Author's Note: I'm pleased to say we are, as you undoubtedly guessed, nearing the end. Today, we've got the following: some understandable mortification, some good ole fashioned shock, a detective in the making, and more! And we will also be dealing with what happens when you post something on the Internet without consent.
Now, with that statement in mind, this chapter is not going to be quite as happy as normal. But, never fear –– there's always hope. Also! If anyone's confused as to why posting a performance video would be a problem in the first place, the first four hundred words or so show should explain it.
Enjoy!
_._
Monday, the 4th of May, 2020
7:18 a.m.
He was mortified.
Absolutely mortified.
This week was the most crucial of the term. This was the week where all involved choir, band, and orchestra students would be working together to perfect the showcase. As choir director, it was his duty to ensure that it all went according to plan, that everything was indeed perfect.
How could he perfect anything if they were all laughing at him?
He thought he'd gotten over the whole thing when they'd first found out about that video this weekend. Rose may have posted it, but she'd not informed them as such. No, they'd been informed by an onslaught of messages from members of the community. Emails commenting on how sweet it was that he was allowing the choirs to show this, messages from other musicians reveling in the surprise, so on and so forth.
That had been shocking but somewhat tolerable.
Going out into the world, however? Running errands with Elsie and receiving snide jabs and barbed comments from others who saw him in a new light? Bumping into individuals who looked embarrassed for his sake? People who thought his past so "endearing"?
Charles didn't want to describe what that had felt like.
His only consolation was that this incident didn't seem to reflect poorly on Downton. That the consolation felt weak and didn't even mean as much as it might've once was frustrating. But it was something.
Personally, he wanted to avoid it all. He didn't want to handle the judgment and he certainly couldn't stand to wonder what his students and his colleagues now thought of him. Most of all, he wished that stupid video had never been recorded.
It had been one of their performances, a competitive moment in their career as a quartet. It should have been fine to witness it again, nice even. It should have been a reminder of a vocal triumph, a chapter in his life that'd pushed him much more than he'd expected.
All it did was illuminate his shame. His frustration with his life at the time, his irritation with his supposed friends, the lack of personal accomplishment he'd felt, the confusion over everything that was going on in the background. They'd looked so stupidly happy on stage, as though they were a real team, and nothing could have been further from the truth.
Charles wished it'd never existed.
Wished he never had to acknowledge that period of his life again, regardless of what it may have been given him.
And as much as he wished otherwise, he knew what he had to do.
_._
Saturday, the 2nd of May, 2020
12:32 p.m.
"I've already spoken to Rose. She'll be taking the video down as soon as she can."
"No." He may have lost all respect from his pupils and the community, but he wasn't going to hide the facts away, not now. Personally, he suspected he knew who was behind it. And he wouldn't be giving Charlie Grigg any satisfaction over this, not if he could help it. "No, there's no need for that."
"Are you sure?"
"I'm sure." Turning to Elsie, resigning himself to dealing with whatever came next, "It'll be fine."
"But––"
"Please." He didn't want to bicker or fight, not about this. "Whoever put this up wanted to hurt my reputation. They'll only really succeed if I deny it, if I reveal myself to be ashamed of it. Well, I won't give them that."
"If you're sure."
"I am."
_._
Monday, the 4th of May, 2020
7:19 a.m.
So, that humiliating recording had stayed up and persisted in mocking him for the whole weekend. But he persisted, sticking to his word and handling all mentionings with as much dignity as he could muster.
Which had worked to an extent. A poor extent, but it counted for something.
Either way, it was too late to change anything.
All they could do now was keep going.
"Right." Charles held up a few sheets of paper –– the sign-ups to sing at their wedding, complete with details as to what the song would be as well as their expectations. Any student could sign up. But if they proved to be irresponsible when it came to learning their music or maintained a bad attitude in general, they would not be singing at the reception. Gesturing to a patch of wall nearby the first couple of dressing rooms, "Care to do the honours?"
Elsie studied him for a moment, trying to discern what was running through his mind. It hadn't escaped her notice that he'd been on-edge the second they'd learnt of the recording. But, in typical Charles fashion, he'd also become closed off. Had to process the whole thing first, couldn't bring himself to share anything just yet.
Her fiancé would eventually be able to talk about all this, she knew that. She personally wanted to just get it all out on the table, work it all through right here and now, but she knew all too well that it wasn't his style.
The only thing that could be done now was to support him however she could.
Therefore, it was a faint smile and reassuring tone that Elsie informed Charles of the truth, "It would be an honour."
_._
9:02 a.m.
