A/N: This is the first fic I've written for anything in a little while, and my first Downton fic for months, so please excuse me if I'm a little rusty! This is just a one-shot set after Sybil's funeral, in which Charles and Elsie (referred to in here as Mr Carson and Mrs Hughes because I think it helps me retain the characters better) have some time to reflect on things. There is, of course, fluff! Enjoy, and please leave a review if you have time L x
After everyone else had gone to bed, tired and drained from grief, Mrs Hughes sank wearily onto the sofa in her sitting room and waited for Mr Carson's knock at the door. She knew for sure that he would come tonight; he had said earlier that he would and that he intended to bring some wine with him, so they could toast one last time to Lady Sybil. As she waited, she fiddled absentmindedly with a button that she had kept on her person throughout the day, squeezing it tightly in her pocket during the funeral. It was a silly thing, really – not long before her untimely death, one of the maids had been sewing buttons onto Sybil's favourite coat, and had dropped a button in the process. Mrs Hughes had found it the next day, after the coat had been returned, and had put it on her desk with the intention of replacing it in the button box when she got round to it. Somehow, though, she never had, and since Sybil had died Mrs Hughes had grown rather attached to the feel of the cool, smooth button in her hand – and the way that if she squeezed it tightly enough it helped prevent her from making a fool of herself and crying in public.
She thought back to the funeral. It had been a beautiful (if such a word could be used in conjunction with death) service, full of love, memories and kind words. It had been small and not too extravagant. Sybil would have approved of it, Mrs Hughes was sure. Tears had poured silently down Tom's face throughout the service, his daughter snuffling into his coat, seemingly recognising her father's distress. Mrs Hughes sighed at the thought – it should surely be illegal for young couples to have their time together cut short that quickly and in such a tragic manner. Everyone, upstairs and downstairs alike, had wept for Sybil that day. Mrs Hughes had been sitting halfway back in the church next to Mr Carson, who had held himself so stiffly at the start that she may as well have been sitting next to a statue. She had, however, been quick to remind him that propriety hadn't mattered a bit to Lady Sybil and that nobody would think any the worse of him if he allowed himself to show emotion. He'd coughed and pointedly ignored her, but within five minutes had been dabbing at his eyes with the handkerchief she'd pressed upon him during her little reprimand.
The walk back to the house afterwards had been quiet and subdued. Nobody had spoken very much, all of them lost in their thoughts. They'd gone about their tasks when they got back almost as if in a trance, preoccupied with the beautiful young lady who'd been so kind to everyone now buried in the church yard, and with the broken widower upstairs cradling his daughter, whose cries were almost haunting, indecently loud in the quiet, quiet house. The daughter who would never know her mother. It was too much for any of them to bear.
Mrs Hughes was brought back to the present by the knock at the door.
"Come in!" she called, wiping her eyes briefly before the door opened.
Mr Carson stepped through the door, bearing a tray on which stood just over half a bottle of wine and two small wine glasses. He did not bid her good evening, for it was most certainly not, but instead went straight to set the bottle and glasses on the table in front of her sofa. She smiled at him as he did so and he returned the gesture, but neither smile reached either of their eyes. Usually, he would have taken the seat on the other side of the table, but tonight he sat by her on the sofa and helped them both to the wine. He raised his glass, and finally spoke.
"To Lady Sybil… May she rest in peace."
"Lady Sybil," Mrs Hughes echoed gravely, clinking her glass against his. They both sipped their wine, paused, then sipped again. Usually conversation flowed between the two of them as easily as anything, but tonight it just didn't seem right to be talking about work or their employers or employees, or any of that nonsense. Mrs Hughes was thinking of a time when Sybil had been about 9 years old. She had only recently become housekeeper, but had been ladies' maid to Lady Grantham for a few years before that. When the promotion had happened, a new ladies' maid had been hired – one Miss Sarah O'Brien. Sybil had always enjoyed watching Mrs Hughes arrange her mother's hair, and had begged her to arrange hers as well, despite the fact that that was the head housemaid's job. Sometimes, when she wasn't too busy, Mrs Hughes had taken the time to braid Sybil's hair beautifully and to teach the eager young girl how she could do it herself – not, Mrs Hughes had assumed at the time, that she would ever need to. On one particular evening, Sybil had come running into Mrs Hughes' sitting room – but this time not bearing her hairbrush and ribbons. It was about midnight and the little girl had been crying, her face puffy and her hair wild. She had barrelled through the door and then stopped abruptly, as if unsure what to do now that she was there.
"Lady Sybil? Whatever's the matter?" Mrs Hughes had exclaimed, shocked at her obvious distress. Lip trembling, she had mumbled something to the floor.
"Now now," Mrs Hughes had said, mock-sternly, "I can't hear you if you talk to the floor like that. Come here." She had been sitting on the very sofa on which she sat now, reminiscing, and Sybil had gladly clambered up and sat next to her. Looking her straight in the eye, she had said "I had the most terrible nightmare, Mrs Hughes!"
