Her Little Secret, His Little Dream

by R. Clearwater

"Mrs. Hughes," The head housemaid didn't quite stutter, but she definitely looked shaken from whatever it was that had happened. Clearly, there was a crisis of some kind, that much was obvious. However, until Elsie learned otherwise there was no use in acting as though the sky had fallen–– "It's Mr. Carson." (Series 1 Divergent; Amnesia! AU)

9. The End

In Response to the Guest Reviewer: I have to say I love your review! It cracked me up to no end and I am so pleased to say that we can finally get back to it!

Author's Note: Thank you so very, very much for your support and patience with this. I am pleased to say that the wait is over –– this is the final chapter. It is lengthy and (because it's me) it's very "full-circle"y. Therefore, you may want to take some time with each segment. If it helps, consider them to be mini-chapters of their own.

Moreover, for any guest reviewers who review this chapter, your reviews will be added to the bottom author's note in this chapter.

And, finally, I tried my best to interweave all the requests from before. I really hope, whether you requested anything or not, you enjoy this final installment of this little tale.

Disclaimer: As per usual, I don't own Downton. And, as always, liberties will be taken one final time!

_._

Even had he not been so terrified, Charles wouldn't have found any form of amusement at the sight of Elsie quite literally bouncing down the last three steps, somehow landing sat on the floor as though she intended the whole thing. As it stood, horror had shoved him toward her throughout this entire debacle, needing to confirm that she was–– that she was––

That she was not currently laughing, a subtle and pained undertone vibrating through the chuckle.

"Mrs. Hughes," It was cold enough, formal enough, to halt all sounds of mirth, "This is not funny."

"Charles," She challenged, the intimacy in her voice enough to temporarily quell the man, "It's funny. This is the silliest tumble I've ever taken; laughter is fitting for the situation."

So much for quelling the man; now he looked fit to give a stern lecture on the subject.

"I never want to see you in that position again." He adamantly stated, clearly not finished with recovering from the experience. Truly, he might never let her help him in the cellar ever again, especially if it avoided this. "Promise me you'll never put yourself in this position again!"

"Am I to take it there's another position you'd prefer?" Elsie archly asked, initially oblivious to the insinuation. When the unintentional promiscuity finally struck the woman, she found her gaze quickly avoiding his –– ignoring the fact that his jaw had long since dropped at the risqué comment. She herself remained flustered over her own unintentional impertinence, hurriedly continuing, "Nevermind that!" And, uninterested in seeing the horror that had to be lurking about his face, she composed herself and feigned more calmness than she felt, "While I'd prefer not to experience this pain again, Charles, I can't make that promise."

"Why not?"

This time, her sigh held no real bite to it. She was even coaxing her eyes into gazing at him, determined to persist in speaking this truth while meeting his confused stare:

"Because you're far too important to me." And before he could even think to argue, "You are worth this and much more."

He was confused by her, that was something she could see that plain as day. He probably even thought her fall did more damage than either of them realized. Unsurprisingly, she was right: Charles Carson was indeed of the belief that the woman before him wasn't in full possession of her faculties right now. No, no, that wasn't right. He knew she was in full possession, she was just utterly confusing him. With the level of pain that must be throbbing through her, why would she dare to laugh about this? Why would she crack such jokes, take everything so lightly?

But those wasn't the most pressing questions for the man. No, his real questions were these: if he was supposedly worth this pain and discomfort, why did she flinch away in the corridor? Why did she avoid him when it was clear what his intentions were?

"But," Unbeknownst to the man, his tentative tone had her heart dropping, "What about before? When you'd–– when you'd," His pained words were far sharper than any fall. "When you had flinched."

This time, she didn't sigh and she didn't shake her head in disbelief.

She merely kept on looking at him and tried her best to regain her bearings.

"You misunderstood me, Charles." And it was no surprise that he did, all things considered. Mind, he could've waited for an explanation instead of fleeing from sight. But that was neither here nor there.

"Go on."

Well, at least she had a chance to explain herself. Next time, however, she would settle for safely making it down the steps instead of this fiasco, "I hadn't backed away because I didn't want to kiss you."

"No?"

"No." Elsie affirmed, shoving aside any pain she could to get the words out. If she hissed or winced at anything coursing through her veins, he would be convinced she was secretly overwhelmed and she'd lose any credibility, any chance for elaboration. "I had backed away because I didn't want to imagine what toll your reputation would've taken if we'd been spotted."

He looked perturbed by this, so much so she might've been amused if she weren't battling these painful aches and his own stubbornness. As it stood, she could only thank her lucky stars she had bounced gracelessly instead of something far worse.

