Conversations with the Man Upstairs

by BorneToFlow

Mrs Hughes struggles with the idea of becoming a property magnate with Mr Carson. Mrs Patmore lends some friendly and timely advice. Consistent with my particular headcanon. I need to account for Elsie turning down the option to buy the property, given that she harbours no fiscal/sisterly burdens in my version of who Elsie is. Some canon dialogue will be rejigged to suit my S5 aims

12. Ch 12—The Golden Hour

Conversations with the Man Upstairs. Chapter 12—The Golden Hour

A/N: The muse took quite an unexpected route to get this part of the story told. As such, the detailed historical research into certain motifs took a while to coalesce within my mind; the way the scenes should play out took forever to work out; and, I can only hope it gives the different sort of insight into Charles and Elsie that I envisioned. Work commitments have also delayed me—as per usual, so thank you for your patience and for sticking with this alternate headcanon fiction of mine. Please let me know what you think of this unusual approach to the Chelsie romance in a review—if you care to.

Italicised dialogue is drawn from DA S5. Some of it also denotes memories of speech form past events, as well as the internal thoughts of various characters. Some of these italicised sections can sit closely with the JF canon dialogue, so I hope it does not get too confusing.

Also, If you are into this sort of thing, I will have some historical notes and links to my research at the end of this chapter.

Kind regards,

BTF.

oOOo

Chapter 12—The Golden Hour

Wednesday 2nd December 1925.

Late afternoon of the day after the round table dinner.

Downton Abbey.

oOOo

Below the Green Baize Door

Joseph Molesley feels strangely relaxed and purposeful all at the same time as he makes his way down the stairs from the green baize door, ready to turn along the slates of the main servants' hallway that runs past the gentle cluttering business of the kitchen. He can still smell the heady mixture of ginger, nutmeg, cinnamon and clove spices, plus the vapour of strong liquor filling the air. He had already known from his conversation with Daisy at the sink after the dinner last night that today was to be the day that she and Mrs Patmore were to mix all of the various iterations of their pre-soaked brandied fruits into puddings, mince pies and a large fruit cake or two for the Christmas season.

They have been at it since before breakfast was served, given that the Abbey gifts many of the Christmas treats to families in the parish, and the church council sells another swathe of puddings and pies as a means to fundraise for poor and needy in the area. But Daisy and Mrs Patmore still managed to spare the time to have Nanny come down with the children just before luncheon so that they could all help to stir the plum pudding mixture for the house and make a wish and a prayer over it as they dropped in a new silver sixpence each. Joseph noticed how Roland and Daniel still enjoyed this last vestige of their childhoods, along with the younger children from upstairs. Master George was all wide-eyed and looking up to both lads and trying to be 'just as strong as the big boys' when his turn came to mix the heavy dough. And then Andy was drawn into it all, for he had been leaning against the hall archway in readiness for lunch, looking wistfully and somewhat longingly at a tradition he'd had no experience of before. And luckily for him, Mrs Patmore pegged Mr Carson's head gliding past the high kitchen window into the hallway and she knew that Andy was about to cop a pasting in front of everyone for slouching, so she called on him to join the fun, knowing that Mr Carson's ire would melt away the moment he saw all of his young lads helping Master George and Misses Sybbie and Marigold with the heavy stirring. Gosh, even Joseph himself got to give the batter a turn and make a wish, along with Mrs Hughes who had wandered in after Mr Carson and caught Mrs Patmore's eye and knew that everyone in the room truly wanted Mr Carson to give the pudding a stir and that he would absolutely do no such thing unless Mrs Hughes guided (or goaded) him into it. So as soon as Mrs Hughes stepped up and had her stir of the pudding, the youngest children chorused for Mr Carson to give the final stir to 'make it all even'. And how could Mr Carson possibly refuse and order like that from the upstairs family? It was a sight to behold!— Mr Carson in the finery of his morning tailed livery coat, dusting some flour off Miss Marigold's rosy round cheeks and brushing it purposefully onto Miss Sybbie's nose to make her giggle even more. However, Mr Carson missed the mark with Master George as the wily young lad ducked and weaved out of the way in time. The children loved it, and although the pudding did not offer a particularly appetising spoon or two for such young children to enjoy licking at the end of the work (due to the very high liquor content of the mixture) Daisy gave them each a small ball of suet pastry from her work on the mince pies for them to squish and play about with (and to munch away on under Nanny's not entirely approving eye), while they sat at the kitchenmaid's round table. Meanwhile, Daisy finished packing a small basket for their indoor adventure picnic in one of the disused old servants' rooms set high up in one of the Abbey's towers—to help them to while away the hours of this long and wintery day since their parents are away. The weather at that time of day had already looked far too inclement for them to risk venturing out onto the grounds at all. It was the sort of adventure Joseph himself would have revelled in as a lad. And yet, there is a slight air of sadness about all of these pre-Christmas preparations as no one is quite ready to admit openly how much they will likely miss little Miss Sybbie's sparky presence in the grand house when she leaves in the new year with Mr Branson as he tries out his luck in Boston. Still, as far as Joseph has been concerned, it was still lovely to see everyone downstairs, gathered together in the friendly thick of it all in the kitchen.

