Chapter 6 – Future Investment

Spring 1924

He leaned against the bed headboard, thinking over the day. Though he was initially quite skeptical (and, very well, he could admit it now, to himself; he'd also been a bit dismissive of it, also) of Beryl Patmore's scheme to invest her inheritance in a rental property, seeing it today – well, he had to admit, the idea had merit, and she'd clearly put a lot of thought into it.

The cook hadn't merely found a house she liked the look of, or that she could afford, but really had weighed necessary considerations, including not only the years immediately after her retirement, but well into the future. It would certainly take a lot of work, both organizational and plain old elbow grease, but Mrs. Patmore seemed enthusiastic and determined. He thought of how animated the small red-haired woman had been, explaining it all to the two of them over lunch, once she'd told the seller she wanted to move forward on the property.

And as the server cleared their dishes and brought them tea and biscuits, he'd settled back, musing, something that couldn't quite be called an idea yet tickling at the back of his mind, tugging at his heart. He'd sat in near-silence, listened to the women continue to talk about renovations, and decorating, and stocking larders. He noticed Elsie Hughes noticing his reticence, raising her eyebrow at him a few times, questioning. He'd just grinned a little at her each time she caught his eye, raising his own eyebrows in response. She shook her head at him after several rounds of this, everything in her gaze suggesting I'll figure out what's on your mind soon enough, Mr. Carson.

And he was sure of that, to be honest. Because now the vague, tugging sensation he'd felt during their midday meal had coalesced into plan, of sorts: although she'd dismissed his off-the-cuff inquiry about retirement when they were inspecting the house, he knew she must be thinking on it, as he himself had, just recently. What did the rest of his life look like? What was he, what would he be, when he was no longer formally attached to Downton?

The idea of being untethered from this house frightened him. But aging and death were something that came to everyone, no matter how one felt about it. He had time left; he still felt strong and healthy and industrious, nearly as much as he ever had. However, he couldn't be the butler at Downton interminably. What shape would his life take, once he was no longer defined by his profession? What shape did he want it to take?

He opened the small drawer of his nightstand. Rummaged around until his fingers found what he was searching for. He pulled out the gaily colored postcard, with its jolly beach scene, stared down at it. Thought of that day, nearly a year ago. Thought of taking her hand, being cajoled, gently, by her, into the surf. He'd never forget that day, because it was when he realized, he wanted something more from her than what they already shared. No, not dreams or vague fantasies: something real. To be able to stand with her, at anytime, anywhere, with his much larger hand folded over hers.

And somehow, today, of all days – seeing their friend plan clearly for the time when her time at Downton would end, seizing upon the opportunity that chance or luck or life had given her – an unexpected inheritance, a small legacy. What was his legacy? What had life and its whims and circumstances, thus far, given to him, unrequested, but wanted, needed, nonetheless?

The answer, of course, was Elsie Hughes.

And, taking Beryl Patmore as a fine example, he intended not to squander what he'd been given, But to actively pursue its value. There was only so much luck in life – the rest required hard work and planning. He was up to the task. He brushed his fingers lightly over the postcard, tucked it away again. Dimmed his light and lay down.

Tomorrow, he would begin his planning, in earnest.

oooOOOooo

Spring 1924 – The Next Evening

She stared at her reflection in the vanity, carefully unpinning her hair. She worked her fingers through it absently, unraveling the twists and curls of it, pulling it free to her shoulders. She reached for her brush, began rhythmically unknotting her tresses. Tried very hard to ignore the voice inside of her, clamoring for her attention.

Exactly what are you doing, ye daft woman? What sort of game are ye playing? Investment property? Rather difficult to invest without any money, Elsie. Impossible, really.

She sighed, brushed harder, enough that it hurt a little. Oh, when he'd come in to her office, looking so dear to her in his nervousness and hesitance, and presented the suggestion to her, she had felt warm, flattered, happy. And she still felt those things. Because this wasn't about an investment property, not really, not at all, in the end. It was about…linking the two of them together. Linking their lives together. Their future.

She'd waved him out of the room, sending him to ring the gong. But he'd come back, later in the day, refreshing the idea with her. And she'd agreed, nodded, said all of the right things at the appropriate times. Played along with the pretense. Except now it was late, and she was unraveling the truth of her heart the same way she was unraveling her hair, and the truth was something she could no longer ignore:

When he walked into her office that morning, before he'd begun speaking, she thought he was going to propose to her.

Now she put the brush down, stared at her reflection, her loose hair gathered around her shoulders like sable cloud.

"Ye wanted him to," she said out loud to the woman in the mirror. "'Twasn't just that you thought he was going to; you wanted him to." She shivered a little, her stomach fluttered. "You're in love with him, ye daft woman." She clapped her hands instinctively over her mouth, as if she could push the sentiment back inside, tuck it back down to where it usually lived, in the darkest, warmest corner of her heart. It felt dangerous and reckless and irresponsible to name it out loud, to admit it, in so many words, even if it was only to herself in her lonely room.

For so long, she'd honestly been content with the unusual and robust nature of their friendship; she wasn't a fool about it. Long ago, she realized the texture and shape of it were far different than her other significant friendship at Downton, with Beryl Patmore. She knew she loved Charles Carson, had loved him, for quite a long time. And, for quite a long time, that had been the long and short of it; there was no consideration of anything else, of changing anything about themselves or their lives, their careers at Downton. No; in fact, the structure and constraints of life at the Abbey had been very welcome to her, at times.

Her mind flashed back to standing in the frothy surf, water swirling at her ankles, her toes squishing and squeezing in the mud, his hand wrapped firmly around hers. What had prompted her, possessed her, at that moment, to speak, to tease, to flirt? And when had it changed, exactly, into something else, something more?

She didn't know, and her mind jumped forward, away from that day at the beach, to some of the days, weeks and months since. There had been so many things that had happened since that calm, lovely seaside respite, for so many who lived under this roof, stressful, sorrowful things, most recently the news of Mr. Gregson's untimely death. Sadness and stress and pain and fear and, yes, life and death – Elsie had been made privy to many of them, by those bearing the burdens of them, tried to lessen their loads.

It felt like a weakness, to her, in a way, wanting, no, needing his love. And…he loved her too. Yes, she knew of course, they had both loved each other for quite some time now, but it had been…contained, somehow. Safe. But then, all spring, him frowning down his nose at her, one moment, biting her head off about the war memorial, the next, a plaintive, puppyish look on his face, pleading for reconciliation. Making her want to tidy herself up, look her best. Making her feel like a young girl, being courted.

Except.

She gazed at herself again in the mirror. Over sixty years on this Earth, and her face, her mind, her heart, her spirit, attested to those years. She pulled her fingers through the waves of her hair again, imagined him doing the same. Shivered again. She wasn't a young girl, no. She was a woman, and the truth was, she was scared. No, terrified.

He didn't know everything, no. He didn't know of Becky, of her poverty. Of her inability to play this game they'd been playing for a long time now, each upping the stakes, instinctively, naturally, when the rules became too restrictive or to complicated or impossible to follow, or when the nature of how they cared about each other became too big to contain.

The real investment he came to her with, she was sure, was that of his heart, of his love. But he didn't say, couldn't say, at least, not yet. She could only go along with the house-hunting, to be sure, for a certain amount of time. Then reality would out her. She'd be completely exposed to him, her heart and her foibles.

And then she'd know, at last, what the rest of her life looked like. As she finally began plaiting her wild mane, she fervently hoped it looked like him, like them, together.