Author's Note: Oh my goodness, it is a relief to be back.
Also! My sister was a bit too distracted by the whole hand-holding bit (not to mention the letter plot (and Bates' ticket!) as well as the Season as a whole) to make comments. As such, I'll be letting Mrs. Patmore be the inspiration for today!
Beach Shout-Out: I know the postcard says "Brighton Beach". But for those who enjoy a bit of trivia, the beach they officially film at in the show is West Wittering :)
Name Note: Is it supposed to be Mrs. Butte or Mrs. Bute? I'm never fully sure. But for today, we'll be sticking to Mrs. Butte.
Spoilers for one of the best cinematic creations ever–– I mean, Series 4, Episode 9
Today's Inspiration:
"Mr. Carson, all women need someone to show a bit of interest every now and then. Preferably in a manner that's not entirely proper." –– Mrs. Patmore
Charles Carson would have never wished for Mrs. Butte to be taken ill. In fact, when the first cacophony of coughs arose from the woman, his first instinct was to bemoan the situation. When it became clear she would need weeks to recover, said instinct turned into panic.
And then he realised what this meant.
Mrs. Butte's illness was a chance to bring Mrs. Hughes to London far sooner than Lady Rose's ball. He wouldn't have to wait nearly so long to bask in the company of a delightful colleague and friend. Not to mention, with her around London would become a great deal more tolerable.
Now, it was true he did not care for the circumstances: to be without a housekeeper even for a day never appealed to him. Nevertheless, he rather enjoyed what came out of this change in events. It allowed for a lovely opportunity to say the least.
If only she sounded as enthused.
_._
Of course we're needed sooner. Why am I not surprised?
Exasperation prodded the air only after the telephone's receiver had been replaced, eyes rolling at the message received. Mr. Carson sounded adamant that they rush down to London at once. No doubt he couldn't stand the thought of the house crumbling apart without a housekeeper.
Yes, well, she was in no mood to rush!
Years ago, the thought of going to London would have excited Elsie. Coming from Argyll, she'd only been to the city on a handful of occasions, nearly all of which were thanks to the family. Since then, she'd learnt to equate London with far more work than was worth the trouble.
Perhaps if there were a chance to explore the city, she might have been in a better mood.
But since that's as likely as a proposal–– Elsie nearly snorted at the thought, looking about the pantry as she'd lost her mind. Shaking her head at the ludicrous suggestion, the woman marched on over to the kitchens to deliver the irritating news.
"You'll never guess what's happened now." Daisy and Ivy peered up from their work, far too hesitant to be curious. With that in mind, she spared them the suspense, "Mrs. Butte's been taken ill and she won't be back again for weeks!"
"What does that mean?"
What doesn't it mean? "They want me in London to take over and that's not all! They've asked for you to go with me."
It was Daisy who first poked a question into the air, "I thought they only needed us to help with Lady Rose's ball."
She herself had assumed as such up until today. However, "The plans have changed. So, you're coming with me and Ivy can stay to cook for Mr. Branson and Lady Edith."
"Why does Lady Edith look so tired?" Leave it to Ivy to mention an unsuitable topic. "She goes away for eight months to Geneva and comes back looking more tired than when she left."
Never you mind! "We're all tired," Something Mr. Carson failed to understand. The man had been positively vexing in his demands, acting as though they could whisk themselves through the country in minutes. Didn't he realise just how far Yorkshire was from London? "But not as tired as we're going to be."
Now, she needed to go back to her sitting room and make sure everything was in order. If they were going to lose their heads racing through the countryside, they might at least be organised.
"Do you think we'll be able to do anything in London? When we're all there."
It was the last Elsie caught before she became distracted by the tasks before her. Nevertheless, she found herself pausing. A biting quip came to mind, brought on by aggravation. But before she could say a thing, Ivy was already answering her own question: "I know, I know: we're not paid to do anything but cook. But wouldn't it be nice if we could take a day for ourselves?"
It would indeed. And it was as likely as a bomb going off.
_._
Charles knew that Mrs. Hughes and Daisy couldn't arrive as quickly as he liked. That didn't stop him from praying for a swift journey –– one that would have them here sooner rather than later.
Except, prayer would have to be set aside for the moment. The family was in need of help when it came to their evening coats and accoutrements, and there really was only one person suited to the job.
And it was most certainly not James.
"Carson," Having learnt the various tones of Lady Grantham over the years, the butler suspected he was going to be surprised by what she had to say next. Naturally, his demeanour revealed none of this. "All this kerfuffle is making a lot of extra work for the staff, so I'd like you to plan some sort of outing for them, after the ball before we go home."
"Very good, your Ladyship." A dizzying sense of delight overtook the man, years of training disguising the emotion. An opportunity to show Mrs. Hughes some of the finer things London had to offer would more than make up for her having to come early!
And, yes, Charles knew she was tired. He also suspected she wasn't in the mood to be rushed. He'd been too enthused to point out the obvious, but he had worked with the woman for decades. No doubt the moment she'd hung up she'd given that frustrated sigh of hers and rolled her eyes and proceeded to get on with it.
But that wasn't the point. The point was he knew the woman's encounters with the city were limited at best. Therefore, this was his chance to properly demonstrate the grandeur of London –– to her and the rest of staff, of course. In any case, that also meant he wanted to be rather selective about the outing. They couldn't settle for a cheap tourist attraction. It had to be a special occasion if it were to make up for her coming in early.
"Oh, by the way, Madeleine Allsop asked if I'd go on to the Embassy with some friends of hers afterwards." Even had it been his place to speak on such matters, Charles was far too distracted to do so. There were far too many opportunities in this city –– he'd have to narrow down the possibilities.
"Tonight? After the dinner?" At the thought of dinner, the butler briefly contemplated a meal for the outing. He immediately deemed it too expensive. Moreover, they'd spent so many meals together already. Surely there was something else worthy of their attention?
"You don't mind, do you?"
"Rose, once we get past Tuesday," That statement brought with it another question: what was the timing of the outing? Not in regards to the day itself –– there weren't many days to choose from, given the time restraints. Rather, would the staff be on this outing for an entire day? Or would it be a half-day treat?
