Sorry for the long wait. It took a while to write.

The Return of the Native

Spring 1920

Robert watched as a group a young boys kicked around a football in the distance. A few giggling girls watched them by the wall near entrance to the schoolhouse. Oh, to be young and innocent again—though he wondered if he should value such a trait... Jane, a woman of his not-so-distant past—a woman he hardly thought about these days, he suddenly realized—was far from the innocent maiden. But, still, she had a certain purity about her, something he did not see in other women. Her son, Frankie—no, Freddie, wasn't it? He hoped the boy was doing well.

The ball rolled towards Robert, and one boy trudged towards it. In an effort to make the boy's journey quicker, Robert gave the ball a gentle kick in his direction. The boy gave him a gentle smile as he stopped the ball with his foot—but his smile quickly faded and his eyes wandered behind Robert. And he followed the boy's gaze.

Carson and Hughie were walking up the path with Hughie clutching Carson's forearm and hand.

Robert turned back to the boy, who was now back with his friends. Their eyes seemed glued to butler and son—they were a strange pair, Robert knew. Carson was perhaps the only butler Robert knew who had a boy, and a blind boy at that.

The young boy whispered something to his friends... and they ran to the giggling girls, who were no longer giggling. All the children seemed to stop and stare at the blind boy entering their territory.

Robert greeted Carson as the pair approached. "Mr. Dawes is just inside," he told him, motioning towards the school's entrance where a couple of older girls stood. They too gazed at Hughie.

Carson seemed to notice the odd stares directed towards him and his blind son but he carried on. And together they made their way inside the school.

Hughie looked quite nervous; he clutched Carson's hand so tightly that it was beginning to turn red—Carson seemed unbothered.

Remembering his good manners, Hughie removed his cap from atop his head. With the hand not in Hughie's clutches, Carson removed his own hat and he approached the headmaster. Mr. Dawes was scolding another young boy off in the distance. Robert removed his hat and he quickly followed his butler's lead.

"This is your final warning, Mr. Wright," said Mr. Dawes sternly to the boy. "One more little outburst and you will be removed from the classroom permanently." He glanced briefly at Robert, and then Carson, before turning back to the poor boy. "Now away with you," he continued. "I have other matters to attend to."

The boy turned away from the headmaster, and nearly bumped into poor Hughie.

"Blimey!" the boy said after a moment. "You're that blind boy everyone's all in a frenzy about, aren't you?"

"Mr. Wright," hissed Mr. Dawes. And Robert saw the grip Hughie had on Carson's hand soften. "We will have none of that—now away with you before I inform your grandmother of all your misdeeds."

The boy seemed to jump at the mentioning of his grandmother and he hurried away outside.

"That was Timothy Wright's boy," explained Mr. Dawes, and both Robert and Carson bowed their heads. Timothy Wright died in the war, like so many poor men, and his wife died a few years after. "He means well but... you know how boys his age can be," Mr. Dawes continued.

Robert looked briefly at Carson. Robert only had daughters and Carson produced a blind and fragile child. Neither of them could truly understand how boys his age acted.

"No harm done," said Carson, almost breathlessly.

Robert took out his watch from his pocket to check the time; he had to meet Jarvis and Mathew in less than half an hour. "I don't mean to rush you, but I'm unable to stay for long," he said.

"Of course," said Mr. Dawes with a nod, leading them deeper into the school. "The classroom is just this way. If you'll follow me."

The classroom was small but cozy. Tiny desks filled the room. They all faced a dirty green chalk board with half erased maths equations on it. The walls were covered with children's artwork and writing. In the spot where His Majesty's portrait should have resided, a list of names written in bold letters filled the wall instead. Some had a yellow marks next them while others had green—and one very naughty boy, Edward, had a red mark next to his. He suspected they were all names of the students in the classroom. Robert wondered if the boy with the red mark was the one Mr. Dawes had been scolding. And he noticed at the very bottom the name 'Hugh' was on there.

A young woman sat at the regular-sized desk up front. She looked rather focused on marking the stack of papers in front of her. Robert watched as she shook her head in dismay as she marked one paper a final time with her pen and then she quickly moved on to the next paper.

Mr. Dawes knocked on her open door as he entered, and the woman stood. Robert followed Carson and Hughie inside the classroom. "This is Miss Bunting," Mr. Dawes introduced. Carson had to gently remove Hughie's grasp on his hand to shake the woman's hand. "This is Charles Carson and his son, Hugh... As well as Lord Grantham." Her expression changed briefly into a look of dismay at the mentioning of Robert's title, but only he seemed to take notice.

