A/N: Okay, you all. Thanks to everyone who weighed in with thoughtful, detailed opinions on the whole "secret sister" issue. I am still mulling it over, you'll be the first to know if I decide to bury it or forge ahead!

I MUST shout out LoveHughSon who connected me with some great source materials now that I've met up with the timeline of the show. It's been interesting – I had immersed myself in the past, now I've caught up to the "present" and it's tougher going than I thought! I don't want to rehash existing scenes, but flesh out the storyline. It flexes a different set of writing muscles, but I am enjoying the work out! The good news is, though this chapter was a little delayed compared to previous ones, I have my idea for the next chapter already thought through.

~CeeCee

April/May 1912

Elsie was floating. No, no, that was wrong…she was sinking. Murky blue-green water stretched out in every direction, fading to cloudy blackness below and to either side. The only illumination was from above, and, for some reason, she could not lift her head. She tried to scream, but only bubbles floated out and up, up, up. Her black housekeeper's dress billowed out around her, and her loose hair danced around her head. Her keys floated up past her face, and she snatched at them. They trailed up, out of her grasp.

She suddenly realized she wasn't alone in the water. There were dozens of other people and objects, in the midst of their own journey through the deep. Before her eyes, Daisy, the little scullery maid, plummeted into the darkness below, disappearing completely. An entire silver tea service danced around her, buffeting her body before the current swirled it away. Someone grabbed her hand and she turned. It was Becky. She was smiling and tugging, pulling her, wanting her to dive deeper. Elsie was afraid. She ripped free from her sister's grasp and Becky, too, disappeared. Thomas Barrow and Sarah O'Brien swam by, twirling in the water, triple slits along the sides of their throats like gills. Elsie could see their eyes were bright yellow.

You're dreaming, she told herself. You're dreaming, you daft woman, and you must wake yourself up.

For some reason, the knowledge that she wasn't actually drowning didn't make her feel better. Her unease grew. She could feel the ship they had all fallen off of, looming above her, threatening to blot out the gentle light filtering from above.

"Ah, Elsie, yeh must be careful. It'll crush yeh, if yeh let it," Joe Burns swam up to her, the Joe Burns she remembered from her youth: stout, well-muscled arms, sweet, wholesome face sunburned by farm work. He touched her cheek with one work-worn hand, and then was swimming away, followed by two cows tumbling over each other.

"What, Joe? What are you talking about?" She screamed after him. He said nothing. He simply pointed up.

She tried again to move her head. This time it complied. She gazed upward, and the weak bluish light, at the outline of the behemoth floating on the surface. And she realized with a start that it was no ship. No luxury liner. It was Downton.

"No time to rest, Mrs. Hughes, we must carry on," Mr. Carson was suddenly beside her, the tails of his black dress coat curling upwards.

"But Mr. Carson! It's going to crush us!" She pointed up at the grand house slowly sinking towards them.

"Nonsense. There's much to do, much to do," he seemed completely unconcerned.

Elsie looked up again. The house was all she could see, nearly blotting out any light. She screamed.

"You must remain calm. Now, I'll show you, come along –" he grabbed her hand, and she held it tightly. He started pulling her along, but they weren't going to make it, the house was coming to fast, they were going to be pushed deeper, into the darkness and –

She gasped herself awake, sitting up in her narrow spinster's bed. She looked towards the window. The sky was the deepest blue of the hour right before dawn. She could make out the familiar shapes of her nightstand and dresser, but didn't light a lamp. She knew sleep was over for her this night, or morning rather, and it was the day of the Downton memorial service for Mr. James and Patrick Crawley. Weeks had passed since the unthinkable had happened, and she'd had the dream almost every night since.

She was tired. She suppose she should get herself presentable and see if Mrs. Patmore or Daisy would rustle her up a pot of tea and some toast. It was going to be a long day.

"Ye daft woman," she muttered to herself. "Ye're all scrambled." And indeed, she was. This had been an odd year, thusfar. Odd indeed. She had turned fifty in March. Fifty! And then: the Titanic, these Crawley deaths, the mess with the entail. And then, of all things: she'd gotten a letter from Joe Burns. After over twenty years. It didn't say much, and said all the more for what it didn't say. She didn't know how to respond, or if she should. She reached over to her nightstand, grabbed the book she knew was sitting there. She had tucked Joe's letter inside of it for safe keeping. She laid it on her lap, opening the cover. Ran her fingers over the inscription that had been put there, ten years ago, on her fortieth birthday, a week after her mother had died.

