The month of May found the two joint venturers sooner than either had anticipated. Flowers budded in bushes around every corner, the hills rolled languidly with fresh green grass, and the air was sweet. Springtime had arrived, and with it, a new bed and breakfast had arrived, too, just outside Ripon. The Brancaster Arms, as Mr. Carson and Mrs. Hughes had decided to name it, was on the cusp of its grand opening.
March and April had passed in a flurry. Nearly every half-day that either the butler or housekeeper had off was spent buying the necessary furnishings and cutlery, interviewing candidates for their kitchen maid position, or stocking up on provisions for their new pantry. And all of this chaos was on top of their usual duties as heads of staff and their additional responsibility of training Barrow and Baxter to take the helm. Both began to wonder how they were surviving it, having essentially three full-time positions simultaneously. Neither were in their youth any longer, however much they tried to ignore this fact.
Tonight, the eve before their retirement from Downton Abbey and their official foray into entrepreneurship, found Mr. Carson packing up his pantry. He had already packed away what few suits and pajamas and hats he owned into a suitcase in his bedroom. What was left in the pantry were some favorite books, a beloved fountain pen, a few framed photographs, and, curiously, an oil painting of a fish. In the still and quiet of the night, he packed away thirty years of service into a single trunk. It would have saddened him that all those decades were reduced to just a small trunk he had found in the attics, had it not been for the exciting adventure on which he and Mrs. Hughes were embarking.
As he pulled the oil painting of a fish from the wall of his pantry, a familiar rhythm tapped at the door. He smiled. Right on time.
Mrs. Hughes entered without waiting for his permission. They both knew she was the only one who came knocking at his door at this time of night. She had in her hands a bottle of red wine and two glasses.
"Good evening," she said as she surveyed the relative nakedness of his pantry. "Almost finished?"
He stopped his packing and rested his hands on the edge of the trunk. "Almost there. Just a few odds and ends left. You?"
She nodded and closed the door behind her. "My sitting room is ready, but I still have some personal effects in my bedroom left to pack away."
The two inhaled a breath, almost at the same time, steeling themselves for the undertaking that was imminent.
"Are you getting excited?" he ventured, his fingers running along the rim of the trunk, a hint of a glint in his dark eyes.
Mrs. Hughes nodded without reservation. "I am. I thought I'd be more sentimental when my time here came to an end, but surprisingly, I'm not. I'll be glad to have something of my own. Of our own," she corrected. "And it'll be nice to have only one occupation, not three!"
Carson chuckled and felt that familiar ease that always corresponded with being in her presence. "That'll be a welcomed change of pace," he said. Noticing now the wine that she carried, he asked, "What do you have there?"
"Oh, this!" Mrs. Hughes exclaimed, looking at the bottle; she had forgotten all about it. "Her Ladyship gave this Bordeaux to me on my twenty-fifth anniversary of service to the Family. I've held onto it for a special occasion, and tonight seems like just such an occasion."
"That was very kind of Her Ladyship," he replied. "Surely, you should have it for yourself."
Mrs. Hughes took a step closer, and set the two glasses on the table for good measure. "It's my bottle and I'll do what I like with it! And tonight, that means sharing it with my business partner. Unless he continues to irk me!"
Carson didn't need to be told twice. He fetched a corkscrew from his desk drawer and got to work. As he poured the Bordeaux into each glass and she took her customary seat in his pantry, he had to refrain from chuckling. Whenever Mrs. Hughes was peeved with him, her Scottish brogue seemed all the more…Scottish. It was almost melodic. Sometimes, in trivial matters, he liked to get under her skin intentionally just to hear that Gaelic lilt and the sarcasm that came with it.
"This is a nice vintage," he said instead. "1910. A very good year."
The two, now settled in their usual seats, clinked their glasses together and took a luxurious sip of Lady Grantham's superb vintage.
"Mmm," Carson hummed. "Excellent idea, Mrs. Hughes."
"I've been known to have those on occasion," she said, rolling her eyes in jest for effect.
"So, for the day after tomorrow," he began, "we have two couples joining us at the inn. A young couple on their honeymoon from Leeds, a young barrister and his wife, and the other, an elderly couple from Edinburgh on their way to London. It's shaping up to be a very nice opening weekend."
