The Return of the Native
Autumn 1911

Carson instantly caught a whiff of something burning when he entered the cottage late in the evening. "Elsie," he called out gently as he placed his hat on the rack. He began unbuttoning his coat. His wife was certainly not a grand gourmet chef or anything close to that sort, but her cooking skills had improved enough in their nearly four years of marriage that he no longer expected burnt meals from her. He waited anxiously to hear a reply from the kitchen.

There was no answer. And normally Hughie would be at his feet, babbling about one thing or another. He hung his coat next his hat and hurried further inside to investigate.

A pot of something boiling over greeted him when he entered the kitchen and he quickly ran to salvage whatever it might hold inside. His hand reached for the pot and—he yelped, waving his hand in the air. A cloth was scrunched up near him and he quickly grabbed it to safely remove the pot from the burner.

But the smell of burning only grew stronger, so instead of tending to his aching fingers, he opened the bottom oven to reveal a burning tin of potatoes sizzling inside. He removed them carefully with the cloth. "Elsie," he called out again.

Again, there was no answer, and he was starting to worry. With one hand putting pressure on his two aggravated fingers, he made his way into their sitting room. His irritation quickly left him as he caught sight of Elsie sitting in their creaky old rocking chair, cradling Hughie in her arms as if he were still a baby. Elsie soothed Hughie by patting his back gently; Hughie's hand cupped Elsie's cheek. She looked up, unfazed, when Carson entered.

"Has he been asleep for long?" he asked as quietly as his deep voice could manage, but the boy still stirred.

Elsie cooed at him, rocking him in her arms to assure he would remain asleep, while Carson drew nearer. She shook her head.

Carson opened his arms, the pain in his hand almost completely gone, and Elsie carefully passed Hughie to him. Again, Hughie began to stir. He stilled once his hand found his father's face; the gentle touch was almost enough to make Carson melt.

He took a moment to look at the little sleeping boy in his arms before clearing his throat. "Right. Off to bed with you, then," he said in a whisper.

Elsie kissed Hughie's head before Carson made his journey towards the boy's room.

Carson watched Elsie carefully as she filled his plate full of black and brittle potatoes. He noted the exhaustion showing on her face, specifically the bags under her eyes.

"Will Lady Sybil be all right?" she asked as she made her way to the seat across from him.

He placed his napkin on his lap. "Yes," he said, cutting into the small chicken breast that lay on his plate. "She's to stay in bed for a few days, but she's expected to make a full recovery—she's lucky you found her when you did." He carefully began scraping the burning bits off the potatoes with his fork and knife.

"It was Hughie who found her," she said. "He kept insisting we continue our walk; I wanted to head back to the cottage—and imagine my surprise when I saw Lady Sybil dangling upside down on that tree."

He looked at her, his brows lifting. "You never said Hughie was with you..."

"Where else would he be, Charlie?" she said.

He dropped his fork and knife. "You left him alone with Lady Sybil?"

"I was only gone a few minutes to fetch nanny," she said. "And I don't think Lady Sybil minded—she was laughing when we returned, her hurt ankle nearly forgotten."

He shook his head. "Is... it wise to bring him so close to the house... especially when his lordship's daughters are outside."

She rolled her eyes. "He was drifting off and I thought the cool breeze might wake him up," she said. "Honestly, Charlie, I'm not going to keep him locked away in the cottage just because you're ashamed—"

"I'm not ashamed," he said quickly, and then sighed. "Elsie, I'm not ashamed of him." After a quick moment of silence, he picked up his knife and fork again and cut into the burnt potatoes. He sighed. "He's back to a normal sleeping schedule, then?"

She took a moment to reply. "I hope so," she said eventually. "The walk seemed to energize him a bit, but he fell asleep shortly after we returned. He was getting fussy, so I just let him sleep..."

Carson hummed in response.

"Dr. Clarkson says it's normal for the blind to get their days and nights mixed up," she told him gently.

In his peripheral vision he caught sight of something shiny below the chair next to his. And leaning down to pick it up, he asked, "What's this?" Upon closer inspection, he realized it was a glass shard.

She let out a deep sigh as she stood and took it from him. "Oh heavens. I thought I had found them all." She dumped it into the waste bucket in the kitchen.

