In Response To Guest Reviewers:
To the guest who's intrigued and hopes there is more, I am pleased to hear about the intrigue and can definitely say yes!
To RM, I'm so glad you think this is lovely and that you can't wait for more!
To dsky, it's so lovely to hear from you again! And, I'm glad you think this is amazing! I definitely agree that Elsie's being pulled in all sorts of directions. Moreover, we'll find out over the course of this and the next chapter what is running through Charles' mind. And, I promise, even though it seems all over the place, I am right there with you when I say that I want them both to be in their right minds when it comes to this. And, in regards to the dream, you'll soon find out...
Author's Note: Thank you all for your continued support with this story! I confess, the ending of that last chapter has changed the trajectory of this piece –– it's now going to be a tad more romantic and different than originally intended. And, for those who are concerned for Mrs. Hughes' sanity, I promise it'll all work out.
Also, as a heads up, this chapter will be more recovery-focused than romance-oriented, but we'll be back to all of that loveliness soon enough.
And speaking of romance: if it ever does wade into M-territory (which I really doubt, considering it's me), I'm more of a "fade to black" and less of a "Yup, we're gonna get all of the details". Moreover, I'd certainly give a warning if that were to happen.
Disclaimer: I definitely don't own Downton Abbey. And realism is certainly not the goal here with this story.
_._
Nine Hours Into The Next Day
Why on earth did she do that? Why, in heaven's name, did she decide that a kiss was the most appropriate action to take?
Although Mr. Carson hadn't been one to protest the action, although she herself had felt freer than she had in quite some time, it undoubtedly had to have been too much. Frankly, Elsie was astonished the shock of it hadn't triggered something. That, after breaking apart from that kiss and hearing everything was truly okay, he hadn't wound up recovering all of his memories and proceeding to indignantly splutter about the scandal of it all before demanding she never do it again.
But, Char–– Mr. Carson, she quickly reminded herself, not daring to make that too much of a habit if she could help it –– hadn't changed after all of that. His memories hadn't come back, there hadn't been any protest of decorum. He had only continued to openly beam at her as she, still caught in whatever spell brought forth that kiss, warmly smiled at him before making her way out of the room.
Only once she was a few flights down, floating back down to her pantry, did reality rear its head again. Only then did the absurdity of it come crashing down, reminding her that –– when he did finally regain his memories –– there'd be no going back from this. That, once he regained his old life back, he'd surely come to his senses and understand that their friendship of fifteen years would have to change. Either they'd have to work through the inevitable awkwardness that would hang over them or they'd have to go their separate ways.
The worst part was that she could've avoided any romantic gestures by citing Dr. Clarkson's instructions to refrain from overworking. The doctor had informed her only fifteen hours prior that it was a perfectly feasible excuse if she needed deflect any sort of request she was uncomfortable with.
Except, there hadn't been any sort of request for intimacy or romance on his part. It had been her own doing. And, no, she apparently couldn't have settled for gently squeezing his hand or kissing his cheek or even his brow before departing. No, Elsie Hughes had to have the nerve to be foolish enough to kiss her friend right on the lips, as though they'd been indulging in such indecorous actions for years already.
Well, according to the man, that traitorous part of her mind gleefully began to speak up for the third time in as many hours, you have been indulging in this for years.
And just where was all of this coming from? This sordid part of her mind, these bizarre thoughts and strange instincts and peculiar feelings, where have they been all of her life? She hadn't felt anything like this with Joe Burns nor any other man. If that'd been the case, service might not have won her over all those years ago.
Right. It was time to face the facts. Clearly she felt a love of sorts for the man. Certainly, there were feelings that were far deeper than she'd anticipated. But, that made sense after everything. She still didn't dare to go near that wretched cellar, never wanting any of those terrifying images to latch onto her mind anymore than they already did. It had to have been only natural for such feelings to arise after an incident like that.
