A/N I'm sorry I didn't get this posted on Sunday, but this is my very late contribution to Week 4 of the Unofficial DA S9. Thank you so much for all the previous reviews and kind words. Thanks for sticking with me this far.
The next morning, when Mr. Carson woke and glanced at the letter on his bedside table, he wondered once again at the mysterious nature of the missive, and he worried about the well-being of its sender. He thought of nothing else as he readied himself for the day and then made his way downstairs.
On the way to his pantry, he stopped in the kitchen to greet Mrs. Patmore and Daisy. Despite the early hour, things seemed already to be going badly for the two women. Mrs. Patmore was grumbling that some of the supplies from the home farm were not up to their usual standards, and Daisy was displeased with her own efforts at a new dish she was attempting to make for the servants' breakfast. Mr. Carson thought it wise not to linger any longer than necessary, and so after a brief exchange, he hastened to his pantry.
He turned the lights on and stoked the fire, making a mental note to compliment the hall boy who had started it for him. Then he picked up the small watering can on the table beneath the window and sprinkled just the right amount of water on his plant, which, he noted with pride, was thriving. If his thoughts hadn't already been occupied by the former housekeeper, his aspidistra certainly would have sent them in that direction as he recalled how he had acquired the plant so many years ago.
September 1898
Mr. Carson stood in front of the silver cupboard, putting away the pieces he'd just finished polishing when Mrs. Hughes appeared at his open door.
"Hello, Mr. Carson," she greeted him. "I've brought you something. May I come in?"
"Yes, of course," he told her, glancing over his shoulder at her as he finished placing the last items and closed and locked the doors. "What have you got there, Mrs. Hughes?"
By the time he turned around, she was already standing at the little table underneath his window.
"It's a plant," she explained as she shifted some objects on the table to make more room and carefully positioned the pot she was carrying. "It's called an 'aspidistra*.'"
"A plant? But … why?" he wondered, quite confused. "Do you mean for it to stay … in here?"
"That was my intention in bringing it to you, yes," she replied with only a trace of impatience … but considerably more than a trace of impertinence. "I thought it might brighten things up for you … add a bit of warmth and cheer," she continued. "You must admit: this room is rather … austere."
"This room is perfectly suited to its purpose," he argued. "I hardly think a butler's pantry is an appropriate location for flowers! It's one thing for you to have flowers in your sitting room, but – "
Mrs. Hughes clicked her tongue and shook her head at him. "Mr. Carson, it's not 'flowers.' It's a plant. It's got green leaves, and that's all. If it ever yields flowers – and often these plants don't – the flowers will be right at the base, near the soil, and they'll be dark red or brown. There's nothing frilly or delicate about an aspidistra. His lordship's got one just like it in the small library."
"But how will it survive? It's quite dark in here, as you know. The window faces north, so the sun never shines through directly. I won't remember to give it water; I wouldn't even know how much or how often. And it can get quite cold in here at night in the winter," he argued.
"You needn't worry. This plant is virtually indestructible," she assured him. "It needs very little sunlight and water, and it can tolerate both cold and heat. In fact, for that very reason, it's sometimes called the 'cast iron plant.'"
"But what about the fragrance?" Mr. Carson worried. "I can't have it smelling like her ladyship's dressing table in here."
"There's no scent at all. It's very unobtrusive. It simply sits there. Nothing more."
"Mrs. Hughes, I have neither the time nor the disposition to be minding a plant!" he told her firmly.
She huffed in frustration. "I'm well aware of that fact, Mr. Carson … which is why I shall tend to it for you," promised Mrs. Hughes. "It's no trouble for me to come in and give it some water now and then. I don't expect you to care for it; you need only enjoy its presence. I've got a fern in my sitting room, and I can tell you: having a bit of nature indoors does help to keep things from becoming too dreary down here."
But he was still skeptical. "I'm not entirely sure it's suitable."
"Oh, give it a chance," she persisted. "Let me leave it here for a few days, and then we'll see how you feel about. If you still don't like it, I'll take it away."
"Oh, very well," Mr. Carson agreed grudgingly – but only because he had exhausted all sensible arguments against the plant in question.
oOoOoOoOoOoOoOo
A week later, when Mrs. Hughes came into Mr. Carson's pantry in the evening for a chat and some of the family's leftover wine, he was waiting for her in his usual chair, engrossed in a book.
"What are you reading, Mr. Carson? Anything interesting?" she asked as she took the seat next to him.
He looked up at her. "Hmm? Oh, it's nothing. Only a book. Nothing very exciting." He closed the book and set it aside on his little table.
"What sort of book is it?" she wanted to know.
"Oh, it's a … scientific … erm … reference manual. Nothing terribly fascinating," he told her while handing her one of the two glasses of wine he'd already poured for them.
She accepted the wine with a grateful nod and took a drink. Then she lifted the book he'd just set down and held it up to see the title.
"'The Care of House Plants'!" she read aloud, smirking. "Why, Mr. Carson! Do you now intend to become a gardener and turn this room into a conservatory?"
"Not at all, Mrs. Hughes. My current occupation keeps me quite busy enough, thank you. Only … I thought that if I must have the aspidistra, I ought to know how to tend to it. I know that you offered to do it, but you've enough work of your own without also minding my plant. I'm sure I can find the time to look after it myself. After all, as you say, it doesn't require much attention. Of course, I'll have to ask you to care for it when I'm gone during the Season."
