A/N: I really need to finally say thank you to the enthusiastic readers and reviewers of this Chelsie fic of mine. It's my first foray into this series, and this ship. I so much enjoy putting this story out into the universe, and love reading how it touches people. So thanks, so much. I love hearing from you all. Warmly, CeeCee

Nota Bene: If you read this Chapter when I initially posted it, I left out an entire scene between Mrs. Hughes and Mrs. Driscoll, which might enrich the story a bit. I added it in about 30 minutes after the initial post. CeeCee

Christmas Eve, 1890

Elsie Hughes could feel sweat collecting at the base of her corset and did her best to ignore it. A light snow was fall outside, making Downton's grounds look like something out of a fairytale. But here, in the kitchen, temperatures were toasty, and getting hotter by the moment.

"Mrs. Hughes, I don't expect it seems much to you, but the cooking sherry, it's disappearin' faster than I can reshelve it and get it under lock and key," Mrs. Driscoll, the head cook, had pulled her into a "quiet" corner to discuss the matter. "Look here, I know everyone goes for a nip at the holidays, but this is out of hand." The cook twisted the towel in her hands around and around. "Not meanin' any disrespect, of course, but do you think I should take it up with Mrs. Davis, before she leaves?"

Twenty-three, Elsie thought to herself, adding another number to the times she'd heard that particular sentence uttered in the last few days. The troops are restless, and she had to keep herself from smiling. The first time someone said it (Peter, Margie's beau, of all people) she had been affronted. The tenth, chagrinned. Now she simply felt what everyone else did: nervous and sad that their de facto mother was leaving them at the New Year.

"No disrespect taken, and I am here to help," Elsie assessed Mrs. Driscoll closely. Her eyes kept wandering towards the stove, towards a young, flushed assistant cook. Polly. Something there, Elsie thought. "Let's step into the hallway; I won't keep you long."

"Now then," Elsie turned back towards her. "Let me know your thoughts. You know your staff better than anyone else, I expect. Anyone seem…troubled….these days?"

"Well, ma'am, I'm not sure it's my place to say," Mrs. Driscoll continued to strangle her rag between her hands.

"If someone's in a bad way, for any reason, it's my job to sort them out, best I can. You'll be doing a disservice to them, and yourself, if we let this slide by. Don't you agree?" She gave the older woman a small, encouraging smile.

"Yes, I suppose you are right," Mrs. Driscoll looked her in the eye. "I'm thinkin'…I'm thinkin' mayhaps our girl Polly might be in a spot of trouble, with one of the lads from the stable. If you're catching my drift. Turnin' to the drink, to drown her sorrows…or, well…" she drifted off, peering at Polly, still industriously stirring a pot in the kitchen.

A pregnant kitchen girl. Lovely, Elsie thought to herself, but she turned back to Mrs. Driscoll. Reached out her hand and gave the woman's substantial arm a squeeze. "Leave it to me. I'll talk to Polly after dinner's been prepared and sent up. We'll take good care of her, Mrs. Driscoll."

"She's a good girl, really," the cook's eyes were teary, but she had tucked her towel back into the band of her apron. "I so appreciate your help, Mrs. Hughes. You're a good woman, as sure as I'm standing here. We've got nothin' to worry 'bout, with Mrs. Davis going. Nothin' a'tall." And she bustled back into the kitchen, looking like someone without a care in the world.

'Twasn't ever about the sherry, was it? You were just worried about that lass, and didn't know how to ask for help, Elsie realized she hadn't lied to Mrs. Davis a few months back. She really did learn something new at Downton, every day.

oooOOOooo

Charles Carson was, he admitted, rather tired this evening. The holidays at Downton were always beautiful, magical, really, but it did feel non-stop the whole week leading up to Christmas. And everyone was in especially high spirits, most particularly Lord & Lady Grantham, and Lord Robert and Lady Cora, who was looking quite beautiful as she reached the apogee of her pregnancy. Three of the four of them, in fact, had kept the champagne flowing well into the evening. Lady Cora demurred after half a glass and retired early.

He stopped in his study to grab two glasses, to share an intriguing muscat that Lord Grantham had gifted him early in the day with Mrs. Davis. He suddenly realized Elsie Hughes might be in the housekeeper's sitting room as well. He grabbed a third glass with some trepidation. He noticed Mrs. Driscoll and two of the senior cooks tidying up in the kitchen, leaving platters of fruitcake, petit fours and ginger bread cookies out for the servants to enjoy.

"Happy Christmas, Mrs. Driscoll, ladies," he called to them. It was quite a nice tradition for the late night treats to be left out, since nearly all of the staff had to work during the holiday, unless their families lived on the estate or in the village. "The entire family sends their compliments, the dinner was beautiful. And I am certain the staff will tuck into these once they're down."

"Why thank you, Mr. Carson, and Happy Christmas to you too, sir," Mrs. Driscoll responded warmly. She was a good sort, had been her for over fifteen years. "I seem to recall these are long-time favorites of yours." She handed him several wrapped gingerbreads with a twinkle in her eye. Despite her enthusiasm, he could tell she was distracted. "Have you seen Mrs. Hughes, sir? Only thing, I had something I wanted to give her," she said hastily.

"Not since I went up for dinner service, no, but I will pass along the message to her," Carson went back into the hall, his hands quite full with potables and edibles. He stood at the housekeeper's sitting room door, trying to ascertain if either or both of the ladies were within. He was just about to knock when he felt a draft. He looked down the hall and saw the back door was ajar.

