Chapter 18 – On the Stairs
New Year's Eve, 1928
A/N: This chapter starts a little before midnight, the next chapter, just following this one. I hope you'll forgive me, I've broken my own rules!
~CeeCee
Elsie took the stairs at a steady but slower pace than she was usually wont to; her illness in the fall had left her weaker, slower, than she liked, for longer than she liked. She tried to resist the urge to full-throttle, most of the time, at the insistence of Charlie's watchful eye and her own good sense, but the holidays at Downton didn't really allow one to stop, not completely, so slow and steady, it would have to be.
She was nearly at the top, ready to push her way back into the Great Hall, into the midst of the glittering, extravagant cocktail party currently in full-swing above her. The guests were enjoying themselves enormously, despite Lady Grantham's concern earlier this evening.
"Mrs. Hughes," she had breathed as she passed by, nodding for her husband to move towards the dining room without her, one of a rather large dinner party, especially these days at Downton: Lady Edith was visiting, for the first time since her marriage, along with her husband, the Marquess of Hexam (whom, no matter what she said aloud, Elsie would always thing of as "Lady Edith's lad". It seemed to suit him far better than his official title). And nearly everyone who'd been in attendance at the couple's wedding three years prior had joined them here for the winter holidays.
It was grand, in nearly every aspect of the word; a party that reminded her of the grandeur of the '90s, with the slickness of the new quarter-century layered on top. Everything still gleamed and sparkled, even if the ladies' dresses showed their calves, and their haircuts curved in smooth lines around their ears.
"Yes, m'lady?" Elise appreciated, perhaps even admired, Cora Crawley, for her diplomacy, her genteelness, but mostly for the steel that lay deep inside of her. This was a woman who did not buckle when life became difficult: nae, she'd lost a child, had battled with death herself ten years ago, had developed herself as a separate person, not just the wife of the Earl of Grantham and the mistress of Downton.
"I have wonderful expectations for this evening," she began. "And I know how hard you, Mr. Barrow, Mrs. Harkness and the rest of the staff have worked to make it so splendid. And I do so appreciate Mr. Carson putting in the extra time he has this week to assist Mr. Barrow, as necessary. What I need, tonight, Mrs. Hughes, is an extra pair of ears and eyes," she paused, and locked her gaze with Elsie's.
She finally continued. "There are…many toes that need to avoid being stepped on, if you understand my meaning?" Cora Crawley was nearly as much of an expert at the pointed eyebrow arch as Charlie, though, of course, her employer's version had a slightly different effect on her.
"I understand, m'lady, it will be well-handled," she nodded, then allowed the smallest bit of a grin to creep onto her face. She'd gotten bold in her old age, she supposed. "Dinner will be attended by both a Marquess and a newspaper editor. I suppose, frankly, m'lady, that sums our evening rather perfectly, don't you think?"
Cora Crawley's still-lovely face gathered into something that was approaching mischief. "Not just a newspaper editor, Mrs. Hughes," she retorted. "An attractive, female one, practically engaged to my son-in-law." And Elsie was nearly certain they both would have shared a quiet giggle together over that, had Robert Crawley's plaintive cry that his wife join them in the dining room, where could she possible have gotten to?
Elsie grinned, now, at the thought of it. She'd made a promise and intended to do one more sweep of the Great Hall before the clock struck twelve, on the last year of this decade. She was three stairs short of the top, when it swung open, and the most unlikely pair of figures greeted her:
"Mrs. Hughes!" The sisters Crawley, as they had been, sung out her name in a chorus, both of them smiling down at her, in the modern satin sheath dresses Elsie secretly thought were quite fetching, Lady Mary's the deepest crimson velvet, and Lady Edith's a smoky blue studded with hundreds of tiny gems.
"Lady Mary, Lady Edith," she answered, trying mightily not to laugh. Both of the women were flushed, likely from the warmth of the celebrating crowd just beyond the door and from an unknown quantity of champagne.
"We've been found out already, Edith," Mary deadpanned. "I thought we'd at least make it down the stairs."
"Oh, pssht, Mary," Edith's voice wasn't full of the irritation so frequently present when she spoke her sister's name, but rather cheerful confidence. "Mrs. Hughes is an accomplice from long times past, aren't you, Mrs. Hughes?"
"I suppose it's true, Edith. You are a plotter, aren't you Mrs. Hughes?"
"Only when absolutely necessary, m'lady," Elsie replied crisply, tucking her confusion and amusement away for later. She'd never seen the sisters so playful with each other.
The ladies had no similar qualms about hiding their mirth: they both broke into tinkling laughter, swaying on the top step. To Elsie's further surprise, Edith reached out and steadied herself by grasping Mary's elbow.
"What can I do you for you both, m'ladies?"
"Edith was getting rather maudlin out there, insisting on seeing the downstairs," Mary replied, her voice steady and dry again, as usual. But the bite was missing from her comment. The words came out as a gentle nudge, rather than a character assassination.
"Don't be rude, Mary," Edith let go of her sister's arm, but again – Elsie didn't hear any teeth in her tone. Now, she looked at Elsie, spoke earnestly, "Mrs. Hughes, I know it's nearly midnight and there's much to be done in the next hour or so, but…I didn't realize how homesick for Downton I was, for all of it, until this visit. And now that Peter's here, I realize, he'll never know this place as home. Oh, I know, Marigold won't really remember living here, she was so young, but it feels different. Brancaster will be his home," Edith finished, shrugged her pale shoulders, looking mildly embarrassed.
The Pelhams had a new baby boy, named after the previous Marquess of Hexam, who was, to the best of Elsie's knowledge, upstairs in the nursery, fast asleep among his cousins. Or, perhaps more likely, given the very young age of the wee babe, his nanny was doing her best to ensure he didn't wake his cousins.
"Perfectly reasonable, m'lady," Elsie's voice was steady, but her heat wobbled a little. She was, in fact, a bit surprised by Edith's sentimentality, especially given her historical status at Downton. Oh, not just the literal; she was "Lady Edith" still, in her role as marchioness, but at Hexam, she was also a beloved wife and mother. No one's second best, or last resort. Elsie looked at the younger woman, and realized she no longer felt sorry for her. "Let me bring you down then. You shan't mind, I hope, that the servants' hall is rather rowdy at the moment."
She retreated back down the stairs, from whence she had just come, throwing a glance at the ladies behind her. Mary reached one satin-encased hand out to her sister as each braced herself and the other on the way to the final landing. Elsie turned to wait for them, and was struck: they were walking together, both a bit wobbly, but supporting each other.
"Thank you, Mrs. Hughes, for allowing us to intrude like this," Edith looked as if she might get weepy.
"Gather yourself together, Edith, or I'll change my mind about the whole thing," Mary responded, rolled her eyes, huffed, and started down the hall in front of them.
Edith glanced over at Elsie, raised her hands up, then let them drop to her side. Raised her eyes heavenward. Then followed her sister towards the music and merriment enticing them from the servants' hall.
Something change, yes, and for the good. And some things don't. Elsie grinned, and hurried after them.