Conversations with the Man Upstairs. Chapter 9—Of Friends and Colleagues

A/N: Thank you for all of the lovely reviews in support of this fiction. I am glad that so many people are enjoying it. Thanks especially to all of my guest reviewers, whom I cannot respond to personally via PM.

Kind Regards,

BorneToFlow

oOOo

Time: Monday evening 6:00pm 30th November 1925

Charles Carson quietly pushes through the back servant's entrance door and pauses for a moment in the alcove before hanging up his hat and overcoat—just to inhale deeply the warmth and familiar smells and sounds of his home. He knows the level of cluttering about and smoother quick detailing movements emanating from the kitchen means that dinner is poised and at the ready to be sent up. Ah! The dulcet tones of Mrs Patmore's ribald poetry of the management of the semi-competent, he smiles to himself. He knew the family upstairs would aim for an early night tonight in readiness for the first trains north tomorrow, but he does somehow need to catch the cook's ear, even if only for a brief moment (and hopefully without raining a litany of extra horrors down upon all their heads). One must always travel in hope. He girds himself and strides towards the kitchen archway.

"Good evening, all."

"Oh! So, he hath returned!" Comes Mrs Patmore's typically pithy welcome as she finalises the garnishing of the appetisers and sends Andrew off with merely a pointed gesture of her head towards the stairs.

"Yes,…I wonder if I might have a word, Mrs Patmore?"

"Well now is hardly the time!"

Carson holds his hand up in acquiescence.

"Granted, Mrs Patmore. I merely meant when you could spare a moment…At your earliest convenience" he adds, almost as an afterthought, for he does not want her to think this is a matter that can actually wait until after the dessert course is served.

"Pfhhh… "Mrs Patmore breathes out long, accepting that her long day as Agony Aunt to the totally inept in love is far from over yet. "Right you are, Mr Carson…" as she shakes her head a little and watches the back of his broad frame disappears into his pantry. She feels a strange mixture of trepidation for just how this evening will play out for her two friends. But there is also a certain amount of glee that Thomas Barrow's nose will be put a little out of joint now that Mr Carson is back early enough to preside over the downstairs dinner as he normally would, thus relegating the under-butler to his standard place. Still…Thomas has kept his nose well and truly to the grindstone today, and not caused any trouble, so I can't fault the lad completely…I'll make sure he gets a larger portion of the casserole tonight. "Ah, now Mr Molesley, if you could set the tray ready to take up the soupe en croute, they'll not be long with the canapés and I want these straight up before the tops collapse," she states as she peers into the oven to check the pastry topped sweet onion soup.

"It smells lovely, Mrs Patmore," is Mr Molesley's glazed-eyed replied.

"Right…well…thank you." Mrs Patmore always stumbles a little at the unsolicited and unexpected praise that sometimes comes her way in these moments. "Well, as luck would have it, I've enough set aside for our own dinner later, you'll be pleased to know."

"Well that's something to look forward to then, isn't it?" he brightens.

"Let's 'ope so," is her somewhat cryptic reply.

oOOo

Mrs Patmore taps at the frame of Mr Carson's open door.

"You wanted a word, Mr Carson."

"Ah. Yes…thankyou, Mrs Patmore, for me sparing a moment." He stands and rounds his desk while gesturing for her to close the door behind her and then asks in a somewhat furtive voice. "Uhh…How is Mrs Hughes today? I am sorry that I had to leave before I saw her."

"Well…she received your note if that's what you're worried about."

"And…she appeared…all right…with the news?"

"Well…Mr Carson,…to be perfectly frank…and as much as I am aware of the contents of that letter…" Charles Carson's eyebrow shoot up and almost hit his hairline and he is about to start blustering incoherently when Mrs Patmore manages to intercept him. "Now, now. Keep y' hair on…I didn't pry—Mrs Hughes saw fit to have me read it is all…but I am afraid to say, that she may not have received the…fullness of your message…as you may have intended it."

"W-what do you mean?"

"Let's just say that she…is a little…fragile…at the moment, Mr Carson."

