Chapter Five:

Decisions

Argyll

As the sun rises, the fog burns off the countryside revealing pockets of lush green carpet and moss skirting the stony and craggy hillside. There is a smattering of snow left on the tops of the mountains in the distance. Elsie remembers her father often mused that the white-capped mountains were like old men with their silver-white locks and matching beards - majestic and to be honored. Their white mantles, nature's testament to a lifetime of endurance. And out in the distance where the snow has melted and the mountains give way to the valley below, livestock graze peacefully. The cottage is quiet except for the rustling of a couple of rabbits in the bramble out in the garden and the clinking together of cup and saucer as Elsie places sets the one atop the other. It is almost foreign to Elsie now, this quiet scene of domestic tranquility. She is so accustomed to cacophony of noise that pervades Parkside's servant's hall from sunup to the late evening hours, that the subtle quiet surrounding this little Scottish cottage almost startles her. She wonders if she could get accustomed to a quiet life once again.

She looks in on Becky, who thankfully, is finally resting peacefully after having had a restless night filled with terrorizing dreams punctuated with piercing cries for her mother. Though Elsie lay close beside her and rubbed a soothing had over her back and spoke comforting words against her hair, Becky didn't settle until the wee hours of the morning. Becky never told her sister the nature of her dreams and it doesn't matter, not really. Elsie won't ask because to mention it will only serve to upset her again and what purpose will that serve?

Brodie, curled at Becky's feet, lifts his chin, looks up to Elsie, and yawns. For a moment canine and human regard one another and while Elsie is still annoyed that the dog requires food off their sparsely laid table, she can't begrudge him too much. He's been a fine companion to Becky and provided Elsie with a distraction for her sister when one is needed; a game of fetch between companions while Elsie tidies the cottage or needs time to cry without worrying that she will upset her sister's fragile nerves. Brodie yawns again and stretches the length of his body before curling back against Becky, who reflexively throws an arm across him and snuggles him close. As she pulls the door closed behind her, Elsie is at least thankful that Becky is peaceful even if momentarily because peace is emotion that she, herself, doesn't feel at all.

Downton - The Workhouse

They've all stood well clear of him. He knows that he's been gruff, demanding, even unreasonable lately. Everyone has caught the sharp edge of his tongue including Beryl Patmore, who gives as good as she gets, but she is giving him a wide berth because she realizes that his anger is borne of grief. He sees the look of pity in her eyes when he chastises her for allowing the inmates under her supervision to serve dinner either before or after the clock precisely strikes six o'clock. Charles almost wishes that she would argue back. That with all the force of her fiery temper, Beryl Patmore would tear a strip off him because then it would give him the excuse to rage full force. Then, he could roar like a lion and rightly so. And who could blame him because she would have been insubordinate; arguing with a superior is inexcusable after all. What's more Beryl is thick-skinned and understands him, she'd get over it. They've known one another since Downton Grammar and if he has a friend in anyone, it's the cook.

But every time he lashes out his conscience strikes him and he is instantly ashamed. Beryl hasn't deserved to bear the brunt of his temper, the working out of his grief.

Mrs. Crawley has suggested that he should take some time for himself, perhaps a respite to seaside. After all, he hasn't just lost a wife, but a child too, and no one would begrudge him a time of reflection and recovery after the funeral. She's offered suggestions – a quiet cottage by the seaside - because that is what she does, offer solutions to problems. And he knows that she means well, but being by himself is the last thing he needs. Even above the busy noise of the workhouse, all he can hear are his thoughts of what might have been. What should have been. The specter of guilt ringing in his ears.

Argyll – The cottage

It's been a while since Elsie has been down on her knees scrubbing floors shoving the stiff bristles of a brush into every crack and crevice to loosen the grime and dirt that's accumulated there. After all, she's paid her dues and it is quite beneath her to take on such tasks now at Parkside Hall unless she's instructing one of the younger maids. Elsie's job now has more to do with the making of beds, dusting of trinkets, and overseeing of those who work beneath her. As of late, Mrs. Corbin has turned over much of the stillroom duties to her which she must admit has been a pleasant change of pace.

Elsie cannot deny that she desperately wants the job of Housekeeper. She's worked hard for the promotion, followed the rules, and done what was both expected and asked of her. She's been dependable, trustworthy, and circumspect in her demeanor. She's mastered the art of being professionally dispassionate, while being a friend to those both in the village and the servants hall. Early on, she understood that there were rules to the way of life that she has chosen and if she wished to advance, she'd do well to follow them. And follow them she has. The tenets of her Calvinist upbringing has seen to that what with it's emphasis on hard work and individual responsibility.

