The Return of the Native
Winter 1913
Charles Carson sat patiently as the finger of his blind five-year-old son carefully began tracing the wrinkles on his face. He saw far too many lines on his face each time he looked at himself in the mirror—and he was sure Hughie could feel his age too, with his hands. Hughie sat in his lap, his cloudy eyes looking up at him as if they had the answers to all of the world's burning questions.
The visitor's room at Lloyd Andrews—a room he and his wife had become quite familiar with in the last several months—was nearly empty. It was a small room with a collection of books and toys on one wall with tables and chairs all scattered throughout the area. Carson once overheard a staff member refer to the school as "The School for Unwanted Children"—he purposely avoided sharing the information with his wife, however; she was already so fragile. By now, they had learned the empty room was not unusual at Lloyd Andrews, but it saddened them, Elsie especially, to see that not even the holiday season could bring family about.
And on the week before Christmas, the room and the people remained relatively the same as it was before, they quickly noticed:
An old woman stood with Mrs. Shelton, and together they watched a small child play with a wooden train; a man in a suit and a nurse sat with an older boy bound to a wheelchair in the corner; and a middle aged woman sat near the window with her teenage daughter—and the sight of the young girl, and all young girls like her, brought disgust and shame to Carson. What was the world coming to? The first time he saw her, he wondered what could such a normal-looking girl do to get sent to Lloyd Andrews. Six or so months later, her bulging stomach made what she had done abundantly clear.
He cleared his throat and reached for the book on the table—though blind, Hughie was always allowed the pleasure to choose the books Carson would read to him. And he seemed to enjoy the book he had chosen, for he would be hearing it for the fourth time in a row.
"Shall we get started?" he asked Hughie formally, almost as if he were talking to a maid or a footman, not his young child. Elsie always scolded him for the serious tone he always used with him, but Carson knew his words, and the tone that came with it, hardly mattered to the boy.
Hughie's finger left Carson's face and his arm fell to his side. "'Old Mother West Wind by Thornton Burgess,'" Carson read aloud.
He felt Hughie attempt to wiggle out of his firm grasp as the book opened and the pages turned. There was a slight dread deep inside Carson's core, fearing the terrible tantrum that would inevitably come.
"If you're wondering where your mother is," he said as calmly as his irritation would allow, "she just stepped out to use the washroom. She'll be back in a moment."
To his relief the squeals coming from his son were happy ones. And as Hughie's voice began to get louder, Carson knew to continue on.
"'Chapter one,'" he continued mechanically. He could read the story in his sleep, at this point; in fact, some of the characters in the book had begun to be incorporated in his dreams. "'Mrs. Red Wing's Speckled egg. Old Mother West Wind came down from the...'"
"'...purple hill...'" said Hughie softly.
"Yes, 'the purple hills,'" said Carson, "'in the golden light of the early morning...'" He stopped and looked at his son.
Hughie had found his tie and was tugging at it, attempting to free it from the prison that was Carson's vest.
Carson looked up, wondering if anyone else had witnessed his son's words. Mrs. Shelton was still preoccupied with the old woman; the man in the suit was wheeling the boy out of the room with the nurse close behind them; and the girl and her mother were too busy with their own conversation to notice. And Elsie had yet to arrive back from the washroom.
"Yes... that's right. Good," said Carson softly. He cleared his throat and began again. "'Old Mother West Wind came down from the...'" He waited, when Hughie said nothing he continued, "'The purple hills... in the golden light of the early morning.'"
Again, he stopped and he waited. His tie was now free from his vest and hitting his stomach as excited squeals came roaring out of his son. In the distance, he saw Elsie enter. She stopped to exchange a few words with Mrs. Shelton before finding her way back to them. Instead of acknowledging her, Carson chose to continue reading:
"'Over her shoulders was slung a great big bag and in the bag were all of Old Mother West Wind's children...'"
Spring 1920
Anna watched as Mr. Carson made his way around the table, handing out the morning post. Passing Anna, he handed a letter to Mr. Barrow, then reached over to Miss O'Brien, then to Alfred. There was one letter left and she thought—hoped—it might be from John, but Mr. Carson took the letter back with him to his seat.