"Don't you care about your own reputation?"

Honestly! Arching an eyebrow at him, "When I know how society looks upon women in these cases?" She shook her head in exasperation, "At the very least, I could give you a chance to avoid the scandal."

The man had a response for that, would've uttered his own opinion on the matter. He had his own thoughts about reputations and scandal, thoughts that'd been building each and every moment for the last seventy-one days of his life. He wouldn't say anything, not yet.

And certainly not when she clearly had more to say.

"But, Charles," Regardless of what else may occur, she herself never would regret sharing this. This confession wasn't brought on by the pain or the shock; this admission had only been prompted by the experience. "If I had my way, we would have much more than a kiss. A life together, if you're willing together."

It was a bold statement she uttered.

But it was the truth.

"Do you mean that, Elsie? Do you really mean that?"

She held out her hands for him to take, to help lift her off the steps and properly affirm that, "I do."

Charles grasped both hands in seconds, coaxing her body to follow his lead in this instance. But, even as the distance shrank between them, even as his heart began to soar at this tender declaration, his ears snatched the sound of a tell-tale hiss and his eyes clutched at the sight of her trying to hide pain. "Dr. Clarkson should look you over the moment we get you upstairs."

"I doubt this is something we need to concern Dr. Clarkson with." When he glanced in confusion, never knowing the woman to take any injury lightly, he found her to be surprisingly tight-lipped.

"Elsie?" But his worry would not inveigle a response this time; she only shook her head in silent disagreement. And though she was known as a stubborn and strong-willed woman, he didn't think she'd be this obstinate about the matter.

"At most, I've only bruised myself,"

"If our roles were reversed, you would be dragging me to Dr. Clarkson this very instant––"

"And the bruises are in an area that," Elsie blushed, unable to help herself. It was one thing to talk about a life together with the man, it was another to admit this fact that was a little too flustering all things considered, "That I would feel uncomfortable with Dr. Clarkson examining."

Now Charles was outright confused. But, after a moment, he noticed how her eyes glanced down to the area in question before looking at him meaningfully. He didn't quite understand then and there that the contusions in question mostly, if not completely, surrounded her backside. Of course, once he did understand that, there was a great deal of sputtering and ignoring unbidden images, the man needing a moment to compose himself.

In short, his mind's wandering thoughts were pulling him in quite the mortifying direction.

"Right. Well, we ought to get you sitting down and resting as soon as we can,"

"I hardly think sitting down is the appropriate response, Charles, given the situation!" He winced and she herself looked away for fear of revealing a flustered face, "Why don't we finish with the wine and go from there?"

Truthfully, he'd forgotten all about why they'd ventured to the cellar in the first place. That they'd been on a mission to fetch tonight's wine selection. Although he'd rather send her on her way to the good doctor, her continued refusal and his desire to keep her within sight for as long as he could –– that fall had petrified him far more than he would ever admit –– meant that he had no real argument for her continued presence.

Nevertheless, as they both settled back into this routine, the pair seemingly content to act as though nothing had happened, he couldn't help but think over her words. That idea of a life together. They would take their time with that life, no doubt, and he wasn't entirely sure if she meant a life together in the fullest sense of the word.

But as his thoughts wandered from the tonight's wine selection back to her, his eyes eventually drifted, too. His hand, having been outstretched to inspect a bottle, hovered in mid-air. They had been awfully close to yet another misfortune, one that would've no doubt been his fault and one that would taunt him for ages had it been worse. And yet she remained by his side, she persisted in staying with him and even confessed that she'd like to do a lot more than simply stay.

How had he become so lucky?

And why, when they should be in the midst of another duty, did he want to set all of that aside and confirm that she was truly all right?

Well, at least that second question was easily answerable: it was one thing to hear someone say as such. It was another thing to confirm it for one's self, to see that things were legitimately fine.

So, perhaps, that's why his hand hesitated when it came to completing the task at hand. Perhaps that was why he was quietly asking for permission to cup her cheek, permission that was unswervingly given as she leaned into his touch. More simply, perhaps that was why he found his lips meeting her, the fear and pain subsiding for them both as this kiss deepened with no interruptions in sight.

Three Hours After The [Second] Incident

"I understand that it may be a little," Charles felt rather incompetent for coming up with nothing better than, "Awkward to discuss the matter, but I'm not sure if it can be helped."

"Can you now?" Elsie was frankly irritated that he persisted in this line of questioning, wanting the subject left well alone.