With every back and forth stroke, Elsie pushes the brush across the floor until she realizes that she isn't making much progress and has been scrubbing the same spot for a good ten minutes while she's been lost in thought. On her hands and knees, she stops and lifts her head to look around. From her vantage point, looking up from below, all she sees is a an aging and untidy cottage with dingy walls in need of a fresh coat of paint, furniture brought from the farm that has seen its better days, and a very bare store cupboard.

Shoulders sagging, Elsie's first instinct is to curl up and weep, but she's cried so very much that she hasn't any tears left to shed. Instead, she sets back to her work. She can do this type of work in her sleep and it's just as well because she's distracted by her own thoughts.

In everything that she's done Elsie has worked toward the position of housekeeper. But just as her goal is in her grasp, she feels it slipping through her fingertips. For so long now she has only borne responsibility for herself excepting the bit of money that she's sent home on occasion. But now Elsie is fully responsible for another human being and Becky isn't easy. She has always been 'a bit of a handful' as their granny used to say but since their mother's death Becky's outbursts have become more the norm than the exception and Elsie has borne then brunt of her temper. But she has also borne the agony of Becky's silence.

The doctor never told their parents exactly what condition afflicts Becky. There was a mention or two of 'childhood psychosis' whatever that meant and 'good Christian women' suggested that perhaps God was punishing David or Margaret Hughes for some deep sinful stain – "the sins of the father" – Elsie had heard the phrase more than once. How anyone could disparage David Hughes, a good and kind man, or dare to suggest that God had punished an innocent child because of her parent's sinfulness was beyond Elsie's comprehension. Still others had suggested that Becky's condition was simply God's will but then Elsie always bristled at that. The explanation seemed trite and trivializing. Though law defined her as simple, she was far from such a definition. The truth of the matter was that Becky Hughes was complex, a woman locked away in her own mind and the key yet to be found. Becky's obstinate nature could be challenging even under the best of circumstances.

"Mam didn't cook it this way and I'm not eating it!" Becky's declaration of her dissatisfaction with the plate of food that Elsie has placed in front of her is jarring, but not surprising. Elsie's nerves are raw, but she's determined not to lash out in frustration. She's made that mistake before and she doesn't wish to hurt Becky's feelings; she knows that her sister hasn't meant to be rude or demanding. The loss of their mother has been difficult for them both and Becky's emotional state is in tatters.

"Becky, I know that I don't cook things exactly as Mam did," Elsie replies quietly as she slices through the roast lamb and proceeds to place a piece on her sister's plate. "I've been in England a while now and I've learned to cook things a bit differently. I thought we might try it like this."

Becky crosses her arms over her chest and casts Elsie with a steely gaze.

"Becky, Mrs. Johnstone was kind enough to give us these chops from their lamb that was butchered so we must be thankful for that and not waste them." Elsie adds a spoonful of potatoes onto Becky's plate and then takes her seat. When she notices that Becky's not moved and that her expression hasn't changed, Elsie sighs deeply. "I know that you like mutton better, but that isn't an option. If you don't eat your supper, I'm afraid that you'll be hungry. We haven't anything else tonight," she adds kindly but firmly.

For the remainder of the meal the sisters sit in silence. Not a word is said as the sound of a knife and fork scraping against a plate is the only sound heard in the room. Becky has stood her ground and Elsie eats in silence.

The floors spotless and the cottage tidied, Elsie, Becky, and Brodie make their way to Rab's cottage just the other side of the wood and down beyond the stream. Becky's not spoken this morning except for a few words to the dog; she pushed the porridge around in her bowl, taking only a few bites. Elsie's coaxing feel on deaf ears; Becky was having none of it. She'd removed herself from the table and waited outside with Brodie until Elsie was ready to depart for Rab's place.

"Elsie, you know that I would take Becky if I could but …"

"Uncle Rab, I'm not asking that," Elsie assures him quietly. "But I do have to make some decisions and I am not sure how well Becky will adjust."

"Elsie you will always do what's best for your sister. You always have done. If you're talking of moving away then that's what you must do." Their family has always been one for practicality over sentiment, but she's an overwhelming sense of sentimentality as of late. Her uncle is her mother's last living sibling, the others moved away or long-since dead. And though she writes to them, Elsie's are cousins scattered to the winds. Perhaps Rab is right; maybe there is nothing to hold her to Argyll other than place of birth and familiarity.