"Fragile? Has Mr Barrow been throwing his weight about too much?"

"No. No. None o' that. You may rest assured that he had far too much to handle without you here to be making any trouble…and I'd like to think that my less than idle threat to, effectively, 'have his guts for garters' if he should set a foot wrong with Mrs Hughes today seems to have been heeded.

"Hmm..." Carson rumbles out, "At least we appear to be singing from the same playbook on that front, Mrs Patmore."

"Hmm…Yes, well,…I am afraid that may not be the case with Mrs Hughes and your…intentions, Mr Carson." Carson just looks quizzically at her, and his hand is still clenching and unclenching around that nebulous and uncommon description of Mrs Hughes being… a little fragile. Mrs Patmore really has no time to be trying to soothe away all of his worries and discomfort right now, she has work to get done—even though Daisy will no doubt manage well enough without her, but she has been playing that card too often these last days and even Daisy is giving her some queer looks trying to work out what on Earth the jig is with the upper staff at the moment. "Look…I'll not pry into your business today in York—Lord knows I'm not the right person to be keeping a confidence of any delicacy that you might want kept, Mr Carson—but…I think I have much more of an inkling about your plans than Mrs Hughes has managed to cotton onto today."

"But was I not clear in my letter?"

"Not entirely…at least…not to someone who spent a sleepless night fretting over how she felt that she had hurt you."

"Grrmmph…" Mr Carson shuffles uncomfortably from foot to foot, suddenly very aware of his proximity to another person and that they are rapidly moving into…very personal territory for him. Well, I was hurt!...I am…hurt…but…but…

"And...perhaps not for someone who has yet to fully understand just how long property settlement contracts can take when solicitor's need to be checking all the way back into the bleeding Doomsday Book to cross all of their 't's' and dot all of their silly little 'i's'."* Mrs Patmore stares intently at Mr Carson's slightly averted face to try to read his eyes. She soon pegs that she is actually on the money with her assumptions about the business Mr Carson had to attend to today in York. Lord above that'll be costing him a pretty penny to fast-track! And with Murray!—His Lordship's own solicitor! Well, he don't ever do things by 'alves, does he?. Carson sees her affirming nod and they silently agree to say no more about it. Good, thinks Mrs Patmore, I knew the old goober had it in 'im…He just wants to do things right…set them up secure-like for their future first. "Well Mr Carson, I'll not tell y' how t' run your life…but…just…tread softly with Mrs Hughes for a while yet…She'll come around."

Carson nods with a strange level of curtness grown out of his discomfort that he is so very transparent to some people when it comes to his innermost feelings and the nature of his actions. But his movements also belie his utter consternation—that Mrs Hughes is not yet numbered amongst those who can read him truly. Even after all we have been planning together! He is somewhat flabbergasted…and annoyed, still,…and quite worried, really—that he might still bungle all of this up with her quite horribly. He clears his throat heavily. "Yes,…of course, Mrs Patmore…don't let me keep you." But just as she reaches his door he feels the need for Mrs Patmore to understand something more…something important, but instead he tumbles out with a relative inanity about the household staff. "Oh…just one more thing, Mrs Patmore…I do hope that Roland and Daniel did not get underfoot with you today…I expressly asked them not to…I know how they bother you sometimes—always after more food than is their due."

"Oh, no, Mr Carson, they nary had a minute spare, what with the way that Thomas was driving them today…And they're good lads, really…hard workers both o'them…and I don't mind 'em around so much as all that."

"Oh…good…good…I am glad to hear that."

"They'd be glad to hear it from you as well, Mr Carson, I am sure."

"Grhmm…Very good…let me know when the servant's dinner is ready, then."

"As always, Mr Carson."

Carson shifts somewhat stiltedly back towards his desk, with the intention of sitting down and looking over the remains of the lists for the imminent family trip that Thomas has laid out on his desk. He runs his fingertips down the side edge of his desk and onto the edges of his blotter until his compulsion to add something to this conversation proves too strong. "And…and thank you,…Mrs Patmore…" He finally looks up to try to catch the cook's concerned gaze before she exits, "…Beryl…Thank you for being such a friend to Mrs Hughes," he finishes quietly.

