The last few weeks of October passed by in the hazy, easy way Carson had expected they might. The days were damp and drizzly, the nights cool and crisp. Downton's estate, bathed in autumnal shades of burgundy and marigold, was wholly enchanting, and the old professor considered whether he really ought to depart at the end of the Michaelmas term. The prospect of leaving so soon was no longer as attractive as it had once been.

His time at the retreat center, as it so happened, had not been particularly productive, not by his usual metrics of scholarly activity. That article on upper-class suffrage went largely unwritten despite his many hours in Downton's library. It took very little to persuade him away from his outline or his books, not when proposed by John or Anna with a task they were working on and asked his advice, and certainly not by Elsie when she suggested a drive or a cup of tea. His work was immediately abandoned on those such occasions.

A past version of himself would balk at such behavior. The Charles Carson of the past was diligent, a perfectionist, almost to a fault, and he would never discard his work for frivolous things. He had worked too hard for too long to get to his position at one of the finest institutions in the world to sacrifice it for something fleeting.

But nowadays, he often found himself sitting at his library desk, pretending to write, wishing Elsie would pop in to suggest something–anything–for them to do. And to his pleasure, more often than not, she did. They spent many of their afternoons driving about Yorkshire in his old Triumph, stopping at villages along the way, sharing a pint at a pub before trekking back to Downton where they'd almost invariably have dinner together, and share a glass of port and a book by the fireplace. On occasion, the Bateses would join them (Henry really had taken quite the shine to Carson and his rather significant nose), but more often than not, the two were alone. A master and mistress of their own realm.

He would not admit to himself, not yet anyway, that she was endearing to him. No, that simply wouldn't do. She was enchanting. And he was enchanted by her. Her brogue, which got thicker and more lively when she'd imbibed a bit too much, the way she bit her lower lip when she was embarrassed or thinking deeply about something, her stinging wit, the scent of lavender that rolled off of her, all of it enchanted him. More than that, however, Elsie was perhaps the first person he had ever met who did not seem to care about his humble beginnings or his status as a well-regarded professor or any of the other things his cohort in Cambridge cared about. She spoke to him as a peer and called him out on his occasional nonsense. He was not high and mighty to her as he was to his students or his colleagues. Around her, he was simply Charlie, and the longer he spent at Downton, the more he liked being just Charlie.

Today, a Thursday in early November, found them on the road back from York yet again. Carson had suggested another visit to the medieval city after lunch and Elsie had been quick to agree. They had meandered through the narrow streets once again, this time slower and more at ease. A small market in the center of the Shambles had caught her eye and she dragged him into it. Stall upon stall filled the square, and merchants called out to passersby and tried to entice them to inspect their goods further.

Carson had been looking at a table full of leather wallets when he noticed Elsie wander off towards a stall selling woven pashmina scarves. She grabbed the ends of one in particular, rubbing its rich teal and navy fabric between her fingers. The wallets were promptly abandoned and he walked up behind her.

"That would be a lovely color on you," he had heard himself say. She seemed so impossibly small, he decided as he stood behind her, the top of her head just barely at his breastbone.

Elsie turned her head over her shoulder and grinned. "Flatterer," she quipped. Turning back to the scarf, she added, "But it is rather nice, isn't it?"

Before the words could be stopped, they took on a life of their own and marched straight out of his mouth.

"Let me buy it for you."

This time, Elsie turned around to face him. "Don't be silly. Why would you want to do such a thing?"

Carson's mind raced, all to no avail. Of course, the bloody thing that had gotten him into this mess couldn't be bothered to help him out of it.

He cleared his throat to buy time. "Consider it payment for putting up with me this term," he somehow managed. "I insist."

And so this was how the two ended up in his Triumph on their way back from York, each feeling a little lighter and a little younger, that teal pashmina wrapped around Elsie's shoulders and a satisfied grin on Carson's face because of it.

It had to be noted that the scenery was particularly stunning that late afternoon. The contrast between the gray sky and the rich colors of the land were breathtaking. Carson felt a bit of pride as he glanced at the farms and the trees from his side of the car. Not everyone had the privilege of living in a place so idyllic or serene.

