Elsie Hughes marveled at how easily one routine had been supplanted by another. No longer did she rise before the sun to begin her rounds about the Abbey. Nor did she spend her days keeping maids in line and checking their handiwork. Gone were the days that she collapsed in the evening, the weight of a long day pressing into every joint and muscle. Rather, her days passed more pleasantly now. They were not without hard work, make no mistake, but she found that her days passed more easily at the Brancaster Arms.

In the mornings, their kitchen maid, Jane, a sweet thing from the village, would arrive and prepare breakfast. She was no Mrs. Patmore, but she wasn't without talent, herself. They were often treated to lovely scones and porridges, and on occasion, a full English. Before Jane's arrival each morning, Mr. Carson and Mrs. Hughes would make the rounds, albeit a truncated version of what they were accustomed to at the Abbey, and ensure that the inn was spick-and-span for their guests. They'd clear away empty wine glasses from the living room from the night before, fluff the pillows, and tidy it all up for the routine to unfold anew. By mid-morning, after their guests had finished breakfast and either gone into town or continued on their journeys, the pair often found themselves with an abundance of free time.

During the first few weeks experiencing this new and unfamiliar phenomenon, both Mr. Carson and Mrs. Hughes were at a loss for what to do. Apart from a half-day here or there, they had never known such relative leisure in their adult lives. Initially, they busied themselves with extra tidying and busiwork, but that could only be repeated so many times before one realizes that the place was tidy enough.

Then one afternoon, sometime on a hazy summer day, as Mrs. Hughes rearranged the ledger and inkwell and notepads on the small desk in her bedroom for the umpteenth time that day, she heard a soft tap at her door. On the other side was a sheepish Charles Carson; she wondered if he was similarly devoid of any pressing business. Their inn was empty, their guests having checked out and their new ones not due for another day or so.

"I seem to find myself without occupation…yet again," he confessed; it was not in his nature to be idle.

Mrs. Hughes smirked at his discomfort. "Likewise. My desk can only be tidied so many times. And really, there's nothing left for me to do until the sheets come back from the laundry."

He ran a finger under his shirt collar. "Would you care for a stroll, perhaps? It's not too warm outside yet. The pond on the estate is a pleasant destination."

It didn't take any further convincing her; they were out the door nearly as soon as he had suggested it. Side by side they walked together to the small pond on the edge of Downton's estate. It was a bit of a hike, but for the first time, they had nowhere to be and all the time in the world to get there.

"Isn't this serene?" Carson asked as they settled on a bench near the water. It was a little warmer than he'd anticipated, so he removed his tweed jacket and rested it over his leg. "When we still worked up at the Abbey, I would often sneak down here on my half-days and just listen to the birds and the breeze. It was a much-needed reprieve from the stresses of the day."

Mrs. Hughes inhaled a deep breath of fresh air. "I can imagine it now," she said. "Although for some reason, in my mind, you're still in your livery during this scene." This earned her a chuckle out of him, and she cherished it. "Do you think this pond has a name?" she asked.

Carson considered this. "You know, I don't believe it does. It's quite small, probably too small to warrant a name."

"Perhaps we should name it then. Lord Grantham would never need to know."

He turned to her and saw the mischievous grin on her face. "Oh, really? And just what should we call it?" he asked, his teasing tone matching hers. Two could play at this game.

"Lake Elsie, of course," she said at last, her voice steady in mock seriousness. A deep rumble of laughter came from him then, deep within his belly. "Isn't it good luck to name bodies of water after women?"

When Carson's laugh had faded, he said, "I think that's the tradition for ships. But in this instance, I would say that Lake Elsie is a very fitting name for this lovely pond."

And so, it became quite commonplace for the two to frequent strolls to Lake Elsie, as they called it. Most afternoons were not complete without a stroll there, and another into the village for tea or supper at a pub. Mrs. Hughes often longed to hear that tentative tap on her bedroom door, and to see the man on the other side as he proposed some other activity for them to fill their days between tending to their guests. Sometimes it was just a stroll, or a game of cards. Other times, the pair would walk to the library in the village and pick up a new find, and would delight in reading their novels by the fireplace in their living room, a glass of port or sherry in hand.

