Under dim lamplight, Elsie squinted at the garment she was mending. It was one of Her Ladyship's favorite dresses, and she'd caught the hem on puckerbrush the previous afternoon. She held one end of the thread between her teeth and carefully poked the needle into the soft fabric. Sometimes when the Countess of Grantham had dresses that she no longer wanted, she would let Elsie have them. Not that Elsie ever had anywhere to wear such things. This dress though, a long and relatively simple powder-blue day dress would be nice. She would have to let it out in the bust, of course. She examined her work carefully — Her Ladyship would get a few more wears out of it at least with her handiwork. There was a dull rap on the door frame and she looked up.

Mr. Carson was standing there, bathed in lamplight. He held a tea tray in his hand and the scent of cinnamon sprinkled toast wafted across the room. She'd been working so long she'd missed the servant's dinner, and after she'd readied Her Ladyship for bed she'd come straight back to her work without so much as a biscuit to tide her over.

"I thought perhaps you'd be hungry," Mr. Carson said, stepping into the sitting room, "You weren't at dinner."

Elsie sighed, "That's very thoughtful of you, Mr. Carson." She set the garment aside, careful not to wrinkle it, and folded the hem up into her lap. "Her Ladyship's torn her favorite gown, but I think I can mend it."

"I've no doubt," Mr. Carson smiled, reaching for the teapot. She watched as his hands — so large they dwarfed the teacups, giving them the appearance of children's playthings—delicately lifted the pot of tea and poured, ever so slowly, the sustenance she sought. She glanced up at his face. While his demeanor had been cheerful, there was something forlorn and worried about how he held his face: eyes frightfully darting from hand to hand, the lines deep around his mouth, his lips pressed tightly together. He painstakingly set the teapot down and accidentally clinked one of the saucers — it made him jump nearly from his seat.

"Mr. Carson, are you alright?" She asked quietly, reaching across the small table to steady his shaking hand, "You look as though you've had a fright."

He cleared his throat, reaching into his breast pocket for his handkerchief, with which he wiped away the tiny beads of perspiration which had gathered at his temples, glistening in the soft light. "I'm terribly sorry, Miss Hughes." Folding up the the handkerchief and returning it neatly to his pocket, he sighed woefully. "There's something I'd like to tell you."

Elsie cocked her head, chuckling lightly. "Well, you'd best go ahead and spit it out before you require Her Ladyship's smelling salts!"

He swallowed hard and forced a tight grin. Resting his palms against his thighs, running them across the crisp fabric of his trousers, he sighed again. "Miss Hughes, His Lordship has offered me a cottage on the edge of the estate."

Elsie blinked, "Oh?" "Yes — it's, quite nice. Small, but cozy I think. There's ample room for a vegetable garden and perhaps even a few flowerbeds." He stuttered, "If one. . .was so inclined."

"I see," Elsie said, but she did not. "Is it customary for a valet to have a cottage or — perhaps for you, giving consideration to your . . .family?"

Elsie spoke of Carson's parents who had retired long ago from Downton and, with his father's passing a few years back, were now both deceased. Carson had no other family, not that Elsie knew about anyhow, and she was certain that he hadn't come in to any kind of inheritance when his parents passed on. The only thing they left in his charge was Downton.

"Well, in a way I suppose you could say that. Yes." He said, "That it's a decision made largely with family in mind."

Nodding, Elsie reached for her tea — no point standing on ceremony. "How exciting," she said, resting the teacup in her lap, "Am I to understand you'll be taking His Lordship up on his generous offer?" Carson's breath hitched — the trill of her voice on the last syllable made him nearly tremble. He looked up at her, sitting there patiently across the table from him. In the gilded candlelight she looked almost regal; the subtle auburn hues of her dark hair gleaming and her face held in calm repose. She looked enchanting.

"I was considering it yes," he began, "and I was wondering if, perhaps, you would consider accompanying me?"

Elsie guffawed, "Mr. Carson! I hardly think a Lady's Maid and a valet are allowed to cohabitate." She looked down at her tea, thinking he'd merely been joshing her, but as she brought the cup to her lips she saw that he looked almost wounded. Pausing, she looked over the rim at him. "What exactly is it that you're proposing, Mr. Carson?"

At the word, Carson felt giddiness rise in his chest. He reached out and carefully took the teacup from her. When he had both of her hands in his, he squeezed them gently. Her hands, though they worked endlessly, retained a feminine softness that thrilled him — just one feminine wile that held him captive. "He offered the cottage to us," Carson said, "If you would consider it."

"Mr Carson, I still don't understand — isn't it terribly improper for domestic staff to live together outside of," she inhaled, her voice rising, "…the estate?"

"Well yes, unless—" he said, laughing exasperatedly, "—unless they are married."

Elsie eye's widened, "Oh, Mr Carson . . ."

"You don't have to answer straight away—"

"Yes." she breathed, the word sweet on her lips.

"Beg your pardon?"

"Yes, the cottage." Elsie sputtered, "I'll—I'll have the cottage with you. I'll marry you."

They held each other's gaze for a moment, both too overcome with so many years of unspoken emotions.

Slowly, he leaned over and kissed her sweetly; her lips petal-soft and tasting of cinnamon.


"You're awfully quiet, Aoife. Tuckered out from your first day?" Elsie said, ladeling soup into a bowl in front Charles. Mrs. Patmore always sent them home with something warm and delicious — the two women always joked that if not for her, the Carsons would have starved long ago.

"Lady Mary can read and I can't."

"Lady Mary is several years older than you, Aoife." Carson said, lifting a bread roll from the still-warm basket, "You'll learn."

"You read with your Da every night before bed," Elsie reminded her, taking her seat at the table.

"Da reads to me but - I don't know the words." Aoife said, stirring her soup.

"Isn't Lady Edith learning to read too?" Elsie said, "Surely Miss Roux will help you both get the hang of it."

Aoife spooned soup into her mouth, the warm broth dribbling down her chin. She moved to wipe it on the back of her hand but Charles tutted her.

"That's not very ladylike, Aoife." He said, passing her a napkin. Aoife blushed and took the napkin from him wordlessly.

"Charles," Elsie admonished quietly. He looked up at her from across the table, holding steady.

"There's no excuse for poor manners, Elsie." he said, setting his soup spoon down hard against the table, "If Aoife is going to be tutored alongside the young ladies she's certainly going to have to behave like one."

Elsie seethed quietly, her gaze heavy upon him. He stared straight back at her, tempting her to challenge him. She only broke eye contact with him when she felt Aoife's eyes on her. When she turned to face her daughter, she saw that the girl's bottom lip had begun to tremble.

"Oh, lass. Come now, finish your supper."

Aoife returned to her soup and Elsie flicked her gaze back to Charles, who shook his head disparagingly. Setting her spoon down calmly, Elsie left her soup untouched and pushed her chair away from the table. She gently brushed the top of Aoife's hair as she walked by her and out of the kitchen.


A/N: Angst, angst, angst! Thank you so much for reading, commenting, sharing on Tumblr - goodness, you guys are just the best! This is shaping up to be quite a story, I think - I'm a few chapters ahead so you should get regular updates from here on out.

I have no idea how long it'll be or where it's going to go . . .but so long as you're still interested, I'll keep writing! xx