"What happened?"

She avoided his gaze, which told him everything. He straightened himself in his chair. "I see."

"It's my fault, really," she said. "I knew he was tired... I shouldn't have given him the cup."

Carson sighed. "He'll be four in February, Elsie," he said, "and you'll be fifty before that. He doesn't speak... he doesn't listen. He throws tantrums once, twice... sometimes even three times a day. Don't you think it's time we consider that school Dr. Clarkson told us about?"

She made her way back to the table. "He'll get better," she said. "He only needs time to adjust."

Spring 1920

Elsie sat at her desk, examining the list of food Mrs. Patmore had requested they purchase for that week. She enjoyed Mrs. Patmore, and she was grateful for the friendship, but sometimes she requested the most extravagant things, even for such a fine household like Downton Abbey...

Hughie hissed in pain and her attention immediately went to him.

Lady Sybil was examining the ugly wound on his hand; Dr. Clarkson did a fine job sewing him up, but a scar was inevitable. Elsie watched as Lady Sybil grabbed the bandage on the side table and she gently began wrapping him up. Next to it was a bowl of water and a bloodied rag. Oh, the whole thing was a terrible mess, and her poor Hughie.

"You've had quite the nasty fall, haven't you?" Lady Sybil said gently to Hughie.

Hughie said nothing, his eyes closed and his head facing the direction of the ground; he had hardly spoken since that fateful day, and Elsie was worried he was reverting back to his old ways.

A knock on the door pulled her away from them. "Come in," Elsie said softly with her attention on the door.

Charlie entered, holding a large box in his hands. "This just arrived for you," he said to Elsie. His eyes drifted to Lady Sybil and Hughie, and he placed the box down onto the table. "I do beg your pardon. I didn't know you were in here." He turned to leave, but Lady Sybil stopped him.

"No, I'm nearly done," she said.

Charlie took a moment to watch Lady Sybil work before clearing his throat. "Er—we do appreciate the kindness you and the family have shown Hughie these last few months," he said, and Lady Sybil smiled, "but you needn't worry about his well being, milady."

She and Elsie shared a knowing look. "I am a nurse, you know, Carson," Lady Sybil retorted.

"Yes," he said, bowing his head slightly. "I only meant you have other things—more important things—to worry about at the moment... I wouldn't want to disturb you."

"You're not disturbing me," she said. She smiled at Hughie, who had yet to move an inch since his father's arrival. "It's a nice distraction. Really." She finished wrapping his hand and she quickly turned to Elsie. "I suppose I should be headed back upstairs—if you need anything at all, Mrs. Hughes, please don't hesitate to ask."

"That is very kind of you, Lady Sybil," Elsie said with a nod. "Thank you."

They both stood and Charlie stepped aside to allow Lady Sybil to exit. He waited until she was gone before giving Elsie a disapproving look.

"I don't see what the big deal is, Charlie," said Elsie. "His hand started bleeding and I didn't want to go all the way back to Dr. Clarkson."

"She is a lady of this house, Elsie," he said—as if his statement was all Elsie needed to understand she was in the wrong.

"Who also happens to be a nurse," retorted Elsie.

"She is about to have a baby. She does not need the added on stress," he told her. "She has enough to worry about already with Mr. Branson... and his Republican ways."

She said nothing and then he hummed, his eyes drifting down to the box on her table. "What's this?" he asked.

She glanced at Hughie, then smiled gently. "Well, you'll be happy to know I've returned the electric toaster."

His brow rose. "And... exchanged it for something safer, I hope."

She nodded. "That's right."

"It isn't anything capable of setting the house on fire, is it?" he asked curiously.

"No," she said, shaking her head. She opened the box to reveal a strange typewriter-like object; Charlie observed it with caution.

"And it is...?" he asked.

"A Braille writer," she said simply, and Hughie's head shot up. "I've gotten it so Hughie can write letters to his friends—and to anyone else, for that matter." She took the the Braille writer out of the box—it was heavier than she had expected—and she carefully examined it. "The cost of it was a bit more than the electric toaster, but I think it'll be worth having it in the long run." Her attention went to the empty box. "I purchased the paper for it as well... but it doesn't appear to have arrived yet."

