Chapter 3 – Not Quite the Same

For the first time in a long time, Charles felt slightly…off-put…returning to Downton after spending time in London. It wasn't melancholy, or sadness, no; nothing so terribly dramatic. More, it was a sense that something was missing upon the staff and family's return after Lady Rose's début, something lacking.

And that, indeed, was odd.

There was nowhere in the world Charles Carson felt best, most himself than at Downton. It was where the order and hierarchy he so appreciated in life fell tidily into place each day, even when he had to steer them in the right direction. That's what he was here for. Downton was his purpose.

The day after their return, he was sitting at his desk, going over the wine cellar's log, adding the vintages his lordship had acquired whilst in the city, including a very fine red he'd like to share with –

There was a knock on his door. There always was, wasn't there?

"Enter," he rumbled, setting his pen down. Joseph Molesley stood there, a smile on his face and a large folio in his hand. The man could be a bit of a fool sometimes, but Charles had noticed those times occurring less and less frequently in the past few years. In any case, foolish or no, he was generally a hard worker and a very good, kind sort of man, so Charles tolerated some of his other obvious foibles.

"Ah, Mr. Carson, sir," Molesley began. "I don't mean to interrupt, but I'd meant to give this to you yesterday, and it slipped my mind." The younger man laughed a little, more a nervous tic and then a result of actual mirth.

"What have we here, Mr. Molesley?"

"It's the photograph, Mr. Carson, that was taken at Brighton. Of the staff," he concluded, most unnecessarily. Charles remembered the wandering photographer, and Elsie Hughes cajoling him to gather the group of sunbathers together for a candid group portrait. He'd relented, he remembered, because he'd not been able to shake the feeling of her fingers wrapped around his.

"I do, indeed, Mr. Molesley, and I thank you for bringing it to me," he took it, set it aside. The other man was standing there, expectantly. "Is that all, then?" He raised an eyebrow. He couldn't get distracted right this moment with frivolities like souvenir photographs.

"Yes, I suppose so, Mr. Carson," Joe Molesley sighed, disappointment writ large on his face. No matter; there was work to be done, as kind as his gesture had been.

"Off with you then, Mr. Molesley," he responded, then looked up again briefly. "And thank you for this – I do appreciate it." The man broke into a sunny grin as he left the room, mostly mollified, it appeared.

He went back to logging the new wines, from pinots to champagnes, for the next few moments; but that slight unease, that tickling at the very base of his stomach, that he'd felt since returning to the grand house, wouldn't let him concentrate.

Somehow, he felt looking at the photograph might. He sighed again and shook his head.

"Nonsense," he muttered to himself, but still reached for the large folder. He opened it, feeling the grin spread across his face all on its very own. He and Elsie Hughes had arranged them all, in two orderly rows, each starting at one to create some order to the chaos of the briefly-vacationing staff, who had been in playful high spirits after frolicking in the surf and sand all day.

There was very little order to the photo on the table. His grin widened. He couldn't help it. The whole staff looked relaxed and happy. Thomas Barrow had been caught slapping Joe Molesley on the back, the other man bent over mid-laugh. Phyllis Baxter grinned at the pair of them, an amused look on her serene face. Beryl Patmore, her arm linked with Daisy's, had also be caught laughing. Madge and Ivy had their arms slung around each other's shoulders, like school girls on a day off. Even the Bates looked peaceful.

He found himself, standing on the left-hand end of the big group, his trouser legs still rolled to his upper calves, his dark hair blowing in the sea breeze. He was grinning slightly, looking towards the other end of the scene. It had been Elsie Hughes he'd been grinning at, of course, and she at him, the two of them standing tall amidst the silliness and boisterousness of the rest of them.

It was her grin too, that said it all: what a grand idea the outing had been, in the end. And it had been her idea, hadn't it? So why wouldn't she approve?

Of course it had been her idea. He chuckled again, pulled his desk draw open. Pulled out a colored postcard, depicting the Brighton seaside. He tucked it into the folio, next to the photograph. Then he set the whole thing back inside the draw, closing it.

He got back to work, humming a little to himself as he did.

There was another knock on the door. There always was. This one he knew, though.

"Come in," he cleared his throat, straightened his waistcoat.

"Mr. Carson, I hate to interrupt, but ye've been requested by his lordship in the library. Something about the newly acquired wine, I believe?" Elsie Hughes was standing there, a familiar half-smile on her face. That uneasy feeling was back in his gut, at the very center of him. It wasn't a terrible feeling, if he thought about it.

"Superb timing, Mrs. Hughes, as I've just finished organizing it all," he held up his ledger as proof.

"Including setting one aside for us to share, Mr. Carson?" Her grin widened.

"I'd never do such a thing, Mrs. Hughes, and shame on you for suggesting it," he answered, fighting back laughter. "However, his lordship did request I open a few bottles for him to sample, and well, who's to say who finishes those bottles once he's had his fill?"

"I'm glad you've got it all sorted so well, Mr. Carson," she answered as they walked into the hallway again. Outside the enclave of his study, the bustle of the kitchen and the servants' all flooded upon them.

"Back at it, I suppose," she added. Someone was calling her name urgently from the kitchens. It sounded like Beryl Patmore. She rolled her eyes. "Some things never change. See you later this evening, Mr. Carson." She hurried off and he looked after her for a long moment.

"No, some things never do," he murmured, heading towards the stairs at last. "And, it seems, some things do, eventually. A little, at least."