A/N: Here we are again! I've decided to post these as they're finished. That's good in that you get them faster; perhaps it's bad, though, as they've not been beta-checked. You can decide.

This isn't a terribly happy chapter - apologies in advance.

Special thank you for the reviews - omg we're almost at 300, I cannot even fathom that! - and a particular shout-out to those guest reviewers to whom I cannot reply individually. I wish I knew who you were!

xx,

CSotA

P.S. meetmeinstlouie ficced a great companion piece to this story - go and check it out on her page! xx

Song choice: "I Will Never Be the Same" - Melissa Etheridge. 'Tis on my "Chelsie Potpourri" Spotify.

Secrets of your life

I never wanted for myself,

But you guarded them like a lie

Placed up on the highest shelf...

But I loved you,

And then I lost you,

And I will never be the same.

As the day went on, it became increasingly clear that no walk through the gardens would be had. Charles had kept glancing out the window when he was preparing for the war memorial committee to arrive and had noticed clouds rolling rapidly in along the horizon. The guests arrived and left again before the rain began, but Charles couldn't help but think that the downpour that ensued, complete with crashing thunder and brilliant lightning, reflected his feelings about how the afternoon had gone.

ME? They want ME to lead the committee?

He was surprised, the announcement having struck like the brightest bolt; the silence that followed, however - from His Lordship, in particular - had been more deafening than the loudest thunder.

He still couldn't believe it.

Evidently, the villagers believed they knew him. They were comfortable with him, thought he could be a bridge between the Granthams and themselves, the perfect conduit to span the chasm-sized societal gap. Charles knew that this wasn't even due to his new, slightly more relaxed personality (although that could be part of it, he allowed) but rather that it was the result of years of interactions in shops, the post office, church, and even at the annual cricket match. They'd formed an opinion of him, and it was one that appeared to be quite favorable. It was an honor to have been asked, to know that they thought him capable of leading a committee that would be making a decision benefiting generations to come, building a monument to honor those whose deaths had left a gaping hole in so many families, one that had left behind widows, childless parents, and empty seats at servants' tables across the land.

But the look that had passed over Lord Grantham's face, like a ghost – fleeting, but definitely seen by his butler – had bothered Charles deeply. He knew the man better than anyone except for Lady Grantham and, perhaps, Bates. Charles knew that His Lordship had expected to be asked to lead the committee – hell, even Charles had assumed that would happen. Robert Crawley might not always be in control of what happened within the Abbey, but he was truly the figurehead of the estate outside of its walls. And after the debacle with His Lordship's Lieutenant position during the war, Charles was uneasy allowing the control of this committee to be taken out from under the man.

And yet here I am, Charles thought, actually considering this. He'd been left both shocked and wondering … and, if he was completely honest, a tiny bit proud of the suggestion that they felt he'd do a good job, that he was the better choice to represent the village's wishes. His Lordship's words echoed in his ears: They want Carson.

And now he could hear her voice penetrating his mind; the echo of it had haunted him throughout the day, but it was especially present now: 'Mr. Carson never would have allowed it.' And she'd been completely correct: Mr. Carson never would have allowed a great many things to have happened … before. But Charles had been correct, too: Mr. Carson has, indeed, changed.

He had no idea what to do and cursed the dark, pouring skies. He wanted to ask Elsie about it, to get her opinion about it all. He needed to roll the whole thing around in his mind, to be sure, but then he needed to get her somewhat-removed perspective, knowing that she would be able to provide much-needed clarity in the way she always managed to do. Even when they were not in agreement, she always gave him her honest opinion, and usually something to think about on top of that. As he reflected on it, he wondered at what point in their lives that had begun to happen, wondered when he'd come to the conclusion that major decisions were often best made after consulting her. Like a wife, he thought, the irony hitting him full-force.

The thought was a comfort to him and he appreciated it, held it within his heart like a delicate thing to be cherished, and it ignited something else deep within him, something he'd thought long-since buried.