"I am very glad to have your son in my class, Mr. Carson," she told Carson. Not waiting for a response, however, Miss Bunting quickly knelt down to Hughie's height. Sensing her close presence, the boy wrapped his arm back around Carson's forearm. But she took his other hand and shook it gently. "You must be the famous Hugh Carson. It is an honor to meet you."

"Hello," Hughie said quietly. He pulled away from her touch.

"I'm Miss Bunting," she said. "You'll be part of my class for the rest of the year."

"The National League of the Blind has agreed to send someone down here to assist Miss Bunting," Mr. Dawes told Robert and Carson. "They should arrive before next week."

"I've got my own Braille writer," said Hughie in a slightly shaky voice.

Miss Bunting smiled. "Well, you'll just have to give us all a lesson on how to use it Monday."

Robert checked the time on his watch again; Jarvis and Mathew would be waiting. "I've got other business to attend to," he told everyone—and he ignored the snarky expression given to him by Miss Bunting. "Miss Bunting, it was lovely to have met you." A formality, of course; some unknown feeling in his gut told Robert it was not lovely to have met her. "Carson, I'll see you at dinner." He nodded at Mr. Dawes as he led him to the exit.

Carson sighed, glancing down at his son sitting beside him. Mrs. Drewe and two of her children—who he did not know well enough to remember by name—passed them. Carson tipped his bowler hat and she politely nodded in their direction. The smallest of her children remained fixated on Hughie, even after they had crossed the road. And, after a moment, when they were a safe distance away, Carson watched as Mrs. Drewe scolded her son for staring. The whole village would have to get used to Hughie, he knew.

He sighed, looking down at his son and dreading the task he set out to do. Carson could not recall his father's own methods to breech the subject, and it felt too shameful to ask Elsie how to approach the topic, so he was forced to come up with an approach all on his own.

"Hughie," he began strongly. "I... I need to discuss something with you..."

"You do?"

Carson gulped. "Yes."

"Is it bad?"

Dr. Clarkson passed them with a tip of his hat, and Carson did the same. "No—er, not bad. Private."

"Oh," he said. "What is it?"

Mr. Travis passed them and guilt suddenly rushed over him. Carson stood abruptly. A public area was no place to discuss such... things—although, he wondered, would that be his excuse for every place he tried to talk with Hughie?

He remained standing. Maybe walking while speaking with him would make things a bit easier. "Let's head back to the house, shall we?"

"All right," said Hughie cautiously. He too stood. He found Carson's arm and together they walked the path back to Downton Abbey.

When they were a safe distance away from the village, and Carson was sure they would not be interrupted, he began again:

"You see, Hughie..." He could feel his face warm—he would blame it on the hot sun if the sky wasn't so dreary that day. "When a man... well, becomes a man," he continued softly, clearing his throat, "he gets these... erm, urges."

"Urges?" said Hughie, a bit too loudly for Carson's liking.

Carson quickly looked to see if anyone was around. "Yes." He then sighed. Perhaps Elsie speaking with him would be far less... humiliating.

"Oh..." said Hughie.

Carson's brow rose. "Oh?" he echoed back.

"You're talking about... that?"

Carson observed his son carefully. "Er, yes—if by that , you mean..."—he cleared his throat again, and he attempted to sound more confident than he felt in that moment—"sexual intercourse."

"Yes..." said Hughie gently.

There was a long pause and Carson could see Downton Abbey in the distance. He slowed his pace, knowing he did not want to continue their conversation near the house. "What all do you—erm—know about... that?" After an awkward silence, Carson blinked. He thought this subject might be like learning how to ride a bicycle—after an encouraging push from the dad, the son would start riding away. But Hughie did not know how to ride a bicycle, and nor did Carson. "You won't get in trouble," he assured his son. "I would just like to know what it is that you already know about... that."

"Well, Roberts told us..."

"Roberts?"

"Anthony Roberts," said Hughie. "He's an older boy..."

"Oh, yes, I see," said Carson, feeling his stomach twist. So, the older boys had tarnished his precious son's mind. And they filled it with myths and false assumptions, no doubt. "Go on..."

"Well, he said the woman scratches the man's back with their nails while he's on top of her..."

Carson let out a heavy breath. "Is that... all that he told you?"

"He did show everyone else a photograph..."

"A photograph?" said Carson, startled. Such images were not tolerated at Downton Abbey; he especially warned James about this rule before he was hired. If Mrs. Shelton knew such an image was being passed around at Lloyd Andrews—well, a proper woman such as herself might faint, or do something far worse. He never understood why women degraded themselves in such ways.