And now, at this late hour, to Joseph, the house still feels warm and surprisingly cosy from the work of the kitchen. It is all settled and homely in a way that it sometimes struggles to feel when all of the grand family are about upstairs—always poised to ring bells and make requests at any moment. In a way, Joseph figures that, except for the village church bells ringing on a Sunday morning (and those from his youth— the first bells into the schoolhouse in the morning and after lunchtime when he could escape the troubles of the other boys in the play yard and re-enter the structure of books and the schoolmaster's strict but fairhanded care), most bells will always make Joseph feel a little nervy. But he has had quite a fine day of it today, all in all. The dinner last night made him feel like he belongs in the Abbey more than he has done…well… ever really, and certainly since he had the position second footman position wrangled for him by Mrs Hughes and Patmore after Master Crawley's untimely death and Joseph's somewhat shameful time delivering groceries to the Abbey and digging ditches about all the local villages of the Shire.

In fact, today has been a rather odd day all around, really. For, although he knows that Mr Carson has played him for a bit of a fool in the past, what with running him hither and thither as first, second, third and last footman, today Mr Carson has merely set Mr Molesley the small task of seeing to the minor duties of the house in much the way Joseph used to do as trained butler to Mrs Crawley and Master Crawley back before the war. True, he has only had Roland and Daniel earlier this morning to direct, and after that really only the truly amiable Andy to loosely command in a few light cleaning and polishing duties, but each lad has given him easy and due respect, and so Joseph does feel rather chuffed about it all— like he can be a bit of a leader if the needs must and the circumstances are truly amenable to him.

Truth be told, Joseph had been more than happy to sit side by side with Andy as they initially worked over the Feversham* candelabras in readiness for a final gleaming polish they will receive just before they are set in their traditional and annual position of the family's Christmas dinner table each year. They had not been touched since they were locked away in the Butler's silver cabinet after Christmas last year, and Joseph was rightly proud that he had them entrusted to his care, for it is not normally a job that Mr Carson would hand on to others. The sentimental importance of the pieces was not lost on Joseph, as he already knew from his old Dad and Granddad years ago (not that anyone ever really talks about such things) that they are likely one of the very few treasures the Dowager Countess of Grantham could actually bring into her marriage to the 6th Earl of Grantham back in the middle of last century—what with Lady Violet's own family being only of an agriculturally based and quite recently raised Baronetage. Her father was only known for being a rather stolid and non-descript MP for the North Riding*, more interested in breading bullocks than passing political bills (or so the story goes). Although, to the likes of Joseph Molesley and his Dad, the Duncombes* from near Helmsley and the old Rievaulx Abbey, east of Thirsk, were as rich as Croesus in comparison to their own lowly lot in life. Still, as the youngest remaining daughter of a large family, Lady Violet had no dowry to speak of that would commend her as a good marriage prospect when she was being presented at court. And so, despite their opulence, Joseph likes the somewhat homely story that accompanies the Feversham candelabras and appreciates that the Dowager Countesses' never publicly alluded to, yet slightly simpler, origins are honoured within the distinctly grander history of the Earldom of Grantham. To Joseph's obliging mind, it all seems to be what Christmas is all about—in a way...the building of a family and some sort of closeness, in whatever form that may take.

Now at the end of a day filled with gentle comradery and simple industriousness, Joseph pauses at the bottom of the stairs down from the front entranceway and grand saloon to breathe in with some quiet confidence the small successes of his relatively unharried day. Although, in his current relaxed state, he also finds himself musing on the fact that it would still be quite lovely to have Miss Baxter back from the Moorlands holiday already—able to spend a quiet evening chatting with him about this and that as she diligently sews at the servant's table after dinner. Quite lovely, indeed. Thus distracted in his reverie, Joseph is somewhat taken aback by the fast clip of Mr Bates cane and the lighter thud of his halting steps on the slates as he makes his rather determined path towards Mr Carson's pantry, or so Joseph assumes.

