N/B: I went back, looked at episode synopses. Cancer scare was in the Spring of 1920, not Fall. Whoopsies. Remedied now.
A/N: And guys – I am so glad that you are so glad I am writing this. Your reviews and reblogs on Tumblr make me grin ear to ear. And THANK YOU to the guest reviewer who nudged me about character tags. I SWEAR I had them on there, but they mustn't have saved. ~CeeCee
Early Summer 1920
He caught himself humming again, a snippet of some old washer-woman's tune, possibly a run of notes from a Gilbert & Sullivan opera; he wasn't sure exactly what, now that he was focusing on the sounds he was making. The tune had fallen from his mind and his lips the instant he became aware of it.
It's a happy man who hums a tune, Charlie. The voice whispered in his mind, sounding both like his mother and his favorite aunt, his namesake. And Charles Carson, was, indeed, a happy man. As he reviewed and updated the wine ledgers, painstakingly adding the vintages his lordship had purchased from a renowned cellar in Derbyshire, he mused on how well he felt. The rather tedious task (which, naturally, he would never leave to anyone else) seemed rather pleasant, and he carried on, contentedly, as the hours after dinner and bedtime for the family, then the staff, whiled away, into the night.
He hadn't realized, not really, the state he was in, these past weeks and months.
No, he'd not really put the pieces of his dusty old heart together until he stood in the village square, gazing after Dr. Clarkson, his mouth agape with shock, his head spinning with something akin to abject terror.
He could hardly think back to the desperation and sadness he'd felt, standing on the rim of Elsie Hughes now-obvious worry, distraction, fear and sadness. And her anger. Goodness, was she angry; it burned from her every pore, as if she were trying to dissolve whatever sickness might be lurking inside of her with the sheer force of her rage.
That day, a few weeks ago now, when she and Beryl Patmore had gone to the village, the glint of determination in her eye. After they'd left, he'd retreated to the silver storeroom, like a dragon to his cave, glowering at anyone who dared interrupt him. He must have glanced at his pocket watch over a dozen times in the short time the women were gone.
And then, at last, when he was certain he could take no more waiting: they'd returned, and Mrs. Patmore had pulled him aside, saying the words he'd not realized he needed to hear: It's not cancer. Oh, how the dust had been swept from his heart at that moment, and he'd tackled the silver with lusty enjoyment. And the song had burst forth from his lips, without thought:
"Dashing away with a smoothing iron,
Dashing away with a smoothing iron,
Dashing away with a smoothing iron, she stole my heart away…"
That one, he remembered. It was too near the truth to be ignored, and he decided he was at least as good a man to confirm to himself, what had struck him, full force a few weeks ago: that he loved Elsie Hughes. A younger man, or one less comfortable or certain about the way things must be done, might fret on the idea of realizing he was in love with his coworker, his dearest friend, and yes – his confidante. But nothing could be done about it, not in any real sense, could there? Not that he could work out. No, no – his love for Elsie Hughes was now as apparent to him as the face that stared back at him in his shaving mirror.
And yes, of course, there were stories, from time to time, of butlers and housekeepers, retiring, together, from the great houses that peppered the English countryside like the brightest stars in the firmament, getting married, running seaside boardinghouses together in their later years.
And, certainly, young people often made the decision between a life of service and married life; hadn't one of the young kitchen girls just given notice, saying she was engaged to some lad who just landed a job in a pub in York?
But he couldn't contemplate these things, not in any real sense. Things like marriage, a life outside of Downton, retirement, he didn't even consider them, not now, not really. And if, on occasion, he wondered what the waves of Elsie Hughes' hair looked like unspooled, unmoored from their pins; or how his hand would rest, as if it belonged there, in the indentation of her waist; or what her sleeping body might feel like, pressed against his, in a shared bed…well, if he did, at times, wonder these things, these pieces made up of his desires, they didn't fit into his picture of the world, as it existed, what could be done? So, he kept them close to his heart, and examined them, appreciating the unusual shape of them, rubbing the curves and edges of them so often he nearly wore through them.
And, he sang. He was singing again, in fact, as he carefully went through a list of French whites that the former owner had provided, matching them against his own tally.
"I hardly thing that tune is applies here, Mr. Carson," her voice in the doorway. Her tired, lovely face, her eyes, twinkling. Mouth turned up in a wry half-smile.
"Mrs. Hughes! I thought I was the last solider standing," he set the wine lists aside, ignored his pounding heart.
"I was just heading up, when I heard your dulcet tones, Mr. Carson," she replied pertly, grinning at him. "But it'll never do, your tune, not for Downton, at least."
"I shall endeavor to ignore your impertinence, Mrs. Hughes, if you inject some sense to the conversation," he replied, raising his eyebrow at her, searching his memory. What had he been singing? May as well ask the warbling bird on the tree branch.
"'Be it ever so humble, there's no place like home,'" she intoned, in her rather pleasant alto voice. He liked that, due to the music and the late hour, her Scottish accent was pressing the words in its own special way. "Now, Mr. Carson, you must admit, not the first word that come to mind when thinking of Downton, 'humble'."
"I suppose not, Mrs. Hughes," he stood, straightening his vest. "I know it's rather late, but would you care for a glass of wine? His lordship purchased a significant portion of an old collection, and asked that I, well, test a few bottles, as I organize it, to ensure the quality is up to snuff."
Now it was she who raised an eyebrow at him. "I suppose a half glass would do no harm, Mr. Carson. I thank you." She sat, looking at him expectantly. She did look worn out, but her eyes were bright. The shadow that had been dogging her these past few months, dissolved. But he wasn't supposed to know of it, he remembered. He certainly hoped he could keep his singing in check at this late hour.
He contemplated the handful of bottles he'd pulled and set aside, debating for a moment. Then, before he could ponder the significance of it too much, he deftly (and without the fanfare it usually was due) popped open the bottle of champagne that was part of his sampling.
"Well, that sounded rather expensive," she observed dryly, as a small cloud of effervescence swirled around the mouth of the dark green bottle. "Especially seeing as you can't recork it."
"And it should be chilled, and this is altogether the wrong glass," he sighed, handing her a standard red wine glass full of the sparkling vintage. It looked just as a quality champagne should, a light golden color, crystal clear, no murkiness.
"Perhaps we're living up to your song, then, Mr. Carson, drinking such a refined beverage so humbly," she gazed at the drink herself. "Maybe we should move it to a tea cup?"
"Bite your tongue, Mrs. Hughes, or I'll take your drink away," he replied, sitting across from her.
"Cheers, then?" She grinned at him, lifted her incorrect glass at him.
"Cheers, Mrs. Hughes."
"What are we toasting to?" She asked, then her face flushed, ever so slightly. She sipped the wine. "Oh, Mr. Carson, this is heavenly. Mayhaps, I will drink a full glass."
We are toasting to you. To your continued existence and health, here with me. To many more years of witty retorts, and eye rolls, and smiles meant only for me, he thought, then cleared his throat.
"Let's drink to…to the rare opportunity of sharing a late night glass of something special. Without the obligation to finish the whole thing in one go, Mrs. Hughes," he teased gently. He would open a dozen bottles of champagne to have this moment here with her, in the still of the sleeping house.
She looked at him for what seemed a very long time in silence.
"Aye, Mr. Carson. I can stand up with that idea. Savoring the special things, when they come along, even if the circumstances aren't quite…perfect."
He sipped the champagne, returned her gaze. "It's still quite delicious." He felt his face grow warm, his hands cold.
"'Tis. You'll get not a single argument from me, Mr. Carson, on that point."