Beryl stops with her hand on the doorknob, blinks rapidly to clear her watery eyes and swallows the strange lump that has formed in her throat at being addressed by the Great One in such a familiar way. Yet, she does remember back to how he held her hand and was with her when she was so very scared for her own future—before her cataracts were fixed. But she shakes the heavy feeling down a little as she begins to swing the door open. And, as exhausting as all of this palaver has been for her, she softly murmurs her reply as she turns to meet his eye.

"Well,…Mr Carson,…when this all finally does come to fruition—and I have faith that it will—I will be the very first to say that it has been my pleasure." Then she squares her sturdy shoulders and shuffles out the door—ready to face the next onslaught in the kitchen.

oOOo

Later Mr Carson catches up with Mrs Hughes to offer his apologies for being away from the house so suddenly, and so as to inquire about her day. And although the short conversation is conducted with their standard level of professionalism and ultimate propriety, and he is promptly forgiven for any inconvenience he may have caused, he cannot help but notice how very pale and wan Mrs Hughes appears. It makes his heart ache horribly and it requires every ounce of his self-control to prevent himself from wrapping her up into his arms, close to his heart. But he simply must swallow down the instinct so as not to embarrass or offend her. Even so, he manages to take his leave of her in a manner that he later kicks himself for, for it being so very…perfunctory.

oOOo

8:00pm

At the beginning of servants' dinner, Mr Carson makes a point of thanking Mr Barrow and all of his footmen and hall boys, in particular, for working so diligently when he had to be away from the house at such short notice. And then, during the Grace he offers before their every evening meal he feels compelled to offer some additional and carefully chosen words of thanks for the gift of sharing good food with supportive colleagues who aim to see us all traverse more easily our busy working days. And, as he does so, Carson again catches the glassy, almost tear-filled eyes of a very weary looking Mrs Hughes seated at his right hand. But, it does not do to dwell upon her visage and embarrass her in the noticing, so he instead trains a solid gaze towards Thomas and sharply nods his approval for the man's best efforts today. For, even with Thomas Barrow, one must still always try to travel in hope.

Once their pudding is finished, Carson dismisses everyone for the evening. And as he makes his way to his pantry to ensure all is in order and to consult in a final review with Mr Barrow of all the last details for the mass exodus tomorrow, his eyes do follow Mrs Hughes as she makes her lacklustre way towards her parlour. But he must quickly shake off the feelings of despair and rising concern for her wellbeing for the moment—he has work to do.

oOOo

"Ah…now, Mr Barrow, thank you for joining me. I am very pleased that all seems to be well in hand for tomorrow."

"As, of course, it would be, Mr Carson" comes the tight-lipped and smarmy reply.

Urrgh…Sweet Lord above! Can the man not ever take some simple praise with at least SOME good grace?

"Indeed…Well then, Mr Barrow, if you would like to look over the final day list for tomorrow, and you are content that everything is as it should be, I will leave the final locking of the upper levels to you tonight. I will leave my pantry open for you to sort the keys and lock it up as well. Now…I am sure you will not want any of the footmen and hall boys too tired to work quickly on the loading of the cars early tomorrow morning, so I will also leave you to ensure all and sundry retire for the evening at a reasonable hour. Please assure those that will be remaining here, that Mrs Hughes and I will arrange some extra leisure time for them once the family is off and the deep cleaning of the house is well underway…and, as for those going with you…well…at least they will have some time to relax on the train journey up. Here are some extra funds to purchase lunches and tea and cakes from the dining car for them. Is there anything else required?"

"No, Mr Carson. I believe all is well in order, thank you."

"Right." Carson states firmly. "I will leave you to it then. I shall be retiring early."

One can only hope, Thomas thinks with a grizzly longing.