And since the whole incident had struck Elsie a great more than the woman ever could have guessed, she could only suppose that yesterday's actions also made some sense. She wouldn't continue to jeopardize their friendship with any more of those decisions on her part. But, she wouldn't run away from it all in hopes that he'd recover on his own. She refused to do that to Mr. Carson, not after everything they'd been through already. Their work over the last fifteen years may not amount to much in the eyes of society, but it was their life. Their struggles, their triumphs, their work together.
Which is why, she was finally back in front of his door again.
Because there'd be no running away from this.
And, this time, she was fully ready to knock, tray balanced with one hand whilst the other was poised to announce her presence. Unlike yesterday, she remembered to bring up a tray this time.
Yesterday, with all of its mistakes and questions, also required a second visit to the man –– one prompted by a cook who couldn't believe the blessed housekeeper had forgotten to bring up a tray. That second visit, thankfully, had been far briefer than the first: not more than five seconds after dropping off the tray did they hear her name being called for from the women's corridor. And, when she opened the door to discover that Anna needed her help, a rarity in itself, Elsie knew she was being given a chance from the Lord himself to make a hasty escape this time around.
But, none of that mattered now.
If only because Mr. Carson wasn't the only one in the room.
"Oh, I beg your pardon, milord, Mr. Carson," In retrospect, Lord Grantham shouldn't have been one of the last persons she expected to see in the butler's room. But the housekeeper was wearing herself out far more than she anticipated. And finding herself stunned for the second time in two days, she detachedly questioned if she should set the tray down now or only once she came back, "I'll come back later––"
"It's quite all right, Mrs. Hughes," She inadvertently relaxed at the easy-going tone, oblivious to the curious look Mr. Carson was now sending her. "Carson here was just telling me that he does remember the tools of the trade."
Does he now? Belatedly, Elsie had to wonder why he hadn't mentioned as such yesterday. Or, for that matter, why she hadn't pressed him on that front?
Oh, that's right. She'd been so surprised that Mr. Carson referred to her as "darling" and "love", so shocked that his little descriptions of their life together sounded quite fitting, she hadn't thought of anything else. She'd been thoroughly taken aback by the tenderness he bestowed upon her right from the start, the tenderness that had tossed any thoughts of service aside.
"So, if nothing else, once his 'flu' has finished its course, we'll have our butler back." Lord Grantham continued, oblivious to his housekeeper's musings, "Isn't it simply marvelous, Mrs. Hughes?"
"It is, milord." Except, if that was the case, did that mean they were already making progress on his memory? Or was this something that'd the butler had truly forgotten to mention? Would a few more hours bring a return back to everything? Or would there be more obstacles to overcome before all was back to what it was before?
But before she could say anything else, "Well, I must be getting on. I'll leave Mr. Carson in your capable hands, then."
Elsie nodded, proceeding to step further into the room, tray still firmly grasped in her hands. Without another word, the aristocrat made his departure –– the movement distracting enough she could mask a yawn. Then, remembering that it would do no good to delay what was undoubtedly the butler's first meal of the day, she proceeded to set the tray down within easy reach.
It was only once his Lordship was well out of sight, far past the chance of being within earshot, that she closed the door.
Normally, that door would remain open for any and all to see. Partially because it'd normally make no difference and mostly because that's how it was supposed to be. However, with the situation as it was, Elsie didn't feel comfortable keeping it open. Heaven knows they were lucky as it was that no one had been lurking about yesterday during that first visit. She'd been shocked enough to leave it wide open, something that was rather foolish when she took into consideration their–– their actions.
But, that was neither here nor there.
"What's this I hear about remembering the tools of the trade?" Internally debating about whether or not she should sit on the bed like yesterday or in the chair she'd completely forgotten about in the corner, the housekeeper settled for walking over to stand in between the two. That way, if her friend had indeed miraculously covered, she wouldn't embarrass him with any further hints of scandal. And, if he hadn't recovered... well, they'd crossed that bridge when they got there.