"And just how many of us do they expect to cram in here?" Isabel Johnson should've known than to voice that question aloud. But, really, the students hadn't been given a chance to officially claim any dressing rooms before today –– there hadn't been a need until this week.
"Well," She could hear Molly's brain whirring away in seconds, "There's about 130 of us, give or take, right?"
"Right."
Molly nodded, closing her eyes so as to concentrate more on her maths, "Cool. So, if the fifteenth dressing room is just for teachers, that means about nine people per room for the remaining fourteen. And I think that'd be the case even if we separate it by gender. Which, of course, Mr. Carson wouldn't allow anything else."
"And just how the hell do you do that?" Simply put, Jane Wayne was in awe.
"It's simple really. The Bass choir already selected their rooms, and Mrs. Hughes did mention that we were limited to––"
"The real question is," Isabel interrupted, glowering at the approach of a familiar voice, "Are we actually going to have to put up with her?"
Already, Camellia Botterill could be heard making her way downstairs, complaining to someone about how disgusting the dressing rooms were being tucked away here of all places. This was not the first time she'd aired this grievance nor would it be the last.
"Not if we get six other girls here first."
"But, seriously," Camellia's voice ensnared everyone's attention, whether they wanted it or not. "I still can't believe that Mr. Carson of all people actually performed in that ridiculous group––"
"And I still can't believe that you're this unprofessional," Maribel Diaz proclaimed as she slipped past the prima donna, fed up with the attitude. "But, then again, it is you."
"I don't know about you," Isabel muttered, sticking her head out the door of their room, "But I believe we've just found our fourth girl."
_._
10:43 a.m.
Mary had been hesitant to enter the auditorium that day. Having been one of the few individuals who supported Rose in her decision to impulsively post the video, the Crawley daughter hadn't realized what the impact would be. But having now heard students –– students in other classes, ones that never interacted with the choirs –– snidely mock Mr. Carson's past all thanks to her… she didn't like how it made her feel.
Regret took hold of her steps, bringing her to a stop outside the auditorium. It'd seemed like a good bit of fun and a chance to learn more about her director and see what made him tick. Sharing the fun seemed trivial at the time. It wasn't supposed to become a guilt-trip.
"Can you believe Mr. Carson actually sang and acted like that?" The soprano scowled at the conversation coming from down the hallway, "And did you get a look at those outfits?"
"Can those things even be called outfits, Kate?" The pair of gossipers may not be choir students, but they were obnoxious enough to be heard by anyone within earshot –– something that irritated Mary to no end.
Rolling her eyes at the derision, she hurriedly stepped through the door that would lead her to the backstage.
If only the atmosphere wasn't as horrendous inside the auditorium.
It was clear that, judging from the fact that everyone studiously avoided her, they knew she had to have been involved in posting the video. The sudden hush irritated her, pushing her to walk past them all and almost collide with Charles Blake. It wasn't the first time that she'd had a collision in his presence, but his obvious disappointment was a newfound experience.
Her scowl only deepened, the young lady well aware of why he was so upset.
"Fine. I made a mistake." She wasn't the one who actually posted the bloody thing, but that didn't seem to matter in his eyes. Didn't seem to matter to anyone, apparently. "Are we going to fixate on it for the entire class period? It certainly won't help Mr. Carson if we do."
Charles looked like he had a thing or two to remark about helping Mr. Carson, but he remained quiet.
"And I suppose you'll just keep this up for the whole week, then?"
Apparently not. "Just tell me one thing."
"What?" What could you possibly want to know?
"Why?"
"In all honesty,"
It was a cold drawl, one that observed the baritone's anticipation with a feigned indifference,
"I don't know."
_._
Tuesday, the 5th of May, 2020
10:04 a.m.
It hadn't been the costume changes that had gotten to him. Nor had it been the endless chattering about how the show was only days away. Not even finding out his choir director having been in a comedy quartet had fazed the bass. Personally, he'd been in awe of Mr. Carson –– never thinking the straight-edge teacher would've done anything like that. Learning about his past had been enough to make Septimus Spratt say anything truly was possible. That he really could do whatever he wanted to and he didn't have to remain stuck somewhere he didn't want to be.
Which had been incredibly empowering right up to his mic-check for the show. But now he was standing up on the edge of the stage, completely alone. Staring off into piercing bright lights, being told to speak into his microphone, wondering why he was here because this was petrifying beyond belief.
"Testing?" The bass hesitantly stated, "1-2-3?"
"That's good, Septimus!" Mrs. Hughes reassured him all the way from the sound booth, several yards away. "But we'll need to hear you sing, too. Just a measure or two should work."
Oh.
That's right.