Mrs. Hughes smiled into her wine glass. "Honeymooners? That'll be…interesting."
Carson's dark eyes bulged and he coughed on his Bordeaux. "Mrs. Hughes!" he gasped, wiping wine from his chin and lips with the back of his hand. "Don't be uncouth. I expected more propriety from you."
The eyeroll of a few moments ago was rivaled by the one delivered now. "Oh, now, settle down, Mr. Carson. I meant nothing improper by it." She lied, of course, but it was ever so entertaining to watch him huff and puff at things he found improper. If one cornered her and asked whether she intentionally got a rise out of him for her amusement from time to time, she wouldn't deny it.
He tugged at his waistcoat and let his feathers settle. "Anyway," he continued on, "have we straightened out what to do about the kitchen maid situation?"
"Jane, the new kitchen maid, cannot start until Monday," she explained. "In the meantime, Mrs. Patmore has graciously agreed to provide breakfast and tea for our guests. We'll have to compensate her and pay for the ingredients, of course. But to do this on such short notice is very kind of her."
Carson had settled down from his little fit from moments ago. "Indeed it is." A relative calm came to rest among them and he took this opportunity to indulge a bit more in that delightful Bordeaux. The calm continued to permeate his pantry and Carson felt relaxed for the first time in many hours.
"You know," he said in a low, quiet voice, his dark eyes fixated on the red wine in his glass. "I don't think I've told you this yet, but I'm glad it's you by my side doing this. Service has been good for me, but it's time to move on. Times are changing in spite of my protests. And one thing's for certain–I know I wouldn't be doing any of this without your steadfast support and encouragement."
Mrs. Hughes had not expected that. Not in the least. While she considered Mr. Carson to be a very dear friend, perhaps her best friend, they seldom talked in such a way. They teased and they bickered and they talked shop. But rarely did they speak of how one meant to the other. It was too risky, perhaps. Too close to the truth. But tonight, on the cusp of something new entirely, he whispered such sweet words. Mrs. Hughes wondered if something more lurked beyond their meaning, something she had been considering for a long time, herself, but wouldn't dare vocalize. But, she rationalized, words flow more readily in the dark and quiet of the night, when inhibitions are down and two people are all alone. She forced herself not to read into any of it.
"I share your sentiments, Mr. Carson," she said instead. "I'm not sure I ever would have left Service without you suggesting this little scheme. I'm glad for it, though. Funny enough, I hadn't realized how much I wanted out of Service until you proposed that we leave. I only hope that we can make it a success."
He finished off his wine and stood up, resuming what remained of packing his pantry. "Mrs. Hughes, if you're steering our ship, success is all we'll have," he said sincerely.
The following morning, as the staff bustled about downstairs in preparation for their day, Mr. Carson and Mrs. Hughes were dressed, uncharacteristically for the workday, in civilian clothes. A few hall boys had packed their trunks away into a coach and now, the two former heads of staff said their goodbyes to the downstairs staff before their formal send-off with the Crawleys on the main drive. Anna and Miss Baxter had collected funds from the servants to purchase them both a special retirement gift: a stunning and ornate crystal decanter and a pair of matching port glasses. The staff were not blind to the nightly toast their superiors had when they thought everyone else had gone to bed. There was no reason not to continue the tradition, even in their new inn.
Mrs. Hughes turned a shade of rose when she saw the crystal set in the small crate that housed it. At first blush, it almost had the feeling of a wedding present.
"That's so kind of you all," she said to her staff as they gathered in the kitchen.
Carson nodded his agreement. "I concur. That was most gracious of you all. I know I can speak for Mrs. Hughes when I say that you are all welcome at our inn anytime. Even if just stopping by for tea or a sage word. And I know I can also say, along with Mrs. Hughes, that we leave our charge to the very capable hands of Mr. Barrow and Mrs. Baxter. They have worked steadfastly over the last two months to prepare for their new roles, and they will be excellent leaders of this grand house."
The two new heads of staff nodded confidently, feeling the significance of the helm passing to them. A round of handshakes and gentle hugs and whispered congratulations commenced until the staff dispersed, leaving Mrs. Patmore, Mrs. Hughes, and Mr. Carson alone in the kitchen. At that moment, as the other staff filtered out to resume their tasks, they realized it would be the last time the three of them would stand there together as colleagues.