With a rush of affection and concern for her, Mrs Hughes had drawn Sybil onto her lap and asked if she wanted to tell her about it.
"I dreamt that Mary turned into a giant monster and ate mama and papa! Then she- she-"
Sybil had buried her face in Mrs Hughes' dress at this point, apparently unable to relive the horror. Mrs Hughes had had to bite her lip, for much as she hated to see Sybil upset and though she knew that to a child, such a dream was awfully frightening, the idea of the ever-aloof Lady Mary turning into a monster was threatening to make her laugh. Determined not to think about it too much lest she start grinning, Mrs Hughes had turned her attention back to Sybil.
"Then she…?"
"She… Came down here and gobbled you up as well!" Sybil finished, glancing up briefly before being overcome by a fresh wave of misery.
Mrs Hughes had been quite taken aback by this. She was deeply touched by the fact that, after Lord and Lady Grantham, the adult Sybil had been most concerned about being eaten by a monster was her. She remembered how she had sat with Sybil for a good half hour, combing through the hair they'd had so many giggles over with her fingers, shushing the child and stroking her back until her sobs had receded to sniffles and her eyelids became droopy. She had carried Sybil back upstairs and tucked her back into bed, then sat in the armchair in her room until she was sure she was sound asleep. At the time, it had been just another one of those activities that came with having children in the house. Mrs Hughes' heart had been warmed by Sybil's affection for her, for Sybil was, though she hated to show favouritism, certainly the daughter of the house that she was closest to; but afterwards she had simply gone to bed without really giving it too much thought. Now, sitting on that sofa with an equally pensive Mr Carson, it was with a heavy heart that she regretted not savouring moments like that. She glanced over at her colleague and friend. He was looking distinctly down, his eyes unfocused – clearly he too was lost in memories.
"Mr Carson?" she said quietly, touching his arm gently.
"Sorry," he started, seemingly pulling himself together. "I was in a world of my own."
"You were thinking about Lady Sybil, as I was," Mrs Hughes stated, for she knew it was a fact.
"Yes," he acknowledged. He smiled sadly. "There's one memory of her that stands out clearly in my mind, because I remember thinking how her confidence reminded me of Lady Mary, even though Lady Mary was much more mature than her at the time."
"Tell me," Mrs Hughes requested, wanting to swap tales.
"Do you remember when we were recruiting a new footman, just before you were promoted to housekeeper?" Mrs Hughes nodded, waiting for him to continue. "Lady Sybil came into my pantry, wearing a top hat that was far too big for her and sporting a wad of some sort of material on her upper lip and chin, and she said to me "Mr Carson, I've heard that you're looking for a footman, and I should like to apply for the post". Well, I pointed out that she was a young lady, and she doffed her hat and said, "Actually, I'm a gentleman now. Can't you see that, Mr Carson?"" he chuckled, even though his eyes were looking distinctly watery. Mrs Hughes smiled too at the thought, and asked, "what did you say to that?!"
"I told her that I was afraid all I could see was a very bright little girl who would one day be a beautiful lady with footmen of her own. She was most affronted; she didn't speak to me for at least a week!"
Mrs Hughes laughed outright at this, imagining the young Sybil's indignation at Mr Carson's refusal to accept that she was, in fact, "a gentleman".
"No less than you deserved," she told him firmly, "Lady Sybil has always been exactly what she wanted to be and never mind what anyone else thinks!"
"You always understood her better than I did," he said softly, "I may have known her for longer, and I was incredibly fond of her, but I wasn't the one she came to when she had bad dreams…"
"You know about that?" Mrs Hughes interrupted, surprised.
"I only overheard once, Mrs Hughes; I hope you'll forgive me. I was about to knock on your door when I realised she was in there with you. I heard her crying and at first thought I ought to go in, but I decided that she was in safe hands and went back to my pantry."
"And you never mentioned it to me at the time?" Mrs Hughes said incredulously. But then: "Although, I was just thinking about that night myself, actually. She was an incredibly sweet child."
"And an even sweeter adult," Mr Carson sighed. Mrs Hughes nodded. They seemed to have come full circle back to their grief again, and she couldn't think of anything to say that hadn't already been gone over a hundred times – why her, why then, why, why, why. The two of them fell back into silence, the wine diminishing in the bottle. After a few moments of no words, Mrs Hughes thought back to the night Sybil had died. She remembered the horror, the shock and the sheer devastation. She remembered the way they had all of them wept, unlikely pairs comforting each other, united in their sorrow. Most of all, though (and with a twinge of guilt she thought that this must be very wrong of her) she remembered going to see Mr Carson. How the two of them had stood in his pantry in their nightclothes and he had, for the first time since she'd known him, very nearly cried. Certainly his eyes had filled with tears, and she'd found that that had shattered her already broken heart even more. All the usual distances and propriety out of the window, she'd reached for his hand, and he'd responded. Mrs Hughes thought of how they'd stood there endlessly, hands clasped, heads bowed, taking a small amount of comfort simply from the reassurance of each other's presence. Later that night, lying in her bed, she had felt guilty for replaying the moment he'd rested his hand on top of hers, sandwiching her hands in between his, over and over again in her mind. But then it had occurred to her that Sybil most certainly would not have begrudged her that, because Sybil believed very strongly in showing love over being proper.
