A/N: Thank you so much for your feedback for the first chapter! I'm glad you're all enjoying it. It's so fun to write. You all are such lovely readers and I thank you for the time you spend reading this story and letting me know what you think. I'm so grateful and appreciative. Enjoy this installment!
A few days later, after a flurry of exchanges between the solicitor and the sellers of the cottage on Brancaster Road, Mr. Carson received a call from the telephone in his pantry. It was his solicitor, and he brought good news. Thanking him for his assistance and promptly hanging up the phone, Carson nearly dropped the telephone on his desk in a daze of excitement. Barely a moment had passed before he began his hunt for Mrs. Hughes.
He searched for her in every nook and cranny of the Abbey, dodging curious looks from his staff as he popped into a room here or there, arching an eyebrow as he scanned the room and its occupants, huffing when he didn't find what he sought. Where was the woman? How could she be scarce at a moment like this? Of course, she was oblivious to what this moment was, but still. That was beside the point.
After what felt like an hour, but was closer in time to twenty minutes, Carson found Mrs. Hughes in a small linen closet near the family's bedchambers. She was organizing an array of bedsheets, a task usually done by a housemaid. He was so perplexed when he saw her performing a task beneath her position that he almost forgot the reason for his needing to find her in the first place.
For her part, Mrs. Hughes noticed his presence as his large frame cast a shadow among the closet, and when she glanced away from her task, she saw him staring at her, his substantial eyebrows raised high on his forehead, looking completely bewildered. She stifled the urge to chuckle.
"May I help you, Mr. Carson?" she asked, not ceasing her organization of the linens.
Her question jolted him out of his daze, and a new wave of excitement washed over him. "Yes, Mrs. Hughes, in fact, I have good news."
The tone in his voice, so uncharacteristically cheerful, piqued her interest, and she stopped her task and turned towards him. "Oh? About what?"
"The cottage," he said, taking a step, ever so small and almost inconsequential, towards her. "It's ours. The solicitor just rang to tell me that the owners accepted our offer. We just need to go down to his office in Thirsk and sign the paperwork. It'll be official then, and it'll be ours."
There were many times over the last few decades, and more so in recent years and months, when Mrs. Hughes felt the urge to pull this man into her embrace, to hold him close to herself. This afternoon, in this linen closet, when he delivered news like this, was no exception.
"That's wonderful news!" she exclaimed, suddenly unsure of what decorum called for in that moment. Did one embrace? Offer a firm, sterile handshake? She had never been a part of such a business transaction before, and the protocol was foreign to her.
Carson, too, was unsure. He smiled nervously, and clasped his hands together, bouncing a little on the balls of his feet. "It's splendid news, Mrs. Hughes. Just splendid," he managed to say.
Watching a man of his stature and position awkwardly toddling about would just not do. To hell with decorum. With decisiveness, she closed the gap between them and placed her hand on his forearm, squeezing it gently. "Congratulations to us both, Mr. Carson," she said. "Can you believe it? We're to be business owners."
He looked down at her small, fair hand on his arm and, out of instinct, covered it with his own. Had his thumb brushed back and forth along the smooth and milky skin of her hand? He wouldn't dare admit it had. "I can hardly fathom it," he said, his voice low and soft.
They stood there in that linen closet, which was far too small for two occupants, for far too long. Moment slipped into moment and melted away. It was only when a commotion nearby in the corridor jolted them back to reality that they parted. Carson cleared his throat and took at least three steps back, adding a fourth in for good measure.
"So, ahem, should we tell the staff of our plan this evening?" he asked.
Mrs. Hughes smoothed down her dress for a reason she could not articulate, and tried not to appear as flustered as she was. "Tonight seems just as good a night as any to deliver the news," she agreed. "After supper?"
With a curt nod, he returned to his butler persona, so stern and pragmatic. "Excellent. Until then." He bowed to her slightly and took his leave.
Walking down the corridor, putting distance between himself and the closet, Carson was unable to see how Mrs. Hughes grabbed an armful of linens, pulled them to her breast, and looked up to the heavens, sighing deeply, one might even say contentedly.
Later that evening, among the clinking of glasses and the clatter of cutlery in the servants' dining hall, Mr. Carson and Mrs. Hughes exchanged a knowing glance, signaling that it was time. Carson set his napkin down and cleared his throat. It was a low and rumbling sound, loud enough to puncture the hum of conversation among the staff. All ceased their dinner talk and looked at the head of the table.
"Thank you all," he began, his chest full, his grin proud. "I'd like to take this opportunity to share some good news with you all. Mrs. Hughes and I, after many conversations with His Lordship, have decided to step back gradually from our positions as housekeeper and butler."
Whispers broke out among the staff then. Eyebrows were arched and jaws gaped. Downton Abbey without Mr. Carson and Mrs. Hughes? It was like England without a monarch–it was unsettling. Many of the servants wondered if their colleagues had had any inkling of this monumental change and had neglected to share such juicy gossip. Were traitors among their ranks?
Despite their whispers and distraction, he pressed on. "We have decided to purchase a bed and breakfast outside Ripon as part of our retirement plan. Over the next few months as we embark on this transition, she and I will train our respective replacements, which will be Mr. Barrow and Miss Baxter."
The whispers grew louder at this, until it was almost a chatter. Mrs. Hughes shot a steely glance down the long wooden table, and silence prevailed once more.
"We must all be patient in the coming months. Mr. Barrow and Miss Baxter, while certainly up to the task, have much to learn. I ask that you all show them proper respect as they prepare for their new positions. If you have any questions, please feel free to inquire with myself or with Mrs. Hughes."