Time passed languidly, and soon, it began to feel as if it had always been this way.

Each night, as their guests moseyed home from dinner in the village, Mr. Carson and Mrs. Hughes would enjoy their traditional nightcap in the living room. On occasion, a guest or two would join them before retiring to bed; other nights, it was just the two of them, alone together, clinking glasses and toasting to their success and whispering veiled compliments to the other. Mrs. Hughes was always glad for the latter. She and Mr. Carson, although they had lived and worked together for nearly thirty years, had never spent so much time together. When they were the butler and the housekeeper of a grand estate, their days were full, and perhaps they'd pass each other in the corridor here or there. But apart from servant meals or their frequent nightcaps in his pantry or her sitting room, they rarely spent more than an hour or so with each other each day. Mrs. Hughes realized that they spent more time together now than apart. Not that that was unpleasant, by any means. Quite the contrary.

It wasn't surprising, then, when Mrs. Hughes came to a particular realization that September. She and Mr. Carson were having breakfast before their two guests were due to arrive downstairs. They always ate before their guests so they could tend to them should they need anything, a habit learned over decades in Service. It was a scene that had unfolded countless times before that morning: two proprietors enjoying tea and eggs and buttered toast as they chatted about their tasks for the day. The air was crisp outside, and the sun had just started to brighten the landscape.

And as Mrs. Hughes watched Mr. Carson sip his tea, commenting about some upcoming Parliamentary matters he had read about in the papers that morning, that errant curl falling from its pomade cast, it dawned on her.

I love him.

It had been a sentiment she had been fighting for a long, long time. She had been at odds with herself, and for years, she often dismissed any feelings for her friend and colleague, telling herself not to read into anything. It was not proper for a housekeeper and a butler to engage in anything of the sort, to say nothing of whether her feelings would be reciprocated. But now, miles away from the Abbey, in this cottage they both owned, out of their livery, and nearly glued at the hip, her subconscious had no qualms about invading her conscious thoughts with a realization it had come to a decade ago.

And to her own astonishment, she was not ashamed of this. Nor was she surprised by it. In fact, it gave her great comfort and provided her an explanation of her decision to leave Service, invest half of her savings into this inn, and spend most of her leisure time with the man sitting across from her. Like finding that last missing puzzle piece that completes the whole, she suddenly understood.

Mr. Carson, for his part, was utterly oblivious to the realization his colleague had just made. He continued to munch happily on his breakfast, making an occasional remark about the weather or their new guests. Eventually, he noticed that his companion had been rather quiet, and that he was practically talking to himself. He looked over at Mrs. Hughes, his eyebrows arching at the most peculiar expression on her face.

"Mrs. Hughes, are you quite alright?" he asked. The poor woman looked as if she were in a trance, and her breakfast went untouched.

Snapped from her reverie, she cleared her throat and regained composure, grabbing her fork and pretending to be interested in the scrambled eggs Jane had prepared. All appetite had left her. "Quite fine, Mr. Carson, thank you," she mumbled, feeling a deep blush course through her. A change of conversation was imperative. "I'm having tea with Mrs. Patmore this afternoon. So, we won't be able to go on our usual stroll to the pond."

Carson's eyebrows fell rapidly, descending his entire face into a grimace. If Mrs. Hughes had to describe it, she would've said it was almost a pout. That they hadn't missed a stroll to the pond in months was not lost on either of them; and his pouting was not lost on her. Perhaps she had more reason to be hopeful than she had given herself credit for.

"That's quite alright," he murmured into his tea. "I'm sure I'll find something to do around here. Give my best to Mrs. Patmore."

"I will, indeed," she said before rising to clear their plates and begin their workday, trying not to think about the revelation she had just had. How on earth was she to manage that?