It had to be considered selfish to wish a full day, but that was indeed his wish. And seeing as how Lady Grantham had not restrained him in that regard, Charles didn't see the need to officially limit their time out, not just yet.
"Oh, I know, but I don't think you have to be presented to go to the Embassy Club. I do love Ambrose and his orchestra. Please?" As enjoyable as a live musical performance would be, it would no doubt be as costly as a meal. Though, the thought of being sat right next to Mrs. Hughes, listening to the finest of London's musicians was quite distracting.
"Your niece is a flapper." That word pulled the man from his deliberations. Lady Mary carried on, oblivious, "Accept it."
"I'm not a flapper! But can I go?" His employers' silence gave nothing away as the family hurried off to their concert and dinner, leaving him with an amenable peace that allowed him to think. Charles doubted the theatre would be deemed enjoyable, but he had heard talk of the new Science Museum….
"Mr. Carson," Indignantly turning around to face James', entirely caught off-guard by the footman's continued presence, he caught only the end of the lad's comment, "––can I suggest something? For the outing?"
"You may certainly not!" If this decision were left to James, God only knows what would happen. No, Mrs. Hughes was a woman of refined taste and sensibility. She deserved far better than whatever cheap attractions the footman would think of.
Now, he rather liked the idea of looking into the Science Museum. But as an alternative, perhaps she would enjoy the Crystal Palace?
_._
The train was tolerable. King's Cross was acceptable. She'd even picked up a souvenir, a little treat to send to Becky. And all this before they were to be escorted to Grantham House.
Of course, that tolerable, acceptable quality of the trip vanished the second she found Martha Levinson in front of Grantham House. Elsie knew she'd felt worn down, but she hadn't felt quite that exhausted until she clapped eyes on the American.
"Oh, Lord, Mrs. Levinson's arrived." More than that, Mr. Carson was the only other person in sight. Which meant he'd probably been fending off the woman for the last ten minutes, judging by his stare.
Perhaps, had she been arriving on the day she expected to, the housekeeper might have felt more sympathy for the man. Suffice it to say, this was not the case today.
"Who's that man with the fur collar?"
Elsie had been wondering that herself, jumping to a logical conclusion, "That must be her Ladyship's brother."
Mentally readying herself for what was to come, the woman decided it was in their best interest not to attract the attention of the Levinsons. Not until they had to. "Now, help me get everything down the stairs and don't make a noise. Mr. Stark will give us a hand."
In a perfect world, she would have had no need to interact with the American. However, this was far from a perfect world and to deny that was only to be foolish.
Speaking of foolishness, the butler found himself thinking this situation frustratingly silly.
Simply put, Mrs. Levinson was one of the last individuals he ever wanted to deal with. Ever.
The woman had practically cornered him from the moment she stepped out of the vehicle, her and that son of hers. He'd done his best to take in her comments with dignity, explaining that there was no one to receive her. But she didn't care. Needless to say, this affair was becoming tiresome–– "Grandmama! Mama said you were coming late."
Charles found himself sinking with relief at the sight of Mrs. Hughes sat in the front seat. He would have been able to manage this fine on his own but her presence was a consolation, nevertheless.
Of course, he didn't like how tired she looked. Consolation or no, she looked as though she'd been the one battling Mrs. Levinson for the last ten minutes and he didn't care for that one bit.
"Obviously she thought so, as did everyone else." This would be the best moment to regain his composure and look away from the housekeeper. After all, the two women were still invested in conversation. No one had noticed his concern for his colleague. "Carson tells me there's no one in the house to receive me."
"Well, I'm here now." At least Lady Edith looked to be in good spirits. "How was your journey?"
"How would it be when my maid turned in her notice just as we were leaving?" Well, that was unfortunate –– if only for their own staff.
"Why?"
You need to ask? If he'd been under Mrs. Levinson's employ, he might've done the very same thing. It was an atrocious thought to have but it was also the plain and simple truth.
"Who knows why these people do what they do?" Charles refused to bristle at this, rather used to it from her. It would prove far more valuable to furtively observe Mrs. Hughes and make sure the housekeeper wasn't too tired. Perhaps there was a way to get her inside and away from Mrs. Levinson?
"Can we help, Carson?"
Stepping into earshot, Elsie quietly listened as Lady Edith offered Mr. Carson assistance. The aristocrat might have meant well, but the man was hardly likely to allow that.
Much like she suspected, he made no move to accept such assistance. Instead, the butler opted for a traitorous route:
"Shall we let Mrs. Hughes get inside, m'lady?" Don't go bringing me into this! But he looked to be determined to carry on with his machinations,"And then she can make a plan."
The housekeeper thought she would have to muster up strength in order to force a smile. But with Mrs. Levinson taking Mr. Carson by the arm, there was no need to force anything: his look of horror had her dipping her head in amusement, politeness softening into genuine mirth.
Little did she know, Charles Carson was experiencing little politeness and absolutely no amusement.
"Mrs. Hughes," When on earth had the American reached for him? Taking hold of his arm as though he were some sort of railing? "I didn't know you were running this house, too."
"Not as a rule, madame." Elsie had to be more tired than she thought: it was difficult keeping a straight face with the ridiculous scene before her. "But Mrs. Butte is ill, so I'm to take charge until she's better."
"Well, I'm glad of that. At least one person under this roof knows what on earth is going on."
It was all too easy for Charles to ignore that last remark. But as the man was pulled into the house, he couldn't help but spare a glance in the direction of the housekeeper. It was solely in an effort to confirm how tired she was, nothing more.
"You're glad to see her, too –– aren't you, Carson?"
He had been irritated before.
Now he was offended.
As for the colleagues he'd unwittingly abandoned, well, that was another story. Once Elsie beckoned Daisy to join her, she couldn't help but hold onto the image of Mr. Carson being dragged up the steps. It was remarkably funny, his look of outrage over Mrs. Levinson's actions. Not to mention the look of horror he'd repeatedly tossed at her, as though she could change a thing.
Then again, surely he would have been more horrified by the housekeeper dragging him about than the American?
