Author's Note: Once again, thank you all for continuing to support this little story! It is indescribable how much it means to me that, in a time that's been personally exhausting and really unknown, there's been so much support with this. Thank you all, truly.

Also, there'll be a shout-out to a very sweet Chelsie fanfiction. Kudos to anyone who recognizes the reference –– I'll definitely be sure to share the name of the story in the next chapter so we can all properly enjoy it (if you've not already checked that lovely little story out)!

Disclaimer: I do not own Downton Abbey nor the novel or the film that's going to be referenced in this chapter.

Three Hours After The Promise

Upon waking up with her still grasped in his, Elsie Hughes should have had some sort of protest. Heaven knows that holding hands wasn't the most comfortable way to sleep, and certainly not when an armchair was thrown into the matter. All of that wasn't even taking into consideration the decorum of the matter, the propriety that normally kept them from such a risqué engagement.

And yet, smiling faintly at her friend, she continued to hold on. She gently continued to grasp both his hand and her promise that they'd keep going together.

It was funny really: this was the first night that, for the three measly hours she got, she finally felt rested. Where she at last felt as though the chaos of the last few days was leaving her well alone. And this was despite the fact that she could feel a crick in her neck beginning to emerge, her age kindly reminding her that armchairs were not the most suitable place to rest.

Glancing fondly at her friend once again, Elsie became well aware that his tone toward her might change once he found out the truth of their marriage. She would understand perfectly well if that truth did a lot of damage, that wouldn't surprise her one bit. Still, there was still something, some gut instinct, that told her that they might have a chance of staying friends even after he found out. That even this fiasco with its dizzying impacts might not have any real bearing on where they stood in the time to come.

The key was to be as honest and understanding as possible with one another.

Which meant that she knew she'd have to tell him the truth sooner than later.

Which also meant that she'd have to tell him the whole truth. If Elsie truly wanted to be honest, if she wanted him to have any real chance of understanding why, she needed to explain how terrified she'd been. How this seemed to be the only alternative. How she typically despised it when people thought the world was ending –– and that, for the first time in her life, she'd begun to garner an inkling of that sort of fear.

Nevertheless, all of these truths paled in comparison to the one that had kept her going these last few days. That was the truth wherein it struck her, wherein she realized, she'd take any path that involved being by his side –– friendship or companionship.

Now, she didn't add marriage to those options for a few reasons. One, it couldn't possibly work with their statuses as butler and housekeeper. Two, all of her feelings purely came from friendship –– how could a marriage be sustained on that? And three, judging from the kind and simple way he treated her, how he'd never pressed her for any romance this entire time, Elsie knew that the marriage his mind concocted was a sweet, if not a little pat-a-cake, version –– a companionship that dipped into some of the more tender aspects of romance but never ventured into the "full" aspects that made up a typical marriage.

After all, other than the occasional kiss and hand-holding, how was this any different from what they'd been doing for the last fifteen years? And if Charles instinctively recognized that, if his mind had only changed the details and not the core of their relationship, then what else could he be subconsciously gravitating toward other than friendship?

And, for the record, if friendship was where Charles' mind continued to wander, then she really could start to trust that this might just have a chance of working out for the better.

So, quietly making her way out of the armchair –– it'd been surprisingly comfortable, though she still preferred a bed –– Elsie gently brought his hand to her lips, wanting to wake the man up before she snuck back to her room. It'd do no good for that trust of theirs to be diminished if he felt abandoned. And she never wanted him to feel abandoned, not if she could help it.

Watching him stir back to life, a groggy glow of delight beginning to dance across his face as he finally woke up and realized what transpired, Elsie smiled and –– still holding his hand –– pressed it once more to her lips, gently blowing him a soft kiss in the process.

It felt more intimate than anything they'd done somehow, and yet it didn't scare her.

After coming to terms with all of the facts, nothing really scared her, not now.

"Is it time already?" The woman kept her smile light, refusing to let an unusual sense of sadness tinge it.

"It is."

Tenderly placing his hand back on the bed, she glanced at the door before looking back at him. There was no one outside in the hall, but that would only be the case for another ten minutes or so.

Right. Time to get a move on with her work and figure out the best time to tell the man the truth sooner rather than later.