"Mr Bates! Are you going somewhere?" He's heading for the back door! Joseph realises in a flash, although, in truth, no one was really expecting to see Mr Bates at all until a little later this evening, and then only if his train arrived in time to afford him an easy dinner in the servant's hall tonight rather than relying on what British Rail might manage to sadly throw together in the third class carriages' dining car on the late trains up from London, or what he might rustle up by himself in his cottage without Mrs Bates there.

"I am…In fact, can I ask a favour, Mr Molesley? Can you give these to Mr Carson?"

Gosh, he seems a little harried…and…and secretive, Josephs thinks.

"He'll know what to do with them," Bates continues.

Joseph is somewhat taken aback, and typically for him, it makes his voice a little squeaky and bumbling.

"B-w-well, he's about somewhere."

"I'd rather not see him… And don't give them to him yet. Wait till this evening."

Joseph's brow furrows immediately, he knows well enough what a good person who is hiding something truly burdensome to their soul actually looks like, having only just finished helping Miss Baxter traverse the truth of weighty matters between her and Thomas, (a man whom Joseph still struggles to peg down, and will likely never be able to trust entirely, for Mr Barrow's lies and machinations have become too much of a tangled web of lies for the likes of Mr Molesley to ever unravel or understand). But Joseph knows Mr Bates to be an honourable man at heart, especially after what he learnt of the South Africa Campaign last night at dinner…and His Lordship would not have kept him on so long as a trusted valet if this were not the case…And besides, Joseph knows he still owes Mr Bates for protecting his own dignity all of those years ago, and so he takes the risk—tries to be brave again—or to at least be an honest friend, for Joseph Molesley does at least know how to be that.

"Mr Bates, are you in trouble?" he asks with great concern.

"My wife's in prison - I'd call that trouble, wouldn't you?" John answers a gritty bleakness.

"Because I want you to know I'd gladly help you in any way I can." Joseph tumbles out before he thinks too much about it…because that is what a friend would do.

"I'm touched by that. I mean it. Thank you." John Bates quirks him a rather pained half-smile— recognises the gesture for what it is and sees the goodness of the man who offers it. He draws a stiff breath and states somewhat grimly, "But the only way you can help me now is by delivering those letters." Then he turns to make his determined way out of the back servant's hall door

Joseph feels short of breath and remains speechless and confused as he watches Mr Bates disappear quickly into the late afternoon chill and slanted light of the setting sun.

oOOo

Nearing twilight

Joseph has been edging about the servants' hall for almost the last hour, vacillating to the point of drawing pithy comment from Mrs Patmore when the odd breathy squeaky sounds he just made inside his chest draws her attention away from lifting the last of the tied plum pudding calicos from her copper steamer and slinging the perfectly shaped cannonball over a broom handle wedged between the sink and the main workbench.

"What on earth are you about, Mr Molesley?! You sound like you've already swallowed the sixpence from the pudding by accident. Now here— you can help me with this."

Joseph dutifully assists Mrs Patmore in hefting the pudding laden broomstick onto the hooks above the Aga mantle to dry until Christmas Day. His Nan always used to make it on the first Sunday of Advent, but Mrs Patmore, not being one to stand on too much traditional ceremony for the sake of Old Queen Vic.** (Beryl is far too busy for all of that palaver!) maintains that three weeks is more than enough time to do the trick. In truth, he must admit to himself,that Mrs Patmore's plum pudding is far moister than Nan's ever was…still…they have only the best ingredients to choose from most of the time at the Abbey. …But he is dithering about in his thoughts once again.

"Well? What is it then, Mr Molesley?" Mrs Patmore demands as she wipes her hands on a cloth and sets Jill and Lily off together to heft and empty the copper steamer into the sink. "What have you got there?" she asks when she sees Mr Molesley nervously brush over the breast of his livery and she realises he must have some sort of news tucked away on the inside pocket.

"It-it's some letters…from Mr Bates.."

"What? For you?"

'N-no. Not exactly…He…he said they are for Mr Carson…but that I should wait to give them to him…later" he finishes lamely.

"What?! Oh, that cannot be wise! And where is Mr Bates? He ought to be back soon for dinner"

"He…err… he came… and then he went again…" Joseph is starting to feel decidedly squeamish under Mrs Patmore's intense glare.

"Well, you'd best get to finding Mr Carson —quick-smart! They sound important… Well—Go on!" She adds with a sweeping gesture towards the green baize door when she sees Joseph still standing before her stunned like a sweaty-palmed hall boy.

oOOo

The main library

And all the while that Joseph has been handling the small affairs of the male staff today and ruminating latterly on what Mr Bates could possibly be up to and whether or not he should follow the man's directives with the timing of the delivery of the letters, or perhaps that he should act much more hastily on the matter; oddly enough for the two heads of staff, they have spent the last of the quiet afternoon hour in each other's' comfortable and silent presence in the main library.