Now that was a funny thought! Taking Mr. Carson by the arm and dragging him somewhere else altogether. Perhaps back onto the train headed to Downton, so they could be done with this ordeal?
So distracted by that outlandish thought was she, Elsie didn't realise she'd left Daisy behind. The assistant cook was fending off the American valet, looking to be thoroughly uninterested in continuing the lad's conversation. Well, whether Daisy wanted to chat or not, they had other things to attend to, "Daisy is our assistant cook. And I am Mrs. Hughes, the housekeeper."
That the lad had extended his hand as a greeting only revealed his naiveté, inadvertently informing the woman how little Mr. Slade knew of their world.
"Do you know London?" Now that was a silly question! If the boy was offering his hand out to everyone he met, was it very likely he knew London?
"Oh, I've never crossed the Atlantic before." Much like Elsie suspected.
Mind, just because she thought the valet a touch ignorant and audacious, there was no need to be rude, "Well, I hope you enjoy yourself."
With nothing more to be said, it was time to investigate the downstairs and make that plan Mr. Carson had previously alluded to. As it happened, the more she inspected the more she was certain of the truth: they were more likely to catch a shooting star than they were a break.
But at least they were in good company.
Which, speaking of, it looked like Beryl had finally caught up with them, "Do I hear the sound of salvation?"
"Salvation or chaos? I've just met Mrs. Levinson on the steps –– she's here without a maid."
"What happened to the last one?" What do you think happened?
It seemed the American valet was more than happy to explain this curiosity, "She had her head bitten off one time too many."
Yes, well, here was hoping Miss Baxter would be up to the task. And before the younger woman could slip away, "Miss Baxter, could you go up and settle Mrs. Levinson in?"
"I don't mind looking after her, but she and her Ladyship will have to make allowances." A bold comment, if not understandable.
"I don't think 'making allowances' is what Mrs. Levinson is famous for." And since when was Mr. Slade allowed to make that sort of comment? It wasn't as though he was the one who had to settle Mrs. Levinson in.
Speaking of settling in, she ought to be getting on with things. But Mr. Carson wasn't in sight and she was much more tired than she realised. So, yes, she would be taking her time getting on with it. And, no, that didn't bother her in the least.
Studying the crowd before her, quietly noting Beryl's comments about this evening, Elsie took pleasure in greeting a familiar face, "Hello, Mr. Moseley! I hope life's treating you well."
The tired man gave a slight shrug, "Half the time there's nothing to do and then it's all hands to the pump. But I don't mind that."
Her smile broadened at that, once again amused. Mr. Moseley may not always enjoy the work that had to be done, but then again who did? And at least he managed to adapt to the circumstances –– unlike those persnickety butlers that were determined to be exacting in every way.
Though, speaking of Mr. Carson only brought back that amusing image from before, the scene with Mrs. Levinson. Of course, she couldn't allow that to distract her for too long. Contrary to what Mr. Moseley said, there was always something for her to do. And so she settled into the needs of Grantham House, toiling away for quite some time.
That is, she toiled until it struck her she had yet to confirm the butler had made it out of Mrs. Levinson's clutches. Unscathed, that is. She'd no doubt the man could escape the American's presence. The real question was how offended he'd become, given the woman's inevitable comments.
Chuckling at the thought, Elsie approached a room she didn't mind but she didn't particularly care for. It was a room that got the job done, true enough. But it was proof they were far from home. Because, no matter what it was called, it wasn't really Mr. Carson's pantry.
And that made all the difference.
"Am I glad to see you." Of that she had no doubt. As for herself, well, she was still recovering from the day's journey. Mind, it was nice to see him again, in spite of everything. "We've been struggling a bit without Mrs. Butte."
In other words, we're positively drowning –– please send help.
Then again, they might drown even with her help, what with a certain American in the house. "And will Mrs. Levinson's arrival make things simpler, do you think?"
The man's double-take told her everything. That he had more to say was the only thing that surprised her, "As a matter of fact, I'd value your opinion,"
Oh? She followed him into the room easily enough, wondering how Mrs. Levinson's arrival connected to needing her opinion. Was there a decision to be made about how long the woman was to stay?
Jokes aside, she was genuinely intrigued. Mr. Carson rarely asked for opinions on anything. So, no matter what it was, this was quite the occasion.
"Her Ladyship has asked me to organise a treat for the staff after the ball, as a thank-you." That was not at all what she expected! That the butler had even agreed to such a thing made it even more shocking.
"Well, that's very kind."
Charles quite agreed. More than that, he thought this was the best time to run through some of his thoughts on the subject, "They've started opening the new Science Museum in South Kensington –– even though it's not finished –– and I can't decide between that and a visit to see the Crystal Palace on its new site at Sydenham Hill!"
"I see." Mr. Carson was so pleased with himself for his ideas, she didn't know what to say. Obviously, both the Science Museum and the Crystal Palace meant a great deal to the man. But bringing the staff there for an outing? "And this is a fun day as a thank-you, is it?"
Charles couldn't help falter a bit, wondering if Mrs. Hughes was in need of more rest than he anticipated. Surely she realised the delights that came with traversing through such marvelous exhibits? "Yes. I think it's very generous."
Elsie wouldn't dispute that claim, not one bit, "So do I! Very generous, indeed."
Rather, it was Mr. Carson's ideas that she wanted to dispute. But she wasn't in the mood to do any such thing, not until she had to. "Maybe you should try your ideas on the staff. See what they––"
The woman paused, her mind doing its best to find an appropriate phrase. It took longer than she liked, but she eventually settled on, "Jump at."
'Jump at'? Charles didn't frown but he felt something was wrong. Normally, Mrs. Hughes was eager to affirm or critique his suggestions, if not give him some suggestions of her own. But to have him try his thoughts out on the staff?
Well, it was a sound idea, even if it wasn't what he preferred. Perhaps it was the exhibits themselves that prohibited the housekeeper from approving. Maybe there was something else that had caught her eye, something even worthier than the Science Museum or the Crystal Palace.
It seemed he would have to do an investigation of his own, see what other exhibits could be worthy of such a woman.