She held the letter from Joe Burns in one hand, and the old birthday gift from Mr. Carson in the other, in the near-darkness of her room.

"Unsinkable, Elsie, that's you." And she laughed at the ridiculousness of it all.

oooOOOooo

Charles Carson didn't want to admit it, but there it was: he felt defeated. He was assuming this was a temporary situation, because one must carry on, no matter what.

The sinking of the Titanic and all that came afterwards, like a giant tower of cards blown over by the slightest breeze, had shaken him to his core. What he'd felt about himself, about the Crawleys, about Downton, about the world was slowly sliding slantways.

He'd even snapped at Elsie Hughes earlier today, which, while something that did happen on occasion with someone you worked and essentially lived with for over thirty years, was quite rare for them. And while he felt regretful for his tone, he hadn't liked her dismissive attitude about the family, about their family, the Crawleys. But before his indignation could grow, she'd grown wistful. Talked about another type of life, one with a children, a spouse, a life out of service. She'd looked tired, and maybe even a little sad.

They'd been interrupted, as they often were, before they could take the conversation any further. The two of them probably had hundreds, if not thousands, of unfinished conversations between them, tons of dangling threads. But this one nagged at him. He felt he was missing something, but he wasn't sure what. And he certainly didn't like leaving any conversation with her with bad feelings on either side.

She'd just been so adamant in her assertion that the Crawleys were not her family. As best as he knew, all of her natural family were gone. Her mother had died over ten years ago, right around her birthday. Wouldn't she be grateful for the connections she'd made in this house? He felt personally slighted, and kept reminding himself she'd said nothing against him. Then why did it feel that way?

He kept seeing the faraway look on her face, how plain worn out she seemed. Could she be considering a life away from Downton? But how? Where? He remembered a letter coming in for her today, the second one from an address in her hometown. There could be something there, perhaps. But while he perfunctorily screened some of the younger or newer staff's correspondence, he never intruded on those who'd been at Downton for any amount of time, and certainly not her.

There was a knock at his study door, and he hoped it wasn't Thomas Barrow. He and Sarah O'Brien had gotten a bee in their collective bonnet about John Bates, who, despite his injury, seemed to be a perfect valet for Lord Grantham, not even considering their history. They were like bi-carb and vinegar, those two – sour and strange apart, but explosive together.

"Come in," he signed, mustering some energy.

"I hope this isn't a bad time?" Elsie Hughes was standing there, a hesitant smile on her face. She still looked tired, but more like herself.

"Not at all, especially given who I thought was a'knocking," he stood, pulled out a chair for her. Got them each a sherry.

"Well now you have a perfect excuse to avoid any individual or combined instance of Thomas or Miss O'Brien," the tempered mischief he so loved about her was twinkling in her eyes again. Something loosened in his chest.

"A closed door wouldn't be enough to stop either of them, Mrs. Hughes, as you well know."

"Well, Mr. Carson, perhaps our combined forces would be, here's hoping," she gave him a little toast and sipped her sherry. He didn't want to break the mood, but he owed her something.

"This came for you in today's mail," he handed over the letter he noted earlier.

She took it, looked at the address, and an unreadable expression came over her face. She tucked it into her waist pocket without a word.

"Mrs. Hughes…I hope you've not been unhappy here, at Downton," he didn't know where else to start. Too many things he wasn't supposed to say. Too many things he didn't want to say.

"Well, Mr. Carson, if I was, I'd be quite the glutton for punishment, wouldn't you say?" She teased, but then became serious. "I've been industrious here, and built a life here. I've been…happy, too, Mr. Carson, in my own way. I've made friends I've never imagined I'd have." And she smiled softly at him. "Friends who are very dear to me, as dear as family." Her voice was warm and thoughtful, but her hand was still hovering over her pocket, where the letter sat.

"I am glad to hear it, Mrs. Hughes. I feel the same way," he felt better than he had in days, though the threads from earlier today were still dangling.

"Friends like family, even if none of them have the surname 'Crawley,'" she added, and now she seemed to be holding back real laughter.

"Impertinence, thy name is Elsie Hughes," he said, and rather liked the feeling of her Christian name in his mouth, but he was smiling.

And now her laughter did burst forth. He may not know what caused that faraway look in her eyes, but she was here, with him, in this moment, as she had been for many many moments before. And would be for many more.