Chapter 5 End of Day

A/N: I went back and read the chapter I wrote about the fateful seaside trip to Brighton in AHoM. I actually HAVE a night scene in that chapter, from his perspective. So I thought it might be nice to write one for her in this fic. I am now getting antsy to start writing married late-night Chelsie (I actually emailed myself ideas I came up with whilst I was catering and event last night, ahahaha!), but I think I've still got a few more pre-wedding chapters left despite my enthusiasm!

Thanks as always for reading and reviewing, especially all of your thoughts on the last chapter. I really like exploring CC's feelings about Alice and Charlie. There's a lot there, I think, especially exploring the contrast between youth and maturity.

~CeeCee

Summer 1923

She was securing the tie on her dressing gown when she heard the muffled giggles from down the hall. The servants' quarters were set up differently here at Grantham House than at Downton; of course, as the London dwelling, while impressive, wasn't quite the same dimensions as the country manse.

She rolled her eyes, shook her head, opened her bedroom door. Beryl Patmore, similarly robed, was standing in the entryway of her own bedroom door, right next to Elsie's. They each opened their mouths to speak at nearly the same moment, but were interrupted by a slightly louder burst of laughter floating up the hall towards them.

The looked at each other for a long moment, then grinned.

"Bit wound up tonight, aren't they, Mrs. Hughes?"

"And here I was, Mrs. Patmore, assuming they'd be plumb worn out from all of that sun," she shook her head.

Then they started giggling, clapped their hands over their mouths.

"Shall we wrangle them, a little?"

"Yes, a little. I don't want to spoil all their fun, but it's back to the usual in about six hours, and it would do well to give them a gentle reminder, at least, Mrs. Patmore," she suppressed her further desire to laugh as the pair of them headed down the hall.

They stood outside of Daisy and Ivy's room - though, in her estimation, two young women couldn't be the source of all of that mirth. She rapped on door and the abrupt silence was rather comical. She turned to Beryl Patmore, who covered her face, quietly snorting laughter.

She opened the door to find, yes, Daisy and Ivy sitting next to each other on Daisy's bed, plus three others: Madge, and two of the younger kitchen maids, Bessie and Eliza. All five faces looked utterly stricken.

You'd think I was a fire-breathing dragon, seeing the looks on their faces, she thought, tried mightily not to burst out laughing.

Ivy, perhaps emboldened by her potentially imminent departure to America, spoke first. "Mrs. Hughes, Mrs. Patmore, we're awfully sorry for…for…"

"For causing a ruckus to bring the house down?" Beryl Patmore interjected. Elsie avoided catching her eye, as she wasn't sure she'd be able to keep a straight face if she did.

"I suppose so, Mrs. Patmore," Ivy responded, casting her eyes downward. Daisy's nervous gaze hopped from her compatriot to her supervisor to the housekeeper.

"Yes, well," Elsie cleared her throat. "I believe we all had a delightful time by the sea today – yesterday, rather, at this late hour – and I'll not chide you too thoroughly, girls, for enjoying yourselves. But I do suggest you keep it down, and retire within the hour," she finished her sentence with a tone that left no doubt it was an order rather than a suggestion.

"You'll not hear us again, Mrs. Hughes," Daisy spoke up. "We were…overexcited by the day, I think. The sea is so lovely." She smiled broadly, and put her hand on Ivy's shoulder. The other girl looked up at last. "And Ivy's going on a great adventure, to America!"

"Indeed she is, and she'll need all of her energy for the trip. So mind Mrs. Hughes, the lot of you, and off to bed before much longer," Mrs. Patmore huffed, but Elsie knew it for what it was: bluster. The cook had told her of the offer that Mr. Levinson's valet, young Ethan, had made to Daisy, and that it wasn't an offer solely related to employment in New York. That Daisy had turned him down, but had been thrilled to be asked. She understood that, somehow.

After a chorus of subdued good-nights, the two older women left the younger to themselves, heading back to their own solitary sleeping arrangements. They'd just reached Elsie's doorway when they heard hushed giggles again.

"Can't help themselves, can then?" Mrs. Patmore shook her head.

At that, Elsie could no longer help herself. She started giggling too. Beryl Patmore eyed her, clearly holding back her own laughter. "You're hardly better than the lot of them, Mrs. Hughes."

"Bite your tongue, Mrs. Patmore," she dried her eyes, caught her breath. "It was a rather nice outing, though, wasn't it?" She was completely calm now. Well, not completely, not inside herself: her heart dipped and soared in her chest, thinking of the waves on her ankles, the sensual feeling of the sand between her toes, and his hand in hers.

"'Twas, Mrs. Hughes, and a sight more relaxing than a wax museum, I always find those quite off-putting, meself," Mrs. Patmore replied. "Or the Crystal Palace, lord help and save us." Her eyes were twinkling.

"I suppose, then, it was lucky Mr. Carson saw sense," Elsie replied, the laughter threatening again, her cheeks flushing hot.

"Oh, ho, 'saw sense', is that the story we're telling then?"

"Well, how else should I put it? He was finally inspired to move in the right direction for the outing?"

"Yeah, I wondered about that, actually, Mrs. Hughes. How, in the end, was inspiration managed?" Beryl had a questioning look on her face. "I know you to be a miracle worker of sorts, but I wasn't sure you'd be able to get him sorted in time."