Longing.

oOoOoOoOoOoOo

Elsie could have cried when she heard the rain begin to pound down on the roof of the attic rooms. She'd run up to grab a warmer coat than the one currently hanging in her sitting room, thinking that she and Charles could still manage an escape for a quick stroll through the gardens before the skies opened up. She'd been wrong, obviously, and immediately regretted not rushing through her linen inventory, only to chastise herself for the thought as soon as it had made its way through her mind.

It seemed that the days when Elsie Hughes put work above all else were gone for good. She now had this new thing, this glorious, precious, glowing thing that completely consumed her mind at all hours. For years Elsie had shoved her true feelings away, stifling them until they had suffocated, only to bring them out in the most miniscule of ways that precious day at the beach. But she had felt them explode in her heart the moment that Charles had admitted what he remembered, and she knew there was no going back now.

She'd expected to be infuriated by his remembering, by the past being thrust in her face once again, the past that had allowed this strange friendship between them but not much more. But he'd done something she never expected: he'd taken responsibility, taken part of the burden off of her shoulders, and admitted that he, too, had spent the past two decades regretting how things had been, regretting the situation in which they'd found themselves, and hoping it had been different – regretting the choices he'd made, and how he'd put the family before her. Before their child. And with that admission, her heart sang.

Elsie knew it was imprudent to focus on her own happiness, knew she needed to redirect her thoughts and feelings for the sake of her job if nothing else. She also knew that her friendship with Mrs. Patmore – and, by extension, with everyone else on the staff – was bound to be precarious at best if their secret ever got out.

That thought hurt. It hurt a great deal, and Elsie wasn't too proud to admit it. But alongside the happiness she felt in knowing that Charles still loved and cared for her deeply, a seed of something else had started growing in her heart: simply put, she wanted her daughter back. She wanted a chance to be a part of her life in a way that was far greater than the way in which she'd taken part thus far. She wanted to be more than Daisy's disciplinarian, more than just the shrewd, plotting housekeeper that instilled a shard of fear in the girl, more than just a comforting ear when Daisy was suffering under Mrs. Patmore's wrath once again. Elsie knew that, over the years, Daisy had come to respect and trust her more, realizing that there was kindness underneath the sternness, and Elsie felt they'd come a long way, she and Daisy … but now she wanted it all. She just wasn't sure that she could have it all.

How could she take that preciousness away from Mrs. Patmore?

Daisy may have had a rough start when she first came to the Abbey, and goodness knew she'd struggled with how to be her own person, but she was now a strong young woman who was pursuing a career and an education. Despite her rough beginnings, the girl was flourishing in ways Elsie never could have dreamed for her, and she knew that was mostly due to how the often-kindly cook had taken Daisy under her wing … and had mothered her in the absence of anyone else.

Elsie needed to talk to Charles, needed to ask his advice and get his perspective on this entire situation. He might not understand, never having held their precious Daisy (née Margaret) in his arms as a wee bairn, never having fed her from his own body as she clutched onto him, comforted. Then again, he just might understand the craving for warmth, for family, for unconditional love. It struck her how much she relied on his opinion, and she wondered not for the first time when that had begun, when she'd started to desire his input regarding major decisions, when she'd become reluctant to make them without first consulting him. Like a husband, she thought, the irony hitting her full-force.

The thought was comforting to her, after all these years lived with long-hidden feelings. She acknowledged the comfort, and also the other thing that was welling up from deep within, the thing she realized last night that she would now struggle to contain.

Longing.

oOoOoOoOoOoOo

The family had finally finished dinner, and Lord Grantham had excused Charles from after-dinner drink service - a blessing for them both, really, after the way the committee meeting had gone. But as Mr. Branson was out, His Lordship simply claimed that he saw no need for Charles to preside over 'whisky service for one' in the library.

As Charles made his way down to his pantry, he spied a curious scene: Elsie was standing in the corridor, her back to him, peeking through the window into the kitchen although she, herself, remained relatively hidden from anyone's view from within; Mr. Bates was at the servants' table, seemingly focused on a bit of work, but Charles knew the man enough by now to realize that he, too, was listening to (and occasionally sneaking a peek at) what was unfolding in the kitchen, the door having been left open so that the heat from the ovens could circulate.

