Over the next few days, a palatable, if not decent routine emerged. In the mornings, Carson would breakfast hastily, wolfing down tea and eggs before the others arrived on the scene, sparing him unnecessary chit-chat with the staff, and it would conclude in the library. Time was illusory when he spent it working on an article or digging through a scholarly text. It was one of his greatest skills, this ability to enter into a productive rhythm. Lunch was often overlooked and by dinner, he was usually famished. He and Elsie continued to dine alone, and their dinner conversations were about as quiet and professional as they had been that first night. And afterwards, he would return to his own room with a book, eager to be alone. After the third night of Elsie inviting him to retire to the sitting room, each time met with a refusal, she had given up asking.

Perhaps, Carson admitted, this was a little rude. But these people weren't his friends, nor were they meant to be. By the end of Michaelmas, he would be gone and all of them would soon forget that their paths had crossed at all.

This morning found Carson in the library after yet another hasty, solitary breakfast. An outline for his article was in the works and stacks of books surrounded him as if a fortress. He was in the flow of it, typing away furiously on his laptop and oblivious to anything outside of himself. Around 10:30, however, he heard the door to the library open and he peered over his wall of books. A pretty, petite blonde woman came inside with what looked to be a toolkit in hand.

He cleared his throat. "Excuse me," he said with a harsh tone. "I certainly hope you aren't intending to create a ruckus with whatever is in that toolkit. I'm in the middle of a very important project."

The woman ignored his rudeness, as if accustomed to such displays from pompous scholars, and set her toolkit at the other end of the long table at which he sat. "Of course not. I'm only restoring a deteriorating book. It'll be quiet enough," she explained in a charming Yorkshire accent. "I'm Anna Bates, by the way. You must be Charles."

An eyebrow arched. "I am," he grunted. "Now, if you'll excuse me…"

He attempted to return to his work, but Anna was not having it. "I'm glad we could finally meet," she said. "John has told me a lot about you."

"Has he?"

"All good things, of course," she said as she began to unpack her toolkit and arrange the instruments with a surgeon's precision. "I heard the two of you had a lovely lunch at Beryl's the other day, and that you're working on a rather interesting project about interwar class dynamics. I'd be curious to read it once you're done, if that'd be alright."

Anna smiled at him then, a sort of genuine smile he had not seen on another person aimed at him, in a very long time. Maybe it was the dulcet tone of her Yorkshire accent or her apparently keen interest in his work, or perhaps it was the warmth that radiated off of her, but Carson felt some of his harshness begin to thaw.

"That could be arranged," he replied, his shoulders dropping a degree or two. Pushing some of the stacks of books aside, he asked, "How long have you been doing that? Preservation, I mean."

"Four, almost five years. I arrived here around the same time that Elsie did."

"Oh? What brought you both here?" he asked, his curiosity piqued from his conversation with her husband the other day. Against his better judgment, he was curious how all of them had become refugees at this old estate. It seemed odd that John had described it in such a way and a small part of him wanted to understand why.

"It's a long story," she answered. "Let's just say that I fell in with a bad sort and ended up here. It was a refuge, really. I started off as a records assistant, but John encouraged me to take a master's course in historical conservation up in York. He and Elsie both encouraged me, actually. So, here I am."

"And Elsie? What's her story?" he pressed casually, perhaps too casually, for Anna smirked at this.

"That's for her to tell, I'd say."

Carson's shoulders slumped. "Everyone is so damned cryptic around here," he muttered to himself.

"And what brought you here, Charles?"

He stiffened and cleared his throat. Was this woman as keen at sussing things out as her husband had been? "A sabbatical, as you well know. It's been far too long since I've had one."

She smiled. "Well, that explains what you're doing now instead of teaching. But why are you here? At Downton?"

"I often find myself wondering the same thing," he snarked. When she looked at him pointedly, he knew his sarcasm was not appreciated, so he added, "I had been in Europe for many months before coming here. I suppose I needed better resources for my research project."

"There are lots of libraries in Britain," Anna said in a knowing tone he found unsettling. Her insinuation was clear: he could take a sabbatical just about anywhere, even in Britain. Why this place?

"There are," Carson agreed reluctantly. He felt as if he were on the witness stand, a prosecutor circling around him. "Lord Grantham is also the dean of my college at Cambridge. He suggested this place." The words came out in a rush and he hoped it would end her inquiry.

She eyed him, assessing his excuse. "How fortunate then," she said at last. "For you, and for us."

Carson's dark eyes almost rolled at this; a scoff managed to escape him. "I highly doubt that my presence here during your off-season is particularly welcomed."

"Quite the contrary, actually. Of course, this is a time when we take care of much neglected projects, something more easily done without dozens of scholars around, but it's good to have some company during the off-season. It can get lonely here."

"What do you mean?" he pressed.

Anna sat down and explained as she continued with her book surgery. "Well, John and I live in Ripon, and Daisy lives in the village with her family. It gets pretty quiet up here for Elsie, all the way out here in the middle of nowhere."