"That'll never do," he muttered, rushing over. He was about to knock the door closed with a free elbow when he heard voices outside. Two voices, both women, speaking low.

"So, you see Mrs. Hughes, 'twasn't nothing of that sort of trouble," a young woman's voice he could almost place. "I…did get a bit carried away, I know, but I felt me heart was breakin' into a thousand pieces, or like someone had cut me arm off, when he told me he was goin' on without me. I thought we had an understandin'. 'Twasn't true, none of it. He was all fancy words, no action." The voice wobbled, then broke into tears.

"There, lass. 'Tisn't worth your tears, the lout. You carry on here, as you have been. Mrs. Driscoll has faith in you, and so do I. You're a good sort of girl, a hard worker and a friendly way. They won't all be rapscallions, I can promise you that," Elsie Hughes' voice was firm and soft. Briefly, Carson wondered if he should let this conversation continue in privacy, but pushed away all feelings of guilt. I am the butler, after all. Staff problems concern me as much as the housekeeper.

"Now, as for the cooking sherry that appears to have been used a bit too quickly: I'll be taking the cost of it out of your wages for the next three months. You'll not feel the pinch so much that way, but you'll be in good standing by Easter," Elsie's voice was still kind, but contained a hint of steel. Just a hint.

"Mrs. Hughes, you are too generous," the girl's voice responded. Carson finally placed it. Polly. One of the cooking assistants, sweet girl. Maybe not so sweet, he now felt. "I – I never thought you'd let me keep my place here. I am speechless." Polly exhaled. She seemed to have gotten her tears under control.

"Well, it's Christmas, after all. And I trust next time you fall in love, you'll navigate the rougher waters, if they come, a little more carefully. We've all been there, don't let anyone tell you otherwise. Keep your heart close next time, Polly, and your sense closer. Now, run along. Off with you. Mrs. Driscoll will be waiting."

"Yes ma'am, Happy Christmas, ma'am, Mrs. Hughes!"

Carson backed up several steps before the girl pushed the door open, letting her run past.

"Happy Christmas, Mr. Carson!" She called out, as she dashed to the kitchen.

"Mr. Carson!"

"Mrs. Hughes. That girl is like Ebenezer Scrooge on Christmas morning," he tried looking stern but somehow wound up grinning at her.

"You look rather like Father Christmas, yourself, loaded down with goodies," she stepped towards him, grabbing the bottle and glasses. She smiled back up at him. There was snow glistening in her brown hair, on the shoulders of her dark dress. Her cheeks were pink with cold. She noted the three glasses.

"Mrs. Davis went to the last mass at the Church, if you were looking for her," as she spoke, she opened the wine and poured two glasses.

"She didn't say," Carson tried to hide his surprise – and his hurt feelings.

"I pushed her out," Elsie seemed to read his thoughts. "She was hemming and hawing all day about it, saying she'd always wanted to go to the candlelight service, but never had the chance. In forty years! Imagine. So I shooed her out the door. I told her we had it under control." She handed him a full glass.

Carson looked at her with amazement, taking his wine absentmindedly. "Shall we, then?" He gestured towards his study. There was a ball of emotion – fear, excitement, nervousness, worry – at the idea of the two of them behind closed doors together, but it would have to happen eventually.

She didn't seem so certain herself. She cleared her throat, "Well, if you wouldn't mind, it's quite lovely in the yard, with the snow covering the ground and still falling down. Feels more Christmassy than either of the offices."

"Well, it's highly irregular, but I suppose just this once…"

"Wonderful. Bring those biscuits with you. In any case, I want to hear just how much of my conversation with Polly you overheard," she stepped outside, not waiting for him.

He followed, somewhat put out. But then he sighed. The yard, usually somewhat dingy and crowded with debris of the day, was a covered with a thin layer of snow, blue in the emerging moonlight. A few flakes still danced in the chilly air.

"Quite lovely, isn't it?"

"Indeed, Mrs. Hughes, I am surprised to say. You do have your own way of doing things," he passed her a biscuit.

"Why thank you, Mr. Carson, for the cookie and the compliment," she took a bite, lifted her face up to the ebbing snow.

"I am not sure I meant it as such. I do believe you just granted a sherry thief reprieve and continued employment in this house."

"Well, Mr. Carson, as I said to Polly, it's Christmastime, and, shall I put it this way: the whole situation resolved itself in a much happier way than I had anticipated. I suppose that and the Christmas spirit moved me to leniency," she took another sip of wine.

"We've all been in love, Mr. Carson," she didn't look at him when she said it. She stated it like fact. Her voice became a little softer. "Would you have me fire a good worker over a broken heart? A momentary lapse of judgement?"

"I suppose not. She's a good girl, Polly, and I know that Mrs. Driscoll thinks she could go far here. We can turn a blind eye, just this once, considering that she'll pay the amount of the sherry."

"Now who's Scrooge, buying the biggest goose in the village?"

"Don't be impertinent, Mrs. Hughes."

"No, of course not. Do you have another biscuit for me, then?"

He passed her one, bite into one himself. He looked over at her again, saw the snow gathering again in her hair, lightening it, giving the illusion that she was aging in front of him. Somehow, the thought comforted him. Mrs. Davis would be gone, a week hence. Mrs. Hughes was here to stay. Carson sighed.

"Happy Christmas, Mrs. Hughes."

"Happy Christmas, Mr. Carson."