Due to some technical difficulties and a little bit of writer's block, this chapter is a couple weeks late, but I hope you enjoy!
*Edit: I fixed some grammar errors and added more details in places that needed it.
The Return of the Native
Spring 1920
"I wonder why Mr. Bates has stopped writing Anna," commented Elsie as she looked down at the tea cup in her hands. The look of disappointment on the girl's face nearly broke Elsie's heart that morning when Charlie didn't hand her a letter.
"I don't see it as any business of ours," commented Charlie. He sat at his desk, rummaging through papers; they were down a footman and he was eager to higher someone, but Lord Grantham had yet to agree on it. His mind seemed preoccupied, like it had been before she had told him about the lump. Now, she suspected, that everything was resolved, they would go back to business as usual, and Elsie wished that could be true.
She shook her head. "Perhaps he's lost hope," she said softly.
"Have faith, Mrs. Hughes"—he glanced up, greeted by his wife's raised brow—"Elsie," he corrected. "I'm sure his letters... got lost in the post. That's all." He tried to sound reassuring, but his tone made him uncertain.
"He used to write to her every day." She took a sip of her tea. "Do you think I ought to have a word with her?"
"I'm sure everything will sort itself out in time, dear," he told her gently. "I don't think you should get involved."
Elsie watched him carefully as he continued to read through his papers without giving her presence much thought. After waiting a moment, she cleared her throat. "I've been thinking about buying something... as a treat for myself."
Again, he glanced up, a slight smile forming on his face. "I agree. What are you planning on buying? A new dress... a new hat, maybe...?"
"That all sounds lovely, but I think instead I'm going to buy an electric toaster," she said.
His thick eyebrows lifted and she could see the discern he was attempting to hide from her on his face, but his eyes remained focused on his papers. "An electric toaster," he echoed cautiously.
"Yes, I've been reading all about them in the catalogue..."
Finally, he looked up, his attention fully on her. "Elsie, are you certain that's what you wish to spend our money on... an electric toaster? You're not worried it might burn our cottage down—or worse, should you bring it to Downton?" He made no effort to hide his disgust at the mentioning of bringing such technology to Downton.
"Have some faith in the future, Charlie," she said with a slight teasing tone. "I'm sure it'll be fine."
He shrugged, unsatisfied, and his attention went back to the papers below him. "Why did Mrs. Crawley come see you after dinner," he asked, cleverly changing the subject.
She shifted in her seat. "She was delivering a letter... from Ethel."
He twitched at Ethel's name. "Yes, Mrs. Crawley did mention she had fallen into hard times, didn't she?"
"I'm afraid it's even worse than that." Elsie glanced cautiously at his closed door and she hesitated before continuing, "She's... been working as a prostitute."
Charlie's eyes went wide in shock and he too glanced at his closed door. He tugged uncomfortably at his collar. "Well..." He coughed. "Why—what did the letter say?"
"She wants to meet me—but she won't come here."
"Of course not," he said, frowning. "Getting herself pregnant was one thing... but—to degrade one's self to, to..." He trailed off, unable to speak of such sin.
"She didn't get herself pregnant," Elsie retorted stiffly. "In case you have forgotten, Mr. Carson, making a baby is a two person job." Her mind went to Hughie, and all of the things she might be forced to do if she were to become a single mother in that very moment; supporting both Hughie and Becky alone, she would become a pauper, perhaps. She did not condone Ethel's actions, but she did sympathize with the poor girl—and that little boy of hers. Elsie sighed. "To be perfectly honest, darling, I'd rather not think about her or the letter at this very moment."
"Very well," he said, blinking. "Let's talk about Hughie, then." He stood. Elsie released a gentle sigh as she watched him make his way to the seat across from her. "Lord Grantham would like to know when he'll be going back to Lloyd Andrews—and I would too." She rolled her eyes. "Elsie, love, I know you've settled on keeping him here—but the last thing Downton needs is a little blind boy wandering the estate. Lord Grantham and I both agree..."
"You're such an old curmudgeon," she muttered. "You both are."
"Don't be like that, Elsie," he said in a stern voice. "Speak ill of me all you wish, but—"
A knock on the door shut Charlie up immediately and Hughie quietly entered the pantry.
"Hello darling," Elsie greeted as she stood. Charlie adjusted himself in his seat as Elsie guided Hughie down into the chair she had previously occupied.
"Are we sleeping at the cottage tonight?" asked Hughie softly.
"No," said Charlie. "We'll be staying here tonight. This whole week, in fact."
