Chapter 3 – Fixing the Hat

A/N: First of all, thanks to all readers and reviewers! I am slightly backlogged in responding, but I do try to reply to each one! And thank you so much to the guest reviewers, whom I can't thank directly, especially Suzie, who ALWAYS comments on my Chelsie stories! THANKS SUZIE!

Soooooo, I went back and watched all of the Chelsie stuff towards the end of S3/beginning of S4, and now I am remembering why I skipped over almost all of it: because EH gives and gives and gives to EVERYONE, really goes out of her way, for a bunch of people, and she gets…not much in return! Including from CC! What the what, seriously.

Look, I get it, sort of: Anna's been traumatized (I actually growl when she says Bates is "understanding" about her rape, grrrrr), and EH does anything and everything for her, no need to expect anything back; but TOM! She gets his pickle out of a pickle (sorry/notsorry ahahahha), and he tries poking holes in her strategy (again, sorry/notsorry)! Just say thanks, dude! And, of course, finally, she says, the Alice/Charlie situation was an open wound that Carson had to heal, and he was certainly distracted by that; but she (and amazing Isobel) save Grigg! Get him a job! FRAMES THE GD PICTURE OF ALICE.

Anywhoodles, end rant, but I just got struck by the fact that, for the most of Spring 1922, Elsie is cleaning up a bunch of messes, big and little, that men have made.

And that everyone, upstairs and down, sort of takes her for granted sometimes. She's not one, I think, for feeling sorry for herself for very long, but, she's human, like the rest of us, and likes to be appreciated.

~CeeCee

Spring, 1922

She shut her ledger, marking her place with a piece of ribbon that was once a deep brown, now faded to the color of a tea stain on a white tablecloth. She could hear and sense the house winding down, as one day became the next. They were approaching the start of the London season, and she could feel it: everything at Downton beginning to move at a slower, slightly improvised pace. Better still, since it was highly likely not the entire family would be going, this year, she could sit out the hustle and bustle of the city this summer.

Which suited her just fine, thank you very much, considering what the year of our Lord, nineteen twenty two, had brought her thus far. She was feeling the burden of other people's secrets and travails heavily this year, and couldn't quite shake the feeling that it wasn't over yet. Likely it was the set of John Bates' jaw and the shadows in his eyes that accounted for a significant portion of her unease.

There was a knock at her door, which was slightly ajar. She called for whomever it was to enter, expecting Beryl Patmore. Mr. Carson had retired early, at her gentle but firm insistence – she could tell he wasn't feeling up to snuff, and he'd only wear himself into the ground if he continued at the pace he was going. Nearly as shocked as she'd been on that day at the train station a few weeks ago, he'd actually heeded her prodding.

"Ye really ought to retire a bit early tonight, Mr. Carson. It'll not do to over-exert yourself, especially as there's no reason for it," she'd gently admonished, standing in the doorway of his study.

He was seated at his desk, and she could see a frustrated retort forming in the lines of his forehead. But then his eyes glanced upon the framed photo of Alice Neal, that she's so recently presented to him. The furrows in his brow slackened, as did his mouth. She couldn't say he looked sad, exactly, but thoughtful.

They'd not spoken very much about Charlie Grigg, or Alice, for that matter, in the weeks since his old friend had left for Scotland. She'd walked back from the station with him that day, hurrying after him; they'd traveled with a silence growing large and languid between them, though she couldn't say it was an unfriendly one.

He'd finally caught her gaze from across the room, and all of the fight was out of his face. He threw his hands up in a gentle signal of resignation.

"Very well, Mrs. Hughes, off to bed with me, then," he replied, standing.

"I'm glad you've seen sense. I'm sure Mrs. Patmore'd make you a pot of tea to take up with you," she gazed up at him as he walked towards the doorway.

"One would think, Mrs. Hughes, listening to you, I've not the desire nor the ability to take care of myself," his words were sharp, his tone, soft.

"Best be off with you, now, Mr. Carson, before I take that observation as a challenge."

She'd watched him go, slightly vexed, though she tried to ignore the feeling as it tugged at her petulantly. It seemed as if she spent most of her time these days either getting people out of messes or helping them avoid making the exactly worst choice of the many available options.

It wasn't Beryl Patmore in her doorway now; it was Phyllis Baxter, the new lady's maid.

"Miss Baxter! What in heaven's name are you still doing up? Is everything alright with her ladyship?"

"Oh, yes, Mrs. Hughes. She retired several hours ago; I didn't mean to worry you," the woman's pale, serene face flushed slightly. It was hard for Elsie to believe that such a gentle-seeming person had any connection, however tenuous, to Thomas Barrow. "I appreciate that it's quite late; sometimes, when I'm at the machine, I lose track of time."

"Well, you're certainly a wonder on it, despite some people's apprehensions," she grinned at the younger woman who returned the gesture, both of them thinking of the cook's initial trepidation over it.

"I thank you, and I quite enjoy it, Mrs. Hughes," Miss Baxter replied. "I was just passing to go to get some mending supplies for a few pieces I am working on, and I remembered your hat."

"My hat, Miss Baxter?"

"Oh, yes, I'm sorry, I noticed the other day, some of the trim is coming loose," while the lady's maid was talking, Elsie walked over and plucked her everyday hat from its place on her coatrack. She examined it. Indeed, the band was slipping, ever so slightly, dragging the ornamental flowers askew as well.

"Well, ye've got me, Miss Baxter. It certainly is, and shame on me for not noticing it," she was slightly embarrassed to have it pointed out, truth be told.

"Not a shame, not at all Mrs. Hughes," the other woman flushed slightly pinker. "I sincerely hope I didn't make you feel uncomfortable. I was only going to offer to mend it myself – by hand, of course. That type of work isn't something I use the machine for." She reached for the hat.

"That's certainly very kind of you, Miss Baxter, but I can't say I'm not at least a little chagrined to pass off to you what I should have done meself," she sighed.

"I don't intend to speak out of turn, Mrs. Hughes, but it seem to me that you keep this place running, never minding the hat," Miss Baxter stated, a slight grin twitching the corner of her mouth.

"You'd best not let Mr. Carson hear you say that," Elsie responded, relinquishing the hat, finally to the younger woman. The ghost of a smile on Miss Baxter's face nearly came alive. Nearly.

"Oh, I wasn't meaning Mr. Carson any disrespect, Mrs. Hughes. I suppose…I suppose what I was really trying to say was it's the pair of you who keep this place going. But it's you that seems to keep the people going," she tucked her chin down, inclined her head, seemingly unwilling to look her directly in the eye as she complimented her.

"I thank you, Miss Baxter, for your kind words, and your kind gesture," she spoke softly, hoping that the slight wobble in her voice didn't betray her. "Now, you best be off, or you'll still be a'sittin' at that contraption when they get up to make breakfast in a few hours."

After the lady's maid had left, she returned to her desk. Sat, sighed. She ought to be in bed herself, never mind her trying to send everyone else off to sleep. She took a small glass and poured herself two inches of dry sherry. Pulled A Study in Scarlet from her desk drawer, found her place, began reading. Then looked at the empty hook where her hat had been, and smiled.