Conversations with the Man Upstairs. Chapter 6—Pacing and Perplexed

A/N: Most of the italicised dialogue in quotation marks is from the S5 Ep 9 Christmas Special. Internal thoughts are also italicised, so I hope it does not get too confusing.

I have conflated some character events and the timing of certain actions. Dialogue is often doctored to suit my needs. For example, I think I have Baxter take some of Mrs Hughes lines in the early dialogue here as Mrs Hughes needs to be out of the room. Carson/Hughes dialogues are the main things I have adjusted to suit my particular Chelsie Headcanon.

* Asterix denotes character traits/concepts explored in other BorneToFlow fictions. Mostly from The Acquisition of Memories honeymoon fiction.

I should also put in my 'JF owns it Disclaimer.' — Yep…that was it. BTF

oOOo

Time: The same late November Sunday morning, 1925— back at the Abbey after the church service.

Back downstairs, Carson is all business once again. His distress and confusion about the morning's events have been stuffed inside his day time waistcoat and tails, which replaced his Sunday Best regular suit coat when he returned from church. The half-Windsor knot of his black tie feels…restricting. But that is likely for the best as he tries so valiantly to hold himself together as he strides into the servants' hall.

"What on Earth's going on here?! What happened to the light duties recommended to everyone today?...and Shouldn't you be in the gun-room?" he snips out at Mr Barrow.

Carson has never been much enamoured of guns. It is not for lack of knowledge of their upkeep, for he spent many years as the 6th Earl's, and now the current Earl's valet, and he is far from against their use for the humane euthanising of domestic livestock. Nor is he against hunting per se—especially for food, and even the full performance and spectacle of the fox hunts makes him feel proud of Downton and her part in the greatness of England. He just dislikes the suddenness of a gun's purpose—the terribly shocking inability to ever take any of it back once the trigger is squeezed and the missile has been launched. On our dining table, of all places!—And on a Sunday!

Mr Barrow looks purposefully down the open double-barrel towards him and Carson cannot help but feel the overwhelming reflex to lean away, but he fights it—valiantly—never wanting to appear at all timid in that man's beady silver eyes.

"Mr Jackson's got the underkeeper with him. I didn't want to be in their way." Barrow informs Mr Carson, as if he is always seeking to make other's lives more convenient.

"You're in OUR way." Carson snaps back. You smarmy little git, he finishes silently.

"It won't take long," Mr Bates intercedes. "I would prefer to keep myself busy if I can't be organising to go to see Mrs Bates tomorrow." And this smarmy git seems to want to tag and pester me rather than leave me be…He'll be trying to curry His Lordship's favour for even more of my job this week, that much is sure, Bates broods. Bates had been hoping for a bit of breathing space after church, for spending too long in the vestry fielding disapproving side-glances and sympathy for Anna's plight was not his idea of a pleasant way to spend the morning. "And besides, I'm glad of the chance to check it's in shape before they go."

"I don't need checking. I'm to load for His Lordship, which you never can."

Bloody squabbling children, Carson thinks peevishly. As he curbs his intense desire to clip Barrow about the ear as if he were still a snivelling and whining hall boy from a former century. Hmmf…the 1890s…the Golden Age.

"Mr Barrow's father was a shooting man." Miss Baxter offers in an innate attempt to smooth out the wrinkles in the atmosphere.

"Killing sparrows by the gasworks is not the same as shooting grouse at Brancaster Castle! Carson huffs out imperiously as he turns on his heel to seek sanctuary in his pantry for a moment before putting up appearances at the grand front entrance, ready for when the family's returns from the village. If he were free of a thousand prying eyes today, he would probably stomp in there like a petulant child. Sometimes being the constantly gruff disciplinarian can be so terribly tedious.

"Blimey! What's crawled up his nose this morning?"

"Tho-mas." Miss Baxter tusks him with a small smile tickling the corners of her mouth. The sparrow-like woman never likes to stand in opposition to anyone, and she is diligently feeling her careful way forward with Mr Barrow since his illness. He was always such a cheeky lad. Then she turns her attention to Mr Bates. "It must have been hard to miss your visit."

"Lady Mary wanted to go before the Moorlands trip. They only allow one visitor at a time, unless there's a special reason."

"It may help for them to see the family thinks her innocent. The sacrifice could be worth it."

"I'd cut my arm off if I thought it would do any good."

