A/N: My exercise in keeping things to under 2,500 word chapters has failed. I may be the only one who cares. I wanted both of these in the same one, though, as there are slight, mirror images that I tried to incorporate. I hope you enjoy!
Song choice is the same as Ch 22 and 24 will also feature it: "Make You Feel My Love," as sung by Adele. It's on my Spotify.
I think many of you have been waiting for this. I thank brenna-louise for the proofreading and encouragement, and also chelsiefan for giving me something to think about regarding Mrs. Patmore. While I didn't use it specifically as we'd discussed, it did change a few things in her overall train of thought.
I love hearing from you all about what you like (or, perhaps, don't like) about this fic - and any fic, really. It is truly helpful and I wish I could reply to all the guest reviewers. FF really needs to work on that.
Thanks to those who are still with me. xxx
CSotA
The storms are raging on the rolling sea,
And on the highway of regret ...
"Okay," Beryl Patmore huffed. "Are you two planning to tell me what this is all about?" Hands on her hips, she looked from Daisy to Bill Mason and back again. "I was suspicious about this last week when you invited me … now I'm positively teeming with curiosity!"
Daisy looked at her father-in-law guiltily, and watched as he rubbed his hand over his face.
"It were my idea," he said quietly. "Our Daisy has something important she needs to discuss with you. She came to me for advice last week, and I suggested you both come here." He looked at Daisy, then back at Mrs. Patmore. "Sometimes a change of scenery is best."
"Alright …" she answered suspiciously.
"Mrs. Patmore," Daisy began, "why don't we sit and eat, and then I can explain everything afterward?"
The cook heard the calm, quiet, strangely confident tone in Daisy's voice. Of anything, that tone was perhaps what made her the most concerned about what was coming.
Surely she's not leaving Downton? I don't think I'm ready for that. But, no, she needs to sit her exams first …
"Yes, let's do that," she agreed aloud.
Small talk ensued over the course of the meal, discussions about the upcoming Christmas holiday at the forefront of everyone's minds. The Mason farm always contributed provisions to the Abbey's meal, and Daisy listened as her elders firmed up the details of what would be needed.
When the talk seemed to taper off, Daisy rose to collect the dishes. Bill stopped her, however.
"I'll get these into the sink," he said to her. "There's water on for tea, if you'd like to bring in a tray. I think we're going to need it."
Daisy nodded and did as she was asked. "Mrs. Patmore, why don't you head on through?"
Beryl had never seen the rest of the Mason home before. Upon entering the parlour, she took a few minutes to examine the furnishings and decoration, admiring the simplicity she saw throughout. The furniture was well-loved but sturdy. She saw that the side table had a lace cloth covering it and wondered immediately if William's mother had made it. Then she spotted photographs over the hearth and headed over for a closer look.
There were five of them on the mantle, and dear William featured in three. The left-most frame held one from when he was just a lad, which appeared to have been taken by the barn, and he was posing astride a horse. The second photograph was of William in his footman's livery, and she recognized it immediately as the work of the Abbey photographer. It was from the year before the war, when the photographer had snapped some candid pictures in an attempt to see the quality of prints that his new camera would produce. The prints had come out splendidly and had been gifted to the Abbey free of charge, but only the single photo of the entire staff had made it into the album, as was tradition. Beryl wondered how Mr. Mason had gotten a hold of this one and, after a moment, decided Mrs. Hughes must have given it to William, as she was usually the one to add to the album. The third, as she'd expected, was a photograph of William in his army uniform, and she spent a moment regretting that he and Daisy had never had their photograph taken together. The fourth photograph, however - frameless, but leaning up against the one of William in his uniform - was the portrait Daisy had given to William before he headed out for his time on the front. The sight of these two photos,placed together, took Beryl's breath away; Daisy and William were almost leaning on one another, but not quite together. It was rather symbolic of their relationship: William watching over his Daisy, her hesitancy to be standing directly by his side. And, of course, the fifth frame held a photograph of the Masons on their wedding day, a picture that tugged at Mrs. Patmore's heart in a way that she didn't want to explore at the moment - some combination of love and pain, neither of which had any place in Mr. Mason's parlour.
