A/N: So sorry for the long wait. I was working on my Exchange gift and then I had several Christmassy days filled with drink, food and family which do not make for much writing time, I can tell you. I adored all of your reactions to Beth's chapter and I know a lot of your were looking forward to this one, I hope it doesn't disappoint. We're going only a year after the previous Mrs Burns segment and we see a glimpse of how she and Mr Carson have carried on.

Four: Mrs Burns

With a sharp flick of her wrist she sprinkles the last of the salt across the bird's back. A quick look at the clock above the door reminds her that she really doesn't have much time if she wants to be eating the thing before midnight.

Goose now in the oven, she scrubs her hands and sets to work on the potatoes. It was a good harvest this year and they're big and bulbous, a nice pale colour that crunches satisfyingly as her knife slices through.

She hums as she works, keeps an eye on the time, when her gaze isn't drawn to the little window overlooking the back fields. She thinks they'll have snow soon, perhaps not today but certainly by tomorrow. The thought makes her smile.

The animals have all been secured, the barn locked up tight {every time she closes those doors now, she takes a good look around first, searches out tall dark shadows hiding by the hay. She finds none, of course; he writes now to tell of when he is due to arrive and so she makes sure the farmhouse door is left open to him, a fire lit in the parlour} and besides the late afternoon feeding and milking, she can push everything about the farm from her mind for the day.

Potatoes cut and soaking, she takes a minute, leaning against the sideboard to properly look out the window. If she stretches right over, hands braced against the windowsill, she can just see the bend in the lane before it winds its way closer to her drive.

She can't see him there, but then, even putting aside how unlikely it would be to look out at the same moment he walked that small bit of path, the train isn't due in for another hour and it's at least a further twenty minutes from the station to here {thirty for Mr Charles Carson, who found her farm that stormy night quite by chance but seems always to take a wrong turn somewhere when he comes by with intent}.

Settling back on her heels she pushes away from the sideboard, brushes her hands down her apron.

She should set the table, that will give her something else to think about for a while. He is very particular about the table settings, although he does try hard not to show it. Only, his face is particularly readable, most of his emotions and thoughts quite clear in his expression. Fortunately, she is very aware of her limits in this particular area and so she has avoided taking offence. Today however, she wants things to be perfect.

She has only known him a little over a year, but she understands that it is a rare thing for him to take time away from the House and the Granthams. And to do so at Christmas, well, she is flattered that he accepted her invitation. Flattered and not a little overwhelmed. It has been quite a time since Christmas dinner was anything more than one of the dreadful chickens, plucked and roasted with a few vegetables scattered about it. She loves Christmas of course, but without Joe it seemed silly to go to too much trouble just for herself. None of the farmhands stay for the day, certainly not for the dinner, not when they have their own families to return to. Having Mr Carson here today is to be a very welcome change.

{He had been waxing quite nostalgically about the last time he spent any of the festive season away from the House and she had mentioned that he could always join her this year if he fancied and once the shock had gone from his face - something she inspires in him a lot, it seems. She should perhaps tone her teasing down a little in the New Year - he had accepted most graciously and she had been unsettled by the soft smile that remained on his face the rest of their afternoon together.}

So she had rallied. Had negotiated with old Mr Collins down the way for one of his rather sought after geese {a bottle of her country's finest seems a small price to pay when she knows that goose is Mr Carson's favourite}, had made sure to bring in Jane to give the house a proper going over - she could have done it herself, but the girl needs the money now with her ma so sick and besides, Christmas is a busy time; she has spent most of the past month churning butter from milk and brandy for the village's Christmas puddings and that's nothing to how many chickens she has sold and plucked.

And she had thought long and hard over his gift. He is not like Joe, would not appreciate a new pair of socks and tobacco for his pipe {Mr Carson does not smoke and while she has no doubt that he needs socks like any man, he does not seem the type to wear his thin enough to hole and no doubt already has many pristine pairs tucked in his drawers} and so she had listened ever more carefully to his words of late, studied his letters for any hint of inspiration or mention of something he has not bought for himself. It has been a struggle, but she hopes he will like the silver watch chain she has chosen.

With a careful eye, she reads over the instructions Mr Lancaster wrote out for her. Old Mr Lanc used to be Butler for the Earl of some place, some grand estate in Devon, and had been more than happy to talk her through the proper way to lay a table and when that had failed to sink in, he had written it all down for her.

Ruler in hand, she separates the knives and forks a little more, spreads out the glasses; three of them each for the starter, main and dessert wines {that had been a long day spent with Mr Ruffellow who bless him, is almost as deaf as a post nowadays and only half as interesting when he gets started on his stories. But he had taken her through the correct selection of wines and when she had left, list firmly in hand, had sent her a bottle of each, matched to the menu she had only mentioned to him in passing. She must make a point to visit him again in January, when he returns from visiting his grandson}.

