A/N This is the second chapter posted in less than two days (pretty atypical for me), so if you haven't read the previous one, please go back and do that. Thank you so much for all your support. Special nod to guest reviewers, to whom I can't send personal notes.
That evening, when Mr. Carson came back downstairs after serving the family's dinner, Mrs. Patmore called out to him. "Mr. Carson, have you seen Miss Baxter?" she wanted to know.
"It's her half day," Mr. Carson informed the cook. "She's gone to have dinner with Mr. Molesley and his father. Do you need her?"
"Oh. Well, I've sent Daisy to bed. The poor girl's coming down with something, and I wanted to ask Miss Baxter to take her a tray. I'd do it myself, but I must get the servants' dinner on the table. Is Anna available?" asked Mrs. Patmore.
"I believe Lady Mary sent her home early with the baby."
"Oh."
"Well, Andrew is upstairs serving drinks, and so I'm not needed at the moment. I could do it for you," offered Mr. Carson.
Mrs. Patmore looked at him uncertainly. "Are you sure?"
"Yes, of course. I don't mind. I'm sorry to hear Daisy's not well, and I'd like to help."
"All right, then. Thank you."
The cook put a few things on a tray for her ailing assistant, and Mr. Carson climbed the stairs to the women's quarters to deliver them. He found Daisy's room and rapped lightly on the door.
"Yes?" came a weak voice from within.
He cleared his throat before calling softly, "Daisy? It's Mr. Carson. I've brought you a tray. May I come in?"
"Oh! Mr. Carson? Yes, come in," the girl managed.
He opened the door to find the young girl lying in bed and looking miserable.
"Oh, my dear girl," he said, setting the tray down. "You don't look well."
"I don't feel well, either," she told him.
"Here. Let's make you more comfortable." He helped her to adjust her pillow and blankets.
"Thank you," she said.
"Do you think you might eat something? If I take this tray back down with nothing gone from it, Mrs. Patmore will have my skin."
"And mine, too, probably," said the young girl with a tiny smile. "I'll try a few bites, at least."
He helped Daisy to sit up and then set the tray on her lap. She ate enough of the food to placate Mrs. Patmore, but she grew tired before she finished it all. He fluffed her pillow, tucked her blankets around her, and said, "Now rest, my girl. I'm sure Mrs. Patmore will check on you again when she comes up to bed."
The girl was barely able to mutter her thanks before she nodded off. Mr. Carson gathered up the tray and its contents, turned off the light, and headed back downstairs.
"How is she?" asked Mrs. Patmore when Mr. Carson returned with the half-empty tray.
"Weak and tired, but she's resting comfortably now," he reported.
"Good. I'll check on her when I go up. Thank you for doing that. I'm sorry no one else was available."
"Oh, that's all right. I don't mind."
"Now, everyone else has eaten while you've been upstairs, but I've put your dinner aside and kept it warm. Would you like to take it in your pantry?" the cook asked.
"Yes, I think I would, thank you."
"Go on, then, and I'll bring it to you."
The butler retreated to his pantry and sat down at his desk, thinking about the events of the evening. As usual, his thoughts wandered to Mrs. Hughes. Tonight, he had ventured into the women's quarters to care for one of his young charges, but there was a time when he would never even have considered doing such a thing. Fortunately, a dear friend had once taught him that compassion is a higher virtue than propriety, and he was now a better man for having learned the lesson. While he waited for dinner, he recalled the occasion on which he was the beneficiary of such compassion.
January 1900
Mr. Carson sat in his bed, in his nightshirt, in the middle of the day, having been banished to his quarters by an insistent housekeeper. He hadn't acquiesced easily, but he couldn't refute her argument that by continuing to work – or even just to place himself anywhere near others in his contagious state – he would risk his infecting the other staff members and the family. Truth be told, he wasn't feeling his usual self, and his weakened condition probably had contributed to his inability to muster more resistance than he had.
As he sat looking over some ledgers he'd brought with him from his pantry, a knock sounded at his door. Presuming it was one of his footmen bringing him his lunch tray, he called, "Come in." But he was mistaken in his presumption, for it was not a footman but the housekeeper who entered, carrying his tray. Upon registering the identity – and thereby the gender – of his visitor, he dropped his ledger on the bed next to him and pulled his sheet and blanket up to his neck.