Carson leaned forward, moving his laptop out of the way. "I'm not sure I follow."

She looked at him quizzically, surprised that he didn't already know. "She lives here in the old servants' quarters. Lord Grantham renovated them into a lovely flat for the executive director to stay in during our retreat season. Although Elsie lives here full-time, even during our off-season. Of course, John and I visit when we can in the evenings for dinner, but with a little one now, we haven't been able to recently. She hasn't said so, but I'm sure she enjoys the company."

He didn't quite know what to say. All of a sudden, he felt quite ashamed for his poor behavior in the last week, for his consistent refusal to share a nightcap with her in the sitting room, for his overall gruffness. It wasn't pity that he felt for her. Rather, with this revelation, he felt some sort of odd kinship with her. Perhaps they were the same kind of lonely.

"I hadn't realized," he said in a soft tone after a time. "...That she lives here, I mean."

Anna nodded. "Mmhmm, ever since she…well, since she started here."

A thoughtful silence followed and neither knew what else to say, so their conversation fizzled out and they both continued with the tasks in front of them. Occasionally, when his thoughts would harken back to this revelation, he'd look up to find Anna staring at him, a knowing smile on her face. Upon being caught, she'd quickly return to her restoration, saying nothing. Something in her gaze said enough.

Later that evening, when the sun had gone down and dinner was nearing its natural end, Carson's thoughts returned to his earlier conversation with Anna. He had been surprised to hear that Elsie lived at the estate, and he wondered why he hadn't thought about this before. He had assumed she had a place nearby, maybe a cottage on the grounds, but not that they had shared a roof for the last week. Now that he thought about it, that explained why she routinely took her meals in the dining room and seemed to be there well into the night and quite early in the morning. He felt daft for not noticing it before.

"You're rather deep in thought," Elsie said as she dabbed her napkin at the corner of her mouth and rested it across the table. "Penny for them?"

Jolted from his reverie, Carson heard a nervous chuckle leave him. "Hmm? Oh, yes, something like that." He was distracted.

Their conversation that night had been lighter, easier, perhaps due in part to his putting more of an effort into it. He still felt out of practice, his once keen conversation skills now atrophied and lacking. But knowing that it was just the two of them here in the middle of nowhere, both of them running away from something, both alone and perhaps a little lonely, well, it endeared her to him in some strange way. Over their meal, he had watched her, studying her fair features, observing her mannerisms, perhaps a bit too intently, for she caught his gaze on a number of occasions. Mercifully, it was returned with a small smile.

She stood up and began to clear their plates from the table when he heard himself ask, "Would you mind if I joined you for that nightcap?"

Elsie stopped in her tracks. "I beg your pardon?"

"That nightcap—you still take those after dinner? Perhaps I could join you tonight if that would be alright?"

"Err, sure, that would be alright," she answered somewhat skeptically. This request had seemingly come out of nowhere. "Let's see–I have a bottle of port downstairs, if that would be agreeable."

He felt himself smile. It was a rare one, one that reached his eyes, working muscles that had long since been in disuse. "Port would be most agreeable. Thank you."

"Alright then. How about you go to the sitting room and get the fire going, and I'll finish up here? You know how to get a fire going, I presume?"

"Of course I do," he scoffed playfully, brushing the air with the back of his hand. "I may be an academic, but I'm not entirely bereft of functional skills."

For that, Carson was rewarded with a smirk. "Of course you're not," she said, playing along. "Meet in the sitting room in ten?"

He nodded. "Until then…"

Ten minutes melted away. Carson had yet to inspect Downton's sitting room since his arrival, but he found that it was altogether rather pleasing. It felt feminine, which was in stark contrast from the masculinity that imbued every other inch of the estate. It was fitting, he supposed, that in an era past, the ladies of the house would retire here after dinner and before the gentlemen rejoined them. Its walls were adorned in a seafoam green wallpaper and about a dozen oil paintings of young children and fattened babies flanking their mothers, as well as many of Countesses of Grantham past. In front of the marble fireplace was a casual sitting area, where sofas that were well worn and end tables that were topped with crystal ashtrays and other various trinkets fanned around in a semicircle. The space seemed rather "lived in" and he liked it. He wondered how many nights Elsie had spent in this room, sipping nightcaps in her solitude.

After enough dillydallying, Carson got to work. He pulled off his blazer and rolled up the sleeves of his Oxford shirt before kneeling in front of the fireplace, carefully stacking the logs and kindling a spark. It had been a long time since he'd done this, not since he was a boy camping in the woods with his father, but he'd be damned if he asked for help. Eventually, he saw a small flame flickering at the base and used the bellow to stoke it until the flames began to consume the wood. The logs hissed and popped as the fire grew and its heat radiated around the sitting room. Carson hoisted himself up, a satisfied grin on his face. He rolled down his sleeves and ran a hand through his hair. It was wild now, he suspected, for he could feel that naughty, untameable curl falling on his forehead. No matter how he tried to tame it, it resisted; the damned thing had a mind of its own.