"You've purchased a Braille writer without consulting me first?" Charlie said, and she glared. He coughed. "Well... what will we do with it once he's back at Lloyd Andrews?"

"He'll take it back with him," she said with a nod, a hint of despondency in her voice.

Anna sat at the servants table with her book tightly grasped in her hands. She was looking down at the page, but she could not read a word—she only saw words jumbled together to make incoherent sentences—so she decided to look up.

Jimmy—or James, as Mr. Carson had introduced—was all the young maids could talk about. They sat at the end of the table, giggling about his expected arrival in the morning.

Miss O'Brien and Alfred sat across from her, silently working on their own tasks; Miss O'Brien focused on removing a stain on an item of clothing while Alfred was working on some silver Mr. Carson had asked him to polish.

Daisy entered the room with a new tea set in her hands. With her head hung low, she placed it onto the table. She should have turned to leave, but she stayed to gawk at Alfred for a moment.

He noticed, and he turned to her. "How're you getting on, Daisy?" he asked.

"I'm to do extra work around the kitchen," she said, "to make up for all the trouble I've caused."

"Why would you give a blind boy a tea tray," asked one of the maids in disbelief.

"I thought he could manage—he'd done it twice before already," she said. "I don't know what happened."

Miss O'Brien's head jerked up and she briefly glanced at Daisy before turning back to her own work. The others took notice.

"Miss O'Brien?" asked the maid.

The expression on Miss O'Brien's face was hard to read. She opened her mouth to speak, but Mr. Carson entered the room and they all stood. Mrs. Hughes and Hughie followed him in.

Mr. Carson waved his hand down, and they all sat. Mrs. Hughes gently guided Hughie to her own seat. "His Lordship has sent a telegram," Mr. Carson informed them all. "He's to arrive back in the morning."

"Did he say anything about Mr. Branson?" asked Alfred.

"Daisy!" screamed Mrs. Patmore from the kitchen, and Daisy hurried off towards her.

Mrs. Hughes poured a cup of tea and gently placed it in front of Hughie. Mr. Carson looked at the object with deep concern before turning to Alfred. "That is no business of ours, Alfred," he said sternly. He took a moment to look at the curious faces around him before gesturing to Mrs. Hughes. "Carry on," he said to them, exiting the room with Mrs. Hughes at his side.

Their attention went to Hughie, whose undamaged hand found the cup. He sipped his tea thoughtfully with a slight slurp at the end. Anna smiled—Mr. Carson would certainly scold him if he heard.

"How are you managing?" Anna asked him.

She waited for a reply. To her surprise, he ignored her, and he simply continued slurping his tea; he seemed to have gone back to how he was when he first arrived at Downton, which was concerning.

Anna looked up. The maids continued gossiping and Alfred continued polishing, but Miss O'Brien's eyes remained on Hughie.

"Are you well, Miss O'Brien?" Anna asked.

Miss O'Brien's eyes lowered to the dress she had been cleaning. She nodded. "Yes, quite well," she said softly. "Why wouldn't I be?"

Barrow elegantly made his way down the steps and into the hallway, a suitcase in both of his hands. The train ride was a bit exhausting and he felt a bit hungry, but there were duties to get on with.

"You're back," he heard the distinct voice of Molesley say. Where the old man got the impression they were friends, Barrow did not know.

He stopped and turned. "I am," he said before continuing along the hall. "Anything happen here?"

"There's a new footman," said Molesley. Barrow felt the flame in his soul ignite at the thought of that tidy young man—Jimmy, was it? "Came today. How was London?"

"Quite fun, as a matter of fact," he said.

"Has the firebrand been saved?"

"That's not for me to say, is it, Mr. Molesley? I better take these upstairs."

He turned the corner, leaving Mr. Molesley gaping. And he caught a beautiful glimpse of the new footman. His eyes lingered for a moment—perhaps a moment too long.

"You got the job, then?" he asked Jimmy, and the young man jumped slightly.

"I'm on my way, Mr. Barrow," said Jimmy. "They say you were a footman once."

"That's right."

"So can I come to you if there's anything I need to know?"

"Certainly," he said. "Why not?"