"Oh, that reminds me," said Elsie to Charlie. "I've forgotten Hughie's church shoes at the cottage and I haven't got any time tomorrow to fetch them myself."
"Hughie and I will retrieve them on our afternoon walk," he said, glancing at Hughie. Charlie then pulled out his watch. "It appears to be a certain twelve year old boy's bedtime," he said in a teasing tone, lifting his eyebrows at Hughie.
"Oh. When's the bedtime of a certain twelve year old blind boy, then," Hughie retorted.
Charlie glanced up, sharing a smile with Elsie. "I do believe they are one and the same, Hughie," he said.
Barrow made his way into the kitchen where Mrs. Patmore and Daisy were busy preparing for the dinner. Both their eyes glanced up when he entered, but they were too busy to make any true acknowledgments. Mrs. Patmore simply nodded at him; Daisy hummed slightly. Blind Hughie sat in Mrs. Patmore's chair, his face and body facing the wall.
"Where's Mr. Carson?" Barrow asked Daisy as she removed a hot pan of mush from the oven. Hot steam rose from it and she set it onto the table.
"In the servants hall," said Daisy. "He's helping Alfred with something, I think."
And Barrow turned his heel towards the servants hall.
"Go on, then," he heard Mr. Carson say. Followed up with Alfred listing spoons: "Tea spoon. Egg spoon. Melon spoon. Grapefruit spoon. Jam spoon..."
He was missing the last type of spoon, Barrow new. The bouillon spoon.
There was a slight pause before Mr. Carson asked, "Shall I tell you?"
Barrow stepped forward into the servants hall where Mr. Carson and Alfred both stood with a tray of spoons on the table below them.
"All right," said Alfred.
"A bouillon spoon," said Mr. Carson.
"But I thought soup spoons were the same as table spoons."
"Ah, so they are. But not for bouillon, which is drunk from a small dish."
"And here I thought spoons were just spoons," said a soft voice beside Barrow.
He looked down to see Blind Hughie standing beside him. He quickly glanced at the kitchen, noting how quiet his footsteps were. But Barrow ignored him and he looked on at butler and footman, feeling a slight jealousy set in his stomach at such a sight.
"Off you go now," said Mr. Carson. "I must get on."
He hid his envy from Alfred as the footman left the room and then Barrow watched Mr. Carson as he collected the spoons. "You're taking a lot of trouble with young Alfred, Mr. Carson," Barrow said. "I feel quite jealous."
"I don't know why," said Mr. Carson—and Barrow felt his heart sink a little. "He asked for help. You never did." His eyes drifted down to Hughie as Barrow meekly walked away. "Come along, Hughie. Let's fetch your coat."
The wind whistled and the trees in the distance hissed. Hughie held tightly to his cap atop his head to prevent the gust of wind from blowing it away. The air felt cool and harsh and mean, and nature felt rebellious and wild and very much unpredictable in that moment.
His dad cleared his throat as the door to the cottage clicked closed. "Do you have your shoes?" his dad asked.
"Yes," answered Hughie, lifting the hand not holding his cap to show his father he still held onto the shoes. His hand lowered again, and his shoes bumped his thigh. "I think it might rain."
"It does look a bit cloudy out," observed his dad. "I'll... go fetch the umbrella—you are to wait here." He let out a slight sigh. "I don't want another mishap like the one the other day."
"It's very hard to begin," said Ethel gently.
"Well, find a way, Ethel," Elsie found herself saying—perhaps on a normal day she would dare not speak so harshly, but Lord and Lady Grantham were hosting the Archduke that night and there was still a ton of things left to do before his arrival. "We all have lives to lead."
"Could you write to the Bryants?" Ethel asked. "To say I want them to have Charlie."
Elsie twitched slightly. "We've already been down this path," she said. "To no avail."
"I know. And I know I said a mother's love was worth more than all they had to give, but I said it for me, not for him."
And Elsie felt the guilt rise from her soul. She shifted from one foot to the other, determined not to reveal her own personal struggles to Mrs. Crawley.
"My dear," said Mrs. Crawley, "you mustn't do anything until you're absolutely sure."
"Mrs. Hughes said we all have lives to lead, but that isn't true," said Ethel. "I've got no life. I exist, but barely."
"Ethel," said Mrs. Crawley, "we all know the route you've taken."
"It's good of you to have me here," said Ethel with a nod.
"All I mean is I work with others like you to rebuild their lives," said Mrs. Crawley. "Can't we work together to find a way for you to keep your son?"