The day has been a lazy one all around for Mr Carson and Mrs Hughes, what with most of the younger staff off to see family yesterday, the house has been very still but for some casual flittering about of a couple of the remaining housemaids and scullery maids with no family to go and see. The staff have all calmly moved on with their light tasks, even chatted a little and quite amiably, given that no family are about to be silent around, and the upstairs children have been occupied for most of the afternoon after their turret picnic with Nanny and later with Miss Sybbie busy directing a pretend school for the younger Master George and Miss Marigold inside the nursery. The staff's comparatively light duties have merely included some spot cleaning and polishing in preparation for the Christmas rush that will come into full swing once the family returns from the hunt at Brancaster. As such, Carson has been content to let the young lads be directed by Mr Molesley- first footman that he is, once again, before he had him send Roland and Daniel back into the village to their mother's and father's work sides for the remains of the day and after their morning duties have been seen to. Carson knows that with the mass exodus of the Crawleys, both of the young lads are happy to have their Mothers' food for a couple of evenings whenever they can. For, although the Abbey keeps both lads well now that their formal schooling years are completed, and the lads' respective families are very glad that the Abbey houses them since their own family homes are somewhat fit to overflow with a multitude of younger siblings—and, indeed, even though Mrs Patmore's fare would no-doubt surpass each of the other ladies capabilities, what with Beryl's own prodigious culinary repertoire and techniques, there is still nothing quite like being a young and growing lad on the cusp of early manhood being overfed for a change from his Mother's own hearth….Well, Carson imagines that it would be so, for he never had the luxury of it himself,… but he imagines that it would be so.

And so it is that Carson had instead taken to haunting the halls, mentally noting small tasks to add to his work list for the lads in the lead up to Christmas, but mostly perusing the various stunning artworks of the Abbey at his leisure—a favourite pastime of his, in all truth. In a way, he is taking today as an extra half-day, and a much-needed one at that, truth be told, for his sleepless Sunday night and the day of travel on Monday still weigh a little heavily in his aging bones. Somehow in their strolling rounds today, Mr Carson and Mrs Hughes have now both gravitated towards the main library. Mrs Hughes, he knows, is using an excuse of the girls not having quite finished the detailed coiled woodwork polishing of the towering bookshelves in the main library yesterday as a means to cover her presence here at this hour. Neither of the heads of staff is actually averse the getting their hands a little dirty with some of the cleaning and polishing tasks that still make up a large core of their work for the grand old Abbey – Bah! And neither of us can afford NOT to, what with the way staffing levels keep diminishing … Charles had groused to himself for possibly the hundredth time when he had first strolled into the library to find Mrs Hughes seated on a low ottoman, her legs demurely angled off to the side and her heeled court shoes peeking out from beneath her dark skirts. She was poised, polishing cloth in one hand and absently resting on one of the lower shelves, as she selected a small volume that had caught her particular fancy. Given that Mrs Hughes was obviously content and occupied, Charles had entered the room silently and recognised the slight, relaxed exhalation of Mrs Hughes breath and understood it as the sign that she was aware of his presence and not perturbed by it—welcomed it even.

He is glad of it, for after last night, she had ended up somewhat flustered from her rather expressive appreciation of the wine and chocolates they had shared at such a late hour in his pantry. She had made her excuses and goodnights to him in a rather harried fashion as she sought the refuge of her own room. Carson recalls fumbling to his feet somewhat ineptly. And he certainly recalls—dreamt of it over again last night, in fact— the brush of their hands when he went to give her the coiled chatelaine from the small drinks table between them. And he definitely remembers how he caught her wide-eyed and blush-faced embarrassment in that moment and could not help himself from running his tongue tip along the inside of his lower lip as he quirked a rather pleased half-cheeked smile at her reaction. And the skin on her hand was so very, very soft, just like that day—so long ago— at Brighton. And it was so lovely and warm beneath his hardy silver-polish and wine crate-hewn, yet neatly buffed fingertips—so soft that he just could not stop himself from stroking over the back of her hand with his thumb—just once— and her pupils widened even further in dark shock and that beautiful peach-toned blush rose again and deepened upon her cheeks. He cannot ever remember seeing or feeling anything sweeter in his life. 'G-Goodnight, Mr Carson" she had squeaked out in a strangled sort of whisper. "Thank you for the wine.' And then she had turned and was gone from his room before he could finish blinking away his astonishment. But once he had come to his senses, and despite the suddenness of the feeling of loss as she drew her hand away from his, Charles could not help but smile broadly to himself as he whistled and hummed into the still and silent air of the Abbey—a delirious little ditty bubbled forth as he locked up his pantry for the night and tripped a little more lightly up the backstairs to his bed that night: She looked so neat and charming…In every high degree…She looked so neat and nimble-o,…. Dashing away with the smoothing iron, dashing away with the smoothing iron…she stole my heart away…And by the time he reached his room, the song seemed to naturally morph into a more distinct and sure line as he blessed his bedside table photograph of Mrs Hughes with a sweet goodnight and finally drifted away into Morpheus arms with a satisfied little smile still gracing his lip—and I stole-her- heart—a-waayy…