"Alright, then?" came Bill Mason's soft voice from behind her, startling her out of her reverie. She turned and gave him a sad smile, which he returned in kind.
"Oh, but they're lovely," she said. "As is this," she added, fingering the tablecloth. "Did your wife make it?"
"My grandmother," he replied fondly. "I used to watch her when I was a lad, the bobbins flying so fast I had no idea how she managed it. It's all I have left of them - their cottage burned to the ground when I was fifteen years old. They were on holiday at our farm at the time, thank the good Lord, and she'd brought this along to keep herself busy. Lucky, that, so I have this to remember her by. We were very close, you see, my grandmother and I."
Beryl smiled sadly and nodded, any appropriate verbal reply completely evading her mind.
"Alright, then," came Daisy's voice from the doorway. She set the tea tray on the small table and everyone took a seat - the ladies on the settee, Bill in his favorite chair.
"Now will you please tell me what is going on?" Mrs. Patmore asked. "I've been on pins and needles for days!"
"It's only … well, I don't want you to be hurt," Daisy replied.
"Hurt? Whatever do you mean?" Mrs. Patmore was thoroughly confused. "Daisy … you're not quitting your job, are you?" she asked quietly.
"What? No! No, whyever would you think that?" Daisy asked, puzzled.
"Well, you've discussed this with Mr. Mason first - I mean no offense by that, Mr. Mason, I'm glad she's got you to turn to. But, Daisy, I'm not used to you keeping me in the- wait a minute. This isn't about Andy, is it? Because I already know that you're sweet -"
"No, it's not," Daisy cut her off. "I've not even gotten around to thinking of all that yet."
"Well, that's good," Mrs. Patmore replied with a nod.
"It's about my parents," Daisy said quietly.
"What?" Mrs. Patmore's head tilted to the side, her face scrunched up in an expression of complete confusion. "Your parents? I presume you mean your actual parents, and not that lot what had you before you came to the Abbey," she grumbled, her face reddening in anger as she thought of the stories Daisy had confided over the years.
Daisy could see her getting steamed up, and spoke up quickly - wondering, fleetingly, if her answer was going to extinguish or ignite the woman's anger. "Neither. I mean … my real parents."
"Your … what? Your 'real parents?' What on earth does that mean?"
"My true parents - the ones who gave birth to me but had to give me up." She let that sink in for a minute, waiting patiently.
"Daisy? What are you talking about? I thought those nice folks were your parents? I'm so confused." She looked at Mr. Mason for a moment, as though she'd just remembered they were having this conversation in his parlour, in his presence. "Wait … what's this to do with you? Do you know these people she's talking about?"
"Oh, yes, Mrs. Patmore," he replied kindly. "And so do you."
She straightened her back a moment, the confusion taking over. Try as she might, she couldn't fathom what on earth they were on about! But the only people I know live in town or at the Ab- … oh, surely not.
She felt Daisy's eyes on her and looked up to meet her gaze. Beryl watched as those eyes filling with tears, and she reached out to grasp the younger woman's hand. She continued to look into those eyes … those deep, sparkling blue eyes … then let her gaze drift over Daisy's slight build, the dark hair, the fair complexion spattered with freckles … and suddenly it clicked.
"Oh. Oh, my God," she whispered. She closed her eyes and shook her head, both breathless from shock and wondering how she'd never noticed it before. "Of course … Elsie." She shook her head, overcome with the strangeness and sadness of the situation. She'd known how it was for maids then, known how difficult it could be to avoid advances from male members of the household - it was one reason she'd always preferred working in the kitchen.
But no, wait, didn't she say BOTH of her parents are at Downton? But Elsie wasn't employed there that long ago … so …?
"I'm so sorry," Daisy said, interrupting her thoughts.
