It was a light evening. Only Mr. Branson and Lady Edith were upstairs — she had a tray in her room, and he had dinner at the pub. Carson suspected that was because Branson didn't want to antagonize him now that he had returned; he knew the lad sometimes joined the staff downstairs for dinner while the family was away, more so when he himself was gone with the family, and that Mrs. Hughes encouraged it. That was perfectly fine with him.
Carson was content to pretend he knew less than he did, as long as he didn't have to deal with the fallout in-person. He would even admit to a grudging respect for the lad since Lady Sybil's death (his heart still clenched to think of her, his littlest Lady, truly nothing could be worse than that night), but he would still take the small victories for order and propriety where he could.
At the moment, though, Tom Branson was not the main concern occupying his thoughts. He'd assumed she meant her sitting room when she mentioned looking forward to their evening sherry earlier, given that his pantry was usually in considerable disarray the day he returned from London. This year was no exception. Not finding her in her sitting room, though, he returned to his pantry.
He saw it the moment he entered. The oak leaf was in the middle of his desk, a small, delicate seashell deliberately placed on it as a paperweight.
Of course. She had collected up several that day in the surf, not only the one she had given to him.
He smiled fondly, placed the decanter and two cordial glasses on a tray, and, with a small folding table tucked under his arm, made his way outside toward the bench under the large oak tree in the far corner of the back lawn.
She was exactly where he knew she would be.
He had first come across her here on a spring afternoon half-day, several months after she'd arrived at Downton as Head Housemaid. He remembered critiquing her choice of reading material (something by Poe, it had been, if he remembered correctly?), even if he couldn't fault her choice of how and where she chose to spend her few precious off hours. She had been more than happy to debate with him — and with a healthy dose of cheek even then — about the merits of an occasional bit of well-crafted gothic horror. She'd seen through his facade from the start, forming the foundation of their long working relationship based on a deep mutual respect.
Today, she saw him coming across the lawn and set down her book. He made a mental note to determine what she was reading later.
"I got your message."
"So you did, I see."
She watched patiently as he made a small show of setting out the folding table and pouring their drinks before settling down beside her on the bench. He raised his glass to her in silent salute.
"Goodness, such service." Her eyes were full of mirth. "Is this entirely proper, Mr. Carson, drinking sherry outdoors while watching the sun set?"
"I seem to recall I have been recently informed that we can afford to live a little."
"Well, maybe just this once," she countered mercilessly. She took another sip, savouring it for a moment. "Goodness, this does taste different drinking it outdoors, doesn't it? It's surprising how something like that can affect the flavour."
He quirked a half-smile. "Indeed. And as you have reminded me in the past, it's perhaps fortunate that I am not a Gentleman. I suspect this wouldn't taste half as good otherwise."
"Since you put it like that, perhaps we should make this a regular thing."
"I'll see what I can do," he replied, with mock solemnity.
There was no house business to discuss — it was a rare quiet night indeed, with most of the family and a number of the staff still away. Madge would see to Lady Edith, and Mr. Branson had been clear that he would not be ringing for the rest of the evening. As they drank in companionable silence, Mrs. Patmore's voice floated through his thoughts; All women need someone to show a bit of interest now and then, preferably in a manner that is not entirely proper. A contended sigh escaped him.
"Is everything all right, Mr. Carson?"
He did not look at her as he quietly moved a hand closer, palm up, resting on the stone bench beside her. After only a brief moment of hesitation, he felt her hand slip into his. He released the breath he'd been holding and his fingers closed lightly around hers.
"It is, actually. Everything is very much all right. Yes, I would have to say everything is…" he trailed off.
"Steady?"
He turned to her then, their eyes meeting, feeling the soft pressure of her hand in his.
"That's just the word, Mrs. Hughes, yes. Very steady."
She leaned in for a conspiratorial whisper. "I wouldn't get used to it."
"Why, do you know something that I don't?" A moment of wary alarm passed over his features, but he relaxed when he saw the twinkle in her eyes.
"Oh, almost certainly, Mr. Carson. But just now, I was speaking in the broader sense. The world is changing, after all."
"Ah. Yes. Well. For now, though…" He turned to take in the sunset one more. Took a small sip, and gave her hand a gentle squeeze. "…it's good to be home."