Before he could reach for his blazer to put it back on, Elsie appeared in the sitting room holding a small, black bottle and two little crystal glasses.

"By George, he's done it," she teased as she motioned for him to sit down on the sofa across from the fireplace.

"I'm not without some skill," he replied in a similar tone as she poured them both a glass of ruby port. They clinked the crystal against the other's and took a small sip. It was sweet and smooth, and far too easy to drink. "Thank you for allowing me to crash your nightly festivity."

She leaned back against the sofa and inspected him. "Say nothing of it. I'm only curious why, all of a sudden, you decided to join me."

Carson took another sip of the port. "Well, since this is to be my home until at least the end of the term, I supposed that I ought to be friendlier to my gracious hostess," he explained. Telling the actual truth of it would not do. "And perhaps I have been…less than pleasant since my arrival here."

"Perhaps?" she repeated, an eyebrow arched high on her forehead.

He blushed. "Certainly, then,' he corrected. "Please forgive me. I'm not usually this…gruff. It's been a very long year, is all."

Their port was mutually finished off and Elsie repeated the ritual of filling their glasses and clinking them against the other. "Well, we all have our moments now and again, Charles. You're only human after all. And believe it or not, you're not the first grumpy scholar I've dealt with in my time here. Far from it!"

A chuckle left him and he felt himself begin to relax. "I'm sure you can recount some horror stories."

"I'm sure I can," Elsie replied with a chuckle of her own, that brogue thick and endearing. She seemed at ease, he decided, and for the faintest moment, when she caught him staring at her and she returned his gaze with a small grin, Carson felt it run right through him, straight to a place long since dormant. She continued, but he barely heard her. "Although, you may recognize some of the characters. A fair number of them lecture at Cambridge."

"I'd bet I can speculate," he mumbled into his port glass. "But do tell me anyway."

Her grin widened and Carson thought she looked almost mischievous. "We're going to need more port if you want me to divulge some of those stories."

Without missing a beat, he leaned over to the coffee table, grabbed the black bottle, and topped off her glass. "All set," he prompted. She laughed at this, a deep laugh, one that caused her head to roll back and her eyes to close. Her hair, neither silver nor blonde, moved with her and all at once, he was enchanted. How on earth, he wondered then, had he so poorly miscalculated her when they first met?

When her laughter had subsided, though her skin was still flushed from the episode, she recounted some of her horror stories.

"Well, where shall I begin? Certainly not with the Cambridge literature professor who insisted on bringing his own typewriter to the retreat center. He typed on that wretched machine at all hours of the day and night, clacking away for weeks. It drove us all mad. It ended in quite a sorry shouting match with one of his colleagues from Oxford, right out in the great hall. It was wild, nearly bloody. We could have sold tickets to it."

"I'm sure I have no idea to whom you're referring," he lied.

"Liar," she rightly said, her blue eyes squinting at him as she sipped more of her port.

"Tell me more," he said to her, and she happily obliged.

Time slipped away. For the first time in months, Carson felt almost like himself. Not entirely, and he was sure the whole thing was just some temporary reprieve that would end as soon as he left this room, but it felt good to feel as he once did. Of course, there was the added benefit of her laughter, of her dark blush when he made a particularly striking quip, of her soft smile; he didn't want it to end. Perhaps that's why he allowed it to go on for hours, this nightcap that turned into many more. It was well after midnight when he reluctantly stood to turn in for the night, and Elsie did the same.

A little heady from the port and the warmth of the fire, he lost his footing for a moment, stumbling just a touch, but was quickly righted by a firm grip on his forearm.

"Steady on, Charlie!" Elsie exclaimed playfully.

Carson looked down at her hand wrapped around his arm, her fingers pressing into him, and he gulped. A nervous chuckle escaped him. "I–I, sorry about that," he managed. "Too much port."

"I'll say," she agreed. Her grip on him loosened and then disappeared completely as soon as she was sure he was steady once again. He felt the loss of it keenly. "I'll certainly feel it tomorrow."

The fire had receded now, just a pile of embers that crackled softly as they began to die out. There was a profound and impending sense of sadness that crept up on him then, as if the goodness he had known tonight was not to be repeated. He did not want to return to what counted for normal now.

"Would you…ahem, would you mind if I intruded on your nightcap ritual tomorrow evening, as well?" Carson asked, his voice hardly above a whisper.

Her lower lip was caught between her teeth as she nodded. "Intrude all you like."

A/N: Thank you to everyone who read and commented on the last chapter! I'm so grateful for your support. To my U.K. and Commonwealth readers, I offer my deepest condolences for the loss of Her Majesty the Queen. Although, as an American, I can never fully understand what a loss like this means, I have always held Queen Elizabeth in high regard for her life of dutiful service. May she rest in peace, and may God save the King.

As for this installment, I hope you all enjoyed it. Please let me know your thoughts if you can spare a moment!