Mrs. Patmore's head snapped up. "Sorry? Why on earth are you sorry? You didn't know this whole time, did you?"
"No! No, of course not! I found out last week. That day the I dropped the teapot?" Daisy withdrew her hand from Mrs. Patmore's and sat back, fiddling with the fringe on her jumper as she spoke. "I lied to you, Mrs. Patmore. I didn't bump into Mrs. Hughes in the corridor. I was about to bring the tray into Mr. Carson when I heard him and Mr. Bates talking about it."
"Wait a minute. Mr. Bates knows? But how?" Mrs. Patmore was becoming more confused by the minute.
"I'm not sure, actually. But he asked Mr. Carson about it."
"Mr. Carson? But why … oh, oh my goodness, of course." She felt sick - not with the thought that the two of them had a secret child, or that it was Daisy, but with the knowledge that she'd somehow never put it all together before.
Her face slackened with the rest of the shock, and Bill and Daisy watched her, concerned for her health as they saw her characteristic, pink color drain from her cheeks. Her eyes were flitting about the floor and they knew she wasn't looking at the floor, per se, but rather flipping through years' worth of memories, instances in which she'd observed Mr. Carson and Mrs. Hughes together, times when she'd noticed the things they seemed to share with one another - the nuances, the covert glances, that strange method they had of communicating without speech - and they saw her putting it all together before wondering about the one, inevitable bit that remained: the question of when.
"London," she whispered, nodding slowly as she did the mental calculation backward from Daisy's age. "The year he was promoted to butler. She must have been there during the Season. Oh, good heavens …"
"I think we've gotten there now," Bill said quietly. He scooted his chair closer to the settee and looked at the cook, and then - very boldly - took her other hand in his. "Our girl has had quite a shock, Mrs. Patmore. She needs our help as she decides what she wants to do."
Beryl looked up at him and saw the tenderness in his eyes, felt the warmth of his hand as it squeezed her trembling one. She licked her dry lips and took a deep, cleansing breath, and turned to Daisy.
"What do you want, love?" she asked.
"I don't know," Daisy replied thoughtfully. She turned to stare out the window, noticing how the sky was darkening. "More," she added.
"More than what?"
"More than this," she answered. "Not to replace either of you, of course. But just … well, I'd like a chance to have them as family, if they want me. I think."
"Why wouldn't they want you?" Beryl almost shouted. "They should be happy that after what they did you'd want to be back in their life!"
Daisy shook her head slowly. "No, I don't think I hold that against them. Well, at least not against Mrs. Hughes. She told me it had been the best choice, and she was right. If she'd kept me we'd have been at her family farm, practically starving, or out on the streets of London. At least this way she could keep her job and I had parents who were able to care for me when I was little."
"But surely the farm wouldn't have been so bad?" Beryl asked quietly. She was utterly confused: Why NOT the farm?
As Daisy was formulating a reply she bit down on her lip, an idiosyncratic detail that had not escaped Beryl's notice.
"She needed to keep working, to send money home after her Da died." There, that's the easiest explanation.
Beryl's eyes narrowed and she pursed her lips. She knew Daisy wasn't giving her the entire story, and it shocked her to realize that the young woman was withholding something, some bit of information about Elsie Hughes to which Daisy - as the newly-discovered daughter - had heard in confidence … something that, despite over twenty years of working together, Beryl did not know.
Well.
Daisy gave her a few minutes to gather her thoughts before speaking again. "I want to talk to Mr. Carson, hear his side. I don't think he wanted me at all," she said sadly, "and I need to know why.
"But I think that I'd like to get to know them … differently, I mean. And you … you've always been like a Mam to me, you know that I think, and nothing that Mrs. Hughes or Mr. Carson tell me is going to change that."
She turned her attention to Bill. "And it's not going to change how I feel about you, neither. You've been a Da to me when I never thought I'd have one. You've made me feel special, given me options and encouragement outside of the big house, made me feel like, just maybe, the world's not as scary as I'd thought."