"Yes, well," At least the man was as uncomfortable as she, "What if you've not only bruised yourself? If Dr. Clarkson is the only one in the Village who'd know for certain, who'd be able to confirm anything. Surely, then, it would be necessary to–– to––"

This was sounding far too much like a meeting she'd had with the good doctor years ago now. And though she felt some sympathy for the butler, much like she had with Richard Clarkson, she would not be helping him out.

"Right." Charles started again, still grappling with his own discomfort. Nevertheless, he adamantly held to his belief, "We're not really sure if it is only bruises. We've agreed there looks to be no broken bones, no blood, but the pain you've experienced is concerning, Elsie. And though I'd hate to put you in a tricky position, I'd hate to hinder your recovery merely because it's a little… 'awkward'."

Oh, why did this sound so painfully familiar after all this time?

Not in the mood to quibble anymore, "Fine. But, I'm not to be blamed for whatever he has to do to 'confirm' the matter."

"What do you mean?"

She gave a mirthless chuckle, fixing him with a certain look, "How exactly do you think he's going to have to go about this?"

Elsie gave him a quarter of a minute to comprehend. Fortunately, her man only needed half the time, "Right. Perhaps we ought to hold off from asking Dr. Clarkson just yet."

Yes, well, she knew if the matter persisted –– which, her gut felt it would –– he'd no doubt be sending her off to another meeting with the doctor soon enough.

Which was, naturally, exactly what happened.

A meeting that was, unsurprisingly, as clumsy and awkward as the last one.

Twenty-Eight Days After The [Second] Meeting

Dr. Clarkson had indeed confirmed her own diagnosis. As such, when she finally recovered from the bruises, she was ready for anything. So when this sweetly peculiar request came forth, when this unorthodox suggestion was raised, she was all for it.

"So, I hear you wanted help with the Servants Ball?"

Charles had been initially hesitant to ask Elsie for help in this matter. Still was, in all honesty. Officially, the man had stated he wanted to avoid creating any unnecessary insinuations or rumours if they were found out, something she acknowledged as a valid concern. It wouldn't do to cast suspicions on them before they were ready to announce anything –– if there was indeed anything to announce other than a budding relationship.

But, that was another story altogether.

And none of it was exactly the real reason behind his hesitancy.

To be rather candid, he didn't want to see Elsie dancing with someone else. Even if that someone else was a young man who could've been his son in another life, there was something about it all that threw him for a loop. He also didn't want her to risk injuring herself again. But seeing as how Dr. Clarkson had confirmed there were only bruises to contend with from her fall and she'd already recovered just fine, there was no real reason to bring that matter up.

Which was why they were here in his pantry, the trio having discreetly stayed downstairs until everyone else had gone to bed.

"Yes, Mrs. Hughes." William Mason may have been working at Downton for years, may have attended the Servants Ball a few times already, but he was never happy with his dancing capabilities. Add to that that a certain kitchen maid was enamoured with Thomas Barrow, a capable dancer in his own right, and William really wanted to show that he could dance well enough. That he was good enough to give Daisy a dance lesson or two of his own, maybe even sneak in a dance with her at the ball if he was lucky enough.

Problem was, and this was no exaggeration: he had two left feet. And though Mr. Carson had promised that Mrs. Hughes was brilliant at dancing, William had little faith in himself. He loved the ball and the idea of it all, but he always found himself to be a better pianist than dancer.

"Well now," Elsie brought herself more fully into the pantry, smiling warmly at both William and Charles. Although it was a tighter fit to dance in here than the hall, the footman had only agreed to lessons so long as they were out of plain sight. She wanted to acerbically point out that anyone wandering downstairs at this hour, late though it may be, could easily look into the pantry if they wanted to. However, upon realizing how serious William's request was and how nervous he was about the situation, she'd refrained from doing so. Instead, "Shall we get started?"

And so they did.

At first, after checking and correcting his positioning, the housekeeper had started them off by intoning a steady beat, not requiring music to keep an official tempo. While the pair tried out a few steps and started to give it all a go, the butler watched on –– keeping an eye so as to see where William might need a little help.

As it turned out, William needed a little help all around. He was eager enough when it came to picking up the craft and refining it for himself, but eagerness was not enough. And after counting off a tempo didn't look to be of much assistance, they switched to humming a familiar waltz. However, the hope that he would be able to follow a tune more easily was soon dashed.

"Perhaps a demonstration might help?" Because Charles was all for allowing the boy to try out the waltz on his own. But, if it continued to dampen William's spirit as well as crush Elsie's feet in the process then the man was not opposed to giving the boy a break.