"A woman and a man... They were together, I think," said Hughie. "Kenneth described the image to me... The woman was on the bed with her legs open wide and—"

"You can spare me the details," he quickly told his son.

"Roberts told us they've got films of it in London, and he's seen one of them..."

"Films?" said Carson, too horrified by his son's words to hide his own shock. He had known about the photographs for some time... but to put such things in films? Carson contemplated his son's words for a moment before clearing his throat once again. "Well, you'll be glad to know that what Roberts told you and your friends is false," he said firmly, feeling the sweat drip from his forehead.

Hughie's head tilted. "It is?"

"To an extent, yes. Some people—improper people, mind you—do take degrading photographs of themselves or of others—or they make distasteful films—but the connection between a man and a woman isn't, er—shouldn't be so graphic." He huffed. Photographs and films of such private things... And passing those photos around to vulnerable children at a prominent school... And former prostitutes working for Mrs. Crawley. All of England had gone mad. "I need you to understand that for most people—respectable people, that is—intimacy is between a man and a woman who are married... and who love each other."

Hughie waited a moment before asking, "And you love mam?"

"I do," he said without hesitation. "Very much."

"But..." Hughie started but he quickly stopped, and he turned away from Carson.

"Go on," Carson encouraged his son to continue. He gulped, observing Hughie's features carefully. His eyes were closed and he still refused to face towards Carson.

"But—what's the point of it all?"

And now perhaps it was time to discuss the harder part of their already difficult conversation. "Well, to... to have children," he said. He cleared his throat again. "And to express the love you have for that person." He paused for a long moment, hoping his son might fill in the awkward silence with his own observations or another question. When it was clear he would not, Carson continued: "Er—do you know how... it happens?"

Hughie's head lifted. "What do you mean?"

"Well, the man inserts his, erm... inside of the woman's... er..."

"Oh."

'Oh,' was perhaps the correct response to such an explanation—part of him wondered if his own father did better, but he could not seem to recall. Carson coughed. "Do you have anymore questions for me?"

"What about Jimmy?"

"What about him?" said Carson, quite confused. Realization suddenly came to him and he felt a pain in his stomach. "He hasn't told you anything inappropriate since his arrival, has he?"

"No... I mean—why do all the maids swoon over him like that? What's he got that Alfred doesn't?"

Carson couldn't help but smile. "I suppose they think he's more handsome than Alfred," answered Carson, "but... there is more to life than being handsome or pretty, Hughie..."

"How do sighted people determine who's pretty and who isn't?"

"I can't tell you how exactly," said Carson. "I suppose fashion has some part in it." And perhaps a person's facial features—he really did not know. He fell in love with Alice Neal for her beauty—he really did not know much about her when he knew her, other than she was funny and sweet. He fell in love with Elsie for much of the same reasons—she was beautiful and quick witted, and she put up with his grumpiness.

He sighed. If Elsie were witnessing their little talk, no doubt she would start laughing at where Hughie had taken their conversation. If Carson could only understand his son's own thought process...

Hughie stopped walking and Carson followed quickly. And for what seemed like the hundredth time that day, Carson cleared his throat. He tugged at his vest and patiently he waited for his son's response.

"Dad?"

"Yes?"

"Why are you telling me all this?"

He hesitated before speaking. "Because it's important to know these things," said Carson as firmly as he could in that moment. "It will be your duty as the husband to take charge"—he shifted—"come your wedding night."

"Oh," said Hughie.

And after a moment, they continued walking.

"Dad?"

"Yes?"

"Do you really think I'll get married one day?"

"Perhaps, if you want to," said Carson, pulling his son close. "But you're still quite young—you've got plenty of other things to think about."

"You're back," said Elsie. She entered Carson's pantry just as he removed his coat. "How did it go?" He turned to her—and he must have looked unwell, for she looked at him in concern. "Not very well, I see..."

"No—the visit went fine," he said with a sigh. "Although, the other children were cautious at first—and, er, Hughie seemed a bit nervous about it all too."

"Well, that's to be expected," she said. "It's a new experience for everyone."

"And I'm not too sure about this new teacher of his..."

"Of course you're not," she said, rolling her eyes. "At this point it's more shocking when you are sure of something."

"Lord Grantham ought to invite her over for dinner one night," he said sarcastically. "She and Branson will have a grand time plotting to dethrone the empire."

He made his way to his desk; he still needed to change for dinner but there were some bills he avoided earlier that needed his attention.

"That reminds me," she said, following him to his desk. "Mr. Branson's brother will be coming in a few weeks for the christening."

