February 1927
Yew Tree Farm
A/N: In AHoM, Becky dies in November 1926. So, at this point, Elsie is still deeply grieving her sister. ~CeeCee
"That should do it, then, Daisy, don't you think?" Elsie wiped her damp hands on a kitchen towel, twisted her neck a little, to work out that tight spot that'd irritated her most of her life, and still did. She smiled at the assistant cook, who might, in the next few months, become Downton's head cook, or help run the business side of this very farm, or continue her studies, or teach, or do any of a myriad of things as yet to be determined. She and Andy were marrying later this year, 'twas true, but Andrew Parker struck Elsie as a rather modern young man of the world, especially as it pertained to a woman's place in it.
"I think we've cleaned it up as well as Mrs. Patmore – Mrs. Mason – would have, Mrs. Hughes," Daisy interrupted herself as she gave the countertop one last rub with a rag. She looked stricken for a moment, as she stared around the gleaming kitchen, which they had scrubbed top to bottom, like the rest of the farmhouse, adding thoughtful little touches, like a bowlful of apples from the fall stores and new bundles of dried herbs on hooks on the wall above the cutting board.
The two of them, along with Anna, whom Elsie had shooed out the door a few hours ago, were freshening the little homestead up for the Masons, who would be returning tomorrow morning from a brief post-wedding trip to a little inn in York. Anna had made up the master bedroom with new linens and vases of winter and evergreens boughs, brightening the small sitting room with a few new pillows, a soft throw blanket over the old rocking chair in the corner, and, finally, setting up the gramophone, which Lady Rose seemed to have deemed the ideal wedding gift. Elsie couldn't say she was wrong.
The Masons had been so modest in their travel plans, Elsie was loath to call the jaunt a "honeymoon," though a full three days off was certainly a treat for both of them, she was sure. Her mind had wandered to her friend often enough since bidding the newly-married Beryl and Albert Mason farewell, wondering how the new bride was navigating all of the very strange, embarrassing and wonderful things of those initial hours and days of married life.
And all of the preparation for their return seemed to have registered to Daisy all at once. "It just hit me, like a tonna o'bricks. Mrs. Patmore is also Mrs. Mason. There's two of us now." She glanced over at Elsie, wide-eyed.
"Aye, but just for these few short months, Daisy. Then you'll be Mrs. Parker, and it'll all get cleared up," Elsie replied, smiling to herself. There were many people in her life that would think of her always as 'Mrs. Hughes', Daisy included. This modern world didn't change everything, not yet, at least.
"Ah, Mrs. Hughes, Andy a rather good sort of person, isn't he? Certain things about him, remind me of William, they do. A…kindness, a gentleness," she paused, grinning a little, then her face softened, her smile wilting a bit. "I…I think William would have liked Andy, don't you think, Mrs. Hughes? I think they might have been friends, if they'd been at Downton together…" she trailed off.
Elsie reached out, squeezed Daisy's shoulder. "I've no doubt of it, Daisy. They're cut from similar cloth, the two of them," she paused, then said gently, "And there's nothing to feel bad about, that you fancy Andy in a different way than you cared for William. There's no one right way to love a person." Elsie was startled to see that the younger woman was near tears. She always understood that Daisy carried around a load of guilt with William's name on it, but she had hoped, in the near-decade since his death, it had lessened, at least a little.
Daisy wiped at her eyes with the corner of her apron. "I've not felt sad about William in ages, really. But somethin' about…about everything, about Mr. Mason and Mrs. Patmore, and sayin' 'yes' to Andy, well…well it feels a little like I'm takin' over William's life, Mrs. Hughes. His dad, Andy thinkin' of trying his hand at farming, here, well, it doesn't seem fair, is all."
"Nae, it isn't fair, a'tall, and it's not your business to try make it so," Elsie said briskly, though her heart squeezed in her chest with her own sorrow over the loss of a young man who'd only been good, through and through. "William, Lady Sybil, Mr. Crawley, Miss Swire – all of them far too young to have been lost to us, to the people that loved them, but we must carry on. And…I told Mrs. Patmore – Mason, that is – something similar not too long ago: the four of you on this farm, together, as a family, well. I don't suppose it's fair, exactly, Daisy, but, to me, it feels right, it feels good. So, my dear, cry if you feel you must, but there's no need in the world to feel guilty," she finished, and the young woman did begin crying, in earnest, and Elsie took her in arms, as she did the night that Sybil Crawley had died.
"There we are, let it out, it'll feel better out than in," she pressed Daisy's hot, tear-streaked face to her shoulder, and she sobbed harder, as if she had just been waiting for permission to do so. Elsie was glad she'd given it to her, more or less.
