A/N: This is my first Downton Abbey fic. I have this idea that won't leave me alone, so I'm trying it out. I have five small kids (including a new baby), and we're about to go on vacation, so I don't know how often I'll be updating. But I figured that sharing what I've got so far might motivate me. *fingers crossed

CHAPTER ONE

Elsie Hughes gazed blearily at the column of numbers in her ledger. She sighed and rubbed her eyes, feeling the niggling pain of a headache starting in her temples. She'd feared she'd develop a migraine today. She knew she shouldn't have stayed up so late talking and drinking sherry with Mr. Carson last night, but she just couldn't seem to help herself.

For many years, Elsie Hughes had prided herself on her self control. In her youth, she'd been as quick-tempered as she had been quick-witted...and quick to love. She'd learned, however, through painful experience, the value of temperance and self-control. She'd harnessed her temper and suppressed her naturally affectionate nature and earned herself a reputation for stern efficiency. Those under her charge would allow that she could be kind, but rarely did she allow anyone a glimpse of the warmth buried beneath her cold exterior.

Despite her determination to never let her emotions get the better of her, she had to admit to herself that a few of her charges had managed to burrow into her heart. Though she felt very motherly towards some of them, she rarely allowed those feelings to surface. Anna had been especially good at tricking her into displays of affection. And William.

The heartache of losing that sweet lad had slapped her right back into her protective shell. She'd retreated so far inward that she'd shown almost no compassion whatsoever to Ethel when she'd caught her out in her foolish mistake. She'd dismissed the girl summarily, with a coldness that had surprised even her.

She'd repented her hastiness when the girl had turned up pregnant. The lengths to which she had gone to make up for her lack of compassion had surprised everyone who'd learned to think of her as "the Scottish Dragon" or "Mary Queen of Scots" over the years.

And then there was Mr. Carson. She still didn't know how that man had pierced the walls guarding her heart. She could pinpoint the moment of realization: when she'd been considering Joe Burns' second proposal of marriage. She had been tempted. And, though she recognized that there were many contributing factors to her refusal (not the least of which were the decades of hard work and ambition she'd devoted to attaining her current status as housekeeper of a great house) the greatest reason was her sudden, blinding realization of her abiding love for Charles Carson.

Through years of working together, daily care, and service her feelings had evolved from collegial, to friendly, to loving. And it had happened so gradually, as Elizabeth Bennett had famously stated, that she'd hardly even noticed it.

The awareness of her love for him had not come as an altogether pleasant surprise. In fact, at times it had descended down the ladder of emotions to annoying, to frustrating, and even to downright painful. She hadn't been surprised by the pain. Her past had already taught her that to love was to hurt.

Pain was a teacher. And Elsie Hughes had been well and truly schooled.

And yet, despite that schooling, she couldn't seem to talk herself out of her love for Charles Carson. She'd resisted, and he'd prevailed, without even knowing that he was doing so...or so it seemed.

There were a few indications that his feelings for her ran more deeply than warm friendship and collegiality. As long as she lived, Elsie knew she'd never forget his joyful singing after hearing the news that she did not have cancer. In the wee small hours of the morning, when the pain of loving him was acute, the memory of his singing was a balm to her sore heart.

Her musings were interrupted by a tap on her sitting room door.

"Come in." She turned toward the door.

"Mrs. Hughes," Mr. Carson stood in the doorway. "Forgive the interruption, but Her Ladyship has asked me to inform you that the Marquess of Flintshire will be stopping here for tea this afternoon, and asks that you prepare a guest room, in case he should decide to stay."

At the sound of Lord Flintshire's name, Elsie flinched inwardly, but betrayed no outward sign of distress. She'd long-since trained herself to show no sign of the effect that the mention of his name had upon her.

"Very well, Mr. Carson. I'll see to it." she replied, keeping her voice flat and indifferent.

However, though she was well able to regulate her voice, she was unable to control her body's reaction, and her face suddenly grew pale.

Most people likely would not have noticed, but Charles Carson had long been attuned to every expression of her face and gesture of her body. She was, although unknowingly, the tenant of his heart.

"Mrs. Hughes," he took a step toward her, "are you quite well?"

Her eyes widened briefly, but then she nodded and managed a small smile. "Just a touch of the headache, Mr. Carson. I'll take a Beacham's powder and be right as rain in no time."

He nodded but continued to stare disconcertingly at her face.

"Well," she stood from her chair, "I must get on and see to that guest room." She slipped past him and hurried toward the stairway.

Charles Carson tried, and failed, not to let his eyes linger on the sway of her hips as she left.