Chapter 16 – By Another Name

A/N: I realized after I wrote the first part of this chapter, it was in the present tense (the rest of this story is in the past tense, well mostly, or past perfect). I went to change it, then realized it added to the muddled, dreamlike quality of her fever state. So I kept it.

This was actually supposed to be one chapter, from her perspective, then from his, but I've decided to split them. The next chapter will be Charles arriving back home.

~CeeCee

Early Fall, 1928

She's not aware of much at first, only that her entire body pulses with one giant, throbbing ache and that she's hot, no, she's burning up, she can nearly feel her skin blistering and peeling away, blowing away from her. She tries to sit up, to snatch the leaf-like pieces of herself floating in the air above, but that won't do, no, not at all.

She can't move, not a bit. It's as if something dense and terribly cumbersome has been thrown over her chest and arms, and is pressing her into the bed she lays upon. She gasps, tries to fill her struggling lungs with air. Very little seems to reach them, and she makes a feeble sound that feels like a scream inside her head.

A face swims into view, one that is almost familiar, a man with fair hair and a moustache; then she closes her eyes, briefly, she thinks, trying to slip away from both the heat and the pressure that seems determined to take her.

Then Becky is there, and says to her softly, "There, there, the doctor says the worst is past…" And it's Becky, she's sure of it, but Becky's voice was never that precise, or clear, and Becky's hair was dark brown, not ashy blond, and Becky's dead, with the angels, as Mam would say, isn't she?

And where's Charlie? Charlie, where are you? Why is Becky here? Why is the stove so hot, shouldn't we move the bed away from it, lest it catch fire, and we're burned up whilst we sleep?

She opens her eyes again, and everything is very dim, and someone is placing a cool, wet rag on her forehead, someone with small, strong hands, and the woman speaks, "He'll be back soon, we sent him to rest, he was fallin' asleep on his feet, no good to you, hisself or anyone, the state he was in…" and Elsie turns her head towards the woman's voice, which she recognizes, because it's her sister's voice, isn't it? The sounds of the voice makes her feel better, calmer, anyway.

Her eyes catch on the room's wallpaper, which is a distinct fleur-de-lis pattern, dark red on a lighter background. It's her wallpaper, in her bedroom, the one she shares with her husband…but, as she stares, it ripples back and forth, almost like waves. Much to her surprise, some of the curled patterns come tumbling off, crashing to the floor. She turns her head, with difficulty, to Becky, says, "Be careful of the wallpaper, now, sweep those up, we can't have a mess in here…"

Becky smiles and nods, and makes soothing sounds, and now she is older than she was before, and her hair is faded red, and curly around her face. "I'll take care of it all, don't worry, just rest."

And so, Elsie does. She drifts off, and Becky follows her down into the overheated darkness, murmuring just softly enough she cannot make out the words. She can hear Charlie's voice, very far away, humming a tune, as he so often does, whilst he's working on a small task around the cottage, or reading the paper. Eventually, it all fades away, and there's nothing, for a little while, and that's good...

...because when she came out of the nothing, the tremendous heat eating up her body had burned itself out. She felt spent, wrung out, like an overused dishcloth, but the pressure from her chest had lifted, and she inhaled like a child about to dive into a swimming hole on a warm summer day. It felt wonderful.

She opened her eyes. It was a little brighter than the last few times she remembered, though it is still certainly hours before dawn. She looked over at the wall, thinking. Something tickled at the corner of her mind, telling someone to get a broom to clean up the mess the wallpaper was making…

She shook her head, tried to push herself up. Her arms supported her, but just, and she was glad for the support of the headboard behind her. She was about to call out for someone; she had a raging thirst and would do just about anything for a cuppa at the moment.

Then Beryl Mason appeared in the doorway, carrying just that, with the faraway look of someone who thought she was on her own, in the ways that matter.

"That tea smells grand," Elsie said. Her voice shocked her. It was deep and rusty, crusted over with whatever illness had taken her away from the world for a few days.