She was not worried, truly, but it did seem odd that she had not received a letter from him these last few days, especially when he used to write to her daily.
"Nothing from Mr. Bates?" she still felt the need to ask.
"No, I'm afraid not, Anna," said Mr. Carson. His eyes found Hughie's napkin, which was laying disregarded on top of the table. Mindlessly, he grabbed it and placed it back onto Hughie's lap.
Mrs. Hughes offered Anna a gentle smile before she turned to her husband. "What's this?" she asked, gesturing to the letter in his hand. She took a sip of her coffee.
"A letter to Hughie, it seems," said Mr. Carson with a curious expression.
"How nice." Mrs. Hughes smiled as Hughie reached for it.
"Now, hold on," said Mr. Carson firmly. "I'll read it to you." He opened the letter and unfolded the thick paper inside. He took a moment to observe the letter before coughing uncomfortably.
"What is it? What's the matter?" asked Mrs. Hughes, leaning in to examine it.
"I can't seem to—there aren't any words," he said, looking flustered, "just these... bumps."
At that, Hughie quietly took the letter out of his hands, placed it on the table and began feeling it with his fingers.
Miss O'Brien, who sat beside him, took a peak down at the letter. Daisy entered the kitchen with a plate of bread in her hands. Her eyes drifted to the letter as she placed the bread onto the table. "What's that?" she asked, looking at Mrs. Hughes.
"It's a letter," Mrs. Hughes said simply, "written in Braille."
"That's how blind people read, isn't it?" asked Alfred, who looked at the letter with hesitant eyes. Mr. Carson tugged at his collar.
"Yes, it is." said Mrs. Hughes, and she turned back to her son. "Who's it from, if you don't mind me asking?"
"Herby..." Hughie answered softly.
Miss O'Brien turned to Alfred and began quietly speaking with him while Daisy went back to the kitchen. Anna watched Hughie's fingers touch the paper carefully, tracing the bumps on the page. "Is... Herby your friend from Lloyd Andrews," she asked him gently.
She was not expecting an answer—he did not feel comfortable speaking to anyone other than his parents, and he never acknowledged Anna whenever she tried speaking to him—but she was the only one willing to try, Mrs. Hughes told her the other day; she greatly appreciated Anna's efforts. Mrs. Hughes was already offering her an apologetic look when Hughie softly answered, "Yes."
"It must be hard being away from your friends for so long," she said.
Mr. Carson glanced nervously at Mrs. Hughes. But before anyone could notice or respond, the bells above them began ringing. Anna and Miss O'Brien both stood and together they walked towards the stairs without saying a word to each other.
"He's been here almost three weeks," said Alfred in a low voice as he and Miss O'Brien entered the kitchen. "I thought he'd be gone by now."
"I wish he was," said his aunt bitterly. "He's taken my seat at the table and neither Mrs. Hughes or Mr. Carson see any issue with it."
"There are better things to get worked up about, Miss O'Brien," said Mrs. Patmore with a huff.
"I'm glad he's not dumb," said Daisy, "but I wish he'd say more than a few words. It freaks me out when he just sits there with his eyes closed... doing nothing."
"I wonder if he has another condition Mrs. Hughes and Mr. Carson aren't telling us about," said Alfred.
"Maybe he's only got a few weeks to live," said Miss O'Brien. "That's why he hasn't gone back to Lloyd Andrews." She turned to Mrs. Patmore. "You're closest to them out of all of us, why don't you ask Mrs. Hughes why he isn't leaving?"
"That's... not any of our business," she told them with a slight twitch. She attempted to sound as stern as possible, but she was afraid the shakiness in her voice might have given her away. "He's just a boy visiting his parents for a bit. That's all there is to it." She sighed. "You could make more of an effort to get to know him; he has enough problems as is."
In that same moment, she spotted Mrs. Hughes and Mr. Carson walking past the kitchen. She smoothed her apron and quickly walked to them, avoiding the eyes of the others.
She met them outside of Mr. Carson's pantry door. Inside, Hughie sat in one of Mr. Carson's chairs—his back facing them.