"I'm afraid I wasn't entirely honest with his lordship, Elsie,"
My, my.
Without a second thought, the woman found herself taking a spot on the bed, joining hands once again at the sight of his troubled face. Hearing her Christian name spoken so effortlessly told her that nothing had changed with his memories –– the man she knew would've never referred to her as such. However, hearing that he possibly lied to his Lordship of all people?
Well, that was certainly different.
"Go on."
Charles looked to greatly appreciate her encouragement, taking a moment to collect his thoughts. Fidgeting with the blanket, too caught up in his tale to pay any mind to the tray waiting for him, the man persisted in thinking over the matter. But, eventually, he began to quietly tell all:
"As you may remember, I was just starting out as a butler ten years ago." The woman nodded, knowing there was more and talking wouldn't encourage him, "Well, I'm afraid that's all I remember: starting out. No refinement of technique, no authentic understanding of the craft. Just starting out."
Ah. So, he remembered some of it, but not everything. "But, surely, you haven't lost everything."
"The problem is I don't know what I remember and what I've forgotten." It was the closest he'd gotten to grumbling in days. And, as worried as she was about this mess, Elsie couldn't help but bite back a smile at the sound, having missed her friend's need for exacting standards.
"Well, do you not suppose it'll come back to you when you see it all again?" The woman didn't really believe everything would come back at once, but she was willing to give the belief a go. Doctor Clarkson had said it was possible, though he, too, thought it highly unlikely. The phenomenon was still too new for any solid solutions or advice –– the doctor said he'd have to do further research before he could tell them anything more.
"Elsie, if being back in my room hardly does anything, why would being in my pantry make a difference?" The man wearily sighed, gazing about the space in dejection. "I know this is supposed to be my bed, that this is supposed to be my room, but it's not mine. I don't remember any of it, not really."
The woman's initial confidence dipped at this, not that there was a whole lot of it to begin with. This all reminded them for the umpteenth time that this was all unknown, that this was all something she never would've predicted and something she couldn't solve. But, it was only starting to truly hit how much of an unknown it was for the man before her. And for someone who relied upon his systems, who always clung to his traditions and his methods, to have almost all of it snatched away… she could hardly imagine what he was feeling.
All she knew was that she couldn't let her friend keep on suffering in his contemplations. The only thing they could do was manage the situation as best as they could.
"But, Charles," Bringing his attention back, thankful that he was looking back at her again and not at the floor, "It's been only two days. And that case Doctor Clarkson had spoken of had taken longer than that. But, they did eventually recover after some time."
"Elsie," Her heart broke a little at the frustration already apparent, the clear anxiety in his tone, "We don't have five months! We have five days at best before–– before I'll have to return. And then," Unwittingly fidgeting with the blanket, his Lordship will realize the truth, along with the rest of the family. "And then–– and then, it'll be obvious how much of a fool I really am."
At times I wonder if I'm just... A tired wisp of recollection slipped across the mind of Charles Carson, something that sparked some sort of inherent shame. But, before he could clutch at the strand of memory, it faded into the abyss that seemed to be the last ten years. The abyss that had steadily grown more and more apparent these last two days –– much to his increasing regret.
"Charles Carson," The man looked back up to discover his beautiful wife determinedly staring at him, "You have far too much integrity and honour to ever be considered a fool. I've said it before and I'll say it again: you raise the tone of this household just by being part of it."
A flash of something struck him, the faint image of a stunning dark hat. A hat and pale, dainty flowers. Both images trailed into darkness before he had a chance to catch it, trailing alongside with sentiments he could no longer make out.
Integrity.
Honour.
Tone.
"Charles?"
Whatever had been rising to the surface of his mind was gone.
"Charles, are you remembering something?"
He blinked, realizing that his wife was still in front of him –– his wife who had aged so beautifully in the last ten years, who was still by his side after all this time. Her very presence was changed by time, it was true. And yet it was the same woman he'd been with for fifteen years, the same one who had stayed by his side. And her presence only served to remind him how lucky he was, how important it was to treasure his time with her right now.
