Conversations with the Man Upstairs- Chapter 7—Demons and Goddesses of the Night
A/N: Some knowledge of my headcanon via my other stories (The Acquisition of Memories and Ephemera) is probably beneficial for understanding some items mentioned in this chapter.
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Date: Late at Night Sunday 29th November 1925
Charles Carson thrusts himself out of the back servants' entrance door and only narrowly stops himself from slamming the door shut behind him with all of his might as he marches away into the dark cold night.
"Come to join me have you, Mr Carson?" the smooth tendrils of a cold voice stall him in his tracks. The gravel crunches loudly as the settling frost cracks apart when he spins on his heel to face whatever the hell else has been sent to torment him today.
Barrow is standing like a jackal beneath the back porchlight—the backlighting obscuring his eyes in deep pools of blackness as he breathes out a billowing mist of comingled smoke and cold steam. Too hot with unnamed and unspeakable wrath to shiver internally, as instinct would dictate to most, Charles barely holds back his spinning momentum and insane desire to pull back and just smack that oily smirk right onto to the other side of the man's face.
"YOU!" he snarls out sharply. "Get back inside!"
Thomas stops short of saying the line that first springs to mind that perhaps Mr Carson should take care of his aging constitution out in this cold night air, but as he spies Mr Carson's fists quivering and clenched forcibly down by his thighs, he recognises all the signs of a cornered and caged and very angry animal. The man is a truly formidable and frightening force to behold right now in the chilling silence that hangs between them. Long schooled in self-preservation, Thomas knows better than to poke at him this time around. He grinds his cigarette butt end out in the gravel with movements timed just slowly enough to finger lightly at the hair-trigger that Mr Carson is currently functioning on without having him fully explode, for it would not do to let on that the big man actually scares Thomas right now, and more than just a little.
"Right you are, Mr Carson." He breathes the last of his lung full of cigarette smoke out, then he turns smoothly on his heel and slinks back inside. Cripes! What the bloody hell 'as got into him today?!
Carson huffs out several breaths of steam after the door closes behind Barrow, then he spins away again and stalks further out into the darkness.
Blind as to where he is headed Carson tramps away from the Abbey huffing and trying to dislodge the crushing weight that has taken up residence somewhere between his heart and his throat. The icy air is stinging his eyes to the point of watering and his lungs struggle to allow a full breath into his body, underdressed as he is in his full evening livery of white waistcoat, tie and tails. Prudence dictates that he finds some shelter soon, so in the tumult of his anguished mind he manages to at least direct himself towards the horse stables set back behind the Abbey, settled a little way down the main rise of where the house is situated.
The contrast of temperature between the outside darkness and the inner gloom and soft animal warmth of the stables is striking, making his eyes water even more heavily until he swipes at them with his French cuffs and feels his cold onyx studded cufflinks drawing harsh lines down his cheeks. The comforting smell of hay, the leather tack hanging about the walls and even the natural organic waste of the animals makes Carson's breath hitch with the memories of a time when he would run joyfully home from school to see his old Dad and to feed the horses under Frank Carson's care with crab-apple treats picked from the hedgerows, before he'd pitch in to help muck out stalls or the like. But that was over 50 years ago and there is no one here for him now.*
His breathing is slowing—deepening— and he can feel the set of his shoulders relaxing somewhat. Calming. He has always felt safe around the animals. Cloistered. And thank the Lord, tonight at least they will not pester him or answer back. He actively turns away from his fear of his own indescribable rage and decides to quietly approach one of the stalls, where an elegant tall midnight coloured beast's flanks twitch slightly and reflects back some of the dim moonlight filtering through the upper louvres of the grand old stable.
"Here Lass. It's all right. It all right" he murmurs in an instinctively low and rumbling voice to ensure that he does not startle the animal with his unexpected nighttime presence. He reaches towards her with a steady but cautious hand and lets her nuzzle into his open palm, but sadly he is completely unprepared for ehr on the crab apple front tonight. "That's a girl," he croons as he strokes beneath her baby soft chin and cautiously steps towards to her, knowing her to be one of the flightier characters in the stables at the moment. "That's a girl, Nyx. That's it, Beauty." She butts softly at his forehead with her soft muzzle and lifts her head away a little, allowing him to step in closer. His hand reaches up to run smoothly down her sleek neck as he keeps rumbling low comforting words into her ear. "You're all right…that's it girl…you've got the right idea, haven't you, now?…"
She snuffs and lightly stamps her front hooves as she adjusts to his proximity, whickering softly to let him know that he is welcome. She swings her great head again and nudges his own head to the side as she nibbles at his lapels, likely still sensing a treat might soon be at hand. Carson feels the warmth of her earthy breath seep under his stiffened collar. So very far away from any other comfort, he lifts his second hand up to grabs onto the animal's mane, clutching onto great handfuls of the coarse strands as his forehead hits her neck and her fur soaks up his thick and silent tears.
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"Hello?...Anyone there?"
Through bleary eyes, Carson sees the jaunting yellow glow of a storm lantern wavering across the whitewashed walls and quickly swipes at his eyes on his now dust blackened cuffs. He roughly clears his throat and quickly reaches inside his jacket for a handkerchief to properly wipe the horse grime and loose hairs from his face.
"Just me, Mr Grout,"** he calls out towards the light as he sees the head groom's age and labour bent shadow rounds through the side entrance to the big barn.
"Mr Carson?"
"Yes…I apologise if I startled you." Carson finishes composing himself and snuffles quietly into his handkerchief to clear his runny nose and the remains his cold and dusty grief. The poor light from the lantern will hopefully shield any other signs of his distress from Mr Grout.