Of course, unbeknownst to the woman, the world was about to make telling the truth very difficult. It wouldn't be impossible, mind. But with a host of unexpected social events among coincidental mishaps looming in the distance, there'd be almost no time for anything but work.

Thirteen Hours After The Promise

"Elsie," Charles had been shocked when the woman had finally slipped away from the terribly busy proceedings to sneak these particular items to his room –– his wife was descending down quite the deviant path with this first plot of hers. How she managed to do this amongst the chaos of the day escaped him: he'd heard all the commotion of the morning, the quips about the unending week's work among other things. But, more importantly, "I wasn't being serious when I said you ought to sneak these––"

"Charles, I've only five minutes before I'm needed downstairs," She interrupted him, the housekeeper obviously not in the mood for such a scandalized tone. Heaven knows what that implied for any who crossed her path today. "Anything?"

A taste of the words Scottish Dragon came to mind, but wasn't that her nickname all along?

Besides, that wasn't what he was being asked about, now was it?

Shaking his head to clear his thoughts, seeing the eating utensils randomly spread out on a handkerchief, Charles winced at the arrangement before declaring, "I'd never put them in this order, love, but if you insist,"

Pointing at each individual spoon as he went down the line, "This is the egg spoon, that the jam spoon. Clearly this is the bouillon spoon with the melon spoon to its immediate left. And the tea spoon really shouldn't follow but, for today, it does. And, of course, that is the grapefruit spoon, though it really ought to be over there, if only because of its size." Pausing, still in disbelief at the disarray right before his very eyes, "Right. I remember the cutlery, nothing else. Now can we please arrange them by size?"

"Sorry, love," Elsie muttered, proceeding to wrap them all up in the cloth, "We've no time for that."

Charles winced at the haphazard manner his wife handled the spoons, her apparent indifference outweighing his initial relief over remembering these details. Any detail snatched back into his mind was another victory, another sign that he could really come back to his duties and trust it all to work out.

Yet, somehow, that didn't matter all when he could hear all those poor spoons clanking up against one another, being treated in a fashion he really didn't think they deserved.

"Are you sure I can't sneak down tonight to test myself with polishing the silver?" Being cooped up in this room, pleasant as it was to have her company to himself, was beginning to get to him. And there was only so many times he could pace around, stare out his window in contemplation, or peruse the few books in the room before he began to lose it.

"Certainly not. We're not risking Thomas or anyone else, for that matter, finding you much too healthy much too soon."

As you wish, the man dejectedly thought to himself –– deeply unimpressed.

Twenty-Seven Hours After The Promise

Her dear friend had been adamant she remained long enough this time to breathe. He even insisted that, although she was finally getting an acceptable amount of sleep, she needed to take at least a five minute break before going back into battle.

Hence, this little exercise in recollection. Since five minutes of spare time would hardly be enough time to reveal the whole sordid truth, Elsie figured she'd at least test his knowledge and see if Charles could remember it all before he had to return.

"When you were polishing the silver," Because they'd long since established he would not be going downstairs anytime soon, which meant it was time for prompting inquiries, "Do you think you had a tradition? A certain method for going about it?"

Elsie kept a careful eye on the man, having begun to learn more of his tells over the last few days. There'd be moments where a trace of memory would come knocking and it'd show in his eyes, a sharpening focus coming forth. Or, his hands would suddenly still, as though they could possibly pull forth more strands of recollection if they concentrated hard enough.

The woman had also learned to let him tell her if he did remember something, having realized that her prodding would only push whatever was coming to mind far away. That's not to say that he ever remembered something truly concrete even when she gave him time. Only that the odds were better when Charles was given a few moments of solitude.

Except, this time, judging from the way the man's eyes had glazed a little and his gaze seemed intensely focused on the floor, she couldn't help but ask, "Charles?"

He looked to be caught in whatever was whirling around his thoughts, forcing her to put her own curiosity aside as she patiently waited for an answer.

"There was a song, I think." He tilted his head, hands starting to fidget as though they were fighting to conjure the memory out of thin air. Gently, still stuck in whatever only he could see, Charles began to hum some sort of melody –– something that struck a faint bell within her own mind. "Something about a Sunday morning, I think?"