"Mrs. Hughes!" he cried. "What are you doing here?"
"As you see, Mr. Carson," she said, tilting her head down towards the tray she was holding, "I've brought you some soup and bread, along with some medicine* for your cold."
"But – but – surely one of the footmen … or a hall boy … " stammered Mr. Carson.
"Your footmen are all busy completing the tasks you assigned them, and I doubt a hall boy could have climbed all those stairs without tipping the tray."
"But … is it appropriate for you to be here?" he asked, thoroughly flustered.
"I'll remind you, Mr. Carson, that the men's quarters are not new territory for me. You'll recall that even when I was head housemaid, I helped to clean these rooms. And now that I'm housekeeper, I supervise the maids who clean them. I have been in this room before, you realize. In fact, I visit regularly to check my girls' work."
"But never when I'm present! In my bed! Wearing my nightclothes!"
"Mr. Carson, I appreciate your concern for my modesty. But I assure you, I'm made of stern stuff. I'm neither shocked nor scandalized to see you wearing something slightly more comfortable than your livery," Mrs. Hughes responded with a hint of a smirk.
"But perhaps I'm shocked and scandalized to be seen in such a state!" he said indignantly but perfectly truthfully.
"Well, I daresay we'll both survive the ordeal!" she replied, her irritation becoming evident as she set the tray down on his night table with considerable force. "Now, then. I'll leave this here for you. Once you've eaten your lunch, take one spoonful of this elixir … and I should warn you: it's not very pleasant-tasting. You'll want to save some of your water to wash it down. Now, I must be getting on, but before I leave, is there anything else you require?"
"Erm … no, thank you, Mrs. Hughes. I'm fine," he replied weakly.
"Very well. Then, I shall excuse myself. And I shall send one of the lads to collect your tray. Goodbye, Mr. Carson. I do hope you're feeling better soon," she told him as she turned on her heel and flounced out of the room.
As the afternoon wore on, Mr. Carson felt worse, both in body and in spirit. His head, neck, and limbs ached with fever, but his heart, too, ached with guilt over his ungrateful response to Mrs. Hughes's kindness. And so when a footman came to collect his tray, he told the lad to ask Mrs. Hughes to come back to his room if she could spare a moment. He knew he wouldn't rest easy until he apologized. It wasn't long before the unfortunate target of his previous foul humor rapped gently on his door.
"Mr. Carson?" she called quietly from outside the closed door. "It's Mrs. Hughes."
"Oh. Yes. Come in, please," he said.
"Are you certain? Only … earlier, you said – " she began.
But he interrupted her, not wanting to dwell on his prior foolishness and ingratitude. "Yes, I know what I said earlier. But I was wrong. Do come in, Mrs. Hughes - please," he entreated earnestly.
She opened the door and entered, carrying another tray, this time with some water and some headache powder. She stood just inside the door, apparently uneasy, perhaps expecting to be chastised again as she had been earlier. "Timothy said you looked quite poorly when he came for your tray," she explained. "I've brought you some more water and a headache powder*. Shall I leave it on your table?"
"Yes, please. Thank you, Mrs. Hughes. Won't you sit down for a moment?" he asked, gesturing towards the small upholstered chair next to his bed. Mr. Carson's breathing was labored, and any speech or movement required painful effort.
"Only if you're certain it won't make you uncomfortable," she said, placing the tray on his bedside table.
"I am uncomfortable, and I shall remain so until I apologize for my behavior," he said weakly.
But before Mrs. Hughes sat down, she noticed how much worse Mr. Carson seemed to be. "Oh, dear! Mr. Carson, you really do look unwell." She reached out and touched his forehead. "And you feel rather warm to me. Here. Let me … erm – " And she looked around his room until she spotted a cloth, a pitcher of water, and a basin on his dresser. Quickly crossing to the dresser, she seized all three items and carried them to his bedside table. After pouring some water from the pitcher into the basin, she dampened the cloth, settled herself in a chair next to his bed, and began to apply the wet cloth gently to his face and neck.
"Mrs. Hughes," he rasped with some difficulty. "I'm very sorry … "
"Shhhh," she shushed him. "Don't try to talk." She mixed the headache powder into a glass of water and handed the mixture to him. "Here. Drink this. It should help."