I do sing, don't I?
Clearing his throat, trying his best not to give away his nerves, "I won't send roses or hold the door. I won't remember which dress you wore––"
"Excellent, thank you!" But he was still charging through the song a cappella, running on auto-pilot, "That's perfect, Septimus!"
It took Gladys quickly running up to her friend and not-so-subtly elbowing him to get the young bass to understand his mic-check was finished.
Needless to say, he didn't want to do another one of those any time soon!
Except, he would. This Friday. In the show. For his solo.
"Mr. Carson really was in a barbershop quartet, right? That wasn't faked or anything?" He would only ask Gladys this when they were away from the others, needing to remember that anything was truly possible.
"Yup." She may have smirked knowingly but she didn't really know what was going on. "Don't tell me: CJ mentioned she wanted to join one?"
"No, nothing like that." Not today, at least.
Maybe sometime down the road.
We'll see.
_._
1:34 p.m.
The Treble Choir were just about to warm-up when it had happened.
"No."
All musicians looked at Mrs. Hughes in confusion, not knowing why she spoke. They were equally clueless as to why she wasn't proceeding to run them through their scales. It'd been weird enough yesterday when she and Mr. Carson acted so differently. Quiet, focused solely on the music. Not angry, not quite upset, but definitely not the same.
Their students weren't entirely sure they could do a week of that sort of attitude –– not when this was their last week before the show. The orchestra and band students that could rehearse during seventh period didn't know any different, but the Treble Choir faltered at the attitude.
"No, Mrs. Hughes?" It seemed that the students weren't alone in the confusion. The choir director was watching his colleague with bewilderment, not understanding why she was currently abandoning her station and heading to her purse, approaching the house seats.
"No." She simply repeated, as though that explained everything. Luckily for them all, the teacher was willing to elaborate as she continued fishing through her purse for something. "This is our last show of the year. You all know the material wonderfully and have proven yourselves time and time again –– I dare say we can afford to have a little fun."
Revealing at last the pitch pipe waiting to be played, the woman smiled at the sight of faces lighting up, some curiously and others knowingly. And, yes, that included the choir director. "Ladies, do you remember our lessons on barbershop tags? It was last autumn, sometime in October."
At the nods that trailed after her words, "Excellent. Who remembers 'Sleepytime'?"
"'Sleepytime', Mrs. Hughes?" This was a serious question, one that came from Mr. Carson. The man looked to be struck with the reminder of something, something that escaped the rest of their audience.
"That's correct, Mr. Carson. We'll start with that before we move on to 'Smile' and 'Ocean Breezes'."
"'Smile'? 'Ocean Breezes'? You do remember that they don't know those, right?"
That was an obvious fact to the Treble Choir, one that didn't need repeating. Unbeknownst to them, the teachers weren't focused on repeating facts. Only a sweet conversation from the summer, one surrounded by both new and old friends.
Her smile flourished into a beam, a sense of recognition rising in her lilt as she reassuringly echoed an old sentiment, "Not yet they don't."
_._
Wednesday, the 6th of May, 2020
12:41 p.m.
"And we really can't burn that dress?" The nice thing was, the dress had stopped bothering Beryl Patmore ever since she and Linda had fleshed out their little plan. Mind, she did have to keep up pretenses until she'd actually talked to Elsie about and set said plan into motion.
"You know better than to suggest that. Besides, it'll be gone by Friday evening."
"Really?"
"Miss Neal will be coming by to personally collect it herself." And it was clear what the choir teacher thought of that.
"I don't like the sound of that."
"Oh, I doubt she'd be up to anything, not with a concert on the same night!"
I wouldn't put it past her. Beryl was not a fan of this, not one bit. And she knew that Elsie would mean well, but she also knew that if the woman was given less time to overthink everything, the better everything would be.
That was why she'd been content to wait until the last possible second before informing her friend of the plan Linda came up with. Of course, hearing what Alice had in mind made now as good a time as any.
"Elsie," The choir teacher looked up at the sound of her name spoken so seriously, having been eyeing everything inside the closet. "I had a thought about this,"
"Am I interrupting something, Mrs. Hughes, Mrs. Patmore?" Both teachers whirled around to face Phyllis Baxter, the young woman holding onto her ukelele as she spoke, "Only, I was wondering if it'd be possible to work on my solo for Drowsy–– Oh, they're all beautiful!"
The student had noticed the wedding decorations tucked away in the closet. There were varnished wooden signs, ones that drew out tender sentiments as well as wedding instructions in a fine white paint. Some white mugs were tucked away in the corner along with various other embellishments, remaining party favours. Flowers purchased from a craft store for the centerpieces, little additional decorations for the reception, treasures of all sorts rested inside the closet.