Elsie wracked her mind for the possibilities, but found herself at a loss for an answer. It was too short a melody for her to recall anything proper and, not that she'd tell him, his humming sounded a little off-key. He himself looked to be equally unable to come up with an answer after a few more attempts, sighing once again before looking despondently away.

Now, we can't have that, now can we? Not if I can spare a few more minutes, "Let me hear it one more time, darling, it might ring another bell…."

Forty-Six-and-a-Half Hours After The Promise

"Well now," Charles had curiously watched the woman come into the room, this time holding something behind her back as she stepped inside, "Does this look at all familiar to you, Charlie?"

The man found himself staring in disbelief at the sight of Charlotte Brontë's Jane Eyre, the sight of that particular book cover definitely triggering deep something within his mind. This was not something he recognized from over a decade ago –– this was something that'd crossed his path sometime much more recently.

"Where did you find this?" He couldn't help but wonder, recognizing the cover of the book extraordinarily well. But Jane Eyre was a novel that'd been around since early on in the Victorian Era. Since he could never recall a clear interest in the story prior to ten years ago, why would it strike such familiarity now?

And this particular copy of the novel, to boot?

Yes, once Charles grasped the book again, he remembered just how well he knew it. A sense of fascination was trickling down his mind, a suspicion that he had continually read this novel for a greater purpose than pure pleasure. That this wasn't something he'd chosen for himself, but something he'd thought to choose on behalf of someone els––

"Wasn't this," Charles paused, the brink of a conversation coming back to him the more he held the novel, "Wasn't this one of your favourites, Elsie?"

"It was." She eventually admitted, looking caught in a memory of her own. "It is."

Right. Flipping through the pages, he noticed how his hands seemed to be aware of so many details within the pages themselves. He gently ran a finger over the tea stain on page 27, carefully handling the section wherein Jane finally arrived to Thornfield Hall –– those pages feeling as though they'd been clutched, the reader fraught with suspense –– among other little clues in the novel, little unspoken moments of engagement with the pages themselves. Skimming the words himself, dipping his thoughts into the story, a sense of understanding came over him.

With it, a budding sense of shame.

"I suppose its gothic quality can be appreciated, Mrs. Hughes. The novel does help to explain some of the attitude of the era."

"And is that all you suppose, Mr. Carson?"

"I don't really think there's much else to it."

"Really now?"

"And I," Here he hesitated, somehow not liking the answer that was creeping back into his mind. Something about belated guilt, something that indicated... "I had a differing opinion."

"You did." It was blankly spoken, neutral to a guarded degree.

His shame expanded within seconds.

As did his desire to know what exactly transpired.

"But, I don't think that's all." Charles continued, seeing a hazy version of his Lordship's library before him. The image dissipated, morphing into that of holding this same copy in his hand –– still a blur of memory.

"No?" She shook her head at a thought, "I suppose it couldn't be all. Not if you've apparently checked the novel out three times over the last seven years –– without mentioning one word of this to me, I might add. Though how I hadn't noticed it before is also beyond me."

Charles nodded at this statement, still ashamed by his initial reaction even if it looked as though he tried to redeem himself within these last seven years, "I think I had wanted to understand."

"Go on."

Knowing that he had to be purposeful with his words, especially now that he did remember more of his feelings about this, "You've always struck me as a practical woman, Elsie. And, so I wanted to understand what in that novel could interest you."

She nodded in concession, though something still looked to be bothering her. He'd seen that look before, recently and not-so-recently. But Charles couldn't quite grasp what prodded that particular gaze or, much to his frustration, what it truly implied. Were his words now just as insulting as they'd unintentionally been then? Is that why her frown remain deeply etched into her eyes? Was he only laying salt on an old wound, one that he lost the right to help patch up years ago?

Glancing back at the novel, not wanting to acknowledge how much grief he must've inadvertently caused her over the years with his thoughtless words, the man continued to slowly thumb through the novel –– unsure of how to continue the conversation. He wanted to say something considerate, wanted to apologize for something that had to have been upsetting, but no sentiments seemed appropriate.