"With his grandparents, Charlie can build a life that is whatever he wishes it to be. With all respect, ma'am, you and I working together could never offer him that."
Elsie felt guilt consume her at Ethel's truthful words, and her mind wandered to Hughie and Charlie, and Lloyd Andrews. She swallowed it all away, and with a slight nod, she said, "You want me to write to them again?"
"But leave it vague," ordered Mrs. Crawley. "Say that Ethel would like them to keep in contact with their grandson."
Elsie nodded, agreeing that would probably be the safest option.
"I won't change my mind," Ethel said firmly.
"Nevertheless, that's what I'll do. Then there'll be no disappointment, whatever comes." She turned to Mrs. Crawley. "Now, if you'll forgive me, we've a big dinner tonight."
Hughie's head lifted as a strong gust of wind passed them. In his hand he held his shoes, innocently swinging them back and forth by their laces. With each passing swing, Carson worried the strings would break loose and the shoes would go flying forward into mud or dirt, or something worse.
"It doesn't appear to be raining now," noted Carson, glancing up at the dreary sky. "Why don't you hold the umbrella and I'll hold your shoes." He handed his son the umbrella as he took the shoes.
Without warning, Hughie whacked the umbrella onto the hard surface below them—and Carson twitched at the slight noise it made clashing with the ground.
"Erm, It never hurts to be prepared in case it does rain, though," said Carson carefully. He watched uncomfortably as Hughie began sliding the end of the umbrella up and down the dirt path. Carson coughed. "Perhaps I should hold onto the umbrella as well."
With the umbrella in one hand and the shoes in the other, Carson continued along the path towards Downton Abbey with Hughie at his side.
"Why did mam go to Mrs. Crawley's this afternoon?" asked Hughie.
Carson did not agree with his wife on many things, especially as of late—Ethel and her situation being among them. Mrs. Crawley was too kind and too forgiving to the unworthy, and she had no business dragging his dear wife into her dirty business. "Nothing to concern yourself with," he told his son.
"Is it because of Ethel?"
His brow lifted. Hughie, he was beginning to discover, knew more than he led on. "No," he said firmly. "Your mother is... buying an electric toaster."
"An electric toaster?"
"I'm only telling you this because I don't want you anywhere near it—there's no telling what it might do."
"Oh," said Hughie. He paused for a quick moment, before turning his head in the direction of his father. "Er... dad?"
"Yes?"
"What's an electric toaster?"
"Well, it's—erm, I'm not sure exactly," he admitted, "but anything with the word 'electric' in its title is bound to cause chaos..."
"What about spoons?" asked Hughie softly. "Do they cause chaos?"
"Spoons do not cause chaos, Hughie," said Carson with a frown. "Mr. Barrow causes chaos—and it would be best you keep your distance from him."
Hughie had no response, and they continued along the path in silence. The gentle breeze made Carson feel cheerful, and soon he began humming a gentle tune; a tune he found himself singing more often:
Twas on a Monday morning
When I beheld my darling,
She looked so neat and charming
In every high degree.
She looked so neat and nimble-o,
A-washing of her linen-o
—
Dashing away with the smoothing iron,
Dashing away with the smoothing iron,
Dashing away with the smoothing iron,
She stole my heart away...
"Dad?" said Hughie, bringing the humming to a stop.
"Hm?"
"Why did you and mam get married?"
He glanced at his son briefly before his eyes focused forward. "We loved each other, of course," he told his son with a gentle smile.
"But... you were butler and housekeeper," Hughie said.
He released a gentle sigh. "We never planned on any of it," admitted Carson, "but once everything was confessed... we knew we couldn't go back to being just that." He felt a few drops of water hit his head and he opened the umbrella, Hughie's shoes now balanced between his arm and side. "We were prepared to leave Downton—to start our new lives together."
"Why didn't you?"
Lady Mary wanted me to stay, he thought to say. He cleared his throat. "An arrangement was made so that we could both stay on," he told him instead. "Your mother... still wanted us to leave, but I convinced her it was better we stay." As the rain fell harder, he pulled Hughie in under the umbrella, and Hughie's head lightly brushed against Carson's stomach. His free hand rested on Hughie's shoulder, and he pulled his son closer to him—telling himself it was only to keep him out of the rain. "Just as we will convince her to send you back to Lloyd Andrews." He looked down at Hughie with slightly raised eyebrows as he waited for his response. When he said nothing, Carson cleared his throat and his eyes looked forward again. Downton Abbey stood tall and proud in the distance. "Need not worry, Hughie. You will be back with your friends in no time."