"Right you are Mr Carson. Good Night," is his controlled reply, but for some reason, Thomas does feel compelled to add in less harsh tones, "Please wish Mrs Hughes a good evening for me when you see her." He feels almost embarrassed about relaying the message through Old Carson, but Thomas could not help but notice the lady's somewhat low demeanour today…and she has helped him in the past, and more than once, when he has been feeling as low as he ever could, and…well…maybe he does just want to play a straight bat when it comes to Mrs Hughes. There's not been many that have been good to me, but she is one of them. Carson just cocks him a quizzical eyebrow and tries to believe the man means no harm by it, especially given the unseemly display of his own fraught emotions that Thomas was privy to last night out in the back courtyard. Carson cannot contain that niggling fear that Barrow may be scheming to use it all against him, or worse still, use it against Mrs Hughes in some despicable and, as yet, unnameable future. He absolutely will not have Mrs Hughes harmed by any of Thomas' underhanded machinations. Carson eyes him like a falcon.

"I will," is his eventual and prudent reply for the moment. "Good night, Mr Barrow." And he strides out of his pantry to go and see the lady in person.

oOOo

When he taps at Mrs Hughes door, sherry decanter tray in hand, there is no immediate reply, so he quietly pushes the door open only to have his heart catch in his chest. He quickly and silently pushes the door to and places the tray onto Mrs Hughes' side table. Then turns back to observe his love from afar and with such a painful longing in his heart that his breathing actually seems to have stopped. She is...so very…pretty…and unguarded…Draped, as she is, across the blotter on her desk, her head resting onto her upper arm as if it had previously been propped up in her hand on a wedged bent elbow and it has dropped and sunk down with the heaviness of an exhaustion that could not even jolt her awake. Her skin looks…warm. He aches to touch it with his fingertips…just as lightly as the soft glow of the sconce lights and the flickering of firelight from the grate do—highlighting her skin to a subtle peach blush. A few stray tendrils of hair have come loose from her coiled and pinned up braids and are forming a light halo about her head. Elsie, his heart whispers, and some tears shoot at the corners of his eyes, when he spies her outstretched hand of the arm that pillows her head. It is resting over the folded note that he had left for her this morning— so very many hours before. Oh, Elsie…He just abhors that she has been hurting…and that he has been the cause.

So as not to wake her just yet, Charles silently glides about the room to put it all in order for the night, just as she would have done so herself, if his only his own actions…and perilous inaction, had not led her to this place of utter exhaustion. He feels it all keenly himself—after his own sleepless night and long travels today. He feels old and foolish, but he must continue on.

He starts with carefully banking her fire and putting the firescreen in place. Then he takes down from the shelf above her little side table a small lidded crystal bowl that he gifted her quietly for her last milestone birthday, without ever letting on that he recognised it was her sixtieth. He has long heard the Dowager extolling the virtues of no man ever being fully cognisant of any lady's true age. Then he fishes inside his pocket for the small bag of handmade chocolate coated croquants with which to refill it. a small luxury he purchased them for her today from a specialist confectioner's shop in York, knowing that they are her favourites—a duet mix with an equal amount of soft-centred Scottish milk toffee fudge, and the harder nut toffee praline centres. Next, he switches off the wall sconce lights and, finally, he turns towards her little desk. He gently lifts his note from her limp fingers and places into the top drawer of her desk, that she might read it again one day with fresh eyes and then better understand him. Then he gently lifts one of the chains of her chatelaine and ensures that their innermost lives remain securely hidden and locked away. He decides then to pen one other very short note and folds it into his breast pocket before he gently wakes her.

"Mrs Hughes," he whispers, saddened somewhat by the necessity of having to wake her at all, but she cannot possibly sleep comfortably down here. "Mrs Hughes" he tries again in a slightly more robust low rumble—But it is to no avail until he tries a third time and couples it with the resting of his broad hand upon her forearm. "Mrs Hughes, it's time to go up to the attics, I am afraid."