"But you'll be all alone, perhaps you could come with us?"

"Nay, Elsie," he replies softly as he looks down and digs his the toe of his boot in the dirt. "I'm an old man now. I'm too rooted here. I'll be fine but you," he says turning to look at her as he takes her hand, "you've a life ahead of you and that life isn't here anymore. Sell the cottage and go back to what you know, who you know, your friends." Tears sting Elsie's eyes at her uncle's sincerity.

"You know that I will have lost my place as Head Housemaid." The words are painful to say, but she might as well put voice to them because they are the truth and Elsie's never been one to shy away from it.

"You don't think …"

"No," she replies in a whisper. "In service, there is no room for housemaids with family. That I am sure of." She looks out at the fields in front of them for a moment, dry and barren in winter before she gathers herself. "It may be different, difficult even, but, we will make a go of it Uncle Rab. We will."

Downtown - The Workhouse

Beryl has had enough of his belligerence, of his bossiness, and his contrariness. If Charles Carson thinks that he frightens her with all of his blustering, then he's right, but not in the way that he thinks or perhaps intends. If his goals was to incite her, then it's a lost cause. She'll not argue back; she will not allow her temper which is on a hair-trigger even on the best of days to fire in his direction. At least not now. Perhaps under different conditions if what he complained about was really her work. But it isn't and she knows it. He's like a wounded animal, caught in a trap, lashing out at those trying to free it. But after tonight she's coddling him no more.

"Miss Patmore, I don't know why dinner service is late, but it is to begin precisely at six o'clock," Charles shouts into the kitchen, his pocket watch drawn and in hand.

"Mr. Carson, it is only ten minutes past the hour and as I informed you earlier, we had a problem with the stove heating properly, but we are ready to begin serving now." The cook tries her best to remain calm, but the dark countenance of her friend and boss is unchanged as he snaps closed his watch replacing it in his waistcoat pocket. Her answer has not satisfied him.

"If we deviate from the schedule in one thing, then the entire schedule falls apart! I don't know why we set them if we don't follow them!"

"I understand that but …."

" … in the Workhouse, Mrs. Patmore, if we allow things to slip then the inmates will be running the asylum." As the words tumble from his lips, a look of horror passes over his face. Miss Patmore is slack-jawed and the female inmates whose job it is to assist her stand in stunned silence. They've never seen Mr. Carson so impassioned, so unsympathetic. He's never really thought of himself as a warden or the workhouse as a prison, but a place of respite for those who society no longer wants. Sometimes he feels like he belongs to them himself.

Without excusing himself, Charles retreats to his quarters. Closing the doors behind him, he sinks into his chair and scrubs his hands through his hands until his head rests in his hands.

Before long, he hears two solid knocks at the door and he's loathe to answer it. He's not in the mood to deal with yet another problem and if Beryl is the other side of the door, he's not in the frame of mind to deal with her either. But the knocking persists and he's no choice but to answer.

He finds the cook staring at him eye to eye and her expression tells him that she's not going anywhere. Wordlessly, he stands aside and allows her in, closing the door behind her. He motions for her to sit and she takes the chair beside his.

"First let me say that I am not here to row with you." Charles breathes a sight of relief at these words because he isn't sure if he has the strength for one of Beryl's frontal assaults. She was always more clever with words than he anyway. "But I am here to say that I've smoothed over your … well, the women understand that you are grieving. Charlie, as someone who's known you since you were a lad, you need to get away from this place for a while. Go to the seaside. To your parents. Somewhere. I know Mrs. Crawley suggested it and you weren't keen, but none of us can go on like this. I think it will do you some good."

"I don't know if I should." The protest is weak. He knows that she is right. He's made everyone miserable.

"You're due some time. Take it. And while you're gone, if you like, I can take care of her things so that when you get back you can have a fresh start without all of these reminders."

"As long as I am here there will be reminders, Beryl." Simply removing some personal effects will not remove Sarah from the place. She's more a part of the place than he.

"I know."

Charles takes a long moment to consider. There is more weighing on his mind than he's told anyone. Than he can tell Beryl.

"Perhaps a I should take few days away," he finally says.

A/N: As you see this chapter is arranged differently than the other chapters and for a reason. I am trying not to include Author's Notes so that the story reads as a novel might. Thank you for your reviews. I haven't gotten to quite everyone yet, but will today. Thank you for reading. The story will begin to deviate from the Tumblr version next chapter. Reviews are appreciated. And please excuse any errors. X