"Thank you, Phyllis." Elsie had started to speak up, but the young alto was too taken with the decorations to change the subject.
"Are you sure you want to leave them here? What if something happens to them?"
This seemed to be the perfect opening for Beryl to mention her plan, "Actually, I remember Miss Vance mentioning she had a thought about that,"
"Thoughts or no," The choir teacher reasserted herself in the conversation with ease, ignoring her personal curiosity as it continued to grow, "That closet's one of the safest places for the decorations."
"Yeah, it certainly has a knack for keeping everything inside locked up nicely. Remind me, how did you find it when you and Mr.––"
"Now, Phyllis, you said you wanted to rehearse a little today?"
_._
Thursday, the 7th of May, 2020
9:47 a.m.
C'mon. Breathe. You're fine.
Seriously, you've done this before and you can do it again. He's not here now and he won't be here tomorrow. He's never coming back. They put him away for good, you were there when they announced.
Really, you can do this. You're performing your solo in just a day, you can walk down some stairs! It's not that part of the basement, and you don't have to go there ever again.
"Anna." She would've frozen at the name if she wasn't already stockstill. "It's okay. You're safe."
The soprano hadn't noticed her heart was skipping several beats, her gasps erratic and loud enough for anyone in earshot to hear.
"I––" He was already there, she belatedly realized. Already standing right beside her, wanting to help. It wasn't the first time, it wouldn't be the last, and he was still here. "I know."
She still needed a moment.
Needed to remember she wasn't being chased, she wasn't trapped in some sort of nightmare, and she certainly wasn't alone.
_._
3:51 p.m.
"And just what are you up to?"
Linda Vance did not fancy herself a detective. No, she never thought her deduction skills were anything like Sherlock's. And as Poirot might've pointed out, she could use more of her "little grey cells" in life.
Even so, these students weren't being particularly discreet. And whatever brought Mary Crawley and Penelope Carlisle together –– of all people! –– had to be quite the secret.
Staring down the two young women, Linda debated between walking away and inserting herself into whatever was going on. On one hand, seeing as how they were probably rehearsing for the show, she would make a fool of herself if she suddenly barged in. On the other hand, she didn't see any sheet music in sight. It was quite possible, and much more likely, that the pair was up to something.
"Miss Vance! I was hoping to catch you here. I've got a question about tomorrow," Well, there went that decision.
At least Linda could say, if nothing else, it'd all been been taken out of her hands.
_._
Friday, the 8th of May, 2020
3:26 p.m.
"Charlie," She wasn't against the idea of shoving him down the stairs if it finally brought the man back to the dressing rooms for the first time in days. "We both know you won't be able to concentrate tonight if you don't look at the list now."
"Elsie," His fiancée may be right, but he wouldn't admit that, not yet at least. "Surely you can tell me who signed up? There's no need to go downstairs."
"Not a chance, darling." The endearment flew out unintentionally, surprising them both. Pet names and the likes weren't typical for them. Those words were seldom spoken and definitely not on the grounds of Downton.
Quickly, before she had a chance to box up the sentiment and pretend it'd never happened, "'Darling'. I liked that."
"I'll have to remember that," The woman was more than a little thrown off by the slip. But slips or no, they needed to appraise the sign-ups for the wedding. Partially to help effectively plan out the rest of the term. Moreso because her curiosity about the sign-ups was driving her to distraction. "To answer your question, I've not taken a look since we put it up."
"You're joking." He may have avoided the thing like it was the plague, but she didn't have to do the same. And he knew her rather well by this point –– it wasn't normal for her to resist a mystery for so long.
"Certainly not." The woman proceeded to bestow him with an encouraging peck on the cheek, her last attempt to get him moving voluntarily in the direction of the stairs, "Now, if you want more of that, you'll have to follow me downstairs!"
Oh, she could be a little plotter, couldn't she? Well, when this was over and they confirmed no one wanted to sing at their wedding after everything that'd happened, Charles would give her a taste of her own medicine, that was a fact!
That is, if he ever mustered up the courage to go downstairs and end this little enigma.
Hesitantly, trying not to admit that he was stalling when it came to following her and finding out the truth, he gave into a sigh. His fiancée had already vanished down the steps, and she wouldn't be coming back up until he'd finally taken a look himself.
"Right. Let's get this over with."
Charles should've known she would be waiting for him at the stairs, an expectant gleam and an encouraging smile on her lips. Yes, those lips could be quite persuasive when they wanted to be–– and if she thought she could distract him now, she was quite wrong!