"And so I have another Branson to look forward to obeying," he said with a huff.

"Oh, don't be like that," she said. "Mr. Branson is a good man."

"And a Catholic," he said in a distasteful tone.

She sighed. "There's nothing wrong with being Catholic—you've said it yourself..."

"I only said I hold no ill will towards them," he said. "But Lord Grantham is—"

"It doesn't matter what Lord Grantham is or isn't, Mr. Carson," she said sternly. "Mr. Branson is Catholic. His family is Catholic—and so will Miss Sybil. You just have to accept that..."

" Miss Sybil," he repeated after a moment. "It sounds strange, doesn't it?"

"Yes," she admitted. "A little."

He shook his head, shaking any sad thoughts away, before looking down at the bills needing his full attention. He felt Elsie's eyes on him—could she not just leave him be, just for a moment?

"Did you speak with Hughie afterwards?" she asked him softly.

He shifted, but did not dare look up from his papers. "Yes." The conversation was not as torturous as he originally thought it would be, but he was glad it was done with—and now he only wished to move on from it.

"How did that go?"

He sighed, looking up at her. "Very uncomfortable, if you must know—but the task is done. And I would prefer that be the end of it," said Carson firmly. "Now, please, Mrs. Hughes, I really must get this done before dinner."

"Oh, all right." She made her way out the door. "You're such an old curmudgeon," he heard her mutter in the distance.

"I am certain Lord Grantham will clear out a cottage for you two once everything is sorted," said Mr. Carson.

"We'll put him up in his old room until then," said Mrs. Hughes, taking a sip of her tea. She glanced briefly at Barrow, but she turned away before he could read her expression. "Maybe once they've settled in their new cottage, Hughie can take that room."

"You'll hear no complaints from Mr. Bates," said Anna in a cheery tone.

"We'll see," said Mr. Carson gently—he looked at Barrow. The bell for Lady Mary rang behind him and Anna stood.

"Maybe we can have a little party this evening to celebrate," said Jimmy. And Ivy, who was cleaning up the table, beamed at the suggestion. But their excitement quickly faltered once catching sight of Mr. Carson's face.

After a moment, Mr. Carson and Mrs. Hughes both stood. Everyone followed them up, and Mr. Carson waved them down.

"Did you find those papers I asked for?" Mr. Carson asked Mrs. Hughes as they exited the servants hall.

"They're in an envelope on your desk..." And they retreated into Mr. Carson's pantry.

"I suppose you'll be leaving Downton soon enough," said Alfred.

Jimmy, Miss O'Brien and all the maids stopped their individual tasks to look up at Barrow.

"Why would you say that?" asked Barrow.

"Mr. Bates is returning," said Alfred. "Wasn't he his lordship's valet before..."

"Yes, he was Lord Grantham's valet before me," said Barrow stiffly. The bell rang and he stood. "But that title belongs to me now. And I don't plan on going anywhere."

He made sure to glare at Miss O'Brien as he exited.

"Are you sure you don't want to come with us tomorrow?" said Elsie, watching as her husband poured her a glass of sherry.

"No, there's no sense in us both going," he said. "But make sure you keep a careful eye on him. We don't want any mishaps."

"I'm not planning on ignoring him all day, Charlie."

"I'm merely being precautious, Elsie dear," he said. His eyes briefly glanced at the book collecting dust on his table; the frightful face of the monster haunting him to no end.

"If you just told him how much reading to him means to you," she said.

"No, Elsie, I brought this on myself," he said, lifting a hand to silence her. "And now I must pay the price." He paused, his eyes wandering to the book again. "Perhaps it's for the best. What twelve year old boy wants his father reading to him?"

She shook her head but instead of saying anything she sipped her sherry.

Charlie once again pulled out his watch from his vest pocket. The train before them whistled and Hughie's head jerked towards the sound. And Charlie placed his watch securely back inside his front pocket. "Be courteous to others while on the train... Don't make any unnecessary commotion," he instructed Hughie. "And don't go wandering off—stay with your mother at all times..."

"The train is going to leave without us, Mr. Carson," Elsie said with a sigh.

"Yes, yes, I won't keep you any longer." He kissed Elsie's lips softly and his hand found Hughie's shoulder. "Hold your mother's hand when exiting the train—and be sure not to bump into anyone..."

"He knows, Charlie," Elsie said. She grabbed Hughie's hand and together they walked to board the train. "If everything goes well, we should be back after lunch."

Charlie opened the door for them. Elsie was the first to enter and together they helped Hughie climb inside. He kissed her lips again. "Goodbye," he said, and he looked at Hughie, "and be careful."