"All right," said Hughie softly, and Carson felt a slight pang in his heart.
Elsie gave a quick glance inside the kitchen, watching Daisy and Mrs. Patmore work. They were too busy preparing the food to stop for a quick word, so she continued along the hall towards Charlie's pantry.
In the distance she saw Hughie reclined in her chair in the servants hall with Alfred standing beside him and Miss O'Brien sitting across from him. Hughie said something that made Alfred laugh—Elsie appreciated the effort they all were making with him—but he quickly brought back his composure once he noticed Elsie's eyes on him. She smiled to let him know there was no trouble.
Charlie exited his pantry just as Elsie was about to enter it. He murmured an apology as they avoided bumping into one another.
"Can I have a quick word?" she asked him gently.
He gestured to his open door, leading her in. "Certainly," he said, "but it must be quick. I'm to ring the dressing gong soon."
"It's about Ethel," she said quietly, and he quickly closed the door. "I'm to write to the Bryants. She wants the boy to live with them."
"She's been down this path before," said Charlie in a soft voice. "Do you think she'll go through with it this time?"
She shook her head. "I don't know—but I'm hopeful she will," she said. "I wished we lived in a better world—where women didn't have to..." She could not say the words. "And just to feed their children... and make ends meet.
"That boy deserves a better life," she continued. "A life that I think only the Bryants can give him." Hughie came to mind. She stopped and her eyes wandered down to her hands.
"I don't want Hughie to leave us either, Elsie," he said softly, and her head jerked back up. "Having him close has been a real treat—I am not ashamed to admit it." A gentle smile sprung on his lips and his eyes twinkled with love. He looked away briefly before he settled back on Elsie, the smile on his face now faded. He cleared his throat and straightened his vest. "But Lloyd Andrews is where he belongs," he continued firmly. "It is where his friends are... competent nurses and teachers... people who know how to properly take care of him."
Elsie sighed. "We know how to properly take care of him, Charlie," she said—refusing to admit she agreed with him. Her hand found his arm and she watched him as he melted at her touch. "All I ask is you give it a few more weeks..."
"Elsie—"
"We won't have to worry about him missing anymore school," she continued. "I've spoken with Mr. Davies and he's agreed to send some assignments here."
"And if we do decide he's staying," he said, weariness in his voice. "What would we do then? I doubt Lloyd Andrews would agree to a teacher sending assignments to an unregistered student."
"We'll speak with Mr. Dawes at the schoolhouse in the village," she said. "Surely something can be arranged."
He still looked weary, but he nodded. "If this is what it will take to convince you, then I'll agree to it." He removed his watch from his vest pocket to check the time, and then promptly put it back. "Three weeks, Elsie," he said firmly. "Three weeks—without any mishaps..."
A knock on the door pulled her hand away from his arm. They both turned as Barrow entered.
"Isn't it time for you to ring the dressing gong, Mr. Carson," he said.
Charlie took a moment to collect himself before he agreed. "I do believe it is," he said with a nod. "If you'll excuse me, Mrs. Hughes... Mr. Barrow."
Elsie watched as Charlie calmly left the room. Thomas Barrow smiled at her—but she could not help but wonder if there was a darker meaning to his kindness. She nodded at him and she gently returned a smile before she excused herself from the room.
"Do you think he's on the run from the police?" asked Daisy.
"Don't be so daft," retorted Anna.
"Well, he hadn't got the money for a taxicab from the station," said Barrow.
"Maybe he fancied the walk," Mrs. Hughes said.
They were gathered around the servants table—Tom Branson's unexpected arrival was what brought them all together. Blind Hughie uncharacteristically sat at the head of the table where Mr. Carson usually sat, but no one, to Barrow's surprise, seemed to mind the change in seating.
"Yes, that's it," said O'Brien sarcastically. "I should think he loves a night walk in the pouring rain without a coat."
"What room is he in?" asked Daisy with a tray in her hands.
Barrow spotted Mr. Carson making his way towards the servants hall in the distance, and he prepared himself to stand. As he stood, he heard him say, "I'll take that, thank you, Daisy." He eyed the group before taking the tray from Daisy's hands and then quietly he left.
"So there'll be no more gossip on that subject tonight," said Barrow as the group began to disband.