"Hu? Wh-? Oh! M-Mr Carson…" she jolts awake. "I-I'm s-sorry must have dropped off there for a moment.' And she sits fully upright, looking decidedly woozy for a moment, by Mr Carson's view of it, anyway. He keeps his steadying hand on her forearm as Mrs Hughes use her free hand to clumsily ensure her hair is all tidy. Then she pats lightly about her face, hoping it is not showing up crease line marks from resting on her own sleeve…and that she has not done something mortifyingly embarrassing like drooled in her sleep.

She is so very beautiful, is all that Charles can fathom. And when she appears to be composed, Mr Carson suggests quietly, "Mrs Hughes, please allow me to escort you up to the quarters. You must rest properly tonight."

She feels dizzy with fatigue…and with his unexpected proximity. She feels like her voice is not even her own.

"Yes, Mr Carson. Thank you…" is all she manages to murmur out.

Carson straightens and offers her his steadying left arm for the second time in as many days, this time not caring that anyone will see them…for he is sure the whole house has pegged to some degree or another that Mrs Hughes is not as well as they are accustomed to and that his assistance is not unwarranted today in order to see her upstairs.

"Come" is his soft directive as he switches off her desk lamp and they move to leave the room only to face the next mountainous climb that will eventually see them to their desired destination.

oOOo

On the way up the backstairs in the gloom of bare-bulbed stairwell lights, Mrs Hughes does stumble on more than one occasion, and each time, Mr Carson whips an instinctive right hand across the front of his own body and grasps firmly at her enfeebled hand resting upon his forearm. On the third such occurrence, he speaks softly near her ear "Mrs Hughes, please…you must allow me to support you better", and he gently manoeuvres her so that his supporting left arm surrounds her, his hand resting at her gripping lightly at her waist so that she is nestled into his side, her sleepy head upon his shoulder and his right arms is still set across his body to firmly hold at her near elbow and forearm. "That's it,…nearly there." She is so soft,…and...and cosy…To hold her thus feels like the culmination of so very many of his dreams and it makes him feel sure—as he has never been so sure of anything before— that he does not ever want to give this up.

But they inevitably reach the doors that separate the men's from the women's quarters and he must relinquish his hold on her.

"Mrs Hughes, here, do you think you can stand steady for yourself?…Use the wall…That's it…now, I am just going to unclip your chatelaine so that I can open the doors more easily. She nods hazily from her fugue state and he turns cautiously to face her and moves closer until he has his fingers on the belt band of her dress and is toying at the clasp of her intricately wrought chatelaine clip. It is the most intimate thing he has ever done with a lady and he cannot breathe, let alone help his fingers from trembling at the light feathering contact he is making with her soft hip, even as it is protected by the rigid bones of her…her…undergarments. Oh my sweet Lord! You cannot think of such...things, Charles Carson.

He manages to free the keys and quickly sets to seeing Mrs Hughes into her room. He seats her on the edge of the bed and the softness of her eiderdown seems to immediately suck the last of her energy from her, drawing down into a prone position. He quickly grasps at her upper arm to keep her upright just long enough to be able to use his free hand to turn back the covers a little, then he is able to guide her gently down onto the sheets. He stalls for a moment at the sight of her torpid body twisted in an uncomfortable manner, with her legs still hanging of the side of the bed…and her black court shoes still on. He cannot leave her like that…but…but he cannot seem to force his brain into a space that knows how to adequately, or even properly, deal with the situation. He is struggling to breathe again and so he quickly leaves the room.

Deliver the letter…deliver the letter…His heart is racing on this repetition of the plan that seemed so very reasonable when he first set about escorting Mrs Hughes up to her room. Now everything seems ashen and humid all at once within his mind. He pauses outside Mrs Patmore's door and bends quickly to slip the note underneath it for her to find when she comes up shortly.

Dear Mrs Patmore,

I am afraid that I must entreaty you for your help, once more, and ask that you please check on Mrs Hughes before you retire this evening. I fear that she was in a state of such exhaustion when I saw her up to the quarters that she may not have been able to adequately or comfortably attire herself for a night conducive to good rest.

With thanks,

Mr Carson.