Carson clapped his hands and rubbed them together in anticipation. "Well, I'd best inspect what the hall boys have done with our trunks. I'll catch you upstairs, Mrs. Hughes," he said. Looking to where Mrs. Patmore stood near the ovens, he added, "And Mrs. Patmore, thank you for your stalwart friendship and service these many years."
She smiled and walked over to him, extending her hand, which he gently took. "Thank you, Mr. Carson. I can say with confidence that you will be missed here. Downton has never known a finer butler."
A crimson hue spread through his cheeks. He was unpracticed in the art of receiving compliments.
"Thank you, Mrs. Patmore. That means a great deal."
Soon, he departed to inspect the hall boys' handiwork and bark at them for a final time, leaving Mrs. Patmore and Mrs. Hughes alone in the kitchen. Without warning, each woman felt hot tears pooling in her eyes. Granted, the Abbey and The Brancaster Arms were relatively nearby, both outside Ripon, perhaps just a half-hour's drive by car. But they both knew that they would miss those passing moments in the day where they could come to each other with their problems or a little gossip or to just share a pot of tea and a laugh. Those had come to an end.
"You'll write, of course," Mrs. Patmore sniffled, not even trying to hide her tears. She had prepared for this moment for two months since the butler and housekeeper dropped a bombshell on her. But that it was here now, nipping at her heartstrings, she realized no amount of preparation could prepare oneself for the departure of a friend.
A sniffle and a dab of a handkerchief to the eye followed. "Of course I will, you old bat," Mrs. Hughes snarked affectionately. "Who else will I turn to for advice? Or share our triumphs and losses with? And really, who else will I complain to when Mr. Carson gets under my skin?"
They shared a watery laugh.
"Lord, help you," the cook teased as her tears began to subside. "All alone in that inn with that old curmudgeon. You're a saint, Elsie Hughes."
"Ach, go on with you," she replied. Her brogue was thick. "It'll be just fine."
Mrs. Patmore watched as her dearest friend fussed with the crate containing their retirement present, smoothing it down unnecessarily, brushing imaginary lint off of it. She had long suspected something between the housekeeper and the butler. Nothing untoward, mind you, but something beyond a mere professional relationship. Perhaps, they, themselves, were not even aware of it. But the cook would watch his longing glances her way and would observe the playful slaps she landed upon him and no one else. She could see how effortlessly they worked in tandem, how they balanced each other. She said nothing, of course. It wasn't her place. But she suspected that this new business venture–or whatever this was–would unveil that something that had been simmering between her two dear friends for years. One could only hope.
The two women departed with a hug, no longer colleagues, but now, simply friends.
A little while later, after a very solemn send-off by the Crawleys in the main drive of Downton Abbey, Mr. Carson and Mrs. Hughes arrived at their inn. A few hall boys had accompanied them on the drive to help them unload the few trunks they had packed. Servants rarely accumulated much during their tenure in Service, and Mr. Carson and Mrs. Hughes were no exception to that rule. As the boys readied the trunks, the pair stood at the threshold of the cottage. Carson held in his hands a keyring, a few iron keys clanking about it. It was peculiar, this keyring. It was entirely their own.
It felt heavy in his hands.
Pausing a moment just outside the front door, he looked down at Mrs. Hughes, who smiled at him with anticipation. All second guesses and silent doubts he had had before seemed to melt away as that blue gaze settled on him. "Ready?" he asked.
"As ever," she replied.
He didn't need to be told twice. Unlocking the door, he pushed it open and allowed her to set foot in the foyer first. Granted, they had been here many, many times over the last two months as they bustled about and prepared to make it accommodating to guests. But this time was different. They both knew it.
The hall boys made quick work of their trunks, arranging them in Mrs. Hughes' maid's quarters and Mr. Carson's attic bedroom, respectively. Just a few minutes passed before they left with a cheerful goodbye. And just like that, the pair were on their own.
They stood awkwardly in the living room, Carson holding his bowler hat and Mrs. Hughes fidgeting with her handbag.
"Well," Mrs. Hughes began, cutting the silence in two. "The Tafts aren't due from Leeds until noonish tomorrow, and the McCormacks will be arriving from Edinburgh around 1:30. Mrs. Patmore will bring provisions for afternoon tea tomorrow morning after she's wrapped up with luncheon at the Abbey."