Because he had no guarantee of anything else.
"It had to have been imagination." Charles informed her, ignoring the residual flickers that drifted through his mind. Flickers wouldn't bring back any of those years, and flickers could hardly be counted upon.
She tried to mask her own disappointment, but he knew her too well.
Looking away, the man focused on the tray she'd brought up. And, sifting through the food at hand, nibbling at anything he could, another curious thought struck him –– one he'd been meaning to ask since yesterday.
"Do you know if Mrs. Patmore is still here, Elsie? Is she still the cook at Downton?"
She chuckled at this, the sight more pleasant than he could've imagined. Truly, it felt as though these were their first days together, as though they were finally discovering their life together and not simply carrying on with what they already knew.
And he, for one, was entirely grateful for the experience.
"Mrs. Patmore is still the cook at Downton, yes." Arching an eyebrow at him, a knowing twinkle in her eyes, "Don't tell me her cooking has inspired your memory?"
"Well, maybe a little." The truth was, he could barely recall the quality of Mrs. Patmore's cooking from ten years ago. But, if this is what the cook's quality was today –– and if teasing the matter brought out that delightful chuckle he'd been craving to hear –– Charles was content to stretch his imagination a little. "Maybe an apple crumble might help to jog everything?"
He chuckled at the fond glare being shot in his direction, "Oh, yes, I can just imagine that conversation: 'Mrs. Patmore, would you be so kind as to make an apple crumble just for Mr. Carson?' 'And why should I do that, Mrs. Hughes? Soup'll serve him just as well.'"
"'Well, Mrs. Patmore, if you give Mr. Carson the apple crumble'," The man quickly began to chime in, shamelessly attempting a terrible impersonation of his wife's brogue, "'I just might give you the one thing your heart desires: the storage key.'"
Snorting at the horrible accent, looking away, "That'll be the day––" Looking to realize something, pausing in her mirth to cautiously ask, the woman looking as though she dared not to believe something vital to all of this, "Charles, how do you know about the storage key?"
Apologetically smiling, sinking a little because he knew he was about to disappoint her, "Sorry, Elsie: it's a classic debate I've witnessed all throughout service. I know it's a disappointment to hear, but––"
"Please, we'll have no more of that," He weakly smiled at this insisting tone, knowing it rather well, "If anything, I should be the one for apologizing for prodding you with all of my questions. You'll no doubt tell me if anything comes back."
"Of course." Charles wouldn't dream of anything else, not when it came to this. He trusted her much too much to keep anything like that a secret.
Elsie nodded at this, watching her friend as he began to tuck back into the food. And, eyeing the food, using the distraction as a chance to disguise another yawn, she couldn't but fondly recall how he'd always complimented Mrs. Patmore's cooking over the years. How a nice taste of sherry went perfectly along with some of the leftover––
Sherry.
Wine.
The ledger.
"Charles," She'd forgotten herself, slipping back into this new habit. But, they had more important things to worry about than spilling Christian names across the air, "I can't even begin to imagine how it must feel to be here and remember nothing."
"I wouldn't say I remember nothing," The man gave her a very meaningful look, one that spoke indecorous volumes she had no right to hear more about, "Go on."
Focus, Elsie. Whatever fantasy his mind had concocted, she'd never believe it'd be about her. Perhaps an old flame that somehow got confused for her –– though the thought of Mr. Carson and an "old flame" hardly sounded right together.
"Elsie?"
Could she actually maintain focus or not?
"What are you thinking, love?"
On with it then! "Well, you were found in the cellar, right?" Only once he nodded did she continue. "Well, suppose there was something that prompted that visit? Something involving the wine?"
"What good would it do to bring that up now, Elsie? Clearly I can't be relied upon to remember anything, now can I?"
Shaking her head at this wonderfully daft man, knowing that he was too scared and hurt to see her logic, the woman continued: "Suppose you only need a prompt to remember it all?"