"Have you... heard from Dr. Clarkson yet?" Mrs. Patmore asked them in a loud whisper.
Mrs. Hughes looked into the pantry cautiously—only Mrs. Patmore seemed to notice the slight jerk of Hughie's head—then she reached for the door to close it. "We would have told you if we had," she said.
"By heck, they don't mind stringing it out," said Mrs. Patmore. "Should you go and see him?"
"My thoughts exactly," said Mr. Carson with a firm look directed at Mrs. Hughes.
"Why? I'm sure if he knew anything, he would have said," said Mrs. Hughes. After a moment of silence, she gestured to the stairs that lead up to the servants bedrooms and said, "If you'll both excuse me, the button came off my cuff. I'm going to mend it while I'm not busy."
"Are you sure you don't want my help," said Mr. Carson.
"I think I can handle mending a button or two, Mr. Carson," said Mrs. Hughes sharply—a little too sharply than she had intended, Mrs. Patmore took notice, for her eyes softened. "No, you stay down here. Read with Hughie. I can manage."
"If you're sure," he said.
She stroked his arm gently then left to mend her button.
In Mr. Carson's hand he held a book with a horrifying figure on the front cover, looking more beast than man in Mrs. Patmore's eyes. She squinted to get a better look. "What book is that?" she asked, frowning.
He glanced down, and upon seeing the horrible face, he pressed the book tightly to his stomach so the cover was hidden away from the world. "Oh," he said. He quickly glanced around to make sure no one else had seen it. "Just a book Hughie wants me to read for him."
"You're still reading books to him, are you?" she said.
He opened his pantry door, taking a quick glance at his son before entering. "Yes," he confirmed, and Mrs. Patmore noticed the slight sparkle in his eyes. "I am still reading books to him."
Carson entered his pantry with the book tightly pressed to his stomach. Hughie's head jerked up at the sound of the door closing. His father cleared his throat to make his presence known , a habit he started when Hughie was very small.
"Is... mam okay?" said Hughie as Carson made himself comfortable in the chair across from him.
Carson raised a brow. "Of... course she is," he said in a slightly shaky voice. "Whatever would give you the impression she was not?"
Hughie shrugged.
Carson waited for his son to say more or give evidence of his mother being unwell—when he remained silent, Carson assumed he was in the clear. "Shall we get started?"
"All right."
He opened the book. The whiff of the new pages flew up at him and he rubbed his nose to block the smell. "'Frankenstein by Mary Shelley,'" Carson read aloud. He cleared his throat and began reading the epigraph below the title. "'Did I request thee, Maker, from my clay... to mould me man... Did I solicit thee'..." he trailed off, a sour grimace springing to his face. He flipped through the pages. "Hughie," he said, "are you certain this is the book you wish for me to read?"
"Herby told me I'd like it," said Hughie.
"But this is... Are you sure you don't want to read something else? Something more... adventurous?"
"Like what?"
"Well, what about Treasure Island? Most boys your age seem to enjoy reading that."
"Most boys my age can see," he said softly. His father coughed.
"If you're sure—but don't be afraid to stop me if it becomes too much for you. The last thing your mother needs is to be awakened by you because of night terrors..." After a quick huff, he adjusted himself in his seat again, moistened his lips with his tongue and began reading again:
"'The event on which this fiction is founded has been supposed, by Dr. Darwin, and some of the physiological writers of Germany, as not of impossible occurrence...'"
Remembering the last time he examined young Hughie, Dr. Clarkson made sure to keep his hands at a safe distance from the boy's mouth. At twelve, Hughie was much more compliant than his younger self ever was. He no longer screamed at the slightest touch or refuse to leave his mother's arms. But sometimes, in the right light, Dr. Clarkson could see the bite mark left by young Hughie Carson all those years ago and the horrible memories came rushing back.
Dr. Clarkson grabbed his stethoscope and placed the end of it on Hughie's bare chest. "Can you breathe in for me, Hughie?" he asked—and Hughie sucked in fiercely, his rib cage becoming more prominent. Dr. Clarkson smiled at the boy's exaggerated action. "And release it." Hughie released his breath and the wind came blowing right in Dr. Clarkson's face, and he resisted the urge to laugh. After a moment, he removed the stethoscope and placed it back on the metal tray beside him. "I would like to examine your eyes too, Hughie... that is, if you're comfortable with me doing so," he continued.
