
"And, yes, I know better than to make you promise to keep from overworking yourself," His sheepish air from before returned. But it was accompanied by something the man hadn't anticipated: a hint of slyness from her, "Fortunately, Doctor Clarkson's helped with that, at least this time."
"What do you mean?"
"Oh, nothing." His beautiful wife's cheekiness was returning tenfold. In any other circumstance, he'd be rather pleased by that, happy to hear a hint of normalcy. As it was, Charles was hesitant to learn why she felt compelled to grin like the Cheshire Cat. "I don't suppose you remember being told how long you're to stay here?"
"No?" Considering he didn't even remember Doctor Clarkson being in the room, he felt distinctly at a disadvantage. Which reminded the man: just how did he get into his pyjamas? Was that her doing or someone else's?
His wife opened her mouth to inform him of the facts but decided to close it, deeply amused. And while he was now rather suspicious of the answer, he couldn't deny this was a wonderful sight.
Nevertheless, "Elsie, how long?"
Blue eyes held a touch of fear, a reminder of why this bed rest was needed in the first place. But her words remained lighthearted, obstinately so, "Long enough for the lesson to hopefully sink in, Charles."
He could only suppose he ought to be grateful. Truth be told, he was rolling his eyes and she was snorting at the image, a mite consoled by the sight.
_._
Elsie had hoped her husband would be more amenable to actually resting for once in his life. And he was, at least a little. Upon waking up the next day, he didn't bother to force his way out of bed. He even conceded it would take a little more time than he realised to recover.
But then the butler remained bedridden for the rest of the day. And as she went back to check in on him, she could tell he was growing restless. And then, of course, he had to go and ask how they were planning to manage the remaining dinners.
And there went any idea of Charles taking it easy.
"Anna and Ethel will wait at the table, and I will supervise. What's wrong with that?" She should have known it was a mistake to come up before the dinner. It was an unavoidable one, given the circumstances, but a mistake all the same.
"Nothing, except that it's how a chartered accountant would have his dinner served."
"I can think of worse insults." She returned, in no mood for the melodrama.
"If you say so." Elsie did, indeed. "I don't want Lang allowed anywhere near it."
Although she felt sorry for the younger man, she couldn't deny the truth: she was grateful Charles had gotten over the need to press Lang into service. She could only hope the valet wouldn't take it too personally when she informed him of the change.
"Oh, Mr. Bates, where are you when we need you?" Well, that was her cue to leave him alone. Any more time spent here and he'd be asking for the wine ledgers–– "Oh, can you bring me the wine ledgers, and I'll make a selection?"
Charles! She wanted to snap at him for once again ignoring the need for rest. She had to settle brusquely reciting the truth, "His Lordship's already done that. Just try to rest."
And, no, her man needn't look so taken aback at her forethought. She did know his job inside and out!
"To rest?" He pointedly began, doing a fantastic impersonation of a petulant child, "Or to feel redundant?"
"Both, if it'll slow you down for a minute and a half!" Charles had been wonderfully understanding last night. Whatever happened to that? "The world does not turn on the style of a dinner."
"My world does!" He proclaimed, distinctly put out.
"And what does our world turn on?" Elsie'd meant it to be cheeky, and it was. But she also meant every word. "And can it keep turning if you're determined to kill yourself?"
He looked crossed between chagrined petulance and a nettled comprehension, "I suppose not."
Habit demanded a harrumph and a departure from the room. As it was, she still wanted proof his recovery was more than just a dream. That was why she went to bestow a peck on his cheek, "Thank heaven you got there in the––"
It seemed Charles wanted much more than a mere peck.
Truth be told, so did she.
Author's Note: Oh, and, yes, Elsie absolutely threatened to throttle that daft man of hers when he decided to serve breakfast closer to the end of the episode.
Now, before anything else, I have a question: how much would we like to change canon? What I mean is, I'm cool with staying mostly canon until it no longer works. I'm also cool with deviating here and there, and then completely stepping away. Most of all, I am definitely cool with hearing any thoughts you have.
And, to help clarify my question, here's an example of what I mean: Ethel's plot with Major Bryant. Because Chelsie is married from the start, that plot is automatically going to be different. The question is, how different?
Definitely let me know your thoughts when you can! In any case, as always, I hope you enjoyed this and that you have a lovely day ❤︎