"I don't think that'd be sensible." Mr Barrow offers with precise casualness as he purposefully cocks the break-action of the shotgun barrel back into place and lifts the stock to his shoulder to check the sight is plumb. "We can't have you wobbly at both ends."

Miss Baxter knows she shouldn't laugh at such a misfortune, but she does have to turn away lest she offends Mr Bates with her thinly veiled smirk. Cheeky lad, Thomas. Thomas' slick side glance catches it and recognition flickers briefly in his heart—of the true pleasure of sharing a moment of friendly humour, over and above those old demons of excess pride, envy…and even lust for victory over another that Thomas was actually seeking pleasure in again with that particular barb he threw at Bates. Perhaps there is…another way.

Bates, ex-jailbird and attentive valet that he is, does not miss a trick, and were he one capable of rolling his eyes, he'd have done so. However, he cannot even summon a brooding glower to spike at Thomas for all of the jabs he has sent his way this morning. Besides, there is a shift of sorts in the oily git. And indeed, Bates does recognise more clearly that something has unsettled their august leader today. But quite frankly, at the moment he just has far bigger grouse to shoot than worry about Thomas' petty games, nor Mr Carson's latest outrage.

oOOo

Far from being a day where he envisioned some pockets of time being available to calmly discuss different property options for his combined retirement plans with Mr Hughes, Charles spends an interminable day trapped between two worlds— and quite frankly, he wants nothing to do with either one of them at the moment. Downstairs, the staff are alternately bickering or running to and fro far more than he wanted for this supposed day of rest. He knows there will be plenty of time to sort the last of the packing on tomorrow for Tuesday departure for Moorlands, provided everyone hops to it well enough. Whilst he knows he should be grateful for having such a diligent staff who want to stay on top of things, Carson really would have preferred to have some moments of quietude in the servants' hall today. Maybe by dinnertime, they will lay off a bit…especially Thomas. Blast his stupid one-upmanship with Bates!…AND running Andrew about as if the lad will collapse into a heap of utter ineptitude as soon as the 'glorious' Under Butler ships out. Urgh…I can't even use an excuse to hide in the cellar today…wines are sorted for tonight and tomorrow…mid-week deliveries recorded, stacked away…

Carson thought that serving upstairs would offer some respite. Typically, the family are not very demanding on a Sunday and he can usually attend to their self-served sideboard luncheon, afternoon tea and even dinner with little conscious thought on his part being required. But today, he feels buffeted about, and to be perfectly frank, just a tad miffed, by the seemingly endless stream of petty demands from the upstairs family. Most of the Crawleys are lazing about in the main library after luncheon, playing with the children for the afternoon, and reminiscing—which is all very fine and well, except that they seem to always be asking Carson whether he remembers this or that inanity about whether the ladies of the house 'ever did that' like Miss Sybbie or Master George or little Miss Marigold are doing, back when they were little. On any other day, Carson would happily oblige them with what are normally quite fond memories for him, but he really would prefer to be quietly standing and serving afternoon tea and thinking about the only lady in the house that truly concerns him.

And then, when he is downstairs, he seems totally unable to even cross paths with the lady in question. Mrs Hughes took a tray in her sitting room for lunch, and he suspects she may have grabbed a quick forty winks on her sitting room settee, given how exhausted she appeared in church today. And then, despite her assurances that she would slow her own staff down, Madge has been only too eager to please and cement her place in the hierarchy of maids and so she has been diligently seeing to the tasks Mrs Hughes set her with the gallery rooms, and then wanting Mrs Hughes up and about there to double-check all is in order. And then for some obscure reason, Mrs Hughes made a trip down to the laundry room, even though the girls only come in from the village on alternate weekdays since the end of the war when it is only the family at home. She made some mutterings about helping Miss Baxter finalise some cocktail dresses for the ladies about to go away…Which, I suppose with Anna away, there is a heavy load for Miss Baxter to arrange…as Mrs Hughes pointed out earlier. He wonders why Mrs Hughes even bothered agreeing with him that it should be a slow day downstairs if it really was not possible on her side of things.