"I think that might be for the best, Mr. Carson." William confessed, looking far more downturned now than he had forty minutes ago. "We might even be better off just stopping altogether."

"We will not be 'stopping altogether', thank you," It was always refreshing to hear Elsie speak like, to carry such a vibrantly resolved tone, "Though, I do agree that a demonstration might help. Mr. Carson, if you would be so kind?"

That was when Charles realized that he would be the one doing the demonstration.

Not only that, but that he would be providing this demonstration with Elsie as his partner.

It wasn't that he was bothered with the idea of dancing with her. Not in the slightest. Instead, it was more of a concern that he might not be able to contain his delight at finally dancing with the woman after all these years. That, even though a subordinate would be witnessing this moment and it was meant to be nothing more than a demonstration, he might reveal his true feelings on the matter and give everything away before they were ready.

"Mr. Carson?" The man refused to mentally curse at his incapability to focus, not having realized how much time had passed since the question was first put to him.

"It would be an honour, Mrs. Hughes." Without another word, he gestured for William to trade places. And after only a few more seconds, he was taking his place in front of the woman at last. "May I have this dance?"

"You may."

Elsie had to resist the urge to shiver as his right hand deftly reached through the air to lightly rest on her waist. When his other hand extended out and gracefully brought them into the proper starting position for the waltz, her breath did catch. It was subtle, a tender whisper that dissipated within seconds, but it happened.

They had never had this pleasure, this honour, in all these years together.

Something both individuals were well aware of, whether they remembered it or not.

"Shall we then?"

Somehow, it felt different to offer this request to Charles. It felt as though this was much more than asking permission to dance, much more than a mere demonstration. The fact that William was in the room made her well aware that they couldn't linger in whatever this was. This had her spine tingle, had her thoughts thinking of an intimate conversation shared in a cellar. It was different from their dalliances of late. Besides, could a seldom peck of the lips and the occasional chaste touch even be considered romance?

Still. Whatever this was, Elsie wanted more.

"Yes."

And she had no doubt, judging from that look in his eyes, that he agreed.

Fifty-Seven Days After The [Second] Idea

"'Mr. Rochester continued blind the first two years of our union: perhaps it was that circumstance that drew us so very near–– that knit us so very close! for I was then his vision, as I am still his right hand…'"

Elsie listened in enraptured silence, resisting the urge to mouth along the words she knew so very well. Charles really had proven to be quite the story-teller; in fact, this was to the point where they'd agreed this little book club would have to continue.

Specifically, the agreement was that the next book they'd read together would be one of his personal favourites, though she wasn't privy to the selection just yet. Nevertheless, whether she knew what the novel was or not, she was determined to be the one to read it aloud, to have the pleasure of reading to him.

It felt only fair to switch between the two, to let her read his favourites aloud while he verbally perused hers in turn.

And as the idea stood in this moment, seeing as how they were only a page or two from the ending of Jane Eyre –– the lovely experience having lasted about four months in total –– she felt deeply humbled by the whole thing. She had known his original opinion of the novel. That it had tenderly altered, that it had willingly changed in only months, meant the world to her. That he added more and more life into his reading the further they continued, his timbre an especial delight to listen to in this fashion, only added to her contentment. And that she would soon have the chance to read his favourites, to share in his own literary treasures?

"'"Amen; even so come, Lord Jesus!"'" Had she really slipped into her reverie that much? Had she really missed the rest of the ending? Granted, she wasn't the biggest fan of St. John Rivers. And seeing as how his story did end the novel, it made some semblance of sense that she hadn't been entirely focused. Still, she had wanted to enjoy these last few pages with her man as much as possible.

Charles closed the book with a sense of finality, looking it over, "That was quite the ending."

"Indeed." Except she wasn't entirely focused on the ending. Rather, her mind had ventured to other thoughts. Thoughts that had trickled into her mind from the very beginning of this experience. Thoughts that'd risen to her attention when she'd fallen and pressed into her ever since they danced together.

"Is everything all right?"

Elsie refrained from smiling, knowing she could be frank and didn't have to reassure him or make everything better. She could simply respond with the truth: "There's something that's been on my mind. Something I thought I didn't need an answer to. But that's not really true, is it?"

All thoughts of Jane Eyre were firmly placed aside, quickly tucked within the pages of the book, "Go on."

"Well," There was no delicate or easy way to put this inquiry. Not that she normally cared for either tactic, except this was a sensitive subject and she cared too much for Charles to be tactless. Yet it looked like that tactlessness was what she would have to settle for, "I was only wondering–– well,"

"Yes?"