She has just reached across the table to straighten a wonky spoon when she feels a gust of cold air against her back and Mr Carson's hand beats her to it.

"You're early." She says before he leans back, the lapel of his coat tickling her ear.

"Mr Barrow had everything in hand so His Lordship sent me off for an earlier train."

She turns around as he pulls back and finds that he has left very little space between them. It is not often that she is the one thrown off guard, but when it does happen he is most usually to blame.

He takes in the table behind her, looks back to meet her eyes. "This is amazing, Mrs Burns. I've known Footman who cannot do so good a job of a Christmas table."

She can feel her cheeks heat but refuses to give into the flattery, carefully she tucks Mr Lancaster's notes into her apron pocket. "Thank you Mr Carson, but I'm rather afraid you've ruined the surprise now."

He raises one of those impressive eyebrows. "I'm surprised, Mrs Burns, so it can't have been entirely ruined."

She huffs and with her palms against his chest she pushes him a little further back so that she can slip out from between his body and the table. "Come along, Mr Carson, let's get you out of those wet things."

She starts to leave but turns at the unexpected sound of his laughter. "Mr Carson?"

He coughs between chuckles, particularly useless attempts to stop and she waits somewhat impatiently for him to calm enough to tell her what has tickled him so much. She can't help but smile at him though; he doesn't often laugh like this, not even when telling her of Mr Barrow's latest run in with some merchant or other.

"Please excuse me Mrs Burns, but you managed to make that sound rather risqué and I realised that it wasn't the first time you'd said as much to me."

She looks at him, another blush rising to her cheeks. "Charles Carson, I wonder if you haven't been at the spirits already."

Biting his lip, something that she always imagined was more her style than his - perhaps she is having an effect on his mannerisms just as he is on her thoughts - he steps towards her. "Not at all, Mrs Burns, but I do believe that the Christmas spirit has visited me today and I find myself happier than I have been in some time."

She has to turn away then, from the soft look in his eye, the scent and heat of him so close. "In that case, Ebenezer, perhaps after you've changed, you would like to join me in the kitchen while I finish the preparations? You can entertain me with these high spirits of yours."

She slips out of the room and heads for the kitchen, resists the urge to fan herself. She has not planned for this Mr Carson; a teasing version of her friend she has only rarely glimpsed in some of his letters.

If she is not careful, she thinks reaching for the cabbage to shred, she might find herself in a lot of trouble with this Mr Carson.

-x-x-x-x-

"Thank you, Mrs Burns, for that splendid meal." She smiles as she gathers his plate, waves away his half rise to help her.

"No, you stay there. And you're welcome of course, Mr Carson. I'm sure it can't come up to the standard you're used to, but I'm glad you enjoyed it all the same."

He catches her wrist as she picks up his empty glass. "Mrs Patmore's fare is always superb of course, but this was quite the best Christmas dinner I've had since I was a lad, Mrs Burns."

He releases her arm but she does nothing to pull it away. Her heart beats wildly in her chest and for a moment she is afraid he might hear it, his ear at the right level and so close to her. "Mr Carson, if you might allow me, I have a, well it is rather an odd request, perhaps even improper."

He straightens further in his chair and for once she is unable to meet his eyes. She gives herself a shake; no, this is not who she is, if she wants something she has never let propriety or fear stand in her way. She twitches her gaze to his.

"Mrs Burns, I'm not sure-"

"Elsie, Mr Carson. I wondered if you might permit yourself to call me Elsie. When we are alone, of course, I wouldn't ask you to do so in front of others." Not that they are very often in the company of others when he visits.

She feels poised on the edge of something while she waits for his response; she has felt this way only once before, on her wedding day in the brief pause between the Vicar's words and Joe's vows. It feels as though anything might happen next but her life can only go in one of two ways.

"It would be quite improper." He says and her heart gives a sharp thump in her chest, her hand making though to press against it before she registers the plates she holds. "Quite improper, but I must confess that that is the name I have used for you in my thoughts for several months now."

She blinks, taken aback. "You have?"

"Yes…Elsie."

He smiles then and she feels her own lips curl up, her cheeks stretch. "Well then. That's fine."

She turns from the table before he can see how his wine glass shakes in her hand.

"Is there nothing else I can do, Elsie?" He asks and of course he means the clearing away of their dinner, the tidying of the dining table, but she cannot help how her mind thinks of other things as she looks back at him over her shoulder, how those images tone her voice as she answers.

"Perhaps there is Charles, but I think this is quite enough for one day."

Thank you for reading, I hope you've all been having a lovely festive break. And that Special! I won't say anything and this entire fic will not be affected by it, but I'm always happy to chat to anyone that wants to!

In the meantime, I'm working on Nurse Hughes. :)