Author's note: Thank you for all your kind reviews. Know that they are all deeply appreciated. I hope you like the next chapter! :)

Unbetaed. All mistakes mine.

It was her damn hands, he decided, after tossing and turning in bed for the third night in a row. They were so much smaller than his – capable of course, but ever so small. And cold. He hadn't expected that, not with her fiery temper. Then again, he hadn't expected Lady Sybil to… to…

Charles reached for the handkerchief he had taken to keeping under his pillow. He was still prone to the odd… moment when he was alone. By day it was easier; he was too busy being strong for the family to think about anything else. Charles couldn't imagine what Lord and Lady Grantham were going through, or Mr- or Tom for that matter. Lady Sybil was supposed to be embracing motherhood, getting acquainted with her little one – not lying in a velvet lined coffin. Life had stopped making sense.

He had done his duty, of course, and been the bearer of bad news. It had been the worst moment of his career to date but he had done it… Charles let his mind wander over the events of that day again, too tired to stop the memories from flooding back and overwhelming him. Again.

Bursting. That had been the only word for it. The servants' hall was so full to the top with joy that it was bursting out into the surrounding corridors. Charles could hear the piano before he reached the bottom of the stairs. Thomas was playing, he could tell - a rare occurrence since William's untimely departure. Quiet cat steps took Charles to the threshold of the servant's hall, where he had hesitated for longer than he should have.

Daisy was teaching Ivy, James and Alfred the steps to some new-fangled dance. Mr. Mosley looked on, half amused, half jealous, turning pages for Thomas. They were laughing; all of them, over a joke that Charles had only caught the end of. Mr. Bates kept time with his stick, prodding Alfred occasionally when his top-line dropped. At the table, O'Brian and Anna had abandoned their sewing for a game of cards: Mrs Patmore was dealing them in with her tongue caught between her teeth.

Charles knew that he needed to intervene, to put an end to the joviality, but as Thomas's playing reached a crescendo his will to do so faltered. They were all so happy...

"Mr. Carson – do try to look a bit more cheerful."

He turned to find Mrs. Hughes, cheeks still flushed from her glass of wine (curtsy of Lord Grantham), smiling up at him. When he didn't move, didn't reply, concern washed away her smile. "What's wrong?"

Charles shook his head and stepped passed her, into the room. He knew he didn't have it in him to say it twice.

Thirty seconds later, the piano fell silent.

Daisy broke first, tears spilling down her perpetually pale cheeks. The rest of the women, and quite a few of the men, had followed her lead. Charles envied them for that. He had been… numb. Lady Sybil – sweet, innocent Lady Sybil, who had pulled at his nose with chubby five-year-old fingers and solemnly informed him that he had 'halfway hair' – gone.

He had left then, giving his subordinates the space to grieve properly. No one wanted an old, over-bearing Butler breathing down their necks when they were trying to mourn. But apparently Mrs Hughes had. She sought him out not ten minutes after he fled the servant's hall, soft skirts swishing about her ankles. As she entered his parlour, he had turned and looked at her, really looked at her, taken note of the threads of grey appearing in her hair, the unshed tears. And yet she had moved first: coming to a stop by his side, reaching out to touch him, giving, always giving.

Strangely, the sensation of her skin against his had eased the hollow ache in his chest, just a little. He wasn't alone in his suffering and that was a comforting thought. Charles raised a hand to cover hers.

The tops of Mrs. Hughes' hands were as cold as the undersides but somehow he was melting; he could feel the hot burn of tears too long held in check. Mrs. Hughes shuddered and bit her lip. He sniffed. They were at the moment of release, the point of no return, a mutual breaking point, when he decided that he no longer cared about propriety and clasped her hands tighter, marvelling at how small and white and perfect they were.

And then… tears – his, hers, he wasn't sure. But they were crying, both of them, sobbing in the middle of his pantry over their clasped hands because of the war, because of Lady Sybil, because of missed chances.

He had quieted first – not that either of them had been particularly loud. Slowly, like a gentle shower, Mrs. Hughes' sobs eased and her breathing evened out. She was embarrassed. He could tell from the way she wasn't looking at him. So when she tried to pull her hands away he wouldn't let her. He was stroking her hand, trying to sooth the frightened fluttering of her pulse. She looked so sad, so broken.

"Mrs-" The title stuck in his throat, strangely formal for two friends crying over joined hands. "Elsie…"

Hesitantly her eyes left their hands, traveled up his chest, to lock with his. He lifted a hand towards her tear-stained cheeks. "May I?"

She paused before nodding, just the once. It was enough. Charles got to work immediately, swiping the last few tears from her cheeks, chasing away the wet trails they left behind. He couldn't bear to see her so sad. "There," he rumbled, pleased with his handiwork.

Then Elsie swallowed… and bit her lip… and he was lost. She must have said something but he barely noticed, focused purely on the bite of her small white teeth against her lower lip. A flush crept up Elsie's neck. Her fingers twitched. They were standing entirely too close for comfort, invading each other's personal space. Charles could see flecks of gold in her eyes, could feel her sweet breath fanning his face. He began to wonder what would happen if he leaned forward, just that little bit…

Footsteps in the corridor.

"Mr. Carson? Mrs. Hughes?"

The moment shattered. Hands separated, snapping back to their sides. They stepped apart guilty, though no crime had been committed. It was absurd, it was frustrating-

It was Thomas. They were needed in the kitchen.

Later, side by side they had doled out black armbands to the staff in silence. Charles hadn't seen her for the rest of the day. Well, they had both been busy making changes to wardrobes and menus and wine selections, not to mention the family's scheduled parties. However, he hadn't really seen much of her the last few days either… Or in the evenings. Not that he could deny spending an extra few minutes tidying his desk that afternoon when he heard Mrs. Hughes berating one of the maids in the corridor – but that was because he knew she had things covered... Wasn't it?

Flipping the pillow over to avoid the soggy patch, Charles closed his eyes and tried to clear his mind. It would do no good to dwell on matters. And tomorrow would be a long day indeed if he failed to get enough sleep.

He had no idea that on the other side of the wall, Mrs Hughes was thinking the exact same thing.