Charlie closed the door and Elsie guided Hughie down to a cushioned blue seat. "There we are," she mumbled softly as they both adjusted themselves in the seat. A man sat across from them. His face was hiding behind a newspaper and his legs were crossed and facing away from them.

She waved goodbye to Charlie as the whistle blew and the train began moving, and she watched as her husband shrunk smaller and smaller until he became just a blob.

"Won't this be nice," she said, grabbing her son's hand. Hughie instinctively pulled away from her, which nearly made her heart sink. She knew boys his age always pulled away from their mothers—she had seen it many times at church or just in the village walking; it was a part of them growing up. But still, she recalled the day they first took Hughie to Lloyd Andrews. He clung to her and he refused to let her go, which made leaving him there that much harder. They had to yank him away from her. She felt guilty for feeling such a way, but she missed those years of him depending on her. "Actually, I'm glad we've got this time together," she continued. "I wanted to talk to you about something."

His head lifted. "Dad already told me about sexual intercourse," he said bluntly.

And the man's newspaper fell slightly, revealing a very shocked and amused individual behind it.

Her face burned in humiliation. She might have laughed if it were someone else's child or if she were alone with Charlie, but she was alone in public area and she felt absolutely mortified. And she gave the man an apologetic smile before turning back to her son. She patted his knee. "That... is not what I wanted to discuss—but I'm glad he's spoken with you."

"Oh," he said.

The man went back to reading his newspaper. Elsie sighed.

"What was it, then?" he asked.

"Your father and I love you very much," she began.

"I know that."

She looked out the window, looking at the blurry greenery surrounding them; Downton was certainly a beautiful place to live in, but she knew none of that mattered to a blind boy.

"And..." She turned to the man, and she wished she was alone with Hughie. "And I don't want you thinking you're not wanted when that is further from the truth," she told him quietly, hoping the man was not keen on listening in on other people's conversations. She grabbed hold of Hughie's hand again, and she was grateful he did not pull away this time. "But you came as a surprise to us—and we weren't expecting..."

"...me to come out blind."

And the man's newspaper crinkled once again as he took a peak at Hughie. Elsie glared. He quickly hid back behind his newspaper and Elsie turned back to Hughie.

"Yes," she spoke more quietly, "but there were other things too." They had been so old when he was born and both Charlie and Elsie knew Hughie had some kind of developmental disorder that doctors and nurses could never seem to agree on. "We weren't prepared for... any of it."

Hughie waited a moment before speaking: "Do you think they have Braille books in Sheffield?"

She squeezed his hand. "We can certainly look," said Elsie. "But your father's happy to continue reading to you if there isn't any."

He scrunched his nose. "He hasn't liked the last few books I've chosen," said Hughie. "If he had it his way, he would be reading me books like Old Mother West Wind ."

The man's newspaper crinkled again and Elsie, rolling her eyes, turned to him. "Do you mind?" she snapped. And the man turned further away from them, sinking into his seat.

She sighed, looking back at Hughie. "The truth is he likes reading to you, no matter the words on the paper—but he's too stubborn to tell you that." She raised her eyebrows at him. "And you're too stubborn to ask him."

Carson felt a strong gust of wind pass them as they walked along the path. He held onto his mother's hand—at her insistence. He would prefer walking alone; he knew the path well. So well, he was sure he could walk it in his sleep. But a small dip that had not been there before—he was sure of it—caused him to stumble slightly.

"Be careful now," said his mother, blaming his speed and not the misplaced dip—but she did not scold him for loosening his grip on her hand.

They approached the steps and he reached for the metal bar. It had rusted over the years with rain and fingertips changing its shape. It was there before Carson ever stepped foot onto Lloyd Andrews soil, and he would probably stay there long after he had gone.

His mother opened the door—and he heard that familiar creak.

He entered the building—he shuffled slightly, hearing that familiar squeakiness of the floor. A telephone started ringing in the distance.

His mother led him to the front desk—and he made sure to squeak all the way there. The woman greeted his mother and then she greeted Carson, commenting on how much he had grown. He could remember the voice, but the woman's name was lost to him. A Miss Something, no doubt. The telephone stopped ringing.

And then the door opened—not the door to the outside, but the door leading into Lloyd Andrews.

"You're back," said Thompson clearly. His voice was soft and low, never sounding agitated.

"Hello Mrs. Carson," Herby greeted kindly—because she was always kind to him. His voice was high and animated, and he could be mean at times.

"Hello boys," said Carson's mother.