Except he hadn't noticed he was already at the bottom of the stairs.
"Are you sure we should be here? What if a student's here, trying on their costume, intent on rehearsing one last time?"
"When none of them are expected for another two hours? I think not!" The hand was held out without question, less of an offer and more of a statement. "C'mon. We'll look together."
It came as a surprise to no one that he had accepted it. Even as the man continued to protest the matter –– "And what do we do if no one's signed up?" –– he continued to let her guide him toward the papers in question.
"Then we give them some time after the show to be sure of themselves."
"And then?"
"And if the answer is still no, we let the matter go."
Charles couldn't help the needles that continued to burrow themselves into his shoulders, a personal tension forcibly crescendoing as they drew nearer. He hadn't been able to read his students this week. Couldn't know what they really thought of him now that they knew about his past. Suspected that these next thirty seconds would tell him everything he didn't want to know. Didn't know if it'd be worse if the papers were all pathetically blank or if they were dripping in mockery.
"Please," With the show only hours away, he didn't want to know the truth. Didn't want his thoughts confirmed over everything, didn't want to come acknowledge how foolish he'd once been. He could take judgment from the community. He never wanted to know what that judgment would be like coming from his students. "Elsie. Suppose no one cares? Suppose they think me utterly ridiculous?"
"Charles," He felt his hand squeezed reassuringly, the touch enough to coax him into looking at his fiancée as they came to a stop. The sign-ups were taped to the wall, just out of sight. But his vision was determined to concentrate only on her. "We can spend an eternity supposing. But the truth is that, whatever is on those papers, we will be all right."
He nodded. He couldn't quite believe that this next minute would work out the way he hoped. But he did know they would be all right in the end. They'd already faced Emma Butte at her worst. They'd dealt with countless incidents –– from Jimmy's numerous interruptions to setting off the fire alarm last spring. They'd even managed to sort out their feelings for each other, sifting as colleagues through competitions and concerts and courtyard conversations only to discover they could be so much more.
Right. If they could do that, he could do this.
Charles had to start out slowly, his eyes drifting from Elsie toward the papers. But before he could muster up the courage to properly observe anything, his gaze was darting to the floor. He was able to take another step forward, but he couldn't bring himself to take a proper look.
We'll be all right. It's only a few sheets of paper.
With that in mind, he could get his eyes to trail up the wall. He could set aside the fact that the dressing room area as a whole really needed more maintenance –– a thought subconsciously meant to distract him, no doubt –– as well as the fact that he was beginning to sweat now that the papers were approaching his sight.
"My, my."
But it was he who spoke those words. Something that distracted his future wife to no end, the woman letting out a deep chuckle as she turned away from the papers before them.
The very same papers coated in names.
The original two pages were all filled up, accompanied by two more lined sheets. Each choir had numerous volunteers eager for the opportunity, more than a dozen names from each group listed. And judging from the pattern of names and how dried some of the ink was, there had been an outpour of support from the very start.
Anna Smith. John Bates. Ellie Bell. Andy Parker. Thomas Barrow. Alyssa Cummings. Maribel Diaz. Charlotte Williams. Septimus Spratt. Gladys Denker. Molly Curtis. Claire Morris. Sybil Crawley. Tom Branson… whether penned or pencilled in, the affirmations and opinions of their students were there for anyone to see.
But there was still one name he wished to see. A name he'd hoped he would find on one of these pages. Someone he couldn't bring himself to be disappointed in, regardless of the pain she'd inadvertently caused.
Seeing that very name listed only halfway down the first page was indescribable. That he was here, witnessing this instead of hiding away from it all, was equally awe-inspiring.
"We really have changed, haven't we?"
This kiss held far more than any one sentiment. Bliss that it was all truly beginning to work out and that there really had been nothing to fear. Regret over how much their students had suffered, pride that so many of them had been able to pick themselves up this term. Relief that the school year was ending fairly peacefully, excitement for what tonight would bring. And a soothing delight that in a little over a month they would be married.
"We certainly have."
And so began the end.
_._
Author's Note: Can you believe this has been more than a year in the making?
Honestly, if you'd said two years ago, "Hey, you're eventually going to write a choir Downton Abbey story that'll be the length of a Harry Potter novel by the end of it. Have fun!" I don't think I would've believed you. Truly, I don't think I even believed myself when I started this. I just wanted to share a little about singing and have some fun with some great characters.
But now that we're here, all I can say is it has been an honor. We are three chapters from the end and it has absolutely been a pleasure to write this and grow throughout these stories. I cannot wait for Friday to finally start sharing this show.
Truly, once again, thank you.