"Good, good. Shall we use this time, then, to get unpacked and settled?" he asked. "Perhaps have a celebratory dinner in the village once we're all done?"
She rewarded him with a glad smile. "You talk a hard bargain, Mr. Carson," she teased. "But I accept your terms."
They quickly got to work, efficiently unpacking their personal belongings in their new quarters, arranging them just so, and trying to make these surroundings feel like home. When all was settled, Mr. Carson tapped on her bedroom door and escorted her to the village for a hearty meal at The Rose and Crown. There, they chatted and drank wine and ate to their hearts' content without worrying about having to finish prematurely and tend to the Crawleys or their guests. It felt luxurious. Neither of them realized, then, that it was the first meal they had shared alone. Thirty-some years of working side-by-side, and this was the first time they dined alone together.
A few hours later, they made their way back to the cottage, and to Mrs. Hughes' delight, she saw their new crystal decanter, filled with what she assumed to be port, already arranged in their sitting room. It sat on a fine piece of lace and was flanked by their two matching glasses.
"Look at that," she exclaimed as she approached the small end table where it was displayed. He must have arranged it while she was unpacking her trunk.
"Well, I saw no reason why we should break with tradition," he teased as he poured them both a glass. They took their seats in two wing-backed chairs nestled in a bay window, a place where they could take in the sight of their sitting room and, if one craned one's neck, a hint of the small dining room next to it. Their realm was small, but it was theirs.
"It would be terribly bad luck," Mrs. Hughes concurred, clinking her glass with his.
He took a sip and was quiet for a moment. "I hope I don't offend you when I point out the obvious."
Her heart halted. "And what, pray tell, would that be?" she asked steadily, her tone mercifully not betraying her.
"Well, without our guests, it's just us here. Alone," he said, almost in a whisper, as if someone could overhear them.
Mrs. Hughes was grateful that they had forgone a fire in the fireplace and had only turned on that one lamp in a far off corner. Her cheeks were surely a color that roses would envy. That word–alone–hanged in the air. It shouldn't. And yet, it rang in her ears.
She chuckled nervously despite herself. "Nonsense, Mr. Carson."
"Because I would hate to offend your sensibilities," he insisted, staring into his glass. "If you'd like me to stay elsewhere until our guests arrive, I would not object."
"I suspected nights like this would be relatively common," she said. "At least in the beginning while we get our foothold in the market. If I didn't trust you, I wouldn't have agreed to this. Need I remind you that we've been living under the same roof for thirty-some years, Mr. Carson. I've seen you in your pajamas more times than I can count!"
He smirked. "True. But this is a little different."
"Well, not that I mean to flatter you, but forbearance is one of your greatest virtues. I am not worried about you behaving in an ungentlemanly manner."
A dark blush ran through him. "Most assuredly, you needn't worry about that, Mrs. Hughes," he said, his voice almost cracking. Poor thing. The mere notion of behaving in a way that was less than proper was causing physical distress. "So, if you're sure?"
"I'm sure," she said with finality. "Now, if you don't mind, I will turn in. We have a full day ahead of us and we wouldn't want to be tired for our guests."
Carson felt relief wash over him. He quickly finished what was left of their port and stood up to face her. He was surprised, but no less delighted, when he felt her hand rub that same spot on his forearm as she had done in that linen closet months ago. She whispered a hasty goodnight and retreated to her maid's quarters before he could find the words to reply back to her.
Quietly, he locked up the cottage and wandered to his attic bedroom. It was spartan, filled with just a few books and some framed pictures and little trinkets he had collected over the years. As he sat on the edge of his bed, loosening tie and undoing the first few buttons of his dress shirt, he thought back to his conversation with Mrs. Hughes just moments ago. She was right to point out that they had lived under the same roof for thirty-some years. In fact, their bedrooms had shared a wall back then. Nothing untoward had happened under that roof for all those years.
But this roof was much smaller. And tonight, it was almost empty.
As he divested himself of the remainder of his clothes and changed into his pajamas, he wondered why that thought made his pulse quicken without his consent. It was a mystery to him.
A/N: Thank you all so much for your support and readership of the last chapter! Things will start heating up in the next chapter for sure! I hope you enjoyed this installment. Let me know your thoughts if you can spare a moment :)