As he rises from his crouched position near the door, the change in blood pressure to his head makes him feel even more unsteady and he leans heavily with a supporting hand against the hallway wall. After some deep head clearing breaths, he forcefully pushes himself upright and silently makes his way back into Mrs Hughes room, for he feels he must at least remove her shoes and settle her more comfortably under the eiderdown, lest she catch a chill.

His fingers fumble with the buckle straps on her black court shoes and he fears that he will wake Mrs Hughes and appal her horribly with his presence, alone in her boudoir...with the door closed. Lord above! Why are there TWO buckles on each! He kneels forward on one knee beside her bed and braces his stance until he finally manages all of the fastenings and gently slides the shoes from her feet, placing them neatly side by side beneath the side of her bed. His breathing is purposefully shallow throughout, merely puffs through his mouth lest the heady sweet scent of the fresh linens where she sleeps should prove overwhelming and actually cause him to swoon—for it is an intoxicating and perilously dangerous perfume.

Next, he is faced with actually touching Mrs Hughes black be-stockinged feet in order to lift them up onto the mattress and attempt to make her resting position more comfortable. He tentatively cradles an ankle in each of his hands and begins manoeuvring her legs, but as he adjusts his grip a little, the black sheen of even her heavier winter stocking just stops his heart completely for a second. He can feel the hard rise of her inner ankle bone and it is all so terribly untoward of him—to know of her in such a way, when she cannot offer him her permission. Her-ank-le-bone-Her-ank-le-bone-Her-ank-le-bone, his heart kicks into life again across this rapid tattoo beating in his addled mind. He must…Must-move-a-way-Move-a-way-Move-a-way. He efficiently finds the edge of her eiderdown and draws it about her shoulders and tucking neatly under the edge of the mattress to prevent it slipping off. Then he straightens up to leave but finds he just cannot help himself he is drawn nearer to her, for she has instinctively pulled her arms out above the covers and turned a little to the side to snuggle into the comfort of her warm bed, her delicate hands clasping some of the fabric between them and holding it to her breast—almost in a position of prayer. Cosseted. It fills him with a sudden and deep reverence—that she is finally sleeping contentedly…that he has somehow helped to protect and provide her with the space to do so. Dear Lord, please keep her safe…Let…Let her know how she is loved. He offers up his own evening prayer and then he delicately brushes a loosened strand of hair from her cheek—so soft—and places it gently behind her ear.

"Good night, Mrs Hughes. Have pleasant dreams."

" 'ni-ight Charle-szz"

His heart stops in his chest once more and he almost floats his way out of her room as her sleepy soft words spin around and about his brain—over and over repeating the way that she said his Christian name, so very softly, and perhaps for the first time ever.

He stops one last time at her doorway before he leaves, and spools the chains of her chatelaine around and about in a neat circle on her dresser and he uses the fingertip that touched her cheek just a moment ago to trace and smooth over the intricate filigree patterning of the clasp of the keys to his heart.

And once he in his room, freshly pyjamaed, his nightly kneeling prayers all said, all safely tucked up in his bed, Charles Ernest Carson reaches for the silver frame she gifted him all of those years ago. He gazes at the enlargement image from of part of a works photograph that he made up soon after their day at the beach—of them together, always standing side-by-side—but that he has kept locked safely in his dresser drawer each day, only to be gazed upon at night and sat upon his bedside table until the first morning light. He touches his fingertip to the image of her smiling cheek and smooths it lightly atop the mere sliver of glass and nebulous grey ether that is all that still separates them, and he whispers his own regular evening salutation to her before sleep finally captures him each night: Goodnight, Elsie—My Sweetest Love.

oOOo

* A/N: Some brief research suggests that that due to the convoluted history of the UK, property ownership and transference laws are a complex and time-consuming business that seems to require the work of solicitors to unravel before settlement between vendors and buyers is reached. I don't know if that is still the case today, but I am assuming it was the case back in the early 20th century. This also would have been very new ground for members of the working class to traverse, as land ownership appears to have mainly been the preserve of the aristocracy and very well-to-do only prior to WW1.

BTF.