It started with a simple question. Do you think that we should invest in a property together? Then again, perhaps it started well before that.
Charles Carson had never considered such a venture before. He had lived and worked at Downton Abbey for over forty years, first as a young man, eager to prove himself, and now, older and more dignified, contemplating life beyond these hallowed walls. It was a strange thing, to be nearing the end, and yet feeling like he was on the cusp of a beginning.
The day had been a long one, and he was glad for the prospect of his evening port ritual with Mrs. Hughes. In the relative darkness of his office, lit by just a single lamp in the corner, the two heads of staff unburdened themselves, resting their weary feet and indulging in fine fortified wine. These nights, when the house was quiet and they were the last two awake, where the only noise was their low chatter and the clinking of their glasses, seemed important. Necessary, even.
Carson took a sip from the little crystal glass and hummed to himself at its deliciousness. Mrs. Hughes smirked at this, quickly taking a sip of her to conceal her reaction.
"I took the liberty of inquiring with my solicitor about some potential properties," he told her, sliding a folder over to her, tapping on it. He was certain that their future inn was among the lot.
"Have you now?" Mrs. Hughes replied, opening up the folder and inspecting the fruits of his inquiry.
He smiled and nodded proudly. "I have. The one on Brancaster Road is a top contender, I'd say. It's got three bedrooms, plus an attic bedroom where I could reside and a small maid's quarters off the kitchen, which could be yours. The three guest rooms are decently sized, and the kitchen sounds adequate. It's a little over our proposed budget, however, at £400. But it has everything necessary to make a great bed and breakfast, and a profitable one, at that. The other two houses on the list are more economical, but the rooms are smaller and one needs quite a bit of renovation to bring it up to standard."
Mrs. Hughes flipped through the informational sheets he had gathered, examining the one on Brancaster Road more than the other two. Her fingers ran along a grainy picture of the little cottage. It was so charming and she found herself drawn to it. Was this the one?
When Mr. Carson had approached her last month about the prospect of investing in a property, she had initially thought it would be just that: an investment. They'd pool their resources, buy something and spruce it up, and reap the rental income to save for retirement. But he had envisioned something else entirely. A bed and breakfast would generate far greater income than just a rental property, but would require more sweat equity. After what he had described as a period of lengthy personal discernment on his part, he suggested that the two of them gradually transition away from their posts at Downton, train their respective replacements, manage the bed and breakfast on a part-time basis, and when said replacements were sufficiently ready for the task, they could commit fully to the operation of their business. He had even gotten the scheme approved by His Lordship, who, while disappointed that his two heads of staff would eventually be leaving, knew that this day was inevitable.
Mrs. Hughes had been agog at this suggestion, even more than the original proposal of investing in the first place. In fact, initially, she had refused. Contemplating life beyond Downton was something she did not want to consider. But, retirement loomed large on the horizon, and necessitated its contemplation whether she wanted to or not. After a day or two of mulling it over, she realized that this was a good idea. She and Mr. Carson had put some money away for retirement, but if they pooled their resources and generated more income, they could enjoy much kinder golden years than they would individually.
So, as it were, Mr. Carson and Mrs. Hughes were to be joint venturers. Golly, what a shock.
"The Brancaster Road house looks particularly promising," she told him, taking one last glance at the grainy photo before closing the folder and handing it back to him. "It's over our budget, yes, but it seems like the best option of the three."
"Shall we go see it this week? On our half-day?" he asked. "We could make a proper outing out of it. Grab tea in Ripon afterwards, perhaps? Hopefully, a toast to our new bed and breakfast."
She smiled and nodded. "Sounds like an excellent plan, Mr. Carson," she said, retreating to her port glass and the fortified liquid therein.
If one had asked Mrs. Hughes about the little cartwheel her stomach had performed just then, she would have denied any such knowledge. She had no idea what you might be implying by such an inquiry.