He nodded, and then continued walking. As he reached the end, he caught sight of Miss O'Brien behind him—normally he would ignore her and continue walking, but he was having a good day, so he stopped to indulge her.

"Yes, Miss O'Brien," he said. "How can I help?" Anna made her way down the hall as Miss O'Brien reached him, and she eyed them both curiously as she passed them. And a few maids giggled their way down the hall with a scolding Mrs. Hughes not far away from them. Miss O'Brien seemed to be waiting for the hallway to clear before speaking, and Barrow rolled his eyes. "I haven't got all day, Miss O'Brien," he told her, lifting the bags in his hand.

When Mrs. Hughes and the giggling maids were out of sight, Miss O'Brien turned to him. "I want to know why you tripped the Carson boy," she said quietly.

And Barrow straightened. "I have no idea what you're talking about," he said just as quietly. "He's done nothing to me. I haven't even spoken to him since he's arrived. What motive do I have to harm a little blind boy?"

"I don't know," said Miss O'Brien, "but I know what I saw."

"And what did you see, Miss O'Brien?"

"I saw your foot. And him tumbling to the ground," she said. "And I'll be telling Mr. Carson."

He dropped the bags not so delicately to the floor and he inched closer to her. "If I did trip the blind boy—and I'm not saying I did—do you think telling Mr. Carson will do you any good? He won't believe you. You're nothing but a two faced stone face to him.

"Tell Mrs. Hughes—that's who really cares about the blind boy's well-being," he continued calmly. He picked up his bags and made to leave, but quickly turned back to her. "But, of course, if you do tell her, I can't promise your own secrets are safe with me. And then we'll both lose our jobs. And we wouldn't want that, would we?"

She stepped back slightly, her face expressionless but her eyes screaming in an almost terror. He took it as a small victory.

"Good day, Miss O'Brien," he said with a nod before turning his heel and he continued walking. After all, he was having a good day, and Miss O'Brien would certainly not be the one to ruin it.

"'Why did I not die? More miserable than man ever was before, why do I not sink into forgetfulness and rest?'" Carson read aloud. Hughie sat in the chair beside him, his head and body facing away from Carson. He seemed distant, uninterested in the story being told to him; and Carson quite frankly felt his son was too young to hear such a story, but he continued on as he had promised he would: "'Death snatches away many blooming children, the only hopes of their doating parents—'"

"Dad?"

He took his son's interruption to flip through the book; thankfully there were only a few pages left in the chapter. "Yes?" he said, distracted.

"Why don't you like me?"

Carson lowered the book. He took a moment to gaze at his son. "I... er"—he coughed—"love you very much as it so happens," he said softly.

"But—you don't like me."

Carson shifted in his seat. He mumbled something even he could not understand, and then rose the book to his face. "Shall we continue?"

"No. It's all right," said Hughie, standing. "I'll sit in the servants hall until it's time for bed."

Carson set the book down, feeling a slight pain in his stomach. "Very well," he said formally. "I'll... use this time to get some much needed work done."

Autumn 1911, cont.

The sound of Charlie screaming made Elsie jerk awake. She lifted herself up quickly, her bare skin meeting the cool air. She shivered slightly, lifting the sheet to cover her chest. She felt Charlie stumble out of bed beside her, cursing under his breath.

"Charlie," she said. He responded with a few incoherent words. "Charlie, what is it? What's happened?"

She heard Hughie laugh joyfully and Charlie continuing to stumble around the room, hitting and knocking unknown items over. "He's hit me... with my walking stick, that's what he's done, Elsie," he told her. "I felt him touching my face and then—wack."

"I'm sure he meant no harm by it," she said softly, trying to hide her own amusement. It really was not funny at all, but Hughie's laughter seemed to be contagious. Her eyes tried searching for Hughie in the darkened room, but she could only hear his happy squeals.

She heard Charlie ignite a match and soon a small burning light illuminated at the far end of the room. He lit the small candle on the dresser, and she could finally see his bulky figure more clearly.

He shuffled his way back to their bed, naked and angry. Hughie had taken his spot on the bed with Charlie's walking stick tightly in his grasp. To Charlie's dismay, he began slapping it onto their mattress. Charlie nearly growled, yanking the walking stick out of Hughie's hand and placing it high on top of their dresser, out of Hughie's reach. The action only seemed to make their son happier, for he only got louder and more giggly.