"Well," Elsie repeated faintly, nothing appropriate coming to mind. "I was wondering," Oh, get on with it, girl, "How exactly did you come to believe we were married?"

Whatever he'd been expecting, that had not been it.

Though, really, he shouldn't have been surprised. Had she been the one to lose her memories, had he been in her shoes, that question would have undoubtedly been on the forefront of his mind from the beginning. That she hadn't already asked, that she'd tried her best to come to terms with it on her own, only warmed his heart to an indescribable degree.

"I don't know." Charles really didn't, never having been able to figure it out after all this time, "But to be honest, I think it's what I wanted, how I felt about it and what I imagined life could be. "

If the man had to guess, his thoughts during the fall had probably been centered around her at some point or another. He might've been regretting the fact that he'd undoubtedly never shared his feelings, never asked what she felt for him. His mind might've even gone so far as to taunt him with what could've been, sharing images and ideas he thought he'd never see. And perhaps that was why he'd woken the way he had, thinking they were married.

However, that was only supposition.

And, there was something else to consider, another point to be made.

"But that's the thing. It was all my imagination, Elsie." She looked at him again, her gaze having been settled on the floor. "A life together should be made from our imagination. It should be on our terms." He paused, wanting that sentiment to ring, needing her to understand he meant everything, "And if we need some to think about what that life together means, I am more than happy to give it."

And that, I promise.

This brought a smile to her lips, her original sense of doubt ebbing away the more she absorbed his words. She knew for sure now that he wouldn't push them to be anything more than what they wanted to be, not that she ever thought otherwise. And though she still didn't know exactly what that meant for them, she did know that she was willing to hold to this unspoken vow and keep going, together.

Forty-Three Days After The [Second] Promise

Today marked the sixth time the housekeeper had stepped into an unusually tidy sitting room, knowing fully well her space had not been this organized when she'd left it last night. No, there was only one explanation for why everything was exceptionally put-together today.

Impossible man, Elsie thought with a smile. Yes, well, he would find that his own pantry had become a bit more pristine, too, since he left it last night. He almost always managed to leave it completely tidy, but there was usually at least one thing that could be improved upon.

Really, one day they'd end up crossing paths and she would have a hard time resisting the urge to chuckle at her hopeless liar's attempts to escape explanation.

But for now, Elsie would accept these little efforts as is.

Accept them and inwardly smile to herself, wondering what would be next.

There had already been numerous walks. Walks and half-days spent wherein it was only just the two of them, no expectations of who they had to be in sight. All there needed to be was meaningful conversation and the willingness to traverse together; if kisses were stolen and hands were held, those were wonderful bonuses.

And then there was her work. Moments like today. Incidences wherein she'd discovered a menial task had been effortlessly taken care of before she had to face it. When she found her space unusually tidy even though she'd been bogged down by work for days –– unable to think of cleaning anything when there was so much to be done.

There was never a note. Nor did he ever mention it in their conversations. All he wanted was to ease her burden and demonstrate that he would be on her side, regardless of where that was.

If she felt the same, if she started to do the same for him, that was entirely her choice.

Eventually all of those little moments, all the little talks that tended to accompany them, had soothed any fears far away. Had shown him she was just as serious as he. Had given her enough time to understand the depth of conviction behind his sentiment, something she'd already begun to grasp that fateful night in the pantry.

It was enough to give her hope for them.

And it would become enough to get them both through these trying days.

Three-Hundred-and-Fifteen Days After The [Second Round of] Efforts

They refrained from talking about the fact that, though the Servants Ball was approaching, William was unlikely to want any dance lessons with this war was on. Nevertheless, he might want to dance again, that he might want to improve himself once again and keep up the practice.

That was why they were here again, practicing familiar steps and pretending it was all for William.

There would be no mentioning how this is the first time he's held her in his arms since July, how she's finally properly breathing for the first time since His Lordship's chilling announcement. How these brief moments spent swaying away here gave them a fighting chance to forget about everything for another few seconds. That this could ease grief off their shoulders for a spell, that these were the precious minutes they didn't need to be a rallying team maintaining impossible standards, determined to carry on in spite of the draining, daily news of the world.

The swaying eventually ceased, but the dance never ended. They remain embraced. There was no movement, other than a breath that fought to remain steady and the occasional shudder of relief that they could be here, that there weren't any battles needing to be fought here. There may have been an incessant fear in the air, a continual semblance of weariness and dismay hanging over the house, but all of that disappeared here.