And so today, after Mrs Hughes' nearly imperceptible relaxing of her shoulders upon him entering the room, Charles remained just as sure as he was by the end of last night—that he is still in with a showing; that his company is not anathema to her anymore; and, that he does indeed have a real chance to steal her heart away so that he alone can always keep it safe within his own...especially if all of his house purchase machinations fall properly into line. Murray said 'By Christmas!' His fingers flutter in anticipation at the thought of his carefully laid plans all coming to fruition! And now Charles is truly at his ease in Mrs Hughes silent company and relaxed regard, (despite the fact that she would not meet his eye at the luncheon table today, which he had understood). But they are alone now, and so it can be just them again for a spell.

Upon entering Charles had puttered quietly about the room, tending to the low fire in the grand and yet homely fireplace of the main section of the split library before selecting, seemingly at random, one of his secretly favourite books from a shelf and a position he could actually find in the dark of night, if ever the needs should must. Mrs Hughes had already unshuttered several of the floor-to-ceiling windows at the end of the room that allows such pleasant light to always stream into the library—so as to see to her polishing work more easily. Charles wandered over to the furthest end window, close to where she is working, so that he too might better peruse his favourite colour plates of delicate fishing flies and trout species of the British Isles.*** And so Charles stood there quietly and comfortably, as they both became engrossed in their respective tomes, with the stately grandfather clock in the ante-library room ticking solidly away at the remains of the day, and their breathing finding relaxing rhythm together with the heavenly sounds of no one about to interrupt them.

oOOo

Joseph hesitates outside the door to the small ante-library before he can gird himself enough to silently turn the door handle. He has already searched high and low and in all of the likely places across the Abbey in order to deliver Mr Bates' letters to Mr Carson, and he has not found him anywhere. The library is the only feasible place left that the Butler may be. Joseph swallows nervously as he softly steps towards the imposing pillars that mark the entry point into the main library. And there he hovers, but no so much nervously anymore, for Joseph is actually struck stone still by the vision set before him—a scene of golden light and warmth that flings him back to a time when he was completely wide-eyed with wonder at the world…

All baby haired and freckle-faced and with ears too big for his head. Grubby fingered and with dirt beneath his nails and mud upon the knees of his patched half-pants…maybe only four years old (if Joseph were actually clear enough of mind right now to fathom just how little he was in the time when this memory occurred and that is currently assailing him—he really has so few actual recollections of that time in his life). Automatically, Joseph runs his hand over his left hip pocket, feeling for an ancient talisman that he cannot actually carry with him as he once did, (as he still does on his half-days)—as he once did on every day of his life—for sadly, to carry it now would ruin the elegant lines of his crisp livery. But he found his special talisman on that same day long, long ago. It was in the garden bed where he was supposedly helping his dad with digging in the last of the straw and blood and bone laid down in the mid-winter around the rootstocks of the roses that his dad had cultivated from some trimmings from the Abbey gardens where he worked every day—back from before Joseph was even born. Mr Molesley Senior has told Joseph in the years since then—a gift his Dad gave to Joseph's own mother when the couple were first married. That is what his old Dad has always said…only a year before Joseph himself was born.