"But you deserve a chance for more, Daisy, and you should explore that," Bill answered gruffly. "I lost my family much too soon. All of them …" His voice cracked, but he took a deep breath and plowed ahead. "All too soon. If I had a chance to see them again, or to build something like what you've had given to you, I wouldn't think twice about it," he finished.
"Nor would I, I suppose," Beryl added. "He's right. You should see where it leads, if you want to."
Daisy looked down as Bill reached for her hand, realizing belatedly that he was also holding Mrs. Patmore's hand. They'd formed a little circle of sorts, and the image calmed her.
"We'll always be here for you. If it works out that Mrs. Hughes and Mr. Carson want that as well, then so be it. Your family will just be larger is all," Beryl told her girl.
Daisy smiled, relief flooding through her. She hadn't expected this to be how the day would go, but everything she'd imagined paled in comparison to what she had right here, in Bill Mason's well-loved sitting room.
oOoOoOoOoOoOo
Charles was just finishing pouring the last of the wine through the filter when he heard a gentle knock on his door. He looked up as the door was opening, and saw Daisy peek her head around.
He was unprepared for how he'd feel upon seeing her. Elsie had told him of their conversation last week but, like Elsie, he'd been so busy that he'd not really seen Daisy at all since the whole teapot fiasco. He hadn't imagined how much he would long to speak with her now that the secret was out, to tell her that, in his own gruff, reserved way, he had always cared for her. The swell in his heart almost knocked him flat, but he managed to control it and meet her halfway across the pantry.
Once he found himself standing in front of her, however, he wasn't sure what to say, what to do. In his discomfort the old habits came back, the ones from before the accident, and Charles found himself clenching and unclenching his hands, and tugging on his waistcoat to smooth it, as if the actions of putting the prim and proper butler together would calm the man inside.
It wasn't working, and Daisy could sense it immediately.
"I wondered if I might have a word, Mr. Carson … if now is a good time?" She nodded toward the decanter, noting that he'd just finished with it but unsure of what happened next.
Charles took a deep breath. "Of course, Daisy." He motioned his hand toward a chair, indicating for her to sit as he took care of the decanter apparatus. He hesitated, then added, "I know you've spoken to y- … to Mrs. Hughes."
"I have," she answered as she took her seat. "She filled in a lot of blanks, and explained how she used to visit me when I was small. Before I was sent away."
Charles looked at her curiously, and sensed the hurt in her expression. "Yes, I was aware that she did," he murmured, conscious of the need to soften his voice lest he frighten Daisy with its usual, booming volume.
"Why didn't you?" Daisy blurted out. "Ever see me, I mean? Did you not want to? Didn't you … wonder what had happened to me? Did you never care at all?" She realized that she'd begun crying, but didn't really mind. It's good for him to see how hard this is, she thought.
Charles sighed, and Daisy noticed the sorrow evident in his eyes. He held out a handkerchief to her, which she refused; instead, she reached into her pocket and withdrew a decidedly more feminine one, not hearing the gasp that had escaped his lips. She dabbed at her eyes and then folded the slip of fabric into fourths, taking a moment to run her finger around the delicate forget-me-not pattern that resided in the corner. Mrs. Hughes had given it to her the night they'd spoken, had insisted that she take it; Daisy had been holding onto it like some sort of talisman ever since, a way of reminding her that this whole messy situation hadn't just been some horrible dream.
"I bought that for her, you know," he rumbled. "The handkerchief." A pause. "In London - it's older than you are, my dear."
"Oh," Daisy replied, startled. "She gave it to me the other night, but she didn't tell me that."
"No, she wouldn't," he answered softly, shaking his head as a smirk playing about his lips. "Funny, though … how you'd have it with you when you came to see me."
Charles took a deep, cleansing breath. The simple sight of a handkerchief had made everything in his mind so suddenly, abundantly clear. "Daisy, please, let me say a few things." She nodded, allowing him to continue.