Dancing shifted, turning to pure entanglement. Nothing too risqué for an unmarried couple, but nothing terribly chaste. That was not what they need today. They needed relief, unity in every sense of the word. They needed to let go of standards that helplessly plunged further and further into the ground, they needed to escape the dreadful atmosphere continuing to seep further into the house.

Entanglement lead to questions. Can we take those steps forward, those steps we once spoke of? Do we have that right with everything going on? Should we dare to try to lead a life filled with happiness when the world is plummeting into darkness, into its own abyss?

Yes.

Five-Hundred-and-Ninety-Six Days After The [Second] Conversation

Elsie Hughes had been whittling at the rotas for what felt like the millionth time when it happened. She wished she could say she was truly distracted by her work these days, but the truth was that work had lost some of its appeal over the course of these last two years. Or, rather, something else –– someone else –– was far more appealing than paperwork, cleaning inspections, and all the typical tasks that fell to the housekeeper. And married life was, contrary to what she had repeatedly informed all of her maids all these years, something that could be just as fulfilling as her career.

To the point wherein she felt extraordinarily lucky to have the chance to experience both.

There had been no true arguments from the Crawleys when the pair had announced their plans, especially once they had stated that marriage did not equate to retirement –– something Lord Grantham looked to be rather relieved by, if she were to be honest. It helped that the Great War meant some traditions could be set aside, such as unmarried senior staff. And though there had been an initial wariness from certain individuals, both in the Village and at home, about whether or not the butler and the housekeeper were capable of remaining as faithful to their work as they were to each other… that wariness had long since dissolved by the end of that first year.

Something that she felt relieved by, if she were to be even more honest. Wariness wouldn't have stopped her from attending church to hear the banns read. Nor would it have kept her from finally uttering those vows on that wonderful spring day. No, any wariness from others had long since been soothed away by everything he did for her.

But it hadn't hurt when the judgment went away. The scathing, supposedly subtle looks as she went about her errands. The whispers that would stop the moment they'd stepped into sight. The glances from particular members of the family –– glances that swept past idle curiosity and bordered on aloof presumption….

An unusually distracted knock struck her door, convincing her to step away from her reverie and fully concentrate on the situation at hand. Once she felt she could at least feign focus she bade whoever it was into the room, still glancing over the papers in front of her. Really, she would much rather be enjoying a little time with a certain someone in their lovely cottage than remain sat at her desk.

"Mrs. Hughes–– Elsie," If Charles was slipping into Christian names before the door was closed, if he was talking to her like that, it was serious.

The papers dropped out of her hands, forgotten, landing haphazardly on the table as her eyes remained glued to the man, looking him over for any injuries. Seeing no blood, no limp, nothing explicit to merit a visit to Dr. Clarkson, she found herself wondering what on earth was going on. If he had come barging in here only to complain about the lack of standards now that the war was on, she would lose her temper. In fact, it was very possible that unless he was about to inform her the Germans were invading Downton's steps –– his face wouldn't be this ashen nor would he have verbally slipped if he wasn't in shock over something monumental –– she would lose her temper for scaring her like that.

"Elsie," Charles repeated, taking another stumbling, grave step into the room, "I remember."

At the sound of those three words, words she'd given up on hearing about two years ago, the woman froze. Remained stuck in her spot as the world threatened to sway around her, as that phrase persistently floated around her. She couldn't do anything but gape at him as hundreds of questions, thousands of queries, sprang to mind. The man himself looked to be in a state of stupefaction, managing another step or two before deciding the best course of action was to remain still.

"You remember?" Elsie repeated, dumbfounded to say the least. This was nothing like the Germans making it to England. Yet she found herself floored, much more than any war proclamation would've brought.

"I remember." Charles intoned, needing her to be the first one to know. He himself was still bowled over by the fact that it'd happen in the first place.

Something had tickled his mind, incessantly prodded him into venturing near the cellar. He'd been wrapped up in reminiscing about a certain someone in a lovely cottage, having inadvertently made his way to the front of the cellar's entrance before he knew it.

And then it truly began.

But, of course, he had been oblivious at the time.

Those old memories tugged at him once more, persuading him to open the entrance and step inside. And when he did, when he finally crossed the threshold this time, he still found himself distractedly thinking Elsie more than anything else. He didn't know why he was humouring this unplanned adventure into the cellar, having long since accepted that his memory would never truly come back––

That was when it hit him. That was when he nearly fell again, the images that flooded his vision threatening to knock him over. There had been inklings before, conversations and flashes he couldn't fully catch. Today was different. All the faces of those forgotten ten years swirled around him, every step taken threatening a new crescendo of recollection. And every attempt to move, whether it was to escape this cellar or not, gave way to even more.