And in Joseph's current vision of that time, he sees himself—almost from the outside…but not quite…he can see his little brown leather mud-caked boots before him—hears their squelchy thudding upon the packed earth floor of the boot room and then on the floorboards as he barrels around the doorway and over the stoop of the little kitchen in the cottage that they have always lived in. And he feels the memory of his body swinging to a stop as he grabbed the door jamb so as to halt his body's momentum. He smells a sweetness the air again—back then—when he stalled as still as a stone back then—stalled at the vision of his Ma and Da on that early spring day—the winter had seemed short and mild that year…And how…there was a golden light of late afternoon around his Ma's face…his dad—dark-haired and fresh-faced standing to the side of Ma in his woollen waistcoat and rolled shirtsleeves…facing into her …and handing her the first blushed bloom of the season—crisp and mostly closed up in the late afternoon chill…but that his Ma would show Joseph again in the glass bottle vase the next morning on the sill—all opened to the sunshine of the new day— pure and white. Joseph sees again—the bow of his Ma's head and the sweet smile on her lips as she takes in the aroma of that little gift …and he sees his Dad's hand as it rises to meet his Ma's as she lowers the rose to the waistband of her apron…sees again the proud softness in his Da's gaze…Dad's eyes are wet, Joseph clearly remembers thinking that …and he remembers now—again —how he had felt left out …on the outside of all that…outside of all of that love…but he also instinctively knew that this was something that he just should not barge in on…Ma tells me it's rude to interrupt…And the conflict inside of him back then still remains— between his want and the what of might be the right thing to do. Back then the feelings and fears had made young Joseph fidget and drop the treasure he had found that he wanted so very desperately to show to his Ma.

"Joseph, my boy…come. It's all right…come to Mumma… always beckoning him nearer—just as if she had always known he was hiding right there in plain sight, watching that private moment between her and Joseph's Dad. And at that clear direction, little Joseph picked up his treasure and barrelled straight into her skirts and clutched them tight and closed his eyes into the warmth of her and the smell of fresh bread and lemon marmalade on her apron, even as he fumbled and dropped his treasure again and he felt his Dad ruffle the back of his hair with his hardy hand—big enough to cover his whole head.

""What have you found there m'lad? And be careful of your Mother's dress, you'll get it all dirty with your mucky paws, boy."

And Joseph had raised his head away and tried to gaze past his Mumma's big soft belly that had felt all warm pressed onto the top of his head—big as the biggest football ever!—to try to tell his Dad as well— but he couldn't quite see him to tell him all about his precious treasure. And he wished that his Mumma would pick him up like she used to so he can be up high and tell his Dad about his treasure as well, but Mumma doesn't pick him up so much now and she tells him that he is her little man now—but he knows that he is not because he is not at all like his Dad—but she still says that he is far too big and heavy for her to pick up now…and he can't seem to believe that either, because he is nowhere near as big as his Mumma's squishy and taut football tummy.

"Sorry, Dad." And Joseph tries to brush away the dirt his hands have left on his Ma's skirts and he recalls how it all made it a lot worse and his Mumma had stilled his hands and smiled and laughed a little—softly— and told him not to worry—she would fix it. She would fix it.

"What have you found there m'lad?"

"A treasure! I found it in the garden, Dad! Watcha fink it is?"

"Well, I don't know, Lad…What do you think, Rosie?"

"Let's wash it in the bucket. Here Joseph, let me see what you've got there…There we go…all fixed"

"Y'know what ye've found there, Lad?"

"What Dad? What?!"

"I be reckoning ye've found an old chess piece…I've seen 'em before, I have…just the odd one or two…up near the old Abbey. Likely from the days before Cromwell's troupes sacked the placed, I'm a-thinkin'. Don't see chess pieces like 'em much nowadays. They're a right funny shape they are."

"What's Chess? Whose Cromwell? Is it lots of Old?!"

"It's a game, Joseph, and it's very, very old…a game with lots of different pieces—Pawns and Bishops and Rooks and Kings and Queens—all black and white" his mother added."Your Dad can teach you to play it when you get a little older."

"I like games. What have I got? What piece have I got?"

"Well, I'm none too sure, lad…it looks a funny old thing don't it, Rosie? What do you think?"

"Well it's a bit dirt-stained from the ground …but do you know what I think it is, Joseph?"

"What Mumma?" Gasped out in anticipation (hoping it is a King!)^, as his Mumma crouched down a little then and handed back to Joseph the deer antler carved chess piece —dome-shaped with odd circle and striped markings around it, and a long triangular sort of face tacked up the topmost of one side of it.

She handed the water glistening piece back to her little man, "I think it is a white knight—honest and brave and strong and true—just like my special Joseph. My precious little white knight."

"Really?...You really think so, Ma?!" He gasped out in awe.

"I know so". And Joseph remembers the sweetness of her kiss upon his little button nose.