She'd piqued his curiosity: "Don't tell me you're going to try to find whatever was that brought me down there. Elsie, do you know how many bottles of wine his Lordship stores in the cellar?"
"No, I don't need to know how many bottles of wine his Lordship stores."
"Elsie," Charles was getting desperate, her dear friend. "What exactly, then, do you intend to do?"
"Find your wine ledger." She stated, proud of herself for thinking it up. After all, he was the one who was obses–– passionate about the subject of wine, not her. That she was the one to think of this was only the icing on top. "If there's a discrepancy, you'll be able to spot them in a heartbeat and give us a possible reason as to why you'd been down there in the first place. And, it'll be a good chance to try and prompt your memory."
Charles sent her another look, this one a mixture of exasperation and love, "I don't know if this'll work. But, I'm beginning to understand something: you're quite the plotter when you want to be, Elsie."
She almost smirked in response, still proud, "All the best women are, Charlie."
Grinning in response to the happiness now overtaking his smile, Charles watched in wonderment as his wife kissed his cheek before rising to her feet. He carried on enjoying it all, letting the sounds wash over him –– the chatelaine, the purposeful steps –– as she began to make her way to the door.
It had been those purposeful steps that reminded him of the other burden he carried.
"Elsie," The man loved every second they spent together, but there was a truth they had to face. "I can't keep stealing you away from the rest of the world, not if you're taking on both of our responsibilities."
He had noticed that, for all the beauty his wife carried, she still looked like she hadn't slept in days. Nor did it escape his attention that she tried to disguise a yawn twice during this last conversation. He knew the days were longer for her than they'd probably been in quite a while, and that she really oughtn't slip away from her responsibilities for such long periods of time.
"Daft man," She fondly muttered to herself, a clear smile in her eyes even as she sent him a look. A look that held a love he thought he'd never find. "The world can have me back after you've recovered."
And with that, she closed the door on a very happy man.
A man whose traitorous side of his brain fervently hoped he'd never recover.
Eleven Hours Into That Same Next Day
The worst part about finding the wine ledger was not maintaining her calm whilst doing so. That was difficult in light of the situation, but not impossible. It was also not about ensuring her demeanour didn't reveal how tantamount this may prove to be for Mr. Carson. Wth O'Brien and Thomas lurking about like vultures, she knew that she couldn't reveal anything about the butler's lack of memory.
No, none of that amounted to the hardest part. The hardest part was, in her opinion, discreetly fetching the ledger and bringing it all the way up to Mr. Carson's room undetected. For how could she be discreet when she'd spent the last forty minutes desperately trying to wipe that ridiculous smile off her face? There was no one in her sitting room, no windows for anyone to gaze into, which made it the perfect place to regain her bearings. But, no, every time she thought about Charlie–– Charles–– Mr. Carson's possible recovery, she couldn't help but smile to herself.
If the ledger –– an object that the butler prided himself over guarding, having felt privileged by its presence for years –– proved to prompt his memory to return, everything would be all right. Other than that kiss, the one she still thought about every thirty minutes or so, nothing salacious had occurred between them. There was no reason they couldn't carry on just as things were.
The real question was how to get to the ledger.
Or, more specifically, how to convincingly take an item that was obviously the butler's and carry it all the way back up without raising suspicion.
A wine ledger was no mere slip of paper to be slipped into her hands at a moment's notice. It required finesse to furtively bring it up the stairs and back to its rightful owner. And at this point in time, with his memory still lost for the foreseeable future, they didn't need to risk incurring any unwanted attention just yet.
So, how to go about it, successfully…
"Mrs. Hughes?"
Anna was gracious enough to at least knock before calling for her help this time.
_._
Second Author's Note: So, maybe I had to slip in a cliff-hanger or two –– but, I do promise that the next chapter should be out this Friday! In any case, I hope you enjoyed this update and that you have a lovely day!