Elsie paused, suddenly realizing what she would be admitting if she spoke further on the matter. Because…because she and Beryl Patmore weren't girls, giggling over American valets and young men in swimming trunks by the seaside, drunk with the freedom of a full day of leisure. Oh, no. And Mr. Carson wasn't a young man she hardly knew or a handsome stranger on the beach, never to be seen again. No…no. He was her friend. No, he was their friend, and her…something. They all supported each other, understood each other, after all of these years, even if…even if…no two points in their particular triangle of camaraderie interacted in quite the same fashion.

She realized too late that she'd been silent for far too long.

"Daydreaming about the surf on your toes, Mrs. Hughes?"

"Hardly, Mrs. Patmore. If you must know the truth, it was a postcard," admitting felt…significant, in some way. As if, after saying it, she could only move forward, towards something, though she wasn't sure exactly what, or even why she felt that way.

But Beryl Patmore was waiting for an explanation, in the meantime.

"A few days ago, I had Anna buy one of those color picture postcards of Brighton, when she was out running errands for Lady Mary. I pinned it on Mr. Carson's board that evening, and hoped for the best," she shrugged, and listened to herself telling the truth, certainly.

No one could accuse her of lying about it. But there was so much she wasn't saying, about positioning it just right, so the vibrant beach scene would catch his attention, at the proper height. How she wondered if, when all was said and done, if it would work, or if she'd have to verbally cajole him into the sea outing, or let it go…and watch as the entirety of the staff slog through a tour of the Crystal Palace. And that, as she stood on tiptoe, securing the card, at his eye-height, her mind and body had flitted towards reaching up towards the man himself, securing her hand on his hairline.

She'd pinned more than the postcard on that board, earlier this week, and she wasn't foolish enough to ignore that.

Beryl Patmore was looking at her contemplatively. "Yeh didn't say a word to him about changin' his plans? 'Twas just the card, then?"

"Well, he did ask me the next day what I thought of the idea and –"

"What you thought of your own idea," Beryl Patmore's face was that of someone thoroughly and deeply amused.

Elsie sighed, rolled her eyes. "Well, yes, my idea, but the rest of you wanted to go seaside as well, don't even try to deny it."

"Ahhh, but it wasn't up to any of us to suggest it, Mrs. Hughes," the cook looked ready to explode with mirth and mischief.

"'Twasn't up to me, either, Mrs. Patmore, which is why I didn't suggest it, not really," she replied, only slightly exasperated. The conversation now felt more like their usual teasing about Downton's butler, nothing more serious than that, and it felt safer this way.

"Not in so many words, no, yeh didn't," Beryl's face now took on that solemn look again. She reached out, patted Elsie's hand, which startled her slightly. "But…but ye knew, ye knew, exactly how to make him think of it, let him think it was all his idea."

"I didn't know, not exactly," she responded. She hadn't. She didn't. It was…luck. Intuition? Knowing someone so well for so long, she supposed. Paying him attention.

"Well, I do know, exactly, but never mind that. We best be off to bed, but I thank you, Mrs. Hughes, for the restful day at the seaside. I personally can't think of a more pleasant day, start to finish, in quite a long time," she paused, and now her face looked rather serious. "And, I believe, Mr. Carson would say the same, were he a'standin' here. He seemed to enjoy himself thoroughly, wading through the waves."

Elsie waited for the teasing lilt to enter her friend's voice, or a sly joke, or the giggling to bubble up. But it didn't happen. Beryl was looking at her quite sincerely, earnestly, almost. As if she wished, but didn't dare, to say more.

"I'll not disagree with that, Mrs. Patmore. But we both know what tomorrow'll be like if we don't get some rest," she placed her hand over her friend's, patted it.

"Yeh talk sense, you do," she squeezed Elsie's hand, then let go of it. "I'll say good night, then, Mrs. Hughes." She walked the ten feet or so to the door of her own room, put her hand on the doorknob, looked right at her. "It was a really good day, Mrs. Hughes, for everyone. For you. For Mr. Carson. For the pair of you. And now, this is me, saying good night, for good." And she went into her room with such speed, Elsie was left in the hallway, frowning with consternation.

After a few moments, she went into her own room, got into bed. Disrobed, turned down the lights. Climbed in, pressed her cheek against the cool pillowcase. Thought again of the sand, gritty and warm, then cold and clinging, on her feet. The salt sting of the surf. Of offering him her hand. There was teasing in the offer, but the joke ended for her the minute his hand had grasped hers.

They'd waded out a dozen, fifteen, twenty feet into the surf, and she'd pressed his hand firmly when he seemed to be a bit wobbly. Not that it made any sense; if he were to topple, they were both going to topple, together. They had stood there, for a long while, sometimes, talking. But often, not. She never once, not for a moment, forgot that their bodies were linked, or got tired of the sensation of his fingers closed around hers, his much larger palm pressed warmly to hers.

And when they reached dry sand and he opened his hand (rather reluctantly, she felt), severing the connection, she felt, momentarily, as if she'd lost something, that something really lovely was ending.

Now, she wondered, for the first time, if it was just beginning.