And his Mumma had told him that again…not long afterwards when she kissed him goodnight one time and her lips were clammy and he had to spend the night at old widow Wigan's place across the road. Joseph hated old Mrs Wigan…her voice was sharp and high and it always hurt his ears and she had one big hair under her chin and it scared him… and his mum had sent him there anyway and said he had to be her brave white knight and be very strong for her…but it was hard to be strong when he was so scared…And when he got back home…mummy and her squishy and taut football tummy wasn't there and she never was again and he did not feel at all like a white knight that could actually ride out to find the princess—he only felt very, very little and it was very, very hard for him to ever be brave again after that—especially when he always had to spend so much time at his Nan's or the widow Wigan's with her scratchy voice and chin…and especially when his Dad wouldn't speak to him so much anymore, not for such a long, long time—as his Dad spent more and more time outside. And Joseph would just watch through the kitchen window instead—standing right on the spot where his Ma had last kissed his little nose. And Joseph watched his Dad, with his wet eyes, as he toiled in the dirt, day after day— out there—with all of his precious and pure white roses.

oOOo

And in the Abbey library, the air is cosy and redolent with the sweetness of lemon oil-based furniture polish Mrs Hughes has been using. The scarlet tones of the room add to the warmth of the space on this rapidly darkening winter's day, especially with the last light from the horizon pushing through with serene force to glow off the satin red and gold blushed drapes and the cedar bookshelves. The amber light of the remains of the day pours onto Charles book where he stands in the far-right window alcove near to Mrs Hughes. And he imagines the warmth of the sun touching his skin, more so than he can actually feel it through the winter chill that is dropping to sit upon the window panes, perceptibly deepening as the day recedes. Ahh…The Golden Hour, Charles muses, as he lifts his eyes from the suddenly illuminated colour plate of two speckled trout species of the northern county streams—the brightness on the page drawing him to watch the origins of the emanation as the last light of this very relaxing day fades across the landscape of Downton.

Oh…Mrs Hughes,…" Charles breath hitches a little before he intones with an air of quiet reverence as he gazes out of the windows of the main library. "…Come…You simply must see the first snowfall for the season."

Still keeping his eyes affixed to the stunning view afforded across the park through the lofted French windows, he turns his body slightly from within the window alcove and he reaches towards her, hand outstretched and ready to assist Mrs Hughes up from her low seated position near the bookshelves so that she may join him.

"Come." He almost whispers as the snowfall always seems to deaden the sounds of the world down to a peaceful silence as it drifts, and hangs, and then shifts in mid-air, and slowly, slowly falls again in the first flurries for the season.

His head and eyes are slow to follow the movement of his body, reluctant as he is to miss any of the stunning glint of the golden-hour light glowing on the frost piqued lawns and cedars of the western sweep of the Abbey grounds and across all of the fallow ploughed meadow and the woods beyond.^^ But his eyes finally do catch her own and an instant glow of the same soft warmth of the sunlight kindles in his eyes at the sensation of her soft and delicate and warm hand within his own once more. Brighton, his heart whispers. He remains in silent deference to the moment and gently draws her to his side to see the view.

As Mrs Hughes settles next to him, with her straight-backed yet slight and calm solidity, he hears as her breathing also pauses at the beauty of the sight laid out before them. He glances briefly outside to the glowing lawns and glistening puffs of snowflakes as they softly alight upon the great drooping cedar branches— the whole scene bathed in ambers, reds and purple highlights as the sun, now below the horizon line, shoots forth its final shafts of glory to the day. Then he feels the gentle warmth of the rays settle upon his face and he knows that it also sits upon her soft cheeks and so his eyes are magnetically drawn towards her serene visage. Her eyes have closed briefly to the beauty laid out before her as she finally draws in another reverent breath. The russet undertones of her hair reflect all of the golden hour's splendour and she seems to glow outward from within as she opens her eyes again and breaths out his name.

"Oh…Mr Carr-son…" for there are no other words.

Even after the wonders of the revelation that was last night, as he gazes at his love now—in this singular moment, Charles knows that he has never seen nor heard anything more beautiful in all his life.

Finally, he manages to whisper out a request of her, if only as a means to stop himself from reaching up with a single fingertip to twirl around it just one single golden curl of her hair that has come loose from her braided and neatly tucked style, and which is catching the deepest glow of the last rays of sunlight for the day. To him, her hair is just as perfectly tidy as it should be in this precious moment, and he wants so very much to be able to twist just this infinitesimally small part of her around his own little finger for a change.

"What is it you are reading, Mrs Hughes?" he intones softly, not wanting to break the quiet reverence of the moment. He likes being wrapped within this slowly floating instant with her alone— somehow wishes that it could all last forever.

Sensing the same deep need, Elsie opens to the page in her tome that is marked by her finger and without preamble, she reads softly for them both.

oOOo

Glory be to God for dappled things –

For skies of couple-colour as a brinded cow;

For rose-moles all in stipple upon trout that swim;

Fresh-firecoal chestnut-falls; finches' wings;

Landscape plotted and pieced – fold, fallow, and plough;

And áll trádes, their gear and tackle and trim.

ooo

All things counter, original, spare, strange;

Whatever is fickle, freckled (who knows how?)