Charlie checked the time on the clock, and he sighed deeply. "I have to be up in three hours, Elsie," he said. "He wants to play—he thinks it's play time."

She stood, searching for her long discarded robe in the darkness. "I'll take him out so you can get your sleep," she said.

"No. You need to sleep too, Elsie," he said with a sigh.

She found her robe draped on the chair and quickly put it on. "I don't think I've slept since he was born, Charlie," she said tiredly. She grabbed Hughie by the hand and she gently guided him out of the bed.

Charlie sighed. "I'm writing a letter to that school first thing in the morning."

Spring 1920, cont.

"I've spoken with Mrs. Shelton," said Elsie. "The earliest we can take him back is a week from Thursday—they've got a big even happening near them. I don't know what it is; she wouldn't say. I suspect it has something to do with the archbishop."

Charlie looked miles away when she looked up at him; his wine had barely been tasted and his attention was on the book Hughie had been so enthused about reading.

"Have you gotten far?" she asked him, and his eyes lifted to meet hers.

He tapped the book with a few fingers. "We're nearly to the end, Elsie," he said quietly.

"Are you quite well, Charlie?" she asked him, concern in her tone. "You've barely touched your wine."

"Yes," he said with a cough, cupping the wine glass.

"I suppose this whole thing with Mr. Branson has put you on edge," continued Elsie. "I'm on edge myself, I'll admit—I never thought he was capable of such things."

He nodded, glancing at the book. "I'm... suddenly feeling quite tired. I think I'll turn in for the night."

"Oh. All right, then," she said. He kissed her cheek. "Goodnight."

"Goodnight, Elsie."

Anna watched as Mr. Carson made his way around the room. It was nearly the same every day: one letter for Miss O'Brien; another for Alfred; two for Mr. Barrow—how he was so popular, Anna did not know; a few for the maids; and then back to his seat. Hughie's napkin was again on the table, but Mr. Carson made no effort to put it on his lap; he simply eyed it and then turned to Mrs. Hughes.

There were no letters for Anna again that morning, but the pile of letters she received from John the night before told her he still had her on his mind, and that was all that mattered.

Miss O'Brien looked up from her letter, eyed Hughie and then Mr. Barrow, before turning to Mrs. Hughes. Mr. Barrow seemed distracted with his own letters to notice. Miss O'Brien was hiding something, Anna knew.

The bells began ringing and Anna and Miss O'Brien both stood and they walked together in silence, as they always did.

Barrow took a quick peek inside the kitchen as the sound of yelling echoed the halls. To his surprise, Daisy was the one yelling, not Mrs. Patmore. To that new kitchen maid, of all people. He continued to the servants hall where the yelling transformed into whispers.

"...experienced his cruelness first hand," said Miss O'Brien's voice clearly. "He deserves to be punished for what he's done to you."

Miss O'Brien and Blind Hughie were the only two in the room, and they sat across from each other.

"What's this?" said Barrow, entering the room.

O'Brien immediately stood. "Nothing to concern yourself with, Mr. Barrow," she said stiffly.

"Oh, I think it does concern me," he retorted. His eyes went to the blind boy, who looked as dead as Miss O'Brien.

Mr. Carson entered the room. His eyes briefly found Miss O'Brien and Barrow before turning to his son. He cleared his throat. "I have some time off before luncheon," he said. "I thought we could finish off the chapter we started last night."

Barrow felt his heart sink as his attention went to the blind boy again. He would surely meet his end if Blind Hughie told his father the truth. And Miss O'Brien had a sort of mischievous look about her when Barrow's eyes drifted over to her.

"No, it's all right," said the blind boy surprisingly.

Mr. Carson nodded. "Very well," he said, turning to leave. Barrow noticed a glimmer in his eyes when he left.

Miss O'Brien followed him out—he saw nothing in her eyes.

"You've known all along it was me," he said to Hughie when he was sure they were alone. "Why haven't you told anyone yet?"

He waited for the blind boy's response, and for a moment he thought he would never get it, but as he turned to leave, Barrow got his answer:

"Because... you're just like me," Hughie said softly. "A monster in a world of Frankensteins."