"Do you miss Scotland?" he asked after a time.

Elsie turned to him. "Aye, I do sometimes," she said, not intending to sound as Scottish as she just had. "But I've made a good life here for myself, first in Gloucester and now here."

"Do you get back there often?"

"Sometimes. My family still owns the farm I grew up on. My sister and her husband manage it now."

"You were a farm girl?" he asked in a teasing tone. "I can almost envision it now: a young Elsie Hughes in a muddy pair of wellies, a flock of chickens following in her wake."

She scoffed and slapped his thigh. If that's all it took to warrant such a response, he decided he ought to be a little sarcastic with her more often.

"You're not wrong," she chuckled. "We did raise chickens and it was often muddy. It was a difficult life, but a rewarding one. It taught me hard work and that's lasted my whole life through. But I'm not that farm girl any longer."

Their eyes met. "No, I dare say you're not," he replied in a low tone.

The air in the little coupe became hot and electric. They mutually cleared their throats and begged for a change of topic.

"What were you like as a child?" Elsie eventually asked.

"Oh, me? I was a little bookworm. Well, not little in the physical sense; I always have been larger than most. But my nose was always in a book. That's where my love of history comes from, I suspect. I was fascinated with British history, of kings and queens, of knights and ladies. It seemed like it was from the pages of a storybook, one we all lived in."

"Perhaps that could be said of history before the last few centuries, hmm?" she joked.

"Precisely. I stand by previous statements I've made: the world's gone mad," he replied. "How did you come into teaching history?"

That lower lip snuck between her teeth; he could tell she was thinking. "Well, it wasn't quite as romantic as your reason, but I suppose I took comfort in knowing where we came from and where we're headed. History is so often cyclical, as you well know."

"That it is," he nodded in agreement.

So often these days, he often heard himself asking her things or telling her things without any involvement from his conscious mind. They were questions or statements that could be construed as inappropriate, given the professional nature of their involvement, and he often wondered why he hadn't been thoroughly dressed down now because of them. That subconscious of his had an agenda, he had decided, and it was bound to get him into trouble eventually. But what followed this discussion about history was anything but subconscious. It was deliberate, and that made all the difference.

"Say, would you be interested in a proper day trip to see the British Museum in London?" he asked, a nervous tremor to the words he spoke. "I rarely have time during the school year to go down there and it's been ages since I've visited. We could go to the museum in the afternoon, grab dinner somewhere in London, and take the evening train back here. Would that…interest you at all?"

The color her cheeks turned as his question hung in the air was a shade of red that roses would envy. "That would interest me quite a lot, actually. It sounds like a fine day."

Carson hadn't realized he'd been holding his breath until it finally caught up with him. He exhaled and felt a sublimely odd mixture of relief and excitement.

"Delightful. How about Saturday?"

"Delightful," she echoed.

As the rolling hills led them away from York and closer to Downton, Elsie's mobile buzzed in her purse. She looked down at the offending device and smiled as she read the message on the screen.

"Beryl's just texted me," she explained. "She has a rare night off from the restaurant. Something about letting her sous chef, Alfred, take the reins. She and her husband Arthur want to meet for a drink at The Curious Cow outside Harrogate. Would you be interested in joining? If you'd rather not, would you mind dropping me off there? I'm sure Beryl could give me a ride back to the abbey."

"I think my very busy schedule can manage a drink or two with your friends," Carson replied in a jesting way. "Harrogate, you said?" When she nodded, he added, "Then to Harrogate we go."

When they arrived at The Curious Cow, it greeted them with a quintessentially English pub filled to the brim with Yorkshire residents. The sound of chatter echoed off the low, beamed ceilings and the old bartender tried his best to keep up with demand. The Masons were already there and already a drink or two ahead of them. They had lucked out and commandeered a corner of the bar for the four of them. Beryl brightened when she saw Elsie and flagged her down.

"Hey, you cheeky lass!" she exclaimed, pulling her dear friend in for an embrace, giggly and cheerful from a drink or three. Apparently, she was a bit further ahead in imbibing than previously thought. "It has been too long, old girl."

