"Would that be all, milord?"

"Yes, thank you, Carson." He shook his head, his fingers strumming a beat over the armrest. "And Carson?"

"Milord?"

"What time did you get back?"

A pause, long enough for Robert to guess the answer. "A quarter past five, milord."

"So… you know."

"Yes, milord. I do." The hurt and pain managed to get through the carefully built up walls of professionalism and integrity.

"Did you talk to her?"

"I believe talking at her would be a better way to describe our altercation, milord."

A sour, lopsided smile. "I know precisely what you mean."

"Carson is still with us, Mrs. Hughes," he'd answered carefully, holding her gaze, this time silently pleading that she wouldn't interrupt him. "As for Mrs. Carson—"

"Milord. Please don't make me regret my manners."

"Milord, I was wondering if I could—"

"Yes, Carson, of course you can." He stood up and faced his butler with a furrowed brow, two pairs of eyes clashing in a silent duel. "But this will be your last chance."

"I am aware of that, milord."

"As you should be."

The house was old, battered and grey, and the thought that it was him that brought this upon her made his heart clench painfully.

He had to wait very, very long before the door opened upon his persistent knocking, and when it did and he saw the hostility written on her face, he almost backed off. Almost.

"Why have you come?" Her voice sounded tired, worn out, thin and broken—like a crumpled piece of paper thrown into a fireplace to be devoured by the flames. "There is nothing left to say."

"For you, perhaps. You have never given me the courtesy of speaking my mind."

She shook her head and averted her gaze, as if she was trying to forget that he was here, real and solid, flesh and blood, demanding an answer from her, asking to be allowed to speak.

"It wouldn't have changed anything."

"I disagree."

She sighed and rolled her eyes, rubbing her left temple with her fingertips. "And if I close this door right now?"

"I shall stay here until you reopen them, and agree to hear me out."

She shook her head, but stepped aside and let him through. "What could you possibly want to tell me, after everything that happened?"

"Are you sure?" Lord Grantham gaped and stood up, putting his paper aside, while Cora sat up straight, frowning. Richard Clarkson nodded curtly and took a proffered glass of Scotch, swirling its content gently before downing it all in one gulp.

"Positive, milord."

She was staring out of the window, arms wrapped around her body, hugging herself tightly as she listened to his quiet words and looked at the rain-drenched trees outside. She said not one word the entire time.

"Do you believe me?" he asked her quietly in the end, leaning forward to bury his face in his hands.

"I do."

His head snapped up, a flicker of hope coming to life in the depths of his eyes. "Then will you…?"

"Do not ask of me what I could not do, Charles Carson."

His shoulders slumped down a little, but his expression was that of quiet resignation, and understanding. "I'm glad you let me explain, at any rate."

She turned to look at him for the first time since he started talking, a single tear track glistening on the pale skin of her cheek. "I'm glad you made me listen."

He stood up and tried to take a step in her direction—but stopped mid-motion as her eyes flashed with fear and anger. "Will we ever be able to talk again, like we used to do?"

"Nothing is ever going to be the way it used to."

He picked up his hat and turned it around in his hands, unable to look at her any longer. "Will you be accepting Lady Strallan's offer?"

"I don't know. Maybe. I really need to think about it."

"Of course," he nodded grimly, and put his hat on, turning towards the door. "I simply wish I could see you, from time to time, for however short a time. Goodbye, Elsie."

"Charles."

He stopped with his back to her, tensed in anticipation.

"I have always loved you."

The lump in his throat was suddenly too hard and heavy to swallow, so he spoke around it, hoarsely, almost inaudibly, "And I you."

TBC...