"I don't think we need to inform Papa of this particular accident, don't you agree, Carson?" "Quite right, milady."

Charles winced, instinctively knowing where that particular smashed vase had wound up, the secret location having been buried in his mind for quite possibly twelve years. That Mary Crawley, the one who carried a similar poise to today's version but was far more mischievous, was battling. Battling with today's version of the aristocrat, determined to prove how she was worthy of being recalled.

He didn't want any battles, he didn't need to recall anything. He only wanted some form of peace.

But that was not meant to be.

"Mr. Carson, I'd like to introduce you to Miss Anna Smith. She's the one who's applied for the position of…" Charles had looked up from his desk to discover a fascinating mixture of shyness and confidence standing beside Elsie, surprised to see that he could already tell the woman would be perfect for any job at Downton. Discretion rested in her demeanour, innate trust radiating in her eyes, and the sense that she would dutifully perform any task requested of her was clear as day. They would still have to examine her references, of course, and properly interview her. But he already knew what his thoughts were.

So that was his first impression of Anna –– not that he really needed that confirmation. The woman had proven herself as competent and capable as he initially perceived, being the soul of discretion whenever they needed it. Shaking his head to clear that away, the man turned away and saw a flash of silver in the distance, helpless to the scene now spinning around him. It seemed no part of his thoughts were to be left untouched.

"But, how did you memorize the spoons so quickly, Mr. Carson?" It had been an autumnal day, judging from the outside world. And they had possibly been working together for at least a year by the time the footman had finally put forth the question, if memory served right. "I'm glad you asked, William. Now, if you'll allow me to demonstrate…"

Charles had managed to escape the cellar but to no avail: the memories continued to swoop into his thoughts, overtaking anything that stood in their path. Spoons were now scattered before him, spoons and a young man who was determined to take on so much. This was nostalgia dipped in dread, a feeling that would be worsen when another chill overcame him, the trails of the next recollection feverishly slinking across his mind.

"You don't mean to tell me you are a fan of Jane Eyre, Mrs. Hughes? With all that gothic drivel? I would've thought a woman of your character wouldn't sink to such literary depths, if it can even be considered literature!"

That had been a particularly awful retort, one he suspected he'd regret for the rest of his days. She'd pretended to take the barb in stride, never once revealing how much his words had to have stung. And though he had somewhat redeemed himself by going on to say that its gothic quality wasn't all that terrible, by reading the novel itself, he very much doubted any of it was a legitimate redemption.

"Mr. Carson, don't you agree that the cook is more suited to the storage key than the housekeeper?" Red hair fiercely blocked his path, ignoring the auburn tresses glaring the pair of them. "Well, it's not really my place to say, Mrs. Patmore––" Said tresses curtly turned to the cook: "That's what I told Mrs. Patmore, Mr. Carson!" But red hair refused to budge,"You mean to tell me that..."

Groaning now at the incessant onslaught –– truly, was remembering those fights necessary? Of all the things to conjure up! –– the man forced himself to fight through the hallucinations and make his way to safety. He did his best to look past the haze of individuals that had once passed him in these halls, the shadows of existence that they now were. None of these individuals were here, none of them existed in this moment. But that knowledge didn't stop anything. All he saw now was anything that had lurked past him at some fleeting moment in time, people of varying ranks and classes. And if they kept skulking about his vision, their voices and movements all blurring together to distort the lines of retrospection and reality, he might honestly lose his mind.

"There's something about Thomas, Mrs. Hughes, something I can't quite put words to but I don't like." The dark-haired man had been around for some time now, but there was still something about him that the butler didn't care for. Yet it seemed his friend was of a different opinion, "Thomas, Mr. Carson? It's O'Brien I'm more concerned about!"

Ah, yes. Thomas Barrow. A character he no longer had to contend with, thank the Lord. Not that he would be saying as such with the war on. Still, Elsie had been right when she said there was something about Sarah O'Brien to be concerned about. He doubted they'd ever find out just what that was, but he knew she was spot on in her assessment. Luckily, this was one of the lighter conversations slamming into him at the present moment, giving him some sort of chance to breathe and come to a stop –– needing any respite he could get.

Little did he know, the discombobulation was far from over.

"So, has it all been settled?" She stood before him, unusually timid with that frustrating habit of hers, that supposedly subtle lip-biting that really wasn't all that discreet. He didn't like her like this. He didn't like any of this. "No, I don't know if anything's been settled. There's a fellow in Manchester with claims to the title I gather. But it's all a long way from settled."