"Jane was always willing to carry on, despite the circumstances. She stood by her principles, even when it wasn't clear why it mattered. She didn't always understand the world, she didn't always have a firm grasp on reality, but she kept going." Charles kept his eyes fixed on the pages before him, craving to hear more but refraining from badgering the woman about it. "While I never really cared for the boxing up of Ber–– for a certain part of the novel among other things, Jane's principles, her struggle to understand her place in the world, did win me over."

When it was clear that this was all she was willing to share on the matter, he cautiously looked up. Elsie continued to be fixed on something, still looked to be deeply bothered. The difference was now it was something he knew he had inadvertently caused –– why else would her words toward him be so distant, so detached?

And since it was his fault for having been so thoughtless all those years ago, he felt deeply responsible for this continued pain, wanting another chance to rectify this wrong.

Which was why a certain idea was now springing forth. One that pleaded with him to be considered, demanding to be spoken the moment he could manage it.

"Elsie, may I make a request that, given the circumstances, you may find terribly inappropriate and are more than welcome to reject?"

She huffed a little chuckle at this, faint amusement managing to distract her from her thoughts and causing him to inwardly exhale in relief. Whether the woman rejected his request or not, he'd at least managed to ease a little of her grief.

"'Terribly inappropriate', Charles? 'Welcome to reject'?" She quirked an eyebrow in his direction, causing the man to hesitantly smile in hopes that her words were meant to be encouraging. "Now you must tell me the whole thing."

"Well," He hadn't expected her to say that, though he really should've known better after all of this time. "If you aren't opposed to the matter, I would like to read it."

"'Read it', Charles?" Elsie tilted her head a little, looking to be more than a little confused by the nature of this request, "You hardly need my permission to read Jane Eyre."

"Let me explain," Because he really needed to if they were going to get anywhere, "It's not that I'd like to read it to myself."

"No?"

"No." Looking at her quite seriously, needing her to understand him, "It's that I'd like to read it to you. Aloud, that is."

Charles could see the gears whirring away in her mind at the thought, her shocked jaw stumbling into a bit of a drop at the thought. He could see how whatever had been bothering her was being spun out of sight in favour of this request –– an observation that pleased him to no end. Maybe he was finally redeeming himself for all of those mistakes from before, maybe they still had a chance when it came to managing this.

"You'd like to read Jane Eyre to me?" Elsie repeated, obviously agog.

He quickly nodded, continued relief spurring him on, "I know it's a lengthy novel and that we probably wouldn't even be able to finish a chapter a night, not if we wanted any sleep. But, with your permission, I would like to read it to you."

"The entire book?"

"The entire book."

"Well," She started once again, oblivious to how his breath tensed in anticipation, "I'm not opposed to at least trying the idea out, Charles. But, if you find it 'too gothic' for your tastes, you are not obligated to finish it."

The man nodded, relieved that she had accepted his request. And, beginning to flip all the way back to the first page, he quietly cleared his throat in preparation.

"You'd like to start now, Charlie?"

"I would," He affirmed, before considering that he might be pushing for too much now. "That is, only with your permission."

Charles watched as Elsie hesitated, observing that something was continuing to hold her back. But he knew that he could respect her wishes, that he had to respect her wishes, whatever they may be. And so he refrained from begging for a response.

Closing the book, knowing he could easily return to the correct page if she so desired, the man tried his best to remember to breathe and practice some patience. It was difficult, if only because the situation was tenuous for reasons he was only now starting to unveil. But, he could manage a little patience for the woman who had unending patience for him when it came to this mess of a situation.

"I suppose a few pages couldn't hurt –– as a test, mind."

Refraining from smiling at this, delighting in this little victory that would allow him to learn more about the woman, he carefully re-opened the book and went back to the beginning.

Then and only then did he begin to softly intone that, "There was no possibility of taking a walk that day. We had been wandering, indeed, in the leafless shrubbery an hour in the morning; but since dinner (Mrs. Reed, when there was no company, dined early) the cold winter wind had brought with it clouds so sombre, and a rain so penetrating, that further out-door exercise was now out of the question…."

_._

Author's Note: Aren't mini book clubs of two just the cutest?

Sorry for that bit of a cliff-hanger, in regards to her committing to telling him everything and then not being able to (or, perhaps, being a little unwilling) push the matter. I promise that, in just a few days, we'll see that conversation and then some.

In any case, as always, I hope you have a lovely day!