By the end of the early dinner service, which was indeed a pedestrian affair, where Carson did have ample time to dwell upon how this very odd day, he just found himself feeling decidedly…peevish. After some final queries from His Lordship that all is well in hand for the trip away—all repetitive, inane and quite unnecessary— Carson leaves Andrew to clear the brandy and cigars from the smoking room and to attend to the brief drawing-room requirements before the family moves up for an early night. Gurgh!... If ANYONE had bothered to listen to me today—and just…stopped…TALKING!— I could have at least strung some fishing flies together!* Humph! Carson pushes wearily through the green baize door to trudge, or rather, almost stomp with sloppy ankles and heavy feet down the stairs. He hopes and prays that he might at least see Mrs Hughes by his side for their light Sunday supper tonight, even if neither of them is in much of a mood to talk.

oOOo

7.00pm

Sadly, Mr Carson's mood is not lifted any further by the presence of Mrs Hughes at his right hand at the staff's dinner. He watches her carefully with a series of not too lengthy side glances as they eat their thick barley and ham hock soup. She is quiet, and truly, it does suit his mood better at the moment, but still…it is not like her to be so…still…no spark… He barely holds in a heavy sigh as he hears Thomas make some glib remark that would be better left at the back door with his foul old coffee tin of cigarette butt-ends than said at the dinner table. Not even a glare? An eye roll, Mrs Hughes? …Hurrgh…can't be bothered with it all myself, truth be told… Even though he senses Barrow eyeing him curiously for not taking his bait. He struggles to keep his shoulders and back straight as he stares disconsolately at the dregs in his bowl and sees Mrs Hughes toying around the edges of her soup plate watching the liquid drizzle off the back of her spoon. They seem to heave their shoulders in unison and no doubt the staff must think that nothing they can do today can ever truly please their leaders. But, they are letting conversation flow more freely than usual around the table and so most of the staff finally start to settle into a relaxing couple of hours before they go up to bed. Mr Carson and Mrs Hughes then dutifully tuck back into the remains of their first course, for neither one of them was ever brought up to waste the food good Lord sets before them.

When Daisy comes in with Lily to clear the soup dishes and serve the mashed potato and trout fried fishcakes Mrs Hughes decides to make her excuses.

"Daisy, has Mrs Patmore already gone up?"

"Yes, Mrs Hughes. She took a tray up with her."

"Good. Good…Mr Carson, I will also excuse myself, it will be a busy day tomorrow, and I find that I am not particularly hungry after that soup." Mr Carson just raises a querying eyebrow but does not really expect any further detail from Mrs Hughes in front of all of the staff. "Daisy, supper was lovely, thank you, but please serve my portion to Daniel and Roland if they are still hungry."

"Oh, they're always hungry Mrs Hughes. Mrs Patmore says all hall boys have hollow legs" Daisy replies with amused affection directed down the table towards the newly beaming young lads. Daisy sees her younger self just starting out at the abbey in the two and she does enjoy sneaking extra tasters and treats to them whenever she can—and Mrs Patmore is not looking—for she never had any younger siblings of her own to be looking out for.

"I'm sure they do." Mrs Hughes replies with a slight smile as she begins to rise. It is most unusual that she would leave the table before Mr Carson himself finishes and rises to dismiss all the staff, and she does not miss the consternation brewing on his stern brow and thinly drawn lips. But he rises as any gentleman should do to see a lady off from a table, and with a great ruckus of shuffling, everyone at the table follows suit. "Please excuse me, everyone. Girls, I suggest that you don't spend too long up tonight playing at games and the like. There is still much to do in the morning before the family leaves. I will say goodnight to you all. Goodnight Mr Carson."

"Goodnight, Mrs Hughes." They all chorus in unison, but her ears are trained, above all else, to hear the rumblings of deep concern in Mr Carson's salutation.

Mr Carson finds he has lost all appetite and he would dearly love to leave the table as well, but he must not cause gossip below stairs. Thomas could oversee the rest of the dinner, but he has been champing at the bit for more of his own head than is good for anyone, so Carson sits again and forces himself to affect a calm demeanour and plough diligently though a favourite meal of his that he really no longer feels like—the patties of the upstairs family's leftover Trout à la Meuniére and Potatoes Dauphinoise from dinner last night just seem to stick in his throat like a painful fishbone.