Thursday afternoon found the heads of staff touring the little cottage on Brancaster Road. It was charming in every sense of the word. Nestled among trees, flanked by rose bushes and hedges, English ivy twisting its way across the bricks, the cottage had the outward appearance of a well loved and well maintained home. The interior told a similar story. The ceilings were low, giving the entire place a sense of coziness, and the antique furniture and oil paintings adorning the walls added to that. As Carson had described, there were three bedrooms on the second floor, each comfortable enough for two guests and their luggage. Above that, in the attic, was a little room, flanked on either side by latticed windows, a metal frame single bed in the middle and an old wardrobe tucked in a corner. It was fitting for a bachelor, and one who was as tidy and accustomed to spartan living as Mr. Carson.
The kitchen was tiny, not nearly as grand as what they were used to at the Abbey, but it had all the necessary parts to provide the requisite breakfasts one might expect at a bed and breakfast. And lastly, as they concluded their tour, the pair found a small maid's quarters stemming from the kitchen. It was just as spartan as the attic bedroom, albeit a little smaller, with windows on three sides. The entire room was flooded in warm, afternoon sunshine. Mrs. Hughes felt that she could get used to waking up in this bright little room. That would be a very easy adjustment to make.
It was here, in this maid's quarters, that Mr. Carson and Mrs. Hughes shared a knowing smile, one that told of their mutual agreement that they had found the place. Words weren't needed at all.
He gestured towards the door and let her pass through it, following in her wake. Once they were outside, he locked up and turned towards her.
"Well?" he inquired as he put his bowler hat on, feeling quite proud with himself for finding such a cottage.
"Would it be impertinent to say that I loved it?" Mrs. Hughes replied as she joined him walking step in step back towards Ripon. "I mean, we've only toured the one. Wouldn't it be wise to see a few others before committing?"
"Would we not just compare all the others to this one?" he asked.
She considered this. "You're probably right. It really has everything we were looking for."
Carson paused along the side of the road, standing to face her, puffed up to full height. "So? Shall I call the solicitor and tell him to put in an offer?" His voice was laden with eager anticipation. He couldn't bear it if she declined.
Mrs. Hughes grinned at him and she felt her skin flush. "I think it would be best."
He hadn't realized how tightly his body was wound up as he waited for her reply. But as soon as she gave him her approval, he felt every muscle and joint relax. He felt as if he were melting away.
"Splendid," he nodded, a small smile playing on his lips. "I shall telephone him when we return to the Abbey. But first, we had planned on tea."
The budding business partners made their way to a tea shop in Ripon, a favorite of theirs on those rare half-days they had off in common. It was a quaint place, and Carson approved of their tea-making practices, which was high praise indeed. They settled at a small table for two in the back of the shop, near a fireplace that warmed them on this chilly spring afternoon. He poured the tea into their respective cups, adding just a dash of milk and a sugar cube to hers, just as she liked it.
Watching as he prepared their tea, Mrs. Hughes' mind drifted to a familiar thought. In the last month since Mr. Carson had proposed their gradual retirement and their going into business together, she began to wonder if he had ulterior motives at play. The afternoon they had shared at the beach, wading into the sea, holding hands, exchanging flirtatious jabs at one another, had been a day like none other, to say nothing of this business venture they were now embarking on. Lately, she swore she caught him in the middle of a longing glance with a frequency that Mr. Carson would promptly deny and call ungentlemanly. If she didn't know better, she would confess that it seemed like something beyond business was underlying this chain of events. And if it were?
Mr. Carson passed her teacup and saucer to her and lifted his own up as if to make a toast. "While it is not settled yet, I can't help but feel it is already ours. To our thriving commercial enterprise," he said, clinking his teacup with hers.
"Cheers, Mr. Carson," she said. "To our good fortune."
The butler and the housekeeper spent what remained of their half-day plotting and planning the details of their bed and breakfast: its name, how they would spruce it up, what they would charge their guests. It was all quite exhilarating, establishing this realm that would be entirely their own, where they would be its master and mistress. Exhilarating, indeed.