"Hi, there, Beryl," Elsie chuckled. Turning to Carson, she put her hand behind his back and ushered him forward. "Let me introduce you to Charles Carson, the visiting scholar I told you about."

A knowing look spread across Beryl's face until it was almost mischievous. In fact, she had heard much about the charming professor hiding out at her friend's retreat center, how he was a proper ass when he first arrived and how he had softened to the point of being rather likable. Elsie, of course, hadn't alluded to more than that, but nearly every conversation between the two women these days involved at least a passing mention of Charles Carson. In their years of friendship, Beryl could not recall anyone else receiving as many mentions, not a one.

"Only good things, I promise you," she quipped, extending her hand. "Pleasure to meet you, Charles. This is my husband, Arthur."

Arthur Mason was a gentle man, rather softspoken and quite kind. He had a thick beard and seemed to wear a near constant smile. It was the perfect balance to Beryl's wildness.

They all exchanged pleasantries and got settled with a round of drinks as the chatter in the pub grew louder. It was absolutely packed and on more than one occasion, Elsie found her arm and Carson's flush against each other. Neither seemed bothered by this and neither made any attempt to move.

"I'm glad you could get a night off, Beryl," Elsie said.

"Me, too. Rare as it is. Let's all hope to God that Alfred doesn't burn the place down. I keep checking my mobile for updates."

"Say, why do you think they call it 'The Curious Cow?'" Carson asked before sipping on his pint.

"A most curious incident," Beryl teased, hunching over and waving them closer as if telling some sordid secret. "It's actually quite uncurious. The Curious Cat was already taken by a pub in Tockwith. And it just so happened that this pub's owner's wife was…of a great personage."

Carson laughed. "That can't possibly be true."

"Oh, but it is!" she exclaimed. "You're not from Yorkshire, you wouldn't know."

"I'm with Charlie on this one," Elsie interjected. "No man who values his life would liken his wife to a cow."

Carson clinked his pint glass with hers as if they had formed some alliance. "Hear. hear!"

"I'm afraid I have to agree, love," Arthur added, planting a peck on his wife's temple.

"You all are ganging up on me," Beryl joked, pretending to be offended at the prospect. "Elsie, come with me to the loo. Gentlemen, watch our drinks."

Before she could protest, the cook grabbed her by the arm and yanked her away from the bar, dragging her down a long hallway till they reached the women's loo.

"So," Beryl began conspiratorially as she leaned against the edge of the sink and applied more lipstick. "Tell me everything."

Elsie was startled. "Don't you need to use the loo?"

The cook waved her hand in the air, dismissing the question. "Nonsense, of course not. What I need is the scoop on this Charles figure. You've mentioned him enough when we chat over the phone and now he's here looking rather chummy with you."

"Don't be daft. We're just…friends," she said unconvincingly. That word suddenly sounded so horrible. It tasted bitter in her mouth.

Beryl was unconvinced and arched an eyebrow in her direction. "Sure, just like Arthur and I were 'friends.' You know that William was born about nine months after we became 'just friends.'"

"Well, that is certainly not like my situation with Charles," she countered, absentmindedly touching her teal pashmina. "We have a professional relationship. He's a visiting scholar." There was that mantra again. Of course, she omitted telling her of their planned day trip to London that weekend or how they went for daily drives through the countryside or how they flirted over dinner and over port each evening. That would not convince Beryl, or anyone, of a strictly professional relationship.

"Sure," the cook countered lovingly. "Tell yourself whatever you need to. The man's been giving you googly eyes since you both arrived here."

Elsie felt hot all over and she turned away to hide her blush. "Don't be daft."

"I'm not!" Beryl insisted. "And why are you so reluctant to lean into it? It's not because of Joe, is it?"

A few other women came into the loo and Elsie felt all the more self-conscious. "It's not that. I just…I don't know. I'm so out of practice. I met Joe when I was a wee lass, not even twenty-five. I don't know the first thing about doing this at my age. I don't want to make a fool of myself."