She heard footsteps, and looked up over Daisy's shoulder, into the archway leading from the kitchen. Charlie stood there, snow dusting his overcoat, alongside Andrew's lankier frame. The men exchanged glances then looked towards her. She shook her head ever so slightly at them, craned her neck. Hoping they would understand. Or, at least, her husband would. They'd communicated without words so often in the past three and a half decades, she felt nearly positive about it.
Charlie's brow knitted together, then went slack with understanding. He pulled Andy from the doorway, quietly, then walked out of sight. Elsie started counting to herself and got well past sixty before she heard the front door slam with dramatic gusto. Daisy started, whispered,
"Mrs. Hughes, that'll be Mr. Carson and Andy, and I'm a fright!"
"Hurry into the washroom with you, then, and I'll tell them you'll be on your way in a few moments," she responded.
"Good evening, Mrs. Hughes, we're here to escort you ladies home," Andy's voice, stilted with false gaiety, startled her, and she spun around.
"Why thank you, Andrew. Mr. Carson, would you grab my coat for me? By looks of you two, I'll be happy for it, on a night like tonight."
oooOOOooo
"Do you suppose it's proper for them to walk back to Downton, alone together, at this time of night?" Charlie looked after the retreated figures of the younger couple, as they head towards the grand house in the swirling snow, in the opposite direction of the Carson's cottage.
"Goodness, Charlie, I don't suppose they'll stop for very long, if they stop at all," she responded, took his arm and tugged him gently in the direction of home. "And if they do stop for a moment or two, to warm up in this cold, what of it? They'll be married come May, and even you got to walk your girl to the corner, in the long-forgotten golden days of yore," she rolled her eyes, laughed a little.
He glanced at her sideways. "You're awfully impertinent, you know, Elsie."
"And you're awfully curmudgeonly, Charlie," she retorted. "It's a wonder we get on so well."
He stopped short, surprising her a little; they were still a five minutes' walk from the cottage. He slipped his arm around her waist, leaned over, and kissed her. She was so startled at first, she simply let herself be kissed for a few moments; then she put her arms around his neck and kissed him back, quite thoroughly.
"What was that about?" She finally breathed.
"Now who's curmudgeonly?" He responded, tucking her hand back into the crook of his arm. "Perhaps I, too, wanted to warm up in this cold."
"Now who's impertinent?" She replied, really laughing this time.
"It does my heart good to hear you laugh like that, Elsie," he answered, and sighed. The memory of Becky hovered in the snowy air between them.
"It feels good to laugh, a little, like that, Charlie," she answered, grinned up at him. "Thank goodness for my old curmudgeon." Becky was still a bruised, tender spot on her heart, only just beginning to heal, but she was healing.
They arrived at their little house and he helped her off with her coat and hat, brushing the melting snow off of them with the care and attention ingrained in him after decades of service. They readied themselves for sleep in companionable silence, until she sat on the edge of the bed, plaiting her hair. He was already tucked under the duvet, and he leaned forward, untwining the braid with his palsied hand, resting it lightly against the side of her neck.
"What was bothering Daisy?"
"William," she said simply, and was surprised to find herself swallowing tears. She wasn't sure if they had William's name on them, or Becky's. "She thought it was all a bit unfair, the way things turned out, that she's going to live with his father, a new husband, on the family farm..." She lay down, and he followed suit, tucking her into him, like spoons in a drawer.
"I know…I know it never sat right with her, not completely, being a war widow," he said softly. She rolled over to face him.
"And I know, it didn't set entirely right with you either," she replied. "But it's what that boy wanted, Charlie. 'Twasn't Daisy's doing at all, other than being a bit flighty and, at the time, have particularly terrible taste in men."
"He was a thoughtful, gentle lad, for certain," he responded, stroking her cheek. "I remember finding you, by the piano, not long after he died. You told me…you told me that something William said to you, when you were considering Joe Burns, helped decide you. Convinced you to stay, at Downton. Therefore, I am indebted to his memory, forever."
"I stayed for quite a few reasons, but aye, William did manage to say just about the right thing at the right time to me, certainly," she smiled a little at him, thinking, grew somber. "I remember…feeling so angry about his death, Charlie. It just seemed so utterly pointless. Such a waste. And it was, it is, but, well – look at Beryl, and Mr. Mason, and Daisy and Andy."
"A farmer, two cooks and a footman," he intoned. "I suppose you'd call that a 'modern family', Elsie?"
"Mayhaps, I would, at that," she answered, snuggling a little closer to her husband, listening to the wind sing around their cozy little cottage, which felt more like home after a year and half than Downton ever did, after decades. "But what I'd really call it is just good, and right. Like this."