"I was a foolish man to have let Mrs. Hughes – your mother – go away all those many years ago. No, that's not quite right … I forced her away, I refused all other options. I put too much focus on my work, on my pride at having just been appointed butler and how important I was to the Crawley family."
He fidgeted uncomfortably in his seat, looking down at the hem of his waistcoat as he fiddled with the edge of the fabric. It was an uncharacteristic move, Daisy thought, and she wasn't sure if it was due to his changed personality or the fact that she'd rarely seen him in a less formal setting than when he was presiding over the servants' table. Perhaps a bit of both, she thought. When he continued speaking, though, she heard a great sadness in his voice.
"I should have made my actual family the focus of my life; instead, I ran away. I abandoned that lovely woman. And then, when the opportunity presented itself, I asked her to come and work here. We needed a head housemaid, as I'm sure she's told you, and I wrote to her. I knew she was a hard worker, that she could run this household seamlessly, but that wasn't the real reason. I am a selfish man, Daisy … I had realized that I couldn't live happily without her, you see.
"But I will say this, which you may or may not choose to believe: I thought, at the time I'd sent her away, that she'd be better off in the long run without me. I didn't want to put her in a situation where she'd be forced into a workhouse, or into a marriage where we'd certainly both have been unemployed, not sure where our next meal was coming from, and in no decent place to raise a child. When she'd written to tell me she'd left you with another family, I was well and truly shocked. I wholly expected that, if she didn't stay on the farm to raise you, she'd have left you with her mother. To this day I don't understand what changed her mind."
"She had no choice, Mr. Carson. Her Mam … well, she wouldn't have been able to care for me, not properly anyhow."
Charles looked back up at Daisy, realizing for the first time how calm she was about the entire situation, and understanding that Elsie had given up her entire side of the story to Daisy without question – something she'd not ever done for Charles. He expected to be jealous of this, but instead it only solidified what he knew in his heart, the thing he'd held onto since his time in hospital: this was his family. Elsie. Daisy. They were what he wanted in his life, they were his focus now as they always should have been. The pull of the Abbey was waning rapidly, and Charles knew in that instant that if his Lordship walked through the pantry door and asked Charles to choose one over the other, there would be no contest, that his retirement would just be coming earlier than planned.
"No, I'm sure she didn't have a choice," he said, smiling at his daughter. "Daisy … I am aware that since my injury I've become something of a changed man. But you must understand that I have always regretted my actions, and that I was eternally grateful when you came to live here, to work for the family, as it put us all under the same roof. Your job here was a dreadfully poor substitute for the way I wish you'd been raised, and I know my words will never make up for the awful years you spent prior to arriving at Downton, but it was all I felt I could offer at the time."
She smiled sadly. "I know that, Mr. Carson. We all have regrets, but the more I think of it the more I realize that we are like a family here – all of us. You and Mrs. Hughes have been parents to everyone downstairs over the years – William used to say that all the time," she said with a soft smile. "In a way I think it that makes it easier for me, because I already like and respect you both so very much."
Charles felt it then – a still, small, sparkling drop of hope. "Thank you, Daisy. But would you like, well, more than that?" he asked patiently.
And he watched in wonder as her smile broadened, neither realizing in that moment that they were both thinking of a small, difficult walk down a non-existent aisle, father and daughter leaning on one another, on the morning Daisy always thought back to as the day she became a true adult, capable of making her own decisions. The symbolism of how he'd helped her on that journey did not escape her.
"I think I would," she answered quietly. "But I need some time to sort out how."
"Fair enough," Charles told her. He recognized the hesitancy, but also heard the sound of hope, saw the olive branch she had almost offered to him.
He'd waited over twenty years to have this conversation; he'd give her as long as she needed to figure it all out.
The image of the lace-making is straight out of "Lark Rise to Candleford" and Queenie's demonstration. What a lovely form of art, so sadly fallen by the wayside ...
Reviews always welcome. :)