Chapter 11
5 Double Leg Walk
He's sat at the small kitchen table of the downstairs flat at 5 Double Leg Walk and he nervously fidgets with the cornered edge of his waistcoat. He wonders if he should even be here; if he should be away from the workhouse during the evening hours when new inmates arrive, and supper is served to all assembled. An hour of controlled chaos and Charles is the ringmaster; only tonight he's left Mr. Jones in charge and he's taking supper with Miss Hughes.
His mind runs through the possibility of all the things that could go wrong. But nothing will because his staff is well-trained. He's spent the better part of his eight years as Master insuring that everything runs like a well-oiled machine.
Charles wonders if he should be here in the bosom of another woman's home, sitting at her kitchen table, when his wife's not been dead yet a year. There is something intimate about the notion of a supper invitation at the home of unmarried woman even though she's simply being kind; repaying a debt she's said.
He wonders if people will think it scandalous. If they will think him simply a man in need who's gone to get his leg over with the likes of the pretty Scotswoman.
But Elsie has a spotless reputation. She'd never suggest anything to compromise either of their reputations, even if seeing her bustle about and fussing over their supper makes him feel warm and his chest a little tight.
And it's not as if they are alone. Elsie's sister and the little Moorsum boy are about, but then that dredges up certain feelings in his breast as well. Notions of family and home; of what life outside the workhouse could be.
Charles knows that any reservations about being in Elsie Hughes's kitchen have more to do with the conflicting emotions in swirling in his chest. Miss Hughes is a kind hostess and there's nothing false about her. He's keenly aware of those women who've tried to get their hooks into him; like hawks circling wounded prey. He's seen it happen to men twice his age. Women throwing themselves at the grieving widower hoping to catch a husband.
Elsie isn't one of those women. She's kept their friendship all business, all above board. She's never once tossed him coy glances from beneath batting eyelashes or imposed herself into a situation. No. She's only leant an empathetic ear, a kind smile, and a comforting presence on the seat next to him on Sundays.
"I hope you like shepherd's pie, Mr. Carson." Her voice carrying across the cottage interrupts his thoughts and her shy smile causes his cheeks to warm. She's bustling about the place with practical efficiency, all grace and poise, and he wonders why she's stuck in such a humble place with hardly more than two pennies to rub together from the looks of it. Surely, a woman of such style and grace, and carriage, deserves better than this spartan downstairs flat.
Charles smiles and answers in the affirmative as he watches her gather plates and cups and cutlery for the table. She sets about each place setting with elegant hands and sure movements. He knows that she was a head housemaid once and clearly she likes a well-turned out table.
"Won't your sister and young Robbie be joining us?" Charles asks when he notices that she's set the table for two instead of four.
"When they finish with their picture," Elsie answers softly glancing to the chair situated by the window where Robbie sits in Becky's lap as they doodle on a piece of paper. "Becky's particular that the picture must be completed before she can do anything else." She laughs gently and a soft fondness fills her eyes.
She's not told Charles much except that Becky is special. That she's not quite like others her age and that she needs care. She hasn't told him of the tantrums and then the hours of silence. Of the crying and rocking. She's not told him that Becky's fascinated with cows and butterflies and can tell you all you'd ever care to know about each. She's not told him that for as long as one of them lives, the other will be attached because who is there to help bear this? She feels guilty every time the word burden comes to mind because Becky didn't ask for this and Elsie is all she has. They are all each other has. She hasn't told him these things because her heart is wrapped up in a hard shell where Becky's concerned. She values her friendship with Mr. Carson, but some secrets are to great to share.
He's very appreciative of her efforts and he's told her so in no uncertain terms.
"This shepherd's pie is the best I've had Miss Hughes, but don't tell my mother," Charles grins. Elsie thinks that she hears a little hum of contentment as he pushes in another bite.
"Or Mrs. Patmore!" He supplies, remembering the cook's delicate ego. Both he and Elsie burst into laughter and she draws her hands to her mouth to stifle a fit of giggles.
"I'll not breathe a word Mr. Carson," she assures him. Charles wipes a tear from his eye and for a moment Elsie's dismayed.
"A tear of laughter Miss Hughes," he assures her. "A tear of laughter. I'd forgotten that I could laugh. Thank you for that."
He's telling her of his parents and his life growing up as the groom's son at the Abbey. She feels a bit guilty for not telling him much about herself but she's always been guarded, she's had to be, a woman in service after all. Though Elsie has friends and acquaintances, it does no good to get especially close to anyone never knowing how long you might stay in the employ of a big house. And then there's always Becky. She's had to be protective of that situation, of her. People are so unkind to those who are different even if they don't especially mean to be. No one needs to know all of your secrets.
She studies Charles, his movements, and his words. She wonders how a man of such well-mannered elegance came to be master of the local workhouse. She wonders how he ended up the manager of the last place on earth people want to be. Be he's not mentioned the workhouse tonight, nor his wife and the little boy that died. Instead he's talked of his boyhood, of a well-loved life on the local country estate.
"So you never thought of entering service then?" It's an impertinence, but she's curious to know how this man who loves the country life found himself cooped up behind the brick and mortar of the workhouse on the outskirts of the village.
He stops talking and his brow knits together.
"Mr. Carson, I shouldn't have …"
"No," Charles replies clapping his hands on his knees, "it's perfectly all right Miss Hughes. I suppose one might wonder why when so many try to stay out of the workhouse, I stay in." There's a gentle tease to his voice and Elsie breathes easier.
"Like many lads, I dreamt of being a famous cricketer and I was on my way until one day I suffered an injury. I came home, tail tucked between my legs, and I needed a job. I was too embarrassed to inquire at the Abbey. Everyone thought I'd one day take over for my father and we'll, I'd made it clear that a life in the stables wasn't for me."
"But we all say things when we're young, surely."
He hums thoughtfully, purses his lips, and then considers.
"I suppose we do," he agrees. And you Miss Hughes. You were destined for certain things."
"Perhaps," she replies quietly before glancing over to Becky. "But life alters things doesn't it Mr. Carson?"
"That it does Miss Hughes," he answers. "And what is the point of living if we don't let life alter us?"
What indeed, she thinks as she considers the man sitting at her kitchen table. What indeed?
tbc…