oOOo

7:45pm

It is a blessed relief when Andrew finally comes down from the drawing-room and informs Mr Carson that the family are retiring for the evening. As Bates and Baxter scurry off to see to the evening dressings, Carson goes to find some peace and solitude by pacing the lower floors checking every window and every door is safely locked for the night. He takes his time, as he does still want for the staff to be rewarded for their diligence and to have some leisure time this Sunday evening, and he knows they relax more into their games if he is not hovering nearby. The fact that Mrs Hughes will not be within earshot of them in her sitting room, as one of them normally is of a night like this, just does not even register as a possible issue in his mind. He has far bigger fish to fry—investment property options; a rapidly approaching retirement age (and a long overdue one, at that); and, Mrs Hughes are the ingredients currently making an unseemly mish-mash inside his head right now. As each room is checked over he zig-zags in a strange, silent and clicking step gavotte to switch off all the wall sconce lights and finally the main chandeliers, systematically plunging each section of the house into darkness as he makes his way back to the green baize door. Sadly, his clarity of mind only seems to follow the same pattern he dances across the Abbey and he merely succeeds in dragging the darkness downstairs with him, and all of its unsteadiness rests heavy in his heart.

oOOo

8:30pm

The sounds of laughter and light conversation drift up from the servant's hall as many of the staff gather about the table to play at cards or catch up on the sporting news or the like. He feels so very detached from it all. It has been so very many years since he joined in the kind of comradery that the understaff can enjoy with one another—if they have a mind to. It is not until he spies a soft light emanating from the base of Mrs Hughes' sitting room door that he feels a shocking pang through his heart for just how much he has missed his own easy connection and comradery with Mrs Hughes today. He knew he was uncomfortable about something, and today has definitely been a day where he has felt that they have not been in agreement; and yet, Charles still cannot work out what on Earth it is they are out of alignment about. But what is she still doing up and about? Still, Charles is not so surprised that she would diligently keep an ear out for the staffs' leisure time if she realised that he had gone upstairs to lock up before she finished straightening her desk one last time before she went up to the attics.

It is only when he spots the pile of prospectuses on his desk that the grinding cogs of the day finally clunk into place and he makes a swift decision. He takes Mrs Patmore's advice, if for no other reason than a fear of getting brained by the copper-pot come morning if he does not take the opportunity presented to him of Mrs Hughes still being awake and available in her sitting room.

After his customary quick tap at her door, he consciously stills his reeling nerves and enters.

"Ah, Mrs Hughes…I am glad I caught you still up." The house files neatly tucked under his arm, he gestures upwards with the decanter and wine glasses in his opposite hand, "They didn't finish this— tomorrow's menu won't warrant it, and what with them away on Tuesday,…I thought we might… It's a favourite of mine."

He eyes her closely, still picking up an overall weariness in her demeanour, even though she smiles lightly and gestures unnecessarily for him to make himself comfortable at her side table. He is quick with pouring the wine, for if he dallies he knows he may not be as direct with his thoughts tonight as he has resolved to be.

"Mmm, it's very nice."

Carson watches Mrs Hughes demurely sip the wine again and sighs internally at the pleasure Mrs Hughes takes in his offering. He always finds her response to his wine selections immensely gratifying. At least I can get something right today. He mentally shakes his head clear of a plethora of half-hazed thoughts. "Well…yes…You won't go far wrong with a Margaux. Mmm." Then he firmly taps his fingers twice on the prospectus files he has placed on her side of the table.

"These four are real contenders. Three bedrooms each, but I think you'll like this one with four good-sized bedrooms, a bathroom already installed—and a room off the kitchen for a maid," he points to the uppermost file where Mrs Hughes is toying absently at the cover. "It's not too dear, but I think it's very good value. I've done the sums and I believe we should put an offer in on the house on Brounker Road."

So this is the way it is to be—four bedrooms. Her heart clenches painfully around the thought. "Before I agree to be part of it?"

"I hope you will agree— To our future as property magnates." He straightens with pride at the thought of it…and more than a little happiness. If there were a word for how he feels about this whole retirement project with Mrs Hughes it would be most decidedly chuffed. As he tugs at the bottom of his waistcoat, he misses the repressed sigh and grim set line of Mrs Hughes lips.

Steeling herself with the harsh resolve she has managed to build up across the day, Mrs Hughes finally speaks. "Very well. I can see there's no escape, and I must tell the truth."

Carson's brow furrows immediately. "I've never caught you in a lie."

"No," She continues quietly, looking longingly at the house file under her fingertips, smoothing over the cover of the one for Brounker Road. Finally, she crosses her hands demurely in her lap and looks mournfully down at them as she tries to still the thudding of blood in her veins. "I don't lie,…but there are things I don't say…" She looks back up into his soft and concerned eyes, "…things I…cannot say…Mr Carson," tumbles out, willing him to understand her, but he just looks utterly confused. "I've allowed this folly to go on because… I don't know, really… because it was a nice idea." She has never fought so much for the right words in all of her life, and yet everything still seems to be coming out all wrong as she sees the moment that Mr Carson's breathing stops, and she knows that his heart will be next and that she will have caused it all. "And I would have liked to come in with you, I would have." Her eyes pour into him all of her thoughts and dreams that she so desperately wishes him to see—I still do! I still do! Can't you see! But he has looked down at his hands, where he sees the tremor of his pulse between his thumb and forefinger, the only outward signal that he keenly feeling as if a bullet has just been shot straight through his heart.