Hughie's eyes opened and the familiar blue haze looked vacantly forward. Dr. Clarkson shone a bright light at both eyes and he carefully examined the reaction, looking for any hints of life. But unsurprisingly, he found nothing—and Hughie's eyes closed again.
Dr. Clarkson turned to Hughie's mother, who sat watching them in the corner. Carson stood next to her with his hands behind his back, looking more butler than father. "Did the doctors at Lloyd Andrews treat their patients well, do you know?"
"Why? Is something the matter?" asked Mrs. Carson, fear suddenly springing to her face. Her eyes quickly went to Hughie.
"No, nothing is wrong. He is a perfectly healthy boy, Mrs. Carson," said Dr. Clarkson quickly. "I only ask because... well, I have heard stories about facilities like Lloyd Andrews and..." He stopped; it felt awkward to bring such a matter up—especially if the boy would inevitably be going back to the facility—but the stories he heard were just too terrible to ignore.
"I've heard no complaints about the doctors at Lloyd Andrews," said Carson. "The one we've been in communication with seems competent enough. What sort of things have you heard?"
"Well, some doctors mistreat their more... unstable patients," explained Dr. Clarkson delicately.
"My doctor was kind to me," said Hughie gently.
Dr. Clarkson looked back at the boy in near shock. Mrs. Carson had informed him Hughie was now communicating verbally, but the boy was so quiet during the examination, it had slipped Dr. Clarkson's mind completely. He desired to ask him more questions, but fearing he might upset Mrs. Carson, he instead said, "I am relieved to hear you say that."
Carson's eyes went to his wife as she stood to help Hughie back into his garments. He coughed to get her attention. She looked at him and he lifted his eyebrows. She rolled her eyes at him.
"Dr. Clarkson," Carson began, "might my wife and I have a private word with you in your office—that is, if you have the time?"
"Yes, of course," he said.
"I am perfectly capable of speaking with him on my own, Charlie," she snapped. But her eyes softened when they found Hughie. "Help Hughie get dressed. I'll meet you out in the hall." And quietly Dr. Clarkson left with Mrs. Carson at his side.
"But I thought I was supposed to keep my hat on at all times," said Hughie as is father handed him back his grey cap.
"That is when you're outdoors," said his father. "When you're indoors, you keep your hat off."
"Why?"
"To be courteous to others."
"But how does that show we're being courteous?"
His father let out a gentle sigh. "It's... just the way things are done, Hughie. We don't question it..."
"Carson," said a voice behind him. He turned to see Mrs. Crawley with a wooden brown clipboard in her hands. "I thought that was you."
"Mrs. Crawley, ma'am," he greeted politely.
"I hope you're well," she said.
"Yes, quite," he said with a nod—he then realized the comment was brought up because they were in the hospital. He quickly added, "We're here for Hughie. He's had a check up with Dr. Clarkson." She blinked, and he elaborated: "Er, Hughie is my son..."
"Oh, yes, of course," she said, finally recalling. She turned to the boy. "How wonderful it is to meet you. I understand that you are blind."
"He is, ma'am," said Carson with a nod.
"I'm Mrs. Crawley," she said, and Carson felt ashamed he had yet to introduce her to him. "My son, Mathew Crawley, is married to Lady Mary. They've told me all about you."
Carson smiled at the mention of Lady Mary. She had been so kind to young Hughie the past couple of weeks.
"Has Dr. Clarkson told you about the girl in Edinburgh?" Mrs. Crawley asked him. "A very similar story to Hughie. Blind at birth and the mother forty-five or so when the baby was born. The only difference between the two is Hughie learned how to communicate properly in his later years and the young girl did not. She still remains mute to this day."
"I... don't see that as a bad thing," said Hughie gently.
"Oh no, dear boy," she said. "Not bad, just different."
"Hello, Mrs. Crawley," his wife greeted her formally. Carson noticed the slight look of worry on her face as she entered their circle of conversation.