_._
It was bad enough when she was simply tired. Now she had to contend with this wretched ticket of all things?
But Elsie didn't want to bother Anna with this business about Mr. Bates. And she certainly did not want to ask the valet about it. No, there was only one person she could approach in this matter.
Sadly, in order to do that, she would require information from a source she never wanted to involve.
At a suitable time, the woman snuck away from her tasks and waited outside his door. With a brief knock, "I don't suppose you've a minute?"
"I do. Is something wrong?"
"No!" Pressing down on her fear, relieved he didn't notice her slip in composure, "Nothing's wrong. I only had a question for Lady Mary." But it was better to brief than to garner his curiosity. "Do you know where she is?"
"'Lady Mary'?" Yes, it would be a shock, wouldn't it? The one person in the house who'd never been a fan of the eldest daughter was now seeking the woman out? "I can't be sure, but I believe I saw her last in the library."
"Well, I doubt she's alone." This was a tactless line of interrogation, putting unspoken questions into comments. Certainly not her best attempt at subtlety. Of course, Mr. Carson was the last person she wanted involved in this. Perhaps in her eagerness to avoid his involvement she was failing to be discreet.
"No, no –– there was no one with her, last time I checked."
"So, she's in the library and she's on her own. You're sure?" That was another slip: confirming the information he'd already given her. Why was it difficult to remain indifferent with the man?
Charles couldn't pretend to know everything that went on in the mind of his housekeeper, but he did know when she was nervous. But what did her nerves have to do with Lady Mary? "What do you want with her?"
"Nothing that would interest you." Well, he was interested, whether she liked it or not––
Now what? Yet another interruption? Who was knocking at the door this time?
"Mr. Carson, I wonder––" The American valet seemed to have finally taken notice of Mrs. Hughes' presence. "I'm sorry."
"Oh, don't mind me. I'm just leaving." Although the housekeeper seemed enthused to get out, Charles remained bothered. Still, whatever household affair required the attention of Lady Mary, he knew there was a cure for the housekeeper's nerves: a respite.
Preferably in the form of the perfect outing.
The butler watched Mrs. Hughes walk away, distracted. But any distraction was once again set to the side, this time thanks to young Mr. Levinson shutting the door and acting as though he were the butler.
Displeased with such a flagrant disregard for his authority, Charles bemusedly stared the lad down before intoning, "Can I help?"
"I wanted to ask you, man-to-man," Oh, he did not like the sound of this. "If anything's going on between Daisy and the fella working at The Ritz."
There was a great deal Charles took issue with when it came to that statement. Namely, "'Going on'?"
When Mr. Levinson remained surprisingly hushed, the butler added scornfully, "Nothing 'goes on' in any house where I'm in authority!"
"Of course not! I didn't mean that."
Of course you didn't! Because the American knew that to do so would be to make a ghastly mistake. Nevertheless, "What did you mean?"
Was the young man looking at him so strangely? Was this how they communicated over there, in America? Queer stares and horribly salacious statements? He would never understand the lot of them.
"I think you know," The valet confessed, that queer look only growing.
"The 'fella'," A disgusting word he had no intention of giving breath to ever again, "Is called Alfred. There is no romance between him and Daisy. He has left our employ. I doubt they'll meet in the future."
Charles could only pray that would be the end of this unnerving conversation.
If only that were meant to be: "Because I wouldn't like to push in where I'm not wanted."
Well, perhaps, this could be the end of this absurdly unnerving conversation. Fortunately, it appeared that young Mr. Levinson was able to understand the hint and soon left the butler to his own devices.
Oh, truly, what were they coming to? The thought of anything "going on" was an atrocious implication –– that the whippersnapper dared to inquire about the matter had him in shock.
If only that was the end of such topic...
_._
It was the day of the Americans' picnic. He'd been near the kitchens, keeping an eye on the proceedings, listening to Mrs. Patmore and Mrs. Hughes talk of the Albert Memorial. Briefly, the butler sifted through the idea of choosing a spot such for their own outing. But though the memorial itself was the essence of grandeur, what else was there to do but sit about? Hardly conducive for a productive day off.
No, it would have to be something else.
Well, that would have to be sorted out later. As for now, he wanted to commend the cook on her generosity, "It's very good of you to spare her."
"It won't kill me," Mrs. Patmore informed him, looking off in the direction of her assistant. "She deserves a bit of luck."
But his attention had been snatched up by the valet. He didn't like the way the lad kept looking after Daisy, "I'm afraid that boy's interest in her may not be entirely proper."
"Mr. Carson, all women need someone to show a bit of interest every now then," Do they really? But it looked like the cook had more to say, "Preferably in a manner that's not entirely proper."
What a ghastly premise to suggest! He was sure that couldn't be true. Mrs. Hughes, after all, would never want anyone to show interest, especially not in an improper fashion!
Then again, his hastening steps were accompanied by rampant recollection, there was that one time. Wherein a red-faced farmer nearly stole their housekeeper away. He hadn't liked any of it, having thought the stranger entirely undeserving of Mrs. Hughes. But she had been taken with the proposal, enough so she didn't tell the suitor off at once.
But there couldn't possibly be anything to the cook's words–– could there?
Well, this was not the time to contemplate such matters. Rather, he would prefer to spend his time crafting a suitable plan when it came to trying his ideas out on the staff. With any luck, he would be able to see what the housekeeper had been trying to get at, and then he would confirm which exhibit was best suited for the day.
_._
Here it was. Mr. Carson was finally going to try his ideas out on the staff.
"I'm glad you're all here."
God help them all.
This might have been the only time she regretted giving him advice. But here they were and there he was, much as he promised.
She could only hope this would be brief.
"I've something I want to tell you."
Elsie remained standing, feeling as though she were watching a train derail from the tracks. Only, the passengers were going to be oblivious up until the moment of impact.
"Her Ladyship wants to give us all a day out while we're in the South," Naturally, everyone perked up at that, unaware of what Mr. Carson meant. "And I've been thinking a visit to the Science Museum!"
This was it. The jarring screech that came with a train departing from its rails.
"Or perhaps a trip to see where they've put the Crystal Palace!"