After he had finished, Mr. Carson returned to his supper as if he hadn't just dropped a bombshell on his staff. He almost seemed pleased with himself for it. A thousand questions ran through the minds of the servants for the remainder of supper. Chief among them was what on earth these two were really up to. Mrs. Hughes was seven or so years Mr. Carson's junior; her need for retirement wasn't as pressing as his. Surely, something beyond "retirement" was at play. But the staff said nothing. Supper went on as normal. So normally, in fact, that neither Mr. Carson nor Mrs. Hughes noticed the knowing smirk that passed between John and Anna Bates across the dinner table. The married servants seemed to recognize a spade as a spade more readily than the others.
The sun had gone to bed hours ago, followed not long after by most of the staff of Downton Abbey. But a warm light peaked out from underneath the door of the butler's pantry, where its two occupants finally settled down for a nightcap before they, too, would take to bed. Mr. Carson gestured Mrs. Hughes towards the table and carried over a tray of port and two crystal glasses, pouring them adeptly, and finally, after many hours on his feet, he let his body weight sink into the chair.
It was late, rounding midnight, but he had the energy of a much younger man this evening. He could feel it in the tips of his fingers.
"Is it possible to be this excited at our age?" he pondered aloud, sipping the sweet wine and relishing how it warmed its way down his throat.
"Certainly not! We've much to be excited for," she countered.
"How do you think the staff took the news?"
"I'm sure we were the topic of conversation in the servants' quarters tonight, Mr. Carson," she teased. Being the source of gossip was never something she sought to be, but for some strange reason, the thought of the two of them being such a source did not bother as she thought it might.
A low chuckle came from deep in his belly. "Oh, I'm sure we were," he laughed into his port glass. Gossip was currency downstairs, and he was certain that a thriving economy had developed in the servants' bedrooms this evening. "It's a bit of a nine-days' wonder. It'll pass quickly, I assure you."
"I hope you're right. I can't have my housemaids snickering and whispering behind my back for the foreseeable future."
"They wouldn't dare," he said, turning towards her, a dark glint in his eye.
A shiver ran through her, and she tried to conceal it by burying herself in the little crystal port glass. She cleared her throat and racked her brain for a change in conversation. Mercifully, her mind delivered.
"Mrs. Patmore was quite curious about our endeavor, especially how we plan to address food."
Carson straightened up as he noticed her discomfort. "Oh? In what way?"
"She recommends hiring a kitchen maid to assist with the breakfasts. It's not a bad idea. It's safe to assume that you don't plan on cooking?" she lightly chided. He threw his hands up in mock surrender, confirming her assumption. She grinned at that. "And I am no help in that manner, either. We'll have to discuss how to factor that into our budget."
He considered this. "I suppose we shall. We have quite a bit of work to do, you and I, Mrs. Hughes," he said. "To say nothing of getting to Thirsk to sign the paperwork, we have much to plan and shop for."
"It's nothing beyond what we can handle," she assured him. Truth be told, she was a tad nervous at the prospect of undertaking such a task. Never in her life had she been on the cusp of leaving service like she was in this moment, and not just to retire idly, but to forge a final legacy for herself. And at her age, no less. Life really was mysterious.
"I hope you're right," he said. "Based on some of my preliminary calculations and time frames, I think we'll be ready to move in and start hosting guests before May. That is, if Mr. Barrow and Miss Baxter are up to speed by that point."
The port continued to disappear, and Carson took it upon himself to refill their glasses. He longed for these moments at night with her, conversing with ease, and an empty glass often hastened their departure. Prolonging it with another ounce or two seemed only just.
"May?" she repeated. That was only a few months away.
He nodded. "Indeed. It seems like a short turnaround, but the sooner we start hosting guests, the sooner we can start getting our capital to work for us."
Inspired by the disappearing port, she decided that shop talk was no longer desirable. A quiet night like this, a night where they had fundamentally altered their lives, called for something deeper and more introspective. "Did you ever think you'd leave service?"
He shook his head. "Never. For many years, I assumed I would die here and haunt these walls forever after."
"What changed?" she asked. The question lingered in the air, and when his dark eyes met hers, she wondered if she knew the answer already. But a moment passed, just a hair too long, and his dark gaze fell to the floor.
"I am not blind to how the times are changing, and how many estates are being consolidated. I suppose I want more security for the years that remain to me," he managed to say. Was it the truth? Yes. But was it the whole truth? Not by any stretch of the imagination.
A small, melancholic smile formed on her lips. "I suppose that's reason enough," Mrs. Hughes said quietly. The port was gone now, a harbinger of the end of their night. Standing up, she bade him a hasty goodnight and retreated to her quarters. Against every inclination, she didn't dare repeat their congratulatory encounter in the linen closet, not at this dark hour, with port warming every inch of her.
In the relative solace of her bedchamber, Mrs. Hughes went about her nightly routine, and before long, she was in her nightclothes and snug in bed. Before turning off the lamp on her bedside table, she looked around the room, which had been hers since she was promoted to housekeeper all those decades ago. It was tidy and functional, the only place on God's green earth that was, in a sense, her own. She realized then that she doubted she would miss this room or much of this grand estate come May. The cottage on Brancaster Road, while of far humbler means, was to be hers. Or rather, theirs. She had to keep reminding herself that she was entitled to use that word now. It repeated in her head over and over, lulling her into a deep slumber, one where she dreamed of May.