With swift, slow; sweet, sour; adazzle, dim;

He fathers-forth whose beauty is past change:

Praise him^^^

oOOo

"Amen" Charles breathes out low as he keeps his eyes fixed in awe upon the sweet dappled blush of light across her cheekbones until she slowly turns her eyes up to his and liquid amber streaks across blue as her pupils dazzle-widen at the beauty that is without change and that she can see inside the depths of his sweet eyes.

"Quite," is all that she can whisper in return as they float, pure and white and together before Joseph's stone stunned eyes within this Golden Hour.

oOOooOOooOOooOOooOOo

I hope you liked this. Reviews would be most welcome regarding the tack I took here...I am still not entirely sure why it seemed important or even useful to present this particular vision of Charles and Elsie through Joseph Molesley's eyes and childhood recollections. Let me know what you think. BTF : )

For those interested in such things—

Various Author Notes:

(remove additional spaces on any of the hyperlinks and hopefully you can still find these pages of information online).

* My imagined version of Violet Crawley's (nee Duncombe) background and the provenance of the Feversham Clandelabras has been loosely based on the Baronetcy of Feversham. Her father could have been the 2nd Baron William Duncombe- agriculturalist and Ultra-Tory. Comparatively new money in the Victorian age. I like the idea that The Dowager is actually putting on quite a show of elitism about her position within the Crawley/Grantham line. Perhaps her 'more humble' beginnings explain some of her behaviours in different situations. She had not been unfeeling about Joseph Moelsys' circumstances when Mr Bates went to her to help him out of his poor woes post-Matthew's death... The Dowager's heart does not exist purely to pump blood about her regal personage.

See: wiki/William_Duncombe,_2nd_Baron_Feversham#Background

The Duncombe's family pile: wiki/Duncombe_Park

** Interesting cookery trivia—Apparently many traditions of what we know of as an English Christmas, including the timings on when to soak fruits and make and hang Christmas puddings in timing with the Anglican liturgical calendar became fashionable under Queen Victoria and Prince Albert's reign. Another example is the Germanic origins of decorating a Christmas tree, and burning a Yuletide log—likely instigated by Prince Albert's origins. Sending greeting cards at Christmas also came into fashion in the Victorian age.

***Further notes on what this ancient and favourite tome of Carson's (Alfred Ronald's Fly Fisher's Entymology) can be found at the end of Chapter 30 (Delicate Negotiations Pt 1) in my Honeymoon fiction "The Acquisition of Memories".

Medieval chess pieces made from bone and deer antlers and sometimes carved stone.

The first link is to some on display at the ruins of Riveaulx Abbey in Yorkshire, not far from where the fictional Downton Abbey would be situated, and the real Duncombe Park. They are the style that I imagine Joseph Molesley would have found in digging about at the edges of the lands of Downton Abbey-

https. / www. telegraph. co. uk/news/2016/06/01/revealed-the-monastic-treasures-henry-viiis-men-missed/

The second link below has many pictures of similarly abstract styled ancient chess pieces. The picture of the Chess Pawn, Nassington, Tithe Barn Museum UK is what I imagine Molesley might have found, but I also like the thought that he may have found a knight as pictured to the right of the pawn, or earlier on the page, a possible king like the one from the Nicholas Devine Collection— because a Pawn seems too obvious an analogy for poor old Bumbling Joseph. I like to think that his mother saw him as a brave knight —supported him to be his best while she could…Perhaps Joseph ended up finding more than one piece…but I think his interest in the discipline of history could also have these early origins in his life.

Plus, I also think that Joseph has had to learn the hard and long way about how to be brave and honourable, even though he was often knocked off the board like a pawn before he got to a point where he could help Baxter defend herself against Thomas, and now by helping the Bateses. That said, pawns in chess work best when they work together and can impact the mode/possibilities of attack of the stronger pieces on the board and so pawns can actually thwart many a well-laid plan!… hmm...

http : history. chess. free. fr/ first- european. htm

^^ My use of the golden hour as a motif in this chapter:

The colours aren't quite what I imagined— not nearly as strong or couple-coloured, but the story thumbnail and the link below, give the idea of the view from the library window that Charles and Elsie are enjoying. This is a shot of golden hour snow in Yorkshire somewhere:

i. pinimg originals/ ba/ 9c/ 29/ ba9c29 554 073 aa 479f 51715 fefd 36 b29. jpg

^^^ Pied Beauty written by English Catholic Jesuit priest, poet and some-time depressive, Gerard Manly Hopkins, in 1877 but not published until 1919, 30 years after his death.

oOOo.

BTF

oOOo