"Where, where, where... are all, are all, all your things?" asked Kenneth. He had a terrible stutter, but he always sounded the most sincere out of all of them.

"I'm not staying," said Carson, and the realization suddenly hit him. He wouldn't be with them ever again. Lloyd Andrews was the school for unwanted children—even the staff called it that—but it still felt strange saying goodbye.

"He's not," said his mother in a happy tone. "He's coming right back home with me."

"It might be for the best," said Thompson, though he was sadder than before. "Evans took your bed—you'd probably have to share a space with Roberts and his friends."

"Look at your hand," said Herby, and Carson instinctively touched his injured hand. It didn't hurt as much these days and his mother told him yesterday it was healing well. The stitches would come off soon enough. "That must have been a nasty fall."

"Yes, it was," said his mother.

The door opened again, and Carson recognized the familiar footsteps squeaking towards them. First, she scolded Herby, Thompson and Kenneth for being outside—and the boys quickly retreated back into the school—and then she greeted Carson's mother. She greeted Carson next, commenting on his height—why were they all concerned about his height?

She led them inside where Herby, Thompson and Kenneth all waited. Mrs. Shelton and his mother continued towards her room while Carson stayed behind with his friends. Mrs. Shelton's door opened and then he heard it snap closed again.

"Evans, Evans, Evans pisses... pisses the, pisses the, the bed," Kenneth muttered quietly.

"Mrs. Shelton has to come in and change his sheets each morning," said Thompson.

"The room starts smelling if we ignore it," said Herby.

There was a long pause. And then Kenneth let out an excited breath. "You, you, you should... you should have, have, have, have been here, here yesterday."

"Oh yeah," said Thompson happily. "Some of the rebel boys were playing a game of cricket..."

"And Roberts, Roberts, Roberts hit the, the, the, the ball so... so hard, so hard it, it, it broke Shelton's... Shelton's window!"

Herby quickly shushed him. "Keep your voice down," he said in a whisper. "Shelton might hear you."

"We all told her it was the wind that did it," said Thompson quietly.

Mrs. Shelton had a cozy room off to the side of the school's entrance. Charlie and Elsie had spent many hours in it, sipping tea and discussing the best options for Hughie, but it felt like ages since she stepped foot in there. Mrs. Shelton's desk sat at the far end of the room with a few cozy chairs in front of it. She had three windows on one wall that showed a nice view of the courtyard, but the center window, Elsie noted, had a large hole where the outside world could blow right in. Below the broken window sat a lethargic-looking yellow dog. Mrs. Shelton scratched the dog's ear before making her way to her desk. Elsie wondered if that was the dog Hughie told her about, the one some of the older boys snuck into her room.

Mrs. Shelton was a tall and thin woman, and she always had her hair pulled back into a tight bun. She was about Elsie's age—perhaps a bit older—but she dressed more like a woman from the mid Victorian age where it seemed Her Majesty was immortal.

"Never mind that," she said, gesturing to the broken window. "A man is coming to replace it this afternoon."

"May I ask what happened," said Elsie as she took a seat in a cozy chair.

Mrs. Shelton sat at her desk. She opened a drawer, pulling out a stack of papers. "Some boys were playing a game of cricket," she explained. "I have my suspicions as to who it was... but the children certainly make catching the culprit a difficult task. They all say it was the wind."

Elsie nodded, remembering the story Hughie had told her about about Mr. Barrow and his fall. And how Mr. Barrow was attempting to help Hughie instead of hurting him. "Perhaps it was the wind," Elsie said, deciding to play along.

Mrs. Shelton raised her eyebrows in disbelief, but she smiled.

She handed Elsie the papers. "There are just a few documents you need to look over and sign before we can officially disenroll him," she said.

Elsie took a moment to examine the papers. The first one had all of Hughie's information. His name: Carson, Hugh Charles. His date of birth: 15 February, 1908. His height and his weight, and his condition and a few other things. The next few pages were legal forms that documented Hughie's health records and his school records. She signed them with the ink pen Mrs. Shelton had given her.

After signing the last paper, she handed the documents back to Mrs. Shelton and the older woman took a moment to look over them, to make sure everything was in order. Satisfied, she placed the papers down. "I must admit I'll miss the dear boy," Mrs. Shelton said, "but Hughie's time here has come to an end."

And just like that, Hughie was no longer a student at Lloyd Andrews. They stayed a few more minutes so Hughie could say goodbye to everyone, but soon they were on their way back at the train station.

They stopped at a few shops along the way to see if they had any Braille books. To Hughie's disappointment, they did not, and a few shop owners didn't even know what Braille books were. They returned to the train station empty handed and a bit disappointed.

