Author's note: I'm afraid this chapter gave me a little bit of trouble, and I'm not overly happy with it, but hopefully it's not too bad! Enjoy :)
5
For a number of years now winter has been his favourite season; come rain or snow the festivities are lively and warm and full of hope. This year, in particular, promises to be a happy one; he's just been informed by his Lordship that he will be taking over the role of butler once Mr Cole retires at the close of the year. The promotion he considers an honour- a testament to his work and dedication to this fine house and family. His mother, before she passed, told him he was 'loyal to a fault', but he believes the Crawley's are a family who deserve his unwavering devotion. He's confident that he can reward Lord Grantham's faith in him by running the house to the best of his ability, being fair –but firm – to the staff and protecting the family's honour and good name as much as is in his ability to do so.
He hums to himself as he dusts his Lordship's snuff boxes – this may be the last time he's tasked with this particular chore – so he almost doesn't hear the soft squeak of the door opening behind him. He knows who the intruder is without turning around, but he continues with his humming and feigns ignorance until she plucks up the courage to reveal her identity herself. She's taking her time about it though, and he's running out of boxes, so he turns around and then makes a great show of his supposed surprise (startled gasp, hand clutching at his chest – he wasn't a hit on the stage for nothing!), "Oh, my Lady" he gasps, "You gave me quite a fright!" His pantomime is rewarded with a shy giggle and a slight reddening of the cheeks but the child makes no other acknowledgement of him, instead taking a great interest in her shoes. He gives her time to compose herself, instead making himself look busy, mainly by picking up random objects and giving them their second dusting of the day. He makes sure to keep himself facing her so she knows she has his attention when she's ready to speak.
Eventually, after many deep breaths and false starts, she finds her voice. "M-m-mr Carson...I h-h-have a g-gift for you", with this she pulls one hand from behind her back and holds a tiny clenched fist out to him, all the while keeping her eyes fixed on the floor by his feet. When he reaches his own open hand to her she almost throws the object at him before retreating a few paces with a hurried, "I hope you like it. I p-picked it myself...w-w-without any help!" It's a quiet declaration, but there's no mistaking the pride in her high little voice. He pulls his hand back to study the prize and makes a great show of admiring and praising it. He's no sooner finished thanking her, sincerely, for the gift when she turns clumsily on her heel and makes her exit. She flashes him one toothy grin, actually raising her eyes to his for all of a second, before fleeing down the hallway and, presumably, back to the nursery.
When the day is finally over, and he's able to retire to his room, he pulls the gift from his pocket and really does admire it. It's a handkerchief; white and plain, but for a small embroidered bird in one corner. It's crumpled now, mainly from being scrunched so tightly in the giver's little hand, but it's a fine handkerchief nonetheless. It's a day early for the tradition of gift-giving, but he imagines this is to spare her the embarrassment of an audience. His heart swells almost painfully, then, when he imagines –and appreciates – the steely courage it must have taken for the child to seek him out, alone, and present her gift in person. He thinks that makes the exchange all the more precious. He opens the drawer of his nightstand, then, and chuckles at the contents. While he's aware the drawer is meant to house the more personal items of his clothing instead he's faced with a plethora of oddments and drawings from a certain little Lady with big brown eyes and an uncanny knack for getting whatever she likes. He decides against adding the newly folded handkerchief to the contents, instead putting it in place of the one he had already laid out for use the following morning –a special day deserves a special handkerchief, after all.
The following day, after the traditional gift-giving from Lord and Lady Grantham and the staff's Christmas dinner, he makes his way up to the nursery where he hopes to pass on some gifts of his own. Lady Mary is the first to notice him in the doorway and he can't fight the smile on his face when she laughingly throws herself into his open arms and squeezes his neck with all her might. She tries to encourage her sister to wish him a Merry Christmas –he notes fondly how hard she tries to sound much older than her four years – but to no avail. He crouches on the floor to dole out his gifts; Lady Mary receives hers with delight, and a soft kiss on his cheek, whilst Lady Edith takes hers with a mumbled thank you and a slight smile. Lady Mary asks her sister what she's going to call her new dolly, he thinks she says Betty but her response is so low that he can't be sure, and he won't make her more uncomfortable by pressing for an answer. Lady Mary apparently understands her for she nods her head in approval and makes no further remarks on it, she only clutches her own toy tighter to her chest –in all honesty, he's not sure whether the object is a dog or a mouse, and judging by the confused little frown on her dear face he thinks she's having difficulty deciphering the mystery too. She informs him, anyway, that it's the best gift she's ever received and he's mightily proud of that, even if she is only trying to be polite.
He spends the rest of the day, whenever he has a free moment anyway, pondering on the two little girls playing in their nursery. It amazes him how different the two little souls are, in looks and temperament, and he wonders whether they will grow to be more alike or if they are destined to always be polar opposites. He's sure, at this point in time, that the only aspect that marks them out as sisters, as being related at all, is their rich dark eyes –and even those are markedly different! He fingers the handkerchief in his pocket, occasionally, and he grins fondly at remembering Lady Edith's awkward style of gift-giving. It's true, he'll freely admit to any who care to ask, that Lady Mary stole his heart four years ago, and has had complete control of it ever since, but he thinks maybe, just maybe, there may be room for another Crawley sister in his affections.