Oh, dear. His enthusiasm was endearing, there was no mistaking that. It was very Charles Carson to beam at the thought of touring such historical sites. And though she inwardly cringed at the mess before them, she couldn't help but find the man's exuberance to be sweet, if not a little misguided when it came to the staff's interests.
"Then there's the Royal Institution." Dear Lord.Elsie could only clasp her hands together and will a quick end to this conversation. But, no, there wasn't an end in sight. Only the beginning of a very painful, very awkward atmosphere. "Or the Natural History Museum."
At this rate, the staff's expressions would become fossilised and serve as an exhibit for said museum. When this disastrous atmosphere carried on mercilessly, Elsie found herself desperately wondering: why couldn't Mr. Carson understand what was being asked of him? Surely the butler could read the faces before him?
But the daft man was determined to carry on with his efforts, "Of course, Westminster Abbey is always a good day out."
Truth be told, it wasn't that Charles couldn't read the faces before him.
It was that he didn't want to.
Rather, what he wanted to do was unearth the reason why Mrs. Hughes had avoiding him on this subject.
The man kept his eye on the staff, mostly. But he was watching her throughout it all, and his heart sank the more uncomfortable she looked. Did nothing he mentioned excite her? Where was the support he desperately craved, the approval?
Then again, did she ever give her approval?
"Well, I'm sure we'll come up with something." So much for that. He really was quite the fool, wasn't he? "Erm, could I have that ice?"
Elsie felt she really should ought to something to the butler. Go after the man and reassure him that there was merit in his thoughts, but perhaps he ought to consider different venues. Maybe getting out of London, for instance?
But before she could do a thing, Anna was calling after her and stopping the housekeeper in her tracks. Because they obviously couldn't have a moment to themselves, now could they?
No, the next time she would get a chance to properly talk about the outing, it would be quite a time later and it was only due to a chance encounter. Well, not so much "chance". She had been waiting for an opportunity to speak, having heard his voice from the kitchens.
"So, from tomorrow, it's full speed ahead for the ball." Something Mr. Carson looked far too enthralled about. Didn't the man realise how much work that would mean for them? "Could we tell them about the outing, to keep their spirits up? Have you had any further thoughts?"
At the thought of the outing, Charles' own spirits couldn't help but sink. But, well, he had to try something! Surely he could come up with one suggestion? One that would bring approval if not delight? "Well, I was wondering if we might go for something a little more obvious. Madame Tussauds, perhaps."
At least the man's trying? Even if it was liable to end poorly, at least he gave some effort?
Charles continued, deciding the best course of action was to simply go for it and continue to elaborate, "There are interesting historical figures to be seen there and not just sensational ones!"
"Are there?"
Why did she look so defeated? Wasn't this the kind of impropriety Mrs. Patmore spoke of? He was only trying to take the cook's advice into consideration, having gotten a prompt reminder of it when he'd collected the ice. Personally, Charles was rather proud of himself for thinking of that particular museum. It wouldn't have occurred to him normally, but he'd really wracked his brain on this one.
Only it was to no real avail, judging from her face.
Well, he hadn't the time to try and figure out the outing. If nothing else, there was always... well, there really wasn't much else, was there?
_._
Mr. Carson meant well, he truly did. But at this rate, there would be no outing at all. And seeing as how it'd been nonstop work for them, the time for subtlety was coming to an end.
Which was why she'd snuck out the house, desperate to catch her breath if not some inspiration. At the time, there had only been a few precious minutes to loiter but she had to think of something and being outside always helped to calm her mind.
That was when she remembered. Becky's gift. It was an unprecedented suggestion, one that could only have been classified as deeply inappropriate. But she had already paid for the thing, and her sister would never notice if there was a hole in the paper.
Well, whatever else came of this, she was now pinning Becky's gift to the butler's board and praying he got the message. After all, surely a postcard would be enough?
Only, something was off. Although the postcard was meticulously pinned and no one had spotted her, she couldn't walk away just yet –– not when the man might never notice it! How could she expect him to pay it a whiff of attention if it was at her height?
No, she needed the image to be at his height.
Pleased with herself for recognising this, thanking the Lord Mr. Carson hadn't caught her in the act, Elsie stepped out of the room and back into the fray. With any luck, he would get the hint.
Unbeknownst to her, the moment Charles saw a new postcard pinned to his board, he knew at once what it meant. Truth be told, a sigh of consolation had been released at the sight.
Because this, if nothing else, was her approval.
It was tucked away in an image but it was there all right. And he for one was tired of taking it for granted. He would take this subtle suggestion over that horrible moment with the staff any day, and–– and–– and did she really want them to spend their day by the seaside?
The full impacts of her unspoken suggestion hit the man at once, bells going off in his mind. But then his thoughts conjured up an image of them at the beach. And followed it with another. And another. And suddenly he found he didn't mind the suggestion at all.
Nevertheless, Charles would need some time before it could be brought up. He was willing to officially inform her the outing was set for Thursday, but he didn't want to seem too improper when it came to announcing the new plan! Of course, he would have to mention this new plan to her Ladyship.
And if Lady Grantham had qualms about the matter, that would be the end of that.
_._
Needless to say, Lady Grantham had no objections whatsoever.
In fact, if the butler were to guess, she almost seemed relieved by the suggestion.
_._
In spite of her weariness, the housekeeper needed to know if he'd gotten the hint. She was determined to remain patient through the night so she could step through the creaks of daylight and politely wring the truth out of him.
That is, she'd felt this way until one glimpse at the man revealed he was practically asleep.
Elsie hid her smile at the sight, wondering what it would look like if Mr. Carson had fallen asleep. Would his uniform be that immaculate? Would the cup and saucer have wound up in his lap or would the items have been placed thoughtfully to the side?
Heavens, if she kept winding down that path, she would find it to make for some rather awkward conversation! It was better to relay the facts and get on with her real mission, "Breakfast is done, but there are still quite a few in the ballroom."
"No, go to bed," Elsie was thrown off by how soft his tone was. It wasn't like the man to talk so gently. "Take the others with you. I'll keep James and give him the rest of the morning off."
That was all well and done, but there was one concern she had: "What about you?"