"Takes a bit more'n a Butler to startle my old bones," the slightly younger man chuckles out as he approaches Nyx' stall and carefully hooks his lantern up and out of harm's way. And despite having to face yet another interruption, Carson decides to make the best of it, for he has always liked Philip Grout's quiet demeanour. The man never pries or asks after anything that is not his business. Talks only of the horses… Which Carson knows comes with the territory of being the very best and gentlest handlers of the estate's precious bloodstock. But Phillip also has a quiet and seldom spoken wisdom about him too. It settles Carson just by being able to stand with him for a while…and listen. Reminds me of Dad. "But I'll not say I'm not surprised to see y' 'ere…'specially at this late hour, Mr Carson," Mr Grout states matter-of-factly as he eyes the butler in his full livery up and down and can't help but feel it is all a bit odd— bit of a cold night to not have an overcoat, to say the least. That said, he is used to having Mr Carson pop his head in at the stables every now and again, especially when everyone is gearing up for a big hunt… the man knows a bit about it all…and Philip Grout was a very young lad himself when he first started work as a stable boy alongside Charles Carson, a few of years before Old Mr Carson died—'cept that he twern't so old when that all happened. Phil always looked up to both men, really—especially Frank Carson…the man sure knew his stuff.
"I suppose I just needed to get out of the house for a while."
"Well I don't blame y' fuhr thaht, " Mr Grouts accent drops into his heavier North Yorkshire lilt, when he knows he doesn't need to concentrate on how he sounds to any of the grand family from the big house. "Don't know how y'stand bein' about all them yabberin' folk all day long."
"Quite...I hope I didn't wake you,…or Mrs Grout...Did I?"
"No, no. Esther is well asleep. She's well used to me b'now and won't stir 'til I get back in tonight...or the mornin' if that comes first. I was coming in to check on one of our broodmares anyways—'bout t' foal, she is."
"That's a bit late in the season isn't it?"
"Aye, 'tis…but it's our old Jilly…I think 'twill be 'er last season. She came on a bit later last year and seems to be holding onto this one a little longer'n usual."
"Do you think she'll manage it?"
"Oh aye, she's an old hand at all this now…we've had some good steady working quarter horses out'f 'er over tha yerrs…but I'll be reck'ning on putting her out to pasture once this little un's weaned."
"And what about this one?" Charles turns back to the majestic black beast who has been snuffling intermittently about the back of his collar. He pets a gentle hand at the black filly's neck again.
"Oh, Aye. Lady Mary's favourite—Aren't y' Nyx m'gal—" Mr Grout reaches up towards Mr Carson's shoulder and rubs at the thoroughbred's soft nose with the back of his gnarled fingers. "She's a fine bit of horseflesh, this one—and no mistake…Smart, like Jilly…reliable…still a tad flighty, but I reckon she'll be the next grand dam for our racing stock. Figurin' on bringin' 'er tugether wi' Erubus cüm tha spring or summer next year. She'll be old enough b'then." The future for Downton, Charles muses runs a firm hand down to her shoulder, giving a satisfying thudding slap to the solid muscles there. Mr Grout continues to speak quietly, for he never minds a bit of a natter if it is about his horses. "She's a mind and will of her own though…the best ones always do …Hpph…"he chuckles out lightly, "knows where you want to go before y' even do yerself sometimes!…but she can still accept the route you might want to take to get y'both thar in the end."
Carson's hands have moved to caresses the even more velvety and soft hair that covers the animal's broad breast. He feels the powerful and constant thudding of her heart beneath his fingertips and feels hot tears unaccountably form at the corners of his eyes once.
"She is…magnificent," he murmurs softly into the sweetness of her neck.
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Much later, Carson sits ensconced in the cloistered his pantry, the coals in the fire grate smouldering low warmth as the rest of the great house slumbers above him. With fingers steepled beneath his chin, he spends the long and sleepless hours running the days perplexing events and years' worth of scenarios through the darkened passageways of his mind. The firelight flickers amber patterns off the cut crystal angles of the remains of the decanter of Margaux.
With precise and final movements he silently unlocks and slides open the top drawer of his desk. Good God! She has been in here TOO! He is momentarily chagrined at her incredible presumptiveness—Again!—as he lifts out two pristine white handkerchiefs that have been pressed together–two strong triangles interleaved and overlapped into a diamond shape with his monograms set such that they read CEC on one, whilst the partially obscured kerchief set to the right of it shows only the initials EC. He gently lifts up the latter one and brings it close to he is face to inhale the fresh linen breeze upon it. He fingers lightly at the threads of his name until the first C of his initials unravels in a steady blue stream and all that remains are the letters EC. He wraps the thin blue thread around and about his fingertip until he can see a whiteness forming from a lack of blood…then he unwinds it and feels the prickling pain of constant warmth finally returning to all of his extremities on this cold and dark night. Hot tears prickle and recede and rise again from his eyes. Of course, she would find her way in here…little plotter. He imagines her soft tread—gliding in here in her satin black dress—shadowy and silent in the night and dim half-light. There is not a neatly pressed corner of his life that she does not touch—that she cannot touch.
As the weak light of the winter morn trickles feebly through his ground-level barred windows—down into his underground lair, he marks the route forward on a sheet of his finest writing paper taken from his private stock in his locked top drawer. Then he tucks the neatly folded paper along with the kerchiefs in close to his heart—ready to start a new day.
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* Carson's connection to the Downton stables through his father being the former head groom (who left Charles as an orphan to the estate when Charles was about 12 years old) was first explored in my fiction The Acquisition of Memories.
** The horse Nyx and Mr Grout, the head groom of Downton Abbey stables, are first mentioned in my fiction Ephemera.
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Kind Regards,
BorneToFlow.