"Lord have mercy," Beryl gasped, nearly losing the teacup. "Heavens, it's good to see you bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, but you nearly stopped my heart, Mrs. Hughes." Once she got over her fright, her friend stood and grinned down at her. "You gave us all quite a scare, no one more than Mr. Carson, I'll tell you, I was about to ask Dr. Clarkson if he could give him something to force him to sleep –"

"Where is Charlie?"

"He's at the farm, sleepin', I hope. I insisted, Albert insisted, Anna, who was here yesterday, insisted, tried to take him home with her, but he refused. I thought she was gonna sic Mr. Bates on him, but he listened to sense late yesterday afternoon. He'll be glad to see you this morning, though," Beryl's grin widened, and she handed her the tea.

"But this is yours," she took it, shaking her head.

"Take it, I'll make another," Beryl retorted, left briefly. Elsie inhaled the smell of the milky tea, relished the taste of it.

Her friend returned with another cup and a small plate of digestives. "Do you think you could handle one of these?" And before Elsie can say anything, the strangest, sweetest thing happens: Beryl presses the back of her work-worn hand to Elsie's sweaty but cool forehead.

"Fever's really gone," Beryl stated triumphantly, sat on the armchair beside the bed. "We were worried, though the doc said the worst was over after the first day or so."

"How long has it been? What day is it?" She was startled. She tried to think of the last thing she clearly remembered. Teatime at Downton, Sunday afternoon. Telling Thomas Barrow she'd be leaving early, she wasn't feeling herself. Waving away his suggestion that someone walk her home, or, worse, drive her there. Then getting to cottage, and waving away Charlie's concerned exclamations over her warm forehead, his eyebrows furrowed.

"Nearly Thursday morning," Beryl responded, sipping her tea and munching a biscuit. She's generally looking quite cheery, which told Elsie how bad she must have been up until now.

"Thursday?!" It was all she could manage. She's never been this unwell in her adult life, and it's shocking to her she'd lost three full days, almost completely, in her fevered haze, though it shouldn't. Hadn't she seen what the influenza did to so many, a decade ago? She felt a rush of gratitude that she'd not been pulled down, permanently, into the heated darkness of this illness, whatever it may have been.

"Never mind that, Mrs. Hughes, you're back, aren't you?" Beryl responded, taking another biscuit, and handing another to Elsie. "And Albert and Mr. Carson will be here by six, after Albert's had the chance to feed the animals, maybe sooner, if Andy's on top of things."

Her heart leapt with happiness at seeing Charlie shortly. "What time is it now, Mrs. Patmore?"

"Nearly four, I think," she squinted at the wall clock, nodded. "You look like you'd manage a soft egg, I think, and maybe a slice of toast? And another cuppa, I'm sure." She got up, walked towards the door, taking both of their teacups with her.

"That sounds wonderful, in fact," she answered, the stirrings of hunger awakening in her stomach. "I thank you, Mrs. Patmore, for everything you've done for me, for Mr. Carson."

"Anytime, Mrs. Hughes. Who else ought to be here when yeh're talkin' 'bout the wallpaper crashin' down, making a mess?" Her friend's face wore a look she knew well: two parts, good humor, one part, mischief. And Elsie remembered the brief, matter-of-fact brush of the other woman's hand across her forehead, and decided something.

"These are the facts, Mrs. Patmore, not to mention, ye've likely not seen your own home for at least two days, to sit watch by my sickbed and give my husband the rest he certainly needed," she paused, wondering why she felt, well, almost shy about what she was going to say next. "And, further, that 'Mrs. Hughes' and 'Mrs. Patmore' don't even exist anymore, what do you say to using our Christian names, at this late stage in our lives…and our friendship? It might take us a bit of time, perhaps, but I think we could learn. What do you say, Beryl?"

"Well, I say Mrs. – I mean, Elsie – yeh're probably right, and we old dogs can still learn a new trick or two. Now, I best be making those eggs, before you collapse," her friend bustled out to make their very early breakfast, and Elsie was nearly certain she saw tears sparking in her eyes. She felt them in her own, too.