It was love, Mrs Hughes could admit freely to herself, which accurately described how she felt about Mr Carson. She'd always suspected it, but after her cancer scare it had become obvious to her that life was short and some things needed to be accepted so that they could be acted upon. When she had heard him singing that love song after she'd been given the all-clear, she'd honestly thought she might burst with happiness. That was the moment that she could no longer deny to herself that her feelings for him were anything less than the deepest, truest love. Sometimes it took tragedy to bring people together, and she glanced up at him, blushing slightly because of the direction her thoughts were taking. He was staring down into his wine, and she was suddenly struck by how handsome he was, despite the toll that age and grief insist upon taking. Suddenly, perhaps cheesily, a very real image of Sybil entered Mrs Hughes' mind, smiling approvingly, almost encouragingly, as if giving her blessing. The wine urging her on, Mrs Hughes decided that she wanted to repeat the hand-holding experience of the other night. The opportunity came when he put his empty wine glass down on the table and turned to look at her, his mouth half-open as if to speak. She quickly put her own glass down and averted her eyes from his, putting him off speaking and looking instead down at his hands, which were clasped in his lap. She reached out cautiously and placed her right hand over both of his larger ones. Taking a deep breath, she raised her gaze back up to meet his again. He was looking at her almost expectantly, and although she could still see the sadness present in his eyes, there was a small smile playing around his lips.
"Do you ever think," she began hesitantly, looking briefly down at their hands again, "that things like this remind us that life is short? That any one of us could die at any age, any moment? It makes me wonder if I've… achieved, everything I wanted to in life."
"You're right," he answered, his voice somehow deeper than usual. "These things are sent to try us, and one of those trials is that we cannot help but re-assess our own position in life. I hope you aren't unhappy here though?" he looked concerned all of a sudden, and she hurried to put him out of his misery.
"No, no! Of course not," she said, "I just… Sometimes, I wonder if…. If…."
"If there is something you've always felt you need to do, that events such as this urge you to accomplish." He finished for her.
"Well, yes," she replied, surprised again, but also with a thrill of nerves – was he experiencing the same feelings as her?
He didn't speak again, nor did his eyes break contact with hers. Feeling the heat rise in her cheeks in the face of his proximity and attention, Mrs Hughes became vaguely aware of the fact that they were still holding hands. Embarrassed, she went to move her hand away, but he caught it again in one of his. His eyes flickered briefly down to her lips then back up to her eyes, and as she felt his right hand gently cup her cheek she knew what he was about to do and she leant slowly, instinctively towards him. His face was growing gradually closer and closer; she could feel his shallow breaths tickling her nose and she was pleased but not surprised to discover that he had nice breath. It seemed to take an age, yet at the same time only a matter of seconds, before her lips were suddenly brushed by his, so softly and sweetly it almost made her tear up. They both paused and pulled back slightly, communicating through nothing but looks – his eyes asking for permission, her dilated pupils giving her longing away, before he kissed her again, longer and harder this time. It was everything she'd ever dreamed of; it was a kiss unrivalled by any she'd experienced before, even from Joe Burns, because it was a kiss from a man that she had loved for longer than she cared to count. A man who she had loved for years despite always being certain that he would remain at a professional distance, but who was now kissing her jawline and her neck, then her lips again, then her eyes and her cheeks, and suddenly he stopped kissing her and simply pulled her close, his arms around her waist, hugging her in an embrace so tight that if it were anyone but him she'd feel suffocated. She extracted her own arms from where they were pressed against his chest and moved them up around his neck, pressing her face into the skin there and inhaling the smell that was so inherently him, so endearingly familiar, but magnified by this new closeness. There was a sudden wetness at the base of her neck, and for a moment she thought he was kissing her again before she realised that it was tears. She didn't need to ask him why he was crying, because she already knew, and she found herself beginning to cry for the same reason – Sybil, the unfairness and shortness of life and, perhaps most particularly, the sweetness of this moment, so long-awaited by both of them. The connection had remained unspoken but undeniably present for the majority of the time she'd known him, and to now be there in his arms and feel his lips on hers and his fingers in her hair, like she'd daydreamed so many times, especially in the midst of such grief, made her more grateful just for him than she could possibly express. Mrs Hughes realised with a feeling of warmth that seemed to spread right to her very toes that for the first time, even with the shadow of death hanging over the house, in that moment, she felt completely and utterly safe. Whatever happened from now on, however this relationship developed, she knew now that Charles Carson cared for her as deeply as she did for him, and that was all she needed, and all she ever would need.