Mrs. Hughes only nodded. She turned to Blind Hughie, who had remained seated when Mr. Carson entered. She grabbed his arm and she gently guided him up. "Let's get you off to bed," she said.
Everyone who still remained at the table, except for Barrow, muttered goodnights to the blind boy as he and Mrs. Hughes left the hall.
Carson knocked on Elsie's door before entering. He found her standing and sipping her tea. Upon seeing him enter, she placed the cup onto the table below her. He noted a medium sized box also on the table with a metal object of some kind inside of it. When she looked back up at him, he kissed her gently, tasting the tea on her lips. "I'm going up."
"Goodnight," she said.
"I'll try to keep them quiet, but to be honest, I knew it would happen. I knew he would bring shame on this house. It sounds as if he's on the run from the police, and for all we know, Lady Sybil is languishing in a dungeon somewhere in Dublin."
Elsie sighed. "Let's wait and see what the morning brings." She took the metal object out of the box, and Carson took a few steps back.
"Is that—erm—the electric toaster?" he said cautiously.
She smiled at the object. "It is," she said. "If it's any good, I'm going to suggest getting one for the upstairs breakfasts."
He shook his head. "Then my hope, my darling, is that it will be a complete nuisance," he said. "And I say that in the most loving way possible."
Her brow raised. "Of course you do." She set the electric toaster back onto her table.
He made to leave, but quickly turned his heel to face her again. "Can... you give me the address for Lloyd Andrews in the morning?"
"Whatever for?"
"Hughie has asked me to help him write a letter to his friends," he said.
"That reminds me," she said. "He's also requested a new roommate." At that, Carson straightened. "He says your snoring keeps him up at night—and Charlie, it is a bit much. I don't see why he can't sleep with the hallboys."
"He's not a hallboy, Elsie," said Carson. "He's the butler's son..."
She rolled her eyes. "He's the son of butler and housekeeper, if you recall—or have you forgotten our honeymoon already," she said, and he bowed his head slightly as if to apologize. "I can put him up with me, but I think he would do much better in a room by himself..."
"I do not think it wise to leave him unsupervised, Elsie" he said. "We can move him in with you tomorrow, if you think it best." He kissed her gently on the lips again. "Goodnight, my dear."
"Goodnight, Charlie."
Barrow sat still in the darkness with the sound of the wind and the rain howling outside. The noise brought him into some type of trance. The children he grew up liked to read stories about sunshine and happiness, but Barrow always enjoyed the ones with thunder storms and gloomy days and nights in them. Those books were the most appealing to him growing up. But now he utterly despised them.
He held a burning cigarette with two fingers—and after a long drag, the ashes fell onto the ashtray beside him.
Barrow sat alone at the long wooden table in the servants hall. Mrs. Hughes, who was usually the one to go up last, went up hours ago with her keys jingling at her side. When he was sure it was safe, Barrow quietly snuck down again.
His bitterness and hatred were the only things that kept his soul from burning out. And he took the moments alone, either in his room or downstairs, to contemplate his existence... to contemplate whether or not he should keep his soul fueled.
He froze in a panic when he realized footsteps quickly added to the noise outside. Perhaps it would be that maid again, sneaking out to meet her beau—no, not during such a storm. Maybe Mrs. Hughes, off to fetch something in her sitting room. Or both Mr. Carson and Mrs. Hughes sneaking off for a midnight romp—he hated himself for thinking of something so fowl.
The face that greeted him instead surprised him, and he took another drag of his cigarette as he watched him enter the servants hall. If it were his father, Barrow would stand. But it was only Blind Hughie—his hair disheveled and his hazy eyes open—so Barrow remained silent and seated. The blind boy wore blue pajamas and matching slippers, but his legs were too long for the bottoms and the many buttons on his top went unbuttoned. Barrow watched as the blind boy sniffed the air.
"Mr. Barrow?" said Blind Hughie.
Again, Barrow said nothing. He put out his cigarette in the ashtray just as thunder boomed outside. He let his chair scrape the floor as he pulled out to stand. The noise of the chair made the blind boy jerk his head towards him.
"Hello?" Blind Hughie tried again.
But Barrow made no effort to interact with him. Instead, he simply straightened his suit and he headed for bed.
"'Dear friends, I hope this letter finds you well,'" said Carson, reading his words aloud. He watched as his son scrunched his face in disgust. "What's wrong with this one? It is as generic as it could possibly get."
"That's why it's so terrible," said Hughie.
"What do you want me to write?"
"Dear mingers," began Hughie—and Carson sat straighter, appalled at his own son's fowl language.