"It won't be the first time I've gone without sleep."
Well, the woman didn't like it. But she knew there was to be no arguing about it.
Unfortunately, there was still her real reason for visiting. And much as she wanted to leave this particular matter alone –– he really did look done in –– it needed to be discussed, "We ought to have the outing settled if we're going on Thursday."
"Oh," Elsie had half a mind to tell him to stay in that chair, as though that would change anything. "I feel a little guilty about that."
Oh?
"I tried out my ideas on them and I couldn't fire up any enthusiasm," She closed her eyes, uninterested in revealing how obvious that was. That wouldn't do them any good, now would it? "So I wonder if we should just settle for a day by the sea."
What? Had it really worked? Was she simply dreaming?
Mind, if she were dreaming about Mr. Carson and the beach–– "I know it's a defeat, but what do you think?"
Glancing at the ground, determined to leave such outrageous thoughts well-behind, Elsie listened with as much impartiality as she could pretend, letting the man continue: "We could take the Pullman from Victoria. A day return ticket costs 12 shillings each. It's a lot, but her Ladyship's happy to pay."
"Well," If she didn't tease him, she would give her thoughts away. Naturally, that meant a tease was in order. "Thank heaven you got there in the end."
Turning on her heel, Elsie gave a chuckle at the thought of it all. It had to be the lack of sleep that had her giddy at the thought of a day at sea, but it was true: she felt hints of giddiness and delight and pride that he got there in the end.
And as almost always, something remained unbeknownst to her.
In this instance, that would be the fact that Charles was just as pleased.
Yes, he would have preferred to show her –– and by her, he meant the staff –– the finer qualities of London, but he preferred to go where she would be happy. And if Elsie was giving him the first true smile he'd seen in weeks, then the answer was clear: a day at sea would make her quite, quite happy.
And as luck had it, it made him happy, too.
To the point wherein he hadn't realised he'd referred to the woman by her Christian name.
_._
Victoria Station was an utter mess of chatter and smoke and God knows what else, and he really had to stop beaming. Somehow, Mrs. Hughes made practically everything tolerable.
As for the woman in question: at the thought of sitting so closely on the train with Mr. Carson, she had to look away so as to keep from blushing. It felt different to sit together this time, to unintentionally bump into one another every time the compartment was jolted by the tracks.
And to think, they would have to sit in such proximity for a decent amount of time. Brighton wasn't exactly around the corner, even if it was much closer than the Yorkshire county. And despite the fairly straightforward path the train took, there were still twists and turns and that caused one to brush up against the other, unexpectedly so.
All in all, the trip would have been fairly enjoyable.
If only a certain cook wasn't nearby, poking and prodding the butler with comments of all sorts…
_._
"I take it you'll be keeping a close watch over everyone, eh?"
Charles looked up. This had been a relatively smooth journey, to the point where he could truthfully claim to be in a good mood. However, any mood of his was instantly soured by Mrs. Patmore's tone, "I haven't decided what I'll be doing, actually."
"Really?" The redhead tutted away, teasingly so, "You mean you've not planned out every minute? No lists of things to be done? No timetable of events?"
"Mrs. Patmore,"
But the housekeeper needn't intercede on his behalf. He could do that easily enough, "If you must know, I'm content to let the day take me wherever it wants to go."
So long as they made it back on the train with plenty of time, he had no qualms about setting aside any real expectations.
"Who're you and what've you done with Mr. Carson?"
It seemed Mrs. Patmore wasn't the only one who was agog. The difference was, Mrs. Hughes's reaction was far more elegant, "In that case, might I make a suggestion, Mr. Carson?"
Always. "You may."
The housekeeper smiled, looking away for a moment. But then blue eyes fell on him once more and he already knew he would be saying yes.
"I can't remember the last time I had the chance to, but I hear it's lovely to take a stroll by the sea. I don't suppose you'd care to join me?"
Charles blinked in disbelief, images of all sorts coming to mind. Whatever he'd conjured up when this seaside visit first came to mind, it paled to the thoughts that came to him now.
"Mrs. Hughes," The cook was interrupting before he had a chance to speak, "I don't think our Mr. Carson's much for––"
"I would." He recognised clarification would be needed, clearing his throat and promptly hurrying on, "Care to join you, that is."
The train jolted once more at that, turning with the tracks, wholly unaware it disrupted what had been proving to be yet another beautiful moment.
"Well then," It seemed Elsie was at a loss for words, pleasantly so.
"Right." Despite the hesitant quality that crept into his tone, Charles was pleased he'd managed to shock her. In fact, now that he'd done as such, it was easy to take another chance, "Was a stroll all you had in mind, Mrs. Hughes?"
"What on earth do you mean?"
"Well, given how hot it is outside," Awkwardness threatened to broach the silence and ruin his suggestion, prompting the man to hasten, "Perhaps a dip in the water might be preferable?"
Mrs. Hughes may have blinked at him in disbelief but she wasn't rejecting his proposa–– proposit–– suggestion.
"Well," Her incredulity was a mite heavier than normal but it still wasn't a rejection. "I doubt I could keep it to only 'a dip'. If you go near the water, you might as well go in the water."
"I'm not so sure about that," He wasn't ashamed to admit his opinion. Yet Charles couldn't deny, "But I might be willing to try it."
"Really?" Had he really considered her previous remark to be incredulous? Well, this wasn't incredulity so much as a mixture of curiosity and amazement. Her eyes had widened in that enchanting way they did when he managed to surprise her. A nice surprise, that is. Not that you daft man shock he continually garnered over the years.
Perhaps this was what the cook had been talking of, when she spoke of improper interest? But this was hardly improper. Merely a lovely agreement amongst friends.
"Really." Charles affirmed, meaning it.
Beryl Patmore stared at the butler's acquiescence and the housekeeper's emerging blush, confused beyond belief. She then inwardly groaned at the heated silence that proceeded to befall the pair, turning back to Daisy. The assistant cook was far too busy staring out the window to notice, thank God.
Yes, well, when she'd given her advice to Mr. Carson, she never anticipated this!