Later that afternoon, the Brancaster Arms' guests had gone into the village for some reason or another, and Mrs. Hughes was up at the Abbey for tea with Mrs. Patmore, leaving Mr. Carson alone in the inn. He seldom had the entire place to himself, and he found that he did not particularly enjoy the sensation.

Eager for a distraction, he set out for the garden. He divested himself of his tweed jacket and rolled up his sleeves, grabbing some shears and tending to the rose bushes that were starting to get a little out of hand. Gardening had never been of particular interest before moving here, but these were his rose bushes now, and he'd be damned if they looked anything less than exemplary. As he was pruning the thorns, lamenting the lack of a stroll to Lake Elsie, he heard a commotion near the front of the cottage. Was Mrs. Hughes back so soon, he wondered hopefully. The rose bushes abandoned, he came around the corner to the front door and was surprised at what he saw.

It was not Mrs. Hughes, but Lady Mary Crawley, who was waiting for him. Immediately, he felt a burning sensation run through his cheeks; he was not only not in his livery, but not in any sort of jacket at all. He was in a state of deshabille, his sleeves rolled up and a little dirt on his forehead. Certainly not proper attire to have in the presence of a lady.

"Milady!" he exclaimed, shoving the shears into his pocket, quickly rolling down his sleeves and buttoning them. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

Her dark eyes brightened when she saw him; it was the first time since his departure from Downton back in May that she'd seen him. "Carson!" she said happily. "It's so good to see you. Entrepreneurship agrees with you. Is Mrs. Hughes around here too?"

He ran a hand through his hair and tried to smooth it down. "She is not, milady. She's actually having tea with Mrs. Patmore at the Abbey this afternoon."

"Bully," she sighed. "I was hoping to catch you both. I wanted to give you two a little housewarming gift that I picked up in London a few weeks ago. But, I suppose I can give it to you, Carson, and trust that you'll send along my sentiments to Mrs. Hughes?"

Carson was dumbstruck. It was quite uncanny for the daughter of an earl to present a gift to two former servants. But then again, Carson always knew he was Lady Mary's favorite, as she was his.

"That's very gracious of you, milady. I will, of course, pass on your sentiments to Mrs. Hughes," he said. "Would you like to come in for tea?"

She smiled. "I would love nothing more, but I'm due to meet Mr. Branson at one of the tenant farms very soon. I wanted to present you with this, however," she said, motioning to the driver of her car to retrieve the intended parcel. Carson, at once, opened the door to allow for the driver to bring a very large wooden box into their living room.

"This is rather mysterious," he said as he observed the box and tried to decipher what it might be. "And again, so gracious, milady."

"Promise me that you'll use it for both yourselves and your guests, hmm?" she said, fetching her gloves from her handbag, preparing to depart. "It's a bit on the modern side for you, Carson, but what's life if we don't let it change us now and again?"

He suppressed a smirk at hearing words he once spoke to her repeated back to him. "Sage advice, milady," he said. They both smiled in acknowledgement.

"Give Mrs. Hughes my best," she said. "Perhaps some time soon, I'll be able to sneak down here for tea when the two of you are both at home."

Carson smiled and nodded. "You are always welcome here, milady."

A small grin flickered on her face. "Thank you, Carson. Truly," she said before taking her leave.


A few hours later, ones that Carson largely spent trying to ignore the mysterious parcel in their living room, Mrs. Hughes returned from the Abbey. Her arrival found Carson chatting over tea with one of their guests, a young strap of a man named McIllroy. He and his new bride, Catherine, were on their way to London to find employment after recently marrying back home. They were young, barely in their twenties, and full of enthusiasm for life and all its adventures.

"Mrs. Hughes!" Carson exclaimed as soon as he saw her walk into the living room. The tea was promptly discarded, and he and McIllroy stood to greet her. Catherine, too, stood and waved to her innkeeper. "You'll never guess who came to visit today."

"Should I even guess?" she chuckled.