"Naturally. I'll be happy to see to your plant whenever you're away."
"Thank you." He nodded and took a sip of his wine.
"Certainly." She returned his nod, smiling, and sipped her own wine. "So you've come round to it, then? Grown fond of it?"
"Oh, I wouldn't say that, Mrs. Hughes. Not 'fond,' exactly. I've grown accustomed to it. And I agree with you that it lends a certain … Well, its presence does make for a pleasant atmosphere."
"Well, then. I propose a toast," offered Mrs. Hughes, holding up her glass. "To cheer and warmth and a pleasant atmosphere."
"Indeed," agreed Mr. Carson. He held up his glass as well, and they both drank.
For the next half-hour, they chatted about household business, village affairs, national issues, and the weather. When it grew late, Mrs. Hughes bade Mr. Carson good night and left him to close up his pantry. He dealt with the wine decanter and glasses expeditiously, but before he locked up his pantry for the night, he took his book from the table, intending to continue reading it upstairs in his bedroom, and he paused to regard his new plant. Yes, he decided upon consideration, perhaps he could tolerate a plant in his pantry after all.
"Cheer and warmth and a pleasant atmosphere," Mr. Carson mumbled to himself as he came out of his reverie, and the thought gave him an idea. He hurried into the housekeeper's sitting room, which now stood vacant since Mrs. Wilson's sudden disappearance the previous week, and studied the ferns on the shelves. After Mrs. Hughes's departure, he'd adopted her fern and propagated it. Now, he had four smaller plants in addition to her original one. It was generally understood that the ferns in the housekeeper's sitting room fell under the care of the butler, and none of Mrs. Hughes's successors ever questioned why he came into the room every few days to look after the plants. But today, he removed two of the smaller pots and carried them to the kitchen.
He stood hesitantly in the doorway, assessing the atmosphere. Mrs. Patmore was hunched over the stove, and Daisy was mixing something on the counter. Though both were quiet and the situation seemed a bit calmer than it had been earlier, Mr. Carson sensed that the tension had not completely dissipated.
Clearing his throat to alert the women to his presence, he began, "Mrs. Patmore? Daisy?"
They both turned from what they were doing to look in his direction.
"What's that, then, Mr. Carson?" asked Mrs. Patmore when she noticed the plants.
"I, erm … I wondered if perhaps you might have a place for these ferns somewhere in here? You see, the older plants keep growing too large, and I have to separate them into new pots, and … well, now I have too many. If you'd be so kind as to take these two off my hands, I'd be most grateful."
"Potted plants?!" cried Mrs. Patmore. "Oh, I don't know about that. This is a kitchen, not a glasshouse! We've hardly enough room here as it is … and I wouldn't know how to care for them … and I haven't even got the time for them, really … "
"Oh, but look," said Mr. Carson, already walking across the room. "I'll put them on the shelf right here, off to the side. They won't be in your way at all. And I'll be happy to look after them for you. All they need is a little water now and then."
"Well, I think they're very nice," Daisy interjected, already warming to the idea. "And I'll look after them. Would you teach me how to tend to them, Mr. Carson? I'd like to learn."
"I'd be happy to, Daisy, if you'd like," said the butler. Then he turned to the senior cook. "Mrs. Patmore? What do you say? Is it all right?"
"Oh, go on, then," Mrs. Patmore relented with a roll of her eyes and a sigh. "I suppose it won't do any harm."
Mr. Carson smiled at his small triumph as he carefully arranged the ferns on the shelf. Then he stood back and nodded in satisfaction. "There we are. Very nice," he declared. "I think they lend a certain air of cheeriness, don't you? Especially during these gloomy winter days."
"If you say so," Mrs. Patmore allowed, shrugging noncommittally from her place at the stove.
"Oh, I do like them there, Mr. Carson," the younger woman offered.
"They don't need any water today," he told her, "but the next time they do, I'll come back and show you what to do."
"Thank you, Mr. Carson," said Daisy, grinning happily.
He left the two cooks to their work and returned to his pantry to set to work on his ledgers. By the time the servants' breakfast was served, both Daisy and Mrs. Patmore were in better spirits, due in large part, Mr. Carson believed, to the presence of the ferns. He marveled at the fact that nearly thirteen years after leaving Downton, Mrs. Hughes's influence in the house was still strong, and she unknowingly still succeeded in making its inhabitants – including Mr. Carson himself – just that much happier. Now, if only he could be sure that she was happy right now …
A/N *An aspidistra is exactly as Mrs. Hughes described: virtually indestructible. The Victorians realized that it was well suited to be a hardy house plant in almost any conditions: heat or cold, humidity or dryness, bright light or shadows, and even poor air quality. And for that reason, it gained popularity.
So while this chapter doesn't answer any questions about why Mrs. Hughes left or what she's been doing, it gives a little insight into the relationship between Mr. Carson and Mrs. Hughes. And yes, you may notice a few slight similarities to another story about a butler and a housekeeper. I promise this one will have a more satisfying ending.
Please drop me a line in a review if you can. Thanks in advance.