_._
Eventually, the train pulled into the appropriate station and it was time to walk. Road gave way to grass before ebbing into sand. She needed time to manage her things and gave him a reminder while she was at it –– you can't go ruining those shoes of yours! You'll have to take them off. I ought to know, what with my things–– and that was when he realised he would need all the time in the world to become comfortable with this.
Talking about it on the train was one thing. Removing his shoes, rolling up his trousers –– that was quite different. That was he drifted away from her, needing at least a few minutes to think this through. Then again, it wasn't as though she was asking him to dive into the sea. He would keep to the edge of the waves, let the refreshing water tickle him, and she would do as she pleased.
Speaking of, where had she wandered off?
In order to regain his composure, the butler had taken it upon himself to patrol the beach. Nothing more than making sure everyone was accounted for, that everyone was relatively well-behaved, so on and so forth. But because of his impromptu patrol, he'd lost sight of Mrs. Hughes.
Then again, perhaps she'd gone ahead without him?
Turning in the direction of the sea, Charles found the answer at once.
Dear God––
The man felt as though he were miles away by the time he spotted her. Tentatively tiptoeing toward the sodden sand and everything else that came with it, he recognised the truth at once. Enchanting was a poor description to use in this instance.
Mrs. Hughes was postively enthralling.
Her light blue top had been lovely from the start, having complemented her eyes back on the train. Here, it glowed divinely in the face of the sun. Even with her back to him, he could see every trace of contentment in her. The way she effortlessly hitched up charcoal-coloured skirts, how she eagerly beckoned the waves closer, going so far as to bask in the water. There was no stress in the lines sketched before him, nothing that revealed the weariness she'd been carrying all this time.
Right. Clearly, he'd made the right choice when it came to the outing.
Now, it was a matter of enjoying that choice for himself –– that is, if he could manage everything that came with such enjoyment.
Fortunately, he was still willing to try to do just that.
Water lapped up against the shore, coaxing the man to come closer. The wind snatched up her satisfaction, a breeze carrying every tantalising sound to him. He ought to have called her back, insist she stay on the beach and leave the sea alone.
As it was, he had half a mind to keep to the plan and join her.
Unwittingly, he begins to do just that.
Elsie hears his sigh of contentment long before she realises he has indeed accompanied her to the sea as promised. Disbelief widens into curiosity before she notices he's not stepping in any further. Surely Mr. Carson doesn't expect to leave it at that? Didn't he admit he was willing to try more?
Suppose he's decided otherwise? It wouldn't surprise her. Only, if that were the case, the man would have retreated by now. As it is, he's still standing in the water and he looks to be in no mood to part from the sea just yet. And so Elsie can only suppose he does want to be here, much like he implied on the train.
In which case there's only one thing for it:
"Come on," Should she be that bold, that commanding? Mind, when does she ever see the man with his trousers rolled up like that? And no shoes in sight? That has to prove he willingly ventured out here and that he intends to go further than this. "I dare ye."
"But if I get my trousers wet––"
This, of all the excuses? "If you get your trousers wet, we'll dry them!"
She knows that won't convince him. Still, it does work to keep him here, by the water. And if nothing else it is amusing to watch him look taken aback by her challenging remark.
Elsie rather doubts he's used to being challenged, not like this.
Of course, he remains as stubborn as ever: "Suppose I fall over?"
Really, now! "Suppose a bomb goes off? Suppose we're hit by a falling star?" There are far too many suppositions we could make, far too many excuses we could give. He's already gotten this far, there's no need to scamper off now.
Besides, Mr. Carson doesn't need to face this alone, not if he doesn't want to.
"You can hold my hand. Then we'll both go in together."
A smile takes hold of Elsie, the woman touched by the very thought of it. Going in together. She knows it's only as friends and colleagues. The thought of it being more than that never crosses her mind. But she rather likes the sound of it.
And for some strange reason, Mr. Carson agrees.
"I think I will hold your hand," He fends off seaweed and she doesn't bother to bite away her smile, tickled by the sounds that come with him trudging through the waters––
Something brushes up against Charles, something cold and entirely worthy of the shudder that passed through him. He resists the urge to glare into the waters, reminding himself that there is a bonus for braving such murky depths: her company. And given how calming it is to think of that, it is only natural to distractedly admit, "It'll make me feel a bit steady."
Well, now, "You can always hold my hand if you need to feel steady."
What? The words are simple and exquisite and he cannot believe she dares to deliver them up so plainly. They echo in his mind, determined to find their place in reality. Had Mrs. Hughes really said–– what did she mean by that?
What did she want to mean by that?
It had been spoken so casually, given so freely he can't help but wonder.
Well, whatever she meant, he can't assume a thing. In fact, the best thing for it is to stop these thoughts at once. He won't walk away, not now. But he simply cannot allow the housekeeper to speak like that, not when he doesn't understand it.
"I don't know how,"
Elsie looks up, so very pleased he hasn't run off.
"But you've managed to sound a little risqué."
A grin widens into a proper chuckle, shamelessly so. Mr. Carson may be lecturing her about the supposedly impertinent nature of such a remark, but he's still here. She likes to think that means something.
"And if I did?"
Her hand rises, the promise remaining. If he wants to hold her hand, in any capacity, she's happy to offer it.
Charles may be stunned by how easily she holds out her hand, but Elsie is floored by his taking it so unquestioningly. It gives him that beautiful steadiness and her a stunning confidence, not to mention a sense of ease neither has ever quite experienced.
"We're getting on, Mr. Carson, you and I," Were they really? He has to suppose they are. He also has to suppose that, if this is what getting on means for them, he's all for it. "We can afford to live a little."
Suddenly, these watery depths seem kinder, smoother. He can't pretend to be good at this, but they're managing. And soon she's staring up at him and he's finally beginning to smile. The waves that were brushing up against his ankle now surpass that height, happily rising in encouragement as the couple carry on––
Laughter pierces the air as the pair go down minutes into their journey. A stubborn wave has gleefully tripped him, pushing the man downwards, bringing her with him. It's not a flurry, it's a blizzard of cold water and bits of sand and God knows what else. Trousers and skirts will have to be dried, among other things. Any further wading will have to be swapped in favour of a return to shore, much to the pair's chagrin.