Matthew Crawley. That other way she would suggest only seconds later. The suppositions she'd echoed over the course of these last two years in her own fashion, her wary ponderings that had begun to slip out of existence only recently.

But she had changed.

And so had he.

And with these tormenting newfound realizations now coming to light, they would hopefully keep on changing together.

Pushing himself away from the wall, not having noticed he'd been leaning on it for half a minute, Charles compelled himself to keep going. If nothing else, seeing her again as she was today might help to dispel this nightmare, might bring him back to reality.

Seven Minutes After The [Second] Return

"Charles?" Elsie knew that this wasn't a joke or some sort of prank, that the man was being entirely serious. Still, she didn't want to endlessly beat around the bush. She wanted to know what exactly he meant –– did he remember everything? And whether or not it was everything, how much did this change him?

Something the woman had begun to stop fearing was the concept of Charles recovering his memories and realizing that this was all a mistake. Or, at least, she thought she'd quashed that fear right in its tracks. Now, with his pallor that ghastly shade of shock and his clear disconcertion she was beginning to doubt herself.

"Charles?" Elsie repeated, steeling herself to be content with whatever came forth. They had an exceptionally wonderful time these last few years. There'd been fights and frustration, it's who they were as people, but none of that mattered when it came to their life together. And, whatever it was he was about to suggest, whatever it was he felt he needed to do, she would do her best to respect it.

"I remember the fights about the storage key." What?

Elsie stumbled in confusion, having been on the verge of standing up when he finally spoke. Why were they talking about the storage key now of all times? It was distracting to say the least.

"And I'm sorry I once thought this, but Jane Eyre is not 'gothic drivel'. It's a novel that should be considered literature –– something I was far too foolish to recognize at the time."

This had the woman further startled, stilling her into another round of silence as that old conversation reared its ugly head again. That had been a particularly discomfiting evening, one that would have bordered on the vexing had she not been so discomposed by his words.

Charles took a step toward her, ropes of apology weaving into his own shock as she began to meet him halfway, the pair trying to cross through the enigmatic atmosphere. For him, it was a matter of setting the record straight, if nothing else. For her, she simply wanted to know what all this meant.

"And," Her heart braced itself for another decade-old confession, not knowing what on earth would be next, "I've never wanted to work in a shop or factory."

Elsie's eyes widened at this, not having ever expected this confession. He couldn't possibly be talking about that. Too stunned for words, she distractedly took another step forward, wondering if there'd be more.

There was.

"Children have crossed my mind on occasion," Oh dear. It had to have been too long for children at this rate, not that they'd ever discussed it. "But I wouldn't want children if it meant I had someone else for a wife."

The distance had vanished without their knowledge, hands reaching out, trembling arms embracing this disorienting intimacy. Nothing would distract the pair, not now. A bomb could have exploded in his Lordship's library and they would be none the wiser. A falling star could have slammed into the Abbey and they would have remained absolutely oblivious.

"And even though you said that farmer was a nice man, Elsie, even though you were flattered by his proposal, I can never describe to you how relieved I was to hear you say that you had not accepted him. That life has altered you as it's altered me, that it has kept on doing so." And that it will keep on doing so, if we let it.

Charles looked down at his wife, finally regaining peace of mind. Relief and delighted began to overtake him as the truth became clearer: everything had changed and yet nothing was truly different. He still had the chance to hold her in his arms like this. The shock that had him so very unsteady was withering the longer they were together. She was even going so far as to pull him in for quite the kiss to affirm the fact that she was right there with him in this relief, in this joy.

And all their wondering about the unknown –– what would happen if they ever reached today, what it would be like to remember it all –– was finally able to come to an end.

They hadn't needed to wonder.

It had all worked out.

And it would continue to do so for the rest of their days.

_._

Author's Note: Once again, thank you all for reading, reviewing, favoriting, following, all of it. All of your support has helped in so many ways I cannot begin to properly describe.

As always, I really hope you enjoyed this and that, despite everything that's going on in the world, you get a chance to enjoy today. Because any form of the unknown can be scary. But the key is not to ignore it. The key is to acknowledge the unknown, acknowledge any fear or concern about it, and keep on living.

In response to the guest reviewers:

To Chelsietx, I know I've said it before, but I really mean when it when I say it is absolutely my pleasure! Thank you so much for your continual support!

To the guest who enjoyed being shown how Chelsie found their way throughout everything as well as the postscript, thank you. Truly. I most certainly agree they would do the same!

To the guest who's glad to have some Chelsie in these trying times, I look forward to sharing that next story with you soon!