"You will not begin your letter with an insult, Hughie," he said.
Elsie knocked on his opened door and he stood quickly. A young man stood behind her. "Yes?" Carson said.
"This young man," said Elsie, gesturing behind her, "is here for the interview, Mr. Carson."
"Yes, of course," said Carson after clearing his throat. He glanced at Hughie. "Er—Mrs. Hughes..."
"Come along now, Hughie," said Elsie.
Hughie stood and he walked to his mother with ease. The young man, dressed tidy in a suit and tie, seemed intrigued by Hughie, for he could not keep his eyes off him, even when he was leaving the pantry.
Mr. Carson cleared his throat again to get his attention and he gestured towards the now empty chair in front of his desk. "James Kent, I presume?"
"Jimmy," he corrected as he he took his seat, and Carson resisted the urge to roll his eyes.
"How did the interviews go?" Mrs. Patmore asked as Carson entered the kitchen. She was stirring up some batter for the dessert that evening, Carson observed. Daisy stood in the corner, setting up the tea cups on the wooden tray. Hughie stood next to her—his hands a safe distance away from the breakable glass.
"I hoped for better," Carson said.
"Which one's getting it?" asked Daisy from her corner.
"The decision on that matter has yet to be decided," he said firmly.
"The maids have clearly chosen a favorite," said Mrs. Patmore. "And I have to—I'll admit it; it's nice to see a pretty face every once in a while."
As he contemplated on whether or not he should scold her for such an inappropriate comment, Elsie entered the kitchen with her coat and hat still on. He watched as she wiped her eyes, and he noticed the tear stains on her cheeks.
He went to her quickly. "Elsie, darling, what's wrong?" he asked quietly.
"Can I have a word with you in private?" she said gently.
He nodded and they quickly fled to her sitting room just as Mrs. Patmore started yelling something at Daisy.
Elsie removed her hat and she looked carefully at herself in the mirror. She rubbed her eyes. "Oh, would you look at me? I'm a mess."
"She gave the boy up, then?" asked Charlie, a hint of melancholy in his voice. He stood near the closed door, too preoccupied with his thoughts to sit in that moment.
Elsie only nodded, fearing she may start crying again if any words escaped her.
"It was for the best, Elsie," he told her gently—she saw his reflection in the mirror, watching her own reflection carefully. She observed his eyes, which gleamed in the dull light of her room.
"I agree," she said, and her lip began trembling. "Ethel just gave that boy a future."
Charlie quickly walked to her and he pulled her into a embrace. He held onto her tightly and placed a gentle kiss on the top of her head as she resisted the urge to break down in his arms. The sound of shattering glass in the distance made them both pull away from each other. Following the glass was a hard thud and a loud shriek that echoed downstairs.
"Hughie!" said Elsie.
Carson followed her out of her sitting room and into the hallway. Hughie was on the floor near the servants hall with broken tea cups surrounding him and blood seeping from the palm of his hand. Hughie cried out in pain as he grasped his hand tightly. Mr. Barrow, Miss O'Brien, Anna and Daisy all gathered to witness the tragedy.
"Oh dear," said Elsie in a shaky voice. She carefully walked passed the broken glass and bent to grab hold of Hughie. "Anna, will you help me get him up?" The girl nodded, and together they brought him to his feet.
"What happened?" asked Carson, a look of shock on his face.
"I'm afraid it's my fault, Mr. Carson," said Daisy. "He told me he could manage it himself. I don't know why I believed him, but Mrs. Patmore asked me to..."
He raised his hand to silence her, and she went mute. "While I appreciate the bond you have made with Hughie, such behavior will not be tolerated..."
"Charlie!" Elsie said sternly—there would be time for scolding later. She started examining Hughie's bloodied hand. A small glass shard stuck out of it and gently she tried pulling it out; Hughie cried out in pain. Thankfully, it did not look like a deep cut... but a visit to Dr. Clarkson was not avoidable.
"Never mind now, Daisy," Charlie said with a sigh. He waved his hand down at the mess. "Clean this all up quickly. We'll discuss your punishment later."
Elsie looked up from her son's hand. Miss O'Brien gave Mr. Barrow a quick glance before she pursed her lips and walked away. Mr. Barrow avoided her gaze. And Daisy looked pale and consumed with horrible guilt, the poor girl.
"Let's get you cleaned up," she told Hughie, holding him close to her. He shivered in her arms, but the crying slowly shifted into soft whimpers.