He sat up and drank it obediently but grimaced at the unpleasant taste. Then he handed Mrs. Hughes the empty glass, which she set aside, and he lay back down on his pillow.
"Now, try to rest, Mr. Carson, and you'll feel better," she said as she continued to dab the damp cloth on his forehead and cheeks.
Soon, Mr. Carson drifted off to sleep. It was not a restful slumber, but lying half-asleep, even uncomfortably so, was far better than sitting uncomfortably awake, and he was grateful for the relief that such rest provided.
The next two days were hazy for Mr. Carson. He was vaguely aware of feeling achy in his limbs and congested in his head and chest; and he felt alternately warm and cold. He was dimly cognizant of Mrs. Hughes's soothing presence. She came to his room often, bringing him medicine, food, and water. She also mopped his brow when he was feverish, speaking in soothing tones as she did so, and she placed some vile-smelling poultice* on his chest. The aroma was most unpleasant, but he was too weak to object to the treatment, and soon the vapors from the poultice had a beneficial effect, relieving much of his congestion and easing his cough. His only other visitor during that time was Timothy, who helped him to walk to and from the bathroom when he was too weak to manage on his own.
By the third day, Mr. Carson had improved considerably, thanks to Mrs. Hughes's kind ministrations. He was still not well enough to leave his room, but he was feeling strong enough to sit up and read the newspaper and to talk with Mrs. Hughes.
"I'm so glad you're feeling better, Mr. Carson," she told him that afternoon as she sat by his bedside, taking tea with him. "We all were worried. I was ready to send Timothy to fetch the doctor, but then you came round."
"Well, I'm glad it wasn't necessary to trouble the good doctor." He paused for a moment to look at her gravely. "Mrs. Hughes, I owe you an apology. You've been nothing but kind to me, and I'm afraid haven't shown you the gratitude you deserve. I do appreciate your efforts and your patience with me. I must admit now that you were right: none of the footmen or hall boys would have been so solicitous. I'm sorry … and I thank you."
But his kind benefactress readily dismissed any blame. "Think nothing of it, Mr. Carson. You weren't feeling quite yourself. It's not surprising for a man to be less agreeable when he's ill."
"A poor excuse for incivility, but I'm grateful for your pardon."
"We'll say no more about it. I was happy to help. Now, do you think you feel well enough to discuss the arrangements for Lady Rosamund and Mr. Painswick's visit, or shall we wait until tomorrow?"
"Well, I hope to be back downstairs actually working again by tomorrow. But for now, I think I can manage to talk about the accommodations for our guests."
The butler and housekeeper spent some time speaking about household business, and when they were finished conferring, Mrs. Hughes took the tray with the tea things and excused herself. Mr. Carson spent the rest of the day recuperating, and as he predicted, he was indeed well enough to return to work the next day.
Mrs. Patmore's knock drew him from his musings.
"Come in, Mrs. Patmore," he said.
The cooked entered and set his tray on his desk. "Here you are."
"Thank you, Mrs. Patmore. It smells wonderful."
"And I've saved you the largest piece of treacle tart," she told him.
"I see that." He chuckled at the enormous slice on his tray. "It looks delicious."
"Thank you again for seeing to Daisy's tray."
"Oh, it was nothing," he demurred. "Are you finished down here? Why don't you go on up? I'll take care of my tray and my dishes when I'm done."
"Well, I wouldn't mind popping in on Daisy, but you shouldn't have to do the washing up."
"It won't kill me to wash a plate, a bowl, a glass, and some silverware. Now, go on." He made a gentle shooing motion with his hand.
"Good night, Mr. Carson."
"Good night."
And before Mrs. Patmore had closed the door behind her, Mr. Carson had already tucked into his dinner.
A/N I've done some research about what types of cold remedies were used around the turn of the century, and it seems that powdered aspirin became available to the public at about this time, at first only with a doctor's prescription and then over the counter. Poultices containing various aromatic substances (some of them pleasant-smelling; others not so much) were also used to help clear head and chest congestion. Various elixirs were employed, too, to combat coughs and other symptoms.
This chapter is just a little more background, and it's meant to show the softening effect Mrs. Hughes has had on Mr. Carson during their time together. I know it still doesn't answer all your questions, but we're getting there, I promise.
Thank you for continuing to read and for reviewing if and when you're able. I know I say it all the time, but your reviews really are important to me.