And in spite of it all hands remain stuck together for as long as they can possibly manage it.
Author's Note: Heh, the original plan was to pour all the fluff on the ending and leave it at that. And then I found myself so tickled with the idea of them falling into the water, I just had to keep it in!
And because this is hands down one of my favorite episodes, you're darn skippy I'm including a bonus scene to –– dare I say –– tide us over until we get to the next piece (can you tell how happy I am to finally be posting this?).
'Till next time!
Bonus Scene / Heads Up: Is it really a bonus scene if we don't take liberties?
It takes hours for the pair to feel anything close to dry after their tumble into the sea but they manage. Granted, their clothes have been uncomfortable for hours on end. Not to mention, the soft snickers from certain snide staff members have only just begun to subside. But decorum is regained. Mostly.
Either way, everyone's back on the train and in relatively decent condition.
In other words? All members of staff are finally asleep, winded from the day's adventure and–– hold on a moment. There's someone who's stirring.
Charles Carson cannot deny it has been quite the day. Nothing like he planned, but then again he had done his best not to plan. And, really, it turned into such a treat he doesn't mind, not really.
Smiling at the thought of the day's transpirations, the man unconsciously inclines in his seat, distracted. It feels particularly pleasant to let his head tilt in the direction toward the left. There's the smell of the sea emanating inches away, a captivating smell accompanied by a distinctly enjoyable warmth. These seats must have absorbed a great deal of sun today, it wasn't like this earlier––
Loosening strands of hair tickle his cheek, eyes leaping into action at once. He remains absolutely still, his heartbeat quickening as he comprehends it is not the seat that contains such warmth.
Rather, it is his companion.
It seems Mrs. Hughes has fallen asleep on him. Entirely accidental, he can only assume. Whatever the case, if he wants to maintain propriety, he should remove himself immediately and wake the woman up.
Charles stays still. He knows the housekeeper has to be tired if she wound up in such a position. After all, she'd been rushed down to London with no break in sight. Surely she deserves a rest? And though the day started relatively free of grief –– barring Mrs. Patmore's comments, that is –– their tumble had to have worn the woman out.
Right. He'll figure out a way to safely untangle himself later. For now, they have a quarter and a half of an hour before they're back in London. Staying still for another thirty minutes or so guarantees that their Scottish Dragon gets some well-deserved rest. And given everyone else's lack of consciousness, there really is no scandal in remaining here. He can even keep a quiet watch on things, to make sure all remains well.
That is what the man tells himself as he relaxes in his seat. He won't lean too heavily on her, but given her state of unconsciousness she has complete permission to lean on him.
There's only one problem: sleep reclaims him in seconds.
So much for keeping an eye on things.
Both butler and housekeeper become oblivious to the world of propriety and standards. Instead, they are distracted by varying flickers of dreams –– images of a sun-kissed day at the beach and everything that comes with it.
Forty-five minutes dwindle down. First to thirty-seven, soon to thirty-three. Neither stirs. The train continues to bring them closer and closer to Victoria Station. Twenty-eight minutes. Twenty-five. Twenty-two. No sign of consciousness. Nothing will break their delightful slumber, not even–– wait another second, that may not be entirely accurate.
It looks like help –– or trouble, depending on your perspective –– looks to be on the way.
For you see, Beryl Patmore does not care to be woken up before she's ready. But the train does jolt rather fiercely at that part of the tracks and so she is woken up. Worst still, she straightens up at once in that classic manner that can only be described as, If we've missed the bloody station, I––
She blinks, seeing how they still have ways to go. Oh, and she's just now remembering Victoria Station is the last station in this particular trip. Which makes it impossible for them to miss their stop.
Naturally, the woman has to complain. If she's going to be woken up for no reason, it only makes sense to critique the situation. It makes even more sense for her to turn in the direction of the only two people who would understand her frustration and proceed to gape at the scene before her.
A colourful expression quietly escapes at the sight. The butler and housekeeper slouched in their seats with no distance between them? If she isn't careful, she'll think they'll have wound up like this on purpose. A likely story, indeed. The most straitlaced people in the house, intentionally pressed against each as though they were a married couple? Right. And Lord Grantham has just named her heir to the title.
This is an amusing thought, one that brings a mild snort. She then remembers that Thomas Barrow isn't all that far away and amusement ceases. If that oily man catches one look of this accidental impropriety, they're all in for it.
It takes a few breathless seconds to realise Thomas Barrow has also fallen asleep. With that realisation comes more amusement: the man makes for an endearing sight, going so far as to drool a little in his sleep, quite possibly snoring.
Right then. Now that she knows there will be no trouble-making for the next twenty minutes, Beryl goes back to silently cackling at her superiors and committing this sight to memory. She knows she'll have to wake them up soon and that she'll somehow have to do that delicately, but for now she is going to enjoy herself, plain and simple.
Truth be told, waking them up turned out to be a funny affair. It was easy enough to know that the housekeeper was to be woken up first. What was funny about it is that Elsie gave the strangest glance upon waking up. It wasn't the look of someone who was surprised by the circumstances. Really, if Beryl was honest, it were almost as though Elsie looked disappointed. As though she were fully aware of what happened and hadn't wanted it to end.
As for Mr. Carson, well, he also had a funny reaction. When the housekeeper slipped back and away from him, he unconsciously followed her movements, leaning in her direction. It were as though he was determined to keep her company, not quite waking up for another minute. And then when he did wake up, there was no bluster about impropriety. Just an awkward bemusement and an apology about his indiscretion –– a guilt their housekeeper couldn't accept, the woman dismissing the moment and changing the subject at once.
But the strangest part was, in the cook's opinion, how they kept looking at one another –– when they thought it was safe to do so, that is. When they thought nobody was watching, they'd carry a strange look in the direction of the other. These were not the looks that colleagues gave one another, not even friends. No, if she were to guess, she'd peg these looks as those of––
Well, she probably shouldn't say what she thought. Besides, it wouldn't help matters.
She could only hope, whatever's going on between them, it sorted itself out sooner rather than later.