At once, Beryl understood. She placed her hand on her friend's cheek and stroked it lovingly. "The only fool would be that man if he even hesitated in pursuing you. If you want, I can stick Arthur on him and get more information." Suddenly, they were teen girls conniving about a boy after school.

"No," she chuckled. "That won't be necessary. Now, we had better head back. They'll think we've fallen in."

When they emerged from the loo, they were surprised to find that, if possible, the crowd had thickened even more and they had to push past people to make their way back to where their menfolk were waiting. From the other side of the bar, Elsie caught Carson's glance. A sea of patrons separated them and the chatter roared. He smiled at her the moment he saw her and raised his glass to her. Arthur kept chatting in his general direction, but Carson didn't seem to pay him much mind. His dark gaze never never seemed to leave her for long.

Eventually, after a fair degree of shoving and tapping on shoulders and begging one's pardon, Elsie and Beryl made it back to their perch. The men handed their respective drinks back to them and they resumed their conversation.

"We were about to send a search party," Arthur laughed.

"Don't be silly, Artie," Beryl countered. "You know how the queue can be in the ladies' toilet."

Their conversation picked up where it had left off, the four of them regaling one another with tall tales and friendly jabs and knowing glances. Before long, the pub crowd died down, and the four sensed that their night, too, was coming to a close. Goodbyes were made and promises to do it again soon were tendered.

"Your friends are a delight," Carson told her as they sped off towards Downton in his Triumph. "Far more so than any of my old chums."

Elsie smiled. "I'm rather fond of them. Beryl was the first friend I made when I moved here from Gloucester. I'm glad you two could meet, finally."

"I am, too," he replied. "Would you, ahem, fancy a glass of port before bed? To keep with tradition?"

Indeed, not a night had passed since he first joined her for a nightcap weeks ago without a shared glass or two of the sweet stuff. Could it count as a tradition if it had been going on for less than a month? Whatever the answer, Elsie didn't care. She couldn't fathom a night ending nowadays without their usual glass of port beside a crackling fire.

"You don't need to convince me," she told him.

And so, the two of them imbibed in a glass of tawny port upon their arrival at Downton, a fire crackling nearby, and the rest of the world quiet and still around them.

When Carson woke, the first sensation that registered was a weight on his shoulder, followed shortly by the darkness of the room and the smell of fading embers. He blinked his eyes over and over, and slowly they adjusted to what little light poured in from the sitting room's great windows. When he could make out basic shapes and figures, he turned his attention to the weight on his shoulder.

Nestled against him, a tartan throw covering them both, was Elsie Hughes. She was fast asleep, her hand draped across his belly, his own hand resting on top of hers, the soft rhythm of her breaths keeping time in the otherwise silent room. How on earth had they ended up here, he wondered. His mind harkened back to what he last recalled.

They had arrived back to the Abbey earlier that night and he had dutifully assembled a fire while she poured the port. Perhaps because they had already had a few drinks and had not had dinner, that fortified wine seemed to hit them a little harder than usual. He could hardly remember their conversation before he had fallen asleep in front of the warm glow of the fire.

That explained how he managed to fall asleep, but not how they had ended up snuggled together, their hands resting on his waist.

He decided, then, that he didn't care how it had happened, only that it had. Of course, propriety demanded that he extricate himself from her embrace and trudge on upstairs to his own bedroom. But the thought alone was excruciating. He could not remember the last time he had felt the weight of a woman on him and he wanted to savor it.

So, instead, he leaned them both back so they were lying against the couch properly and pulled the tartan throw blanket up so it covered them both. She stirred slightly in her sleep, but settled against his chest with a sleepy sigh. He longed to kiss the top of her hair, but he restrained himself. Instead, he dreamt of the same.

It was, perhaps, the best night of sleep Carson could ever recall.

A/N: Thank you all so much for your support of the last chapter! I am so appreciative of it. Things are obviously heating up between these two and the next chapter will be pivotal. Also, to those who may not have caught it, I added a little tribute to Jim Carter, who is from Harrogate in Yorkshire. The Curious Cow is a real pub outside of that town.

If you can spare a moment, I would love to hear your thoughts on this installment!