Their train was more than a few minutes late, and Elsie had a clear image of Charlie grumbling about it in her head. She laughed to herself as the train approached. She held onto Hughie's hand. His grip was loose and noodle-like, but enough to satisfy her and assure that he would stay safe.

An older woman standing beside them looked at the train pulling up distastefully. "Ten minutes late," she muttered. "This is absolutely unacceptable..."

And Elsie hid her amusement from the woman by covering her mouth and looking down at Hughie. But her laughter stopped once the passengers all started to exit. The conductor rushed over to assist two older men up front. The first man exited with ease, but he looked distressed as both he and the conductor struggled to get the other man out. And after a moment of observing them, it became clear to Elsie that the second man was like Becky, not quite right in the head. He did not seem to want to get off the train, and he was kicking and screaming in protest.

Becky never seemed to mind trains if it wasn't too long of a journey, and Hughie as a young boy was all right as long as he was on Elsie's lap the whole time.

The woman beside them scoffed. "Can you believe this? Don't they have a separate section... or at least a different train for... for these kinds of people? He's probably the reason the train is so late."

She was loud enough for the man and the conductor to hear her, and they looked at her for a moment. The man gave her an apologetic look, but Elsie knew there was really nothing anyone could do in that moment; the next few minutes were just going to be difficult and the woman would just have to live with it.

"He's confused and having a difficult time right now," Hughie told the woman, and Elsie felt him squeeze her hand. "You should be kind." And there it was. Those simple words neither she nor Charlie—or even her parents—had the courage to say to friends and strangers all those years ago while out and about, or at church... or anyplace public.

At first the woman looked shocked and then she looked offended. She turned to Elsie—perhaps expecting an apology from her. "He's right, you know," said Elsie in Hughie's defense. "A little kindness never hurt anyone."

"I just don't see the point, Mrs. Hughes," said Carson, straightening his vest. Elsie rolled her eyes. They stopped to take a look inside the servants hall. The maids all gathered around James as he spoke to them with much enthusiasm—too much enthusiasm for Carson's liking; Daisy and Alfred were chatting while Ivy cleaned up the table; Hughie sat in Carson's own chair; and Anna sat alone reading a letter.

"It'll just be for a few hours," Elsie said quietly. "What harm can it do?" She fell silent as Barrow passed them to enter the room, and quickly he found a seat next to James. "With Hughie officially staying with us, and Mr. Bates's good news, I didn't think you would mind."

He cleared his throat. The maids giggled at whatever James had said, and so did Mr. Barrow. Carson already scolded the footman for getting too close with Daisy the other day; he feared if he allowed such a suggestion, the servants would declare him a hypocrite.

"Very well," he said with a defeated sigh. "Let them have their little soirée." Her hand softly brushed against his own. If they were alone, perhaps he would hold it. "But if it becomes too wild, I'm putting an end to it..."

She stroked his arm gently, and then she entered the servants hall. He observed her for a moment as she shared the news to the servants, but then he turned his heel and made his way back to his pantry. There was no point in him staying.

Anna looked on as Jimmy and Ivy danced around the room. The kitchen maid looked a bit dazed but absolutely cheerful. And the maids all looked jealous as he twirled her once, twice, and then a final time. Ivy laughed as their dancing came to end. Jimmy mimicked a fanciful bow and Ivy gave him a handsome curtsy in response. Anna turned to see Alfred brooding in a chair beside Daisy and Hughie.

"I don't suppose you know how to dance, Alfred," said Anna.

And Alfred blinked, his expression changing quickly.

"He can dance the foxtrot," Daisy said, and she smiled up at him.

"But Daisy and me are far better at it," insisted Jimmy—and Alfred's brooding returned.

"What about you, Hughie?" asked Anna. "Did they have dances at Lloyd Andrews?"

He shook his head. "They did," said Hughie, "but I can't do any of that."

"I'll teach you," said Daisy, "like I taught Alfred."

She brought him to his feet and she helped him put his hands in the right position—but when they started dancing, his movements were unsteady and sloppy compared to her own. "You go... slow, slow—keep your arms up—quick, quick, slow..." When she wanted to go left, he went right. And when she wanted to turn, his foot stepped onto her own and they stumbled.

He pulled away quickly to prevent more damage. "I don't think blind people were meant to dance the foxtrot," said Hughie softly.

"You just need a bit more practice," said Daisy. "That's all."