"Mrs. Hughes," she acknowledged. "Well, I mustn't keep you. I should be getting ready for today's luncheon anyway. I'm late getting back as it is." She made to leave, but something compelled her to turn back to them. "I was planning to ask you this later, but since I have you now..."
"Of course," said Elsie.
"You had a maid at Downton, Ethel Parks." She glanced at Hughie before continuing. "I was there when she brought her son into the dining room."
Elsie's brow lifted slightly. "Who could forget that?"
"Do you have an address for her?"
Elsie nodded. "I do, if she's still there."
"You see..." Again, she turned to Hughie. She gestured for her to step off to the side where Hughie's ears might not hear.
Understanding, Carson took Hughie by the hand. "We'll meet you outside," he told his wife. He quickly turned to his son. "Come along now, Hughie."
Mrs. Crawley waited until they were out of earshot before she continued. "You see, I saw her earlier this morning," she said in a whisper. "And I'm afraid she's fallen in a bad way, a very bad way."
"Oh, dear. I am sorry to hear that," she said. "I'll find it for you."
"Thank you, Mrs. Hughes," she said. "I'll come find you after we've arrived back from our luncheon to retrieve it."
"Who's Mr. Bates?" Hughie asked unprovoked over dinner. He meant it for only his parents' ears but the room fell silent as all eyes went to Anna. "I only ask because... I hear his name come up a lot," continued Hughie. The silence must have become too overwhelming for the boy, for he quickly added, "I was only curious. I didn't mean to offend."
"And you haven't," Anna assured quickly. "Mr. Bates is my husband. He used to work here as Lord Grantham's valet."
"Where is he now?"
Anna turned to Mrs. Hughes. "It's your business to tell, not mine," said Mrs. Hughes firmly. "You can tell him, if you'd like."
"He's in prison," she said softly.
"Serving time for a crime he was was wrongly prosecuted for, mind you," added Mr. Carson. Again, he found Hughie's napkin scrunched up on the table and he placed it back onto the boy's lap.
They all waited for Hughie's response, but he seemed satisfied enough, and he instead continued eating. The entire table quickly followed suit.
Mr. Molesley turned to Anna. "I expect you're tired. It's a long day up to London and back again."
"Was it worth the journey?" asked Mrs. Hughes.
She shook her head. "Not really."
Daisy entered the servant's hall as quietly as she could, but the single teacup shaking in her hands made herself known to the blind boy at the table. He was dressed nicely with his hair neatly combed to one side and a tie around his neck. She said nothing as she placed the teacup down onto the table.
He lifted his head—his eyes closed tightly, like they always were. "Mrs. Hughes asked me to bring you this," she said.
She realized she had placed it a bit too far for his reach and she watched him search for the cup. When he finally found it, he pulled it close to him and began feeling it with his hands.
As she turned to leave to go back into the kitchen, she noticed Mrs. Patmore and Mr. Carson enter Mrs. Hughes's office—and she remembered Mrs. Patmore's words of making more of an effort with the boy. She turned back to Hughie. "I'm... ever so thankful to see that you're a boy and not a monster." And she regretted her words the moment they came flowing out of her mouth.
Hughie said nothing, just sipped his tea.
"Now, the moment you feel tired you're to tell me," said Charlie, "and I'll take over whatever it is you're doing."
"Oh, will you, now?"
"Are you sure you want to come to the church? You and Hughie could stay here and have a lie down."
Elsie huffed. "It would be so nice if people would wait to learn if I really am ill before boxing me up."
"I'm only thinking of what's best for you, Elsie," he said.
She shooed him away. "Go on. Make sure Hughie's ready."
"He's a good man," said Mrs. Patmore when he left.
"I know he is. And he deserves far better." Elsie sighed. "I fear it's my nerves getting the better of me." She turned to the door, making sure no one was lurking. "I spoke with Dr. Clarkson yesterday and he'll have the results tomorrow. I'm to call in the afternoon."
"Try not to worry."
"I'll try, but I won't succeed."
I just want to take a quick moment to say I really appreciate all the feedback I've received for this fic. Thank you so much for reading and reviewing this story.