Moving to stand closer to her, Charles finally took in Elsie's appearance. The woman was reining in her emotions with incredible effort, and he was fairly certain that no one except for him would have noticed anything terribly amiss. It was something to do with the tightness of her lips, the extra-straight posture, and the way her hands were by her sides, clenching the fabric of her skirts as opposed to being held in front of her waist the way they often were. Her entire being exuded a feeling of extreme anguish, he realized, not one of fury as others might have thought upon seeing her.

Charles turned his head to peer through the window, unsure of whether Elsie had even seen him until he felt her move ever so slightly backward, her shoulder barely brushing his arm. He felt more than heard her deep intake of breath, and then his ears picked up on the voices: Daisy, seemingly quite distraught, with Mrs. Patmore desperately trying to comfort her.

"It's no good, Mrs. Patmore!" the girl exclaimed, shoving a book furiously across the table. "I can't understand it!"

"But you will, Daisy," the cook replied calmly, handing the young woman a handkerchief to dry her tears. "Miss Bunting has faith in you, as do I and many others under this roof."

"Yes, but it's all for nothing, innit it? I'm never going to use any of this once I leave here, if I leave here."

Mrs. Patmore's face fell. "Daisy? Are you planning to leave?"

Daisy shrugged. "Who knows? Mr. Mason has offered me the farm, but I don't know that I want that life." She sniffled rather unceremoniously. "Do you think I should stay?"

"Oh, Daisy, my girl, I don't know. You are happy here, aren't you?"

"Oh, yes, Mrs. Patmore. This house has been everything to me. Before I came here … well, you have no idea." More tears fell, and Daisy dipped her head to hide them. "It were awful," she said quietly.

"Well, you've certainly grown a family here, love, and I daresay Mr. Mason loves you as if you were his own." She reached out and put her arm around the maid, whose sobbing had started up again.

"Stick with your studies, Daisy. You've shown that they're not interfering with your work here. Didn't Mr. Molesley offer his assistance if you needed it?" The girl nodded into Mrs. Patmore's shoulder. "Then accept it. He's a kind man, Mr. Molesley."

"I know," Daisy whispered, picking up her head again. "Thank you," she murmured. "I know you're right. I just get so fed up sometimes. I feel like I was never meant to amount to much."

"You're meant for great things, Daisy Mason, mark my words. Great things," the cook affirmed, nodding and smiling at her girl. "I couldn't be more proud of you if you were my own daughter."

Daisy smiled then. "I often wish I were."

A sob escaped Elsie's lips and she almost lunged at the window. Charles could hold back no longer. He reached his arm around her and took her by the elbow, squeezing her in a half-hug as pulled her away from the window and toward his pantry.

"Come Elsie," he murmured, his voice carrying faintly down the corridor. "It's not the time ... not yet." He allowed her to pass through the door ahead of him, and he promptly closed it behind them.

By then, neither Mr. Carson nor Mrs. Hughes remembered Mr. Bates's presence in the servants' hall, something for which the valet was immensely grateful as he knew it would only add to the delicacy of the situation. His polishing now completely abandoned, he reflected on the scene that had just played out before his eyes and ears.

Mr. Bates had always been a keen observer, and he suspected the truth immediately - or most of it, anyhow. His heart broke for Mrs. Hughes, the kind woman who took the entire lot of servants under her wing and cared for them as only a mother could. How painful that must have been, he thought, if I'm correct in what I suspect.

He'd always thought there was something about Daisy, as though she were special, somehow important to the housekeeper in a way that none of the others were. With his wife, to be sure, Mrs. Hughes was loving and kind, guiding Anna in small ways and supporting her in great ones. But it was Daisy over whom the woman seemed to keep the closest watch, Daisy with whom she'd been sharper of tongue and quicker to judge as the years had moved on, Daisy whose studies she had wholeheartedly supported contrary to the opinions of most of the other staff … and Daisy whom she'd comforted in her arms on the awful night of Lady Sybil's death, as only a mother could.

He sighed deeply, knowing that however this all played out, it would be a miracle if they all emerged unscathed.

If you'd be so kind, I'd love to hear your thoughts!