"You're not telling him where he needs to put his feet, Daisy," said Anna. "Here..." She adjusted his arms and she began instructing him where to place his feet. He listened carefully; he was still wobbly and his steps were far from confident, but he was matching her every move. "There you go," she said.

Mr. Barrow entered, observing the pair as they danced. "You dance well, Hughie," he said.

"Thanks," said Hughie, unaware he was being mocked.

Anna stopped her movements to glare at Mr. Barrow. His smile faded and he bowed his head as he made his way towards Jimmy and the maids.

Carson traced the monster's face with his index finger. He wasn't particularly fond of the story or the characters... or the dark themes in it, but he wished he acted more enthusiastically about it with Hughie. His door opened, and he quickly pulled away from the book and turned his attention to the glass of wine sitting on his table. He cleared his throat, ridding his voice from any unwanted emotion.

"Yes?" he said as Elsie entered.

"Mrs. Patmore wants to have a word with me in my room. Knowing her, we might be a while—are you all right on your own for a bit longer?"

Knowing both of them, they might talk until dawn. He simply nodded.

Her eyes lingered briefly on the book before turning towards the door. "Come find me if you need anything." She glanced at him. "And quit your grumbling—it really isn't a good look on you, Mr. Carson."

He huffed, but she had already closed the door behind her. He picked up the book on his table and examined the cover once more. The door opened again, and he prepared himself for Elsie. Maybe she forgot to tell him something or she was coming in to scold him some more for being an old curmudgeon. Perhaps he had been a bit too grumpy lately.

He straightened when Hughie appeared, and he quickly hid the book in his hands behind his chair—as if his son could even see it. They stayed silent for a moment, and Carson felt like they had frozen in time for a quick moment.

"Dad?" Hughie called gently.

"Yes—yes, I'm here," he said, placing the book back down onto the table and taking a quick sip of his wine. "I'm right here."

Hughie quietly made his way to the chair next to Carson.

Again, there was silence, and Carson cleared his throat just to fill the air with something. He glanced back down at the book before his eyes settled on Hughie.

"What's the matter?" he asked. "Are you not enjoying the party?"

"They want me to dance," said Hughie softly, "but I don't really like it."

"It can be quite challenging at times," agreed Carson, recalling his time with Charlie Grigg—did Hughie know his old dad once sang and danced for people? That was a story for another time and place.

"What are you doing?"

Again, Carson glanced down at the book. "Sipping wine and... contemplating on what I might read next." He watched Hughie for a moment—his eyes remained closed but he seemed alert. He found his son was most alert when his eyes were opened and not focused on keeping them shut. His head tilted in Carson's direction. "Here," Carson said, guiding Hughie's hand up. He placed the wine glass carefully in his son's bandaged hand. "I was about your age when my dad first let me take a sip his..."

Hughie slowly brought the glass to his mouth, and he slurped the wine. His face immediately tightened, and Carson could not help but smile. He had a similar reaction his first time too.

"It tastes so sour," said Hughie as he handed the glass back to Carson.

"It's an acquired taste," agreed Carson. "You'll get used to it once you're a bit older." He sipped his wine, tasting that bitterness Hughie was referring to.

Hughie shivered, still trying to recover from the taste. After a moment, his eyes opened. "We went to a few shops in Sheffield today," he said. "I wanted to see if they had any Braille books..."

He already knew the answer, but Carson asked, "And did they?"

"Not in the ones we went to, no," said Hughie.

"You ought to write to a few libraries and see if they have any," suggested Carson.

"Maybe," said Hughie. "I was really hoping to find out how Frankenstein ends—but I don't think they have a version of it written in Braille."

He felt something inside his stomach flutter as he reached for the book. "As it so happens, I've got the book right here..." He paused, watching his son's face carefully. "I can finish reading it to you. That is, if you want me to—just so you can know how it ends."

It was a long moment before Hughie replied. "All right," he said.

And Carson placed his wine glass down and he began flipping through the pages. "Now, where did we leave off?"

"Er—well, Victor Frankenstein made himself ill after discovering it was Henry who had been murdered," said Hughie.

And Carson swallowed his distaste for such a dark story. "Ah, yes," he said, finding the page. "The end of chapter twenty-one, I believe."

This is the end* of the story. I just wanted to take this time to thank all of you guys for reading and commenting on this story. I dont think I would have found the energy to complete this story if it wasn't for all of you guys' wonderful feedback. So thank you so much for reading and reviewing this story and I hope you liked it.

*Important Update: I've decided to end this story at chapter 10. I'm saving chapter 11, in case I decided to do a part 2 for this, but for now I think it best to end this story here. Thank you all again for the wonderful comments you've made on this fic.