"But you won't," is all he can manage as his mind reels again and the ground shifts beneath his feet. He needs a steady hand—her steady hand—but that is being rapidly pulled away from him—out to sea.

"I won't, because…I can't," Mrs Hughes voice is barely containing the waver within it. "I don't know if I've ever told you that I have a sister."

"Of…of course,… by the sea in Lytham-St-Anne's," he blinks rapidly and tries to answer normally, but his throat is dry and that stuck fishbone feeling is back.

"That's right. Well,…my sister Becky and her husband David…they have always said I should come to them when…when I am ready to give all this away," she shrugs one shoulder and an eyebrow upwards at all of the weight she carries at the Abbey. "I can see my great nieces and nephews growing up…help in the shop front if needed…" she adds with limited conviction.

Carson breathes out audibly and asks tentatively "And so…you…will go to be with family." He realises he is hovering between a question and a sad statement of fact and so he forcibly shakes himself into a clearer frame as he gruffs out "As you should…it is right that you. ..should…" he falters again and trails off helplessly.

Mrs Hughes balks at his palpable misery, but soldiers on as best she can. "My choice is simple, Mr Carson: when I give up work I want to go where I know I will be cared for." Please God, hear me now, Charles, please! " I…I need to know that I will be with…people that I love…where I am…loved…" Her breathing would be audibly ragged at this admission if she weren't subsisting on such a shallow intake of air. She finishes quietly, shamefully, "I wish you very well with your house, Mr Carson - you've earned it. But…there is no place for me in the project…" It physically hurts her to say what she most fears will be true. She sees him visibly flinch at her words and prays to God that he will see through all of the plotting behind her actions tonight. It is a most paltry and underhanded way to fight for what she wants for both of them, but it is the only skill she really has to hand in this case. But it absolutely rips at her heart to see him so crestfallen and hollow— knowing that she treads not at all softly upon his dreams. "Now I've embarrassed you,' she finishes pathetically.

"Mmm?" He shakes himself out of his pained stupor to respond in the gentlemanly manner that he knows he should, although, in all truth, the pain is only growing inside his heart as it struggles to keep on beating as she rips herself so completely away from him. "I-I'm not embarrassed. I'm ashamed that I've chivvied and bullied you, when if I'd had any sensitivity at all…"

"No, don't say that."—God, Please Charles, don't fall on your sword now!—"I've enjoyed our little dream. I-I'm the one to blame for stringing you along."

"Oh, never."

She swallows heavily as she sees how easily he defends all of her actions, knows exactly what she is risking losing by pushing him away from her in the cruellest way possible right now, but she really can see no other way forward. "Well, as I say, I hope you buy it…I hope you're able to without me."

"I am, but…"

Mr Bates knocks urgently at the door and sticks his head into the room before Mrs Hughes can even think to grant him entry.

"I've had a telegram from Mr Murray. May I use your telephone, Mr Carson? He says it's bad news."

GODDAMNIT, BATES! YOU ARE NOT THE ONLY ONE WHOSE LIFE IS FALLING APART RIGHT NOW! Carson's mind screams out most uncharitably. But years of military precision in controlling his emotions in front of the staff see him swallow his rage in one full breath and he replies only with dutiful concern, "Oh, no. I'm sorry to hear that. Be my guest…let me know what is required when you are done" he finishes on a somewhat dull tone.

"Thank you, Mr Carson," Bates replies as he is already moving with a fast clip of his cane down towards the butler's pantry.

Carson rises stiffly from the little chair at Mrs Hughes side table, which, if truth be told, has always dug into his back. He is desperate to be away from the atmosphere of this room…He feels like he cannot breathe properly. "Mrs Hughes,…you ought to go up…I will wait for Mr Bates' news…I…I need some air…" And he turns and strides out of her sitting room towards the back door as Mrs Hughes hand flies to her mouth to stifle the noise of an uncontrollable sob.

He never leaves without wishing me a goodnight!

oOOo