To say that Carson was not himself for the next few days would have been too mild an assessment. None of his duties were neglected, but his step was heavy and his mind distracted. His temper was on a hair trigger. He'd nearly bitten Geoffrey's head off over a misplaced lid to a serving dish.

Mrs. Hughes followed at a distance, soothing over the chaos in his wake. She too was grieved by Mrs. Pearson's death, but she knew that it touched him much more deeply. His dark mood affected the entire house, upstairs and down. Even the children were cranky, not understanding why Carson didn't have time to read them the story that he'd promised.

Mrs. Hughes tried to understand his temper, but her patience reached a limit just after tea on Friday. The family, including the Dowager Countess was planning to attend Mrs. Pearson's funeral the next day. The entire staff had been granted the day off and an omnibus had been hired to carry them to and from Northallerton. The logistics of the day were straightforward, but Mr. Carson was making them unnecessarily complicated.

"The family will return after the service and the omnibus will stay until later so staff may attend the wake." Mrs. Hughes confirmed.

"I will return with the family." Carson announced, making a note on his diary.

"I don't think you should." Mrs. Hughes argued. "I think her family expect you to be at the wake, and rightfully so."

"Someone must look after this family. Her family has no right to expect anything from me."

"Not even a little consideration for their loss? I think it would mean a great deal to her sister if you stayed. You aren't the only one who is hurting, Mr. Carson."

"I never claimed to be."

"Then why have you chosen now to become so selfish?"

"Selfish? Since when is mourning a friend a selfish act?"

"When you act as though you are the only person to have ever lost someone you love and when you act as though the dead are more important to you than the living. That is selfish." She confronted him. "I miss her too, but people die, Mr. Carson, as we've been made painfully aware of late."

"You mean 'Why seems it so particular to thee?'" Carson's voice rose. "Well, I'll simply answer that, 'I know not 'seems.''"

Mrs. Hughes recognized the quote from Hamlet. Knowing how he often used literature to speak his heart, she encouraged him. He wanted to tell her something; needed to say something. "How does that go? 'Not alone my inky cloak…?'"

"Nor customary suits of solemn black,
Nor windy suspiration of forced breath,
No, nor the fruitful river in the eye,
Nor the dejected 'havior of the visage,
Together with all forms, moods, shapes of grief,
That can denote me truly: these indeed seem,
For they are actions that a man might play:
But I have that within which passeth show;
These but the trappings and the suits of woe."

He finished the passage and sat thinking for few seconds. She waited. "This is particular to me, Mrs. Hughes, this is important to me. Dead or alive, Mrs. Pearson is important to me. Even if I failed to show it when it mattered."

She heard the regret and self recrimination in his voice. "Then show it now. I know the grief is deep, but sometimes these shallow 'trappings and suits' are all we can offer. They're certainly all we can share."

"Thank you, Mrs. Hughes. I needed that reminder." Carson apologized. "I'll stay for the wake. Mr. Lennox can look after the family. He didn't even know Mrs. Pearson."

"Very good, Mr. Carson." She took up her notebook and rose to leave. He still hadn't fully faced his grief, but it was progress. She was content with that for the moment. "And don't wallow in Hamlet. That lad always did overthink things." She warned.

"Yes, ma'am." He smiled sadly. As ever, he was grateful that she was there to save him from himself.

-00-

The small church of Northallerton was filled to bursting with people coming to pay their respects to Mrs. Pearson. Carson could not believe the turnout. He recognized a good many faces of people who had passed through the doors of Downton over the years. There were even more that he did not recognize; people who had predated him at Downton and people who had worked with her elsewhere. The evidence of her influence warmed his heart. He was so overwhelmed that he could not think of an excuse when Mrs. Royston asked him if he could say a few words during the service.

"It was one of the few things Caroline requested for her service." She told him. How could he refuse?

Now, he sat with Mrs. Pearson's family in the front pews of the right-hand side. It was odd to look across the aisle at the family from Downton, seated in the front pews of the left-hand side. He'd never sat even with His Lordship in any church.

'As men, we are all equal in the presence of death.'* Carson though wryly.

He listened to the reverend speak of treasures in Heaven and the merits of a life of giving but the words sounded hollow to Carson. He thought of the explanations he'd given the young Ladies of being surrounded by those you love in Heaven and found no comfort in the thought. When Mrs. Royston introduced him and he took his place behind the pulpit, Carson's mouth was dry and words deserted him. Carson looked out at the expectant faces. These people were her family, a family she had built and earned and loved. Out of all of them, Mrs. Pearson had chosen him to speak for her, but he had no words.

The moment threatened to overwhelm him until he looked at Mrs. Hughes. She was dabbing at her eyes with a lace handkerchief, but she looked at him steadily, trying to send him strength. It must have worked, for he took a deep breath and plunged forward.

"The obituary described Mrs. Pearson as a faithful wife and beloved sister. I am sure she was, but to leave it at that would be false. She was so much more. Most of us here today only knew Mrs. Pearson in her professional capacity. We can, each of us, appreciate how hard she worked. Most of us know that it takes a very special person to do what Mrs. Pearson did." He forced his eyes not to dwell on Mrs. Hughes, but to scan the congregation.

"Her formal title was housekeeper, but in the course of one day she was many things to many people. She was a sister and a mother to the homesick. She was doctor and nurse combined to those who were ill.

"At times she was the commanding general and at others, the dutiful soldier. She was a wicked gossip," there were some pockets of sniffled laughter in the church, "and a trustworthy confidant.

"She was a formidable adversary and…" Carson's voice broke here and he swallowed down the lump in his throat, "...a selfless friend."

"She was often all of these things in the span of a day, or sometimes an hour. A lesser mind would have gone mad being all these disparate people, but she had the intelligence and perception to be exactly what was needed in any given moment without ever losing the essence that made her unique. She was all of these things, but, above all, she was Mrs. Pearson, housekeeper.

"The reverend spoke of an eternal reward in Heaven," Carson shrugged. "And it is his place to know such things. I can only speak of what I know and all I know is what I see. Today, I see Mrs. Pearson's extended family. I see her earthly immortality represented in each of you; in the memories we carry with us and the lessons she has taught us. We are all the richer for having known her. She influenced and affected each of us and we will continue to share her spirit throughout our lives, passing it on to those we influence and teach." He smiled briefly at the Crawley children.

"I feel a sadness that I have learned my last lesson from my dear friend, but I am happy and grateful for the gift that was her friendship."

The last dry eye in the church belonged to Charles Carson as he stepped down from the pulpit. By the time he reached his seat beside Mrs. Royston, there was not a dry eye left in the building as Carson finally let himself break.

TBC…

AN/ Yes, Carson was pretty much describing the perfect housekeeper, which we know our Elsie to be. Sorry to be so tear jerky, but this is a funeral. I promise the next chapter will be much lighter.

* This quote is attributed to Publilius Syrus, a writer of maxims in Rome circa 100 BC.