"It was none other than Lady Mary," he said proudly. Their guests were clearly somewhat impressed that a noblewoman had graced this very inn. "In fact, she brought that parcel over there as a housewarming gift for us to share with our guests."

Mrs. Hughes was rather surprised to hear of such a kind gesture from the earl's daughter. She would not deny that she had never been fond of the woman, nor could she understand Mr. Carson's affection for her. But as she migrated to the corner of the living room where this large box lay, she had to admit that she was rather touched by Lady Mary's gesture.

"She never!" came her thick brogue as she inspected the box. Its wooden sides were devoid of any markings that would give away its contents. "Shall we open it?"

"I can't see why not," he said as he pulled out a pocket knife and began prying open the wooden sides. After a little grunting and tugging, the top of the box popped right off, revealing what looked to be a brass horn. McIllroy and Catherine gathered near to inspect, and they, being younger and more accustomed to such things, recognized it at once.

"It looks like a phonograph!" Catherine exclaimed. Her new husband grabbed her hand and they shared a look of excitement. "How marvelous! We could have some dancing tonight."

Carson started to protest; the habits of a butler who is used to order and propriety die hard, apparently. But a stern look from Mrs. Hughes convinced him to hold his tongue. These two newlyweds were not subordinates under his charge, but his paying customers. If they wanted to dance tonight, tonight they would dance.

"Wasn't that kind of Lady Mary?" she prompted him.

He nodded and smiled weakly. "It was. Although, we don't have anything to play on it."

Mrs. Hughes peered into the wooden box, and sure enough, she found a few vinyl records tucked inside. A few jazz records from America that were popular with the young, and, as if Lady Mary knew that Carson would not take so kindly to jazz, a recording of the London Philharmonic performing Ralph Vaughn Williams was stuck in there, too.

"I think we'll find something in here for everyone's taste," she said diplomatically. "Perhaps after supper, we could set it up and give it a go?"

Carson merely nodded, while their two young guests clasped hands and tried to contain their excitement. It was not everyday that one could dance to popular music outside of the confines of a dance hall. Who would have guessed they'd find it at a little inn in Yorkshire?

The McIllroys extended their gratitude and bid their innkeepers adieu until after supper. They were off to find a meal somewhere in the village.

Alone again, Carson peered into the box nervously, as if something inside might jump up and bite him. He was loath to accept anything technological or new into his life. As he saw it, there was nothing wrong with the way things had been. Seeing his hesitant glance at the phonograph, Mrs. Hughes rolled her eyes.

"It's a phonograph, Mr. Carson, not a bomb!" she teased.

"I know that," he grumbled.

"It'll be a nice addition to the inn. We could even include it in our advertisements. I'm actually quite grateful to Lady Mary for this. We'll have to write to her later and extend our thanks."

He grumbled again, this time something incoherent.

Her eyes rolled back again, and he caught her. "Do you find me terribly old fashioned, Mrs. Hughes?" he asked, his voice meek and unsure.

Had she not had the revelation she had had this morning, she doubted whether she would do what she did next. Closing the small gap between them, Mrs. Hughes placed a hand on his cheek and patted it twice. "Endearingly so," she said before biting her lower lip and turning on her heel to depart and prepare for supper.

In her wake, Carson placed a hand to his cheek, glanced at the phonograph in the wooden box, and felt a shiver run through him.


Later that evening, when the sun had long since gone to bed and a fire roared in the living room of the Brancaster Arms, the McIllroys, Mr. Carson, and Mrs. Hughes found themselves enjoying some delightful port and listening to mellow tunes of some American chap named Duke Ellington. The newlyweds, nearly oblivious to anything but the other, danced in the small space in the living room where Carson had cleared away the furniture. They swayed and spun around to the jazz music as the innkeepers looked merrily on, sipping their port and enjoying their guests' enjoyment. Mrs. Hughes found that she liked this new style of music, and smirked when she noticed even Mr. Carson tapping his foot in time.

As the song changed to a slow and smooth jazz piece, the trumpet crooning mournfully in 4/4 time, McIllroy paused his dance with his bride and nodded to Mr. Carson. "Say, Mr. Carson, why don't you ask Mrs. Hughes to dance? It'd be a shame if Catherine and I had all the fun here!"

In an instant, all color left his face and he began his protest. "No, I–I, really, I–," he stammered ineloquently. Dancing with Mrs. Hughes? It was simply not done. They had never danced together, not even at the Annual Servants' Ball. He danced with Lady Grantham, she with Lord Grantham, and that was that. But when he risked a glance in her direction, he saw disappointment written all over her face as he stammered about. Perhaps, just this once, he could make an exception.

"Al–alright," he acquiesced, gulping as he did so. Standing to full height, he walked over to her and held out his hand. "Mrs. Hughes, may I have the pleasure of this dance?"

She nodded and took his hand. He led them closer to the fireplace, a safe enough distance away from the McIllroys so they wouldn't interfere with one another. She felt small standing so close to him and for a flashing moment, Carson thought that she could fit quite snugly against his chest. He blanched even further and cleared his throat, banishing the thought from his mind.

He had never danced to jazz music like this before, and he hoped he wasn't making a fool of himself as he led them to the beat. Glancing over to the McIllroys, he noticed that they were dancing much closer together than a typical waltz called for. Perhaps this was the style, he wondered. This music was slower, more languid, and standing far apart made things more awkward than he hoped. Throwing caution to the wind, he pulled Mrs. Hughes a little closer, enough that her shoulder was tucked in close to his chest. In thirty years, they had never been this near to the other. Perhaps that's why he had never smelled a hint of lavender coming from her, perhaps from her soap or shampoo? Though it was just a hint, it overwhelmed him.

They swayed then, no longer keeping time with their steps. Carson could not compel his mind to count out the beats when it was too distracted with the feeling of her hand in his own, with his other hand on the small of her back. He didn't dare look into her eyes, however. It was almost certain that he would never recover if he did.

Song blended into song, and perhaps a half hour passed just like this. It felt like mere seconds. But the record had reached its end, and the needle scratched its completion. Catherine pulled apart from her husband and moved the needle arm away from the vinyl.

"What a jolly good night!" McIllroy said cheerfully, catching a knowing glance with his bride. They had more pressing matters to attend to. "Well, we had better retire. Thanks again, Mr. Carson and Mrs. Hughes, for such a treat."

The four bid each other goodnight, and soon, it was just the innkeepers alone in their living room as the once roaring fire dwindled to embers. The air was heavy with thoughts unspoken. Carson's dark eyes glanced at her. Had she always been this beautiful, he wondered. Her fair skin was flushed, from the heat of the fire most likely, and a few loose curls fell from her updo down her neck.

"I don't suppose you'd care for another go?" he heard her whisper.

He felt every organ tighten in his chest. It would be highly improper, dancing alone with her to sultry jazz music, that lavender scent overwhelming him, her pressing so close to him. And yet, a very startling and significant part of him felt inclined to agree.

"I–I ought to turn in,' he muttered instead. Regret inevitably followed as she nodded her understanding and began to tidy up for the night, grabbing the discarded port glasses and blowing out the candles. "I'll lock up then," he added.

Mrs. Hughes gave him a tired smile, one unlike he'd ever seen before. "Thank you, Mr. Carson," she said. "Sleep well."

Before he could even reply, she was gone, slipping away to her maid's quarters off the kitchen. At that, he was alone again. He realized he was still standing in the same spot where they had danced; he hadn't moved an inch. Shaking his head, he completed his nightly routine in a haze. The doors were locked, the windows, too, and soon, it was time for him to ascend the steps to his attic bedroom. But he paused at the bottom of the stairwell, glancing towards the kitchen where her bedroom was. The little cottage was dark and quiet, apart from the night bugs that trilled outside in their garden.

Against every fiber of decorum he had claim to, Mr. Carson left the stairwell, heading instead for the kitchen and the maid's quarters therein.