A/N: Okay, I fibbed. This isn't the third part of my "William triptych". That will come a little later; I've got other ground I want to cover before I jump to 1924. Thanks again for reading, commenting and messaging me – I really appreciate every single piece of correspondence! ~CeeCee
Boxed-Up Heart
Fall 1920
He stood there in the middle of the village square, looking after Dr. Clarkson, unable to catch his breath. Until a few minutes ago, he realized, he was able to fool himself that the bits of conversation he'd overheard between the women meant nothing, or almost nothing – they all were getting on in years, and each year, there was some new ache or pain to bring one to the doctor. Unpleasant, sometimes, but expected.
He hadn't expected what the doctor had said; and more, what he hadn't said.
And Charlie Carson thought of all of the things he himself had never said. Things that mattered. And how, sometimes, not saying them became so ingrained that even thinking about saying them out loud felt impossible. Or even just thinking them, period.
I love her.
He really needed to sit down. He'd been planning on walking home after speaking to Dr. Clarkson, but he knew he'd never make it in the state he was in. A cup of tea, perhaps, to center himself.
I love Elsie Hughes.
That wouldn't do, on second thought. He needed….fortification. He turned around and stepped into the Grantham Arms.
I love her. Very much. What if she's truly ill? What if it's…?
"A glass of port, please, Mr. Jones," he sat in his usual corner spot, and realized his voice was far too loud when the barman jumped a little.
"Are you quite alright, Mr. Carson?" Jones' brow furrowed as he set the drink in front of him.
"Yes, yes, quite. Sorry, my mind was elsewhere," he picked up the wine, sipped it, appreciating the rich sweetness. It was very similar to the vintage he'd shared with Mrs. Hughes last week…
What if it IS cancer? What if she dies? What then, Charlie?
The whisper in his head had shifted from his own usual internal voice to one that sounded very much like a young woman he knew long ago, in another lifetime. Alice. Another life, another love. The boy he had been had bared his whole heart and soul for love, once upon a time. And briefly, he'd thought it'd been worth it. But he'd lost Alice, in the end, to his mate. To Charles Grigg.
He had once told Elsie Hughes, that life had altered him. It was after she'd turned down that old beau of hers, now that he thought of it. And it was true; all of the slings and arrows that life hurls at us, we must carry on through it, forever changed. But the change didn't just come from outside. The biggest changes happened in the secret corners of a man's heart.
And Charlie Carson had boxed his own heart up over forty years ago, in the dusty backstage of some dancehall, along with his tap shoes and greasepaint. He'd left the unpredictable for the staid, for the steady: the tap shoes replaced by a footman's livery, the greasepaint for silver polish.
Life had altered him, yes, but he had made some of those changes himself. He didn't think of himself as unfair or overly rigid, but the rules that governed his daily life at Downton came as a blessed relief to him after the messiness of a broken heart. It was a choice he made as a young man: not to give up on love entirely, per se, but to set it aside. Not forever, maybe, but for a good long while.
And what he hadn't seemed to notice, to really notice, was that, after all of these years, that box he'd placed his heart in was full of memories.
A glimpse of the new head housemaid, with the Scottish burr and smooth sable-colored hair.
That same brown hair, gently being covered with snow, on Christmas Eve, in the moon-drenched yard.
A gloved hand on his shoulder, as he wept at Mrs. Davis' graveside.
Dozens and dozens of eye-rolls.
A thousand well-timed retorts.
Hundreds of shared glasses of wine.
And: one woman filling that box where he'd tucked his heart, oh so conveniently and tidily, all of the memories and moments pushing outward, filling it, straining to burst free.
And that was how he'd fallen in love, the second time. The final time. Not in a giddy burst of lust and yearning, youthful feelings, as wonderful and terrifying as those things had been; no.
Elsie Hughes had touched his heart and mind in a series of moments, so intertwined with who he was, that he couldn't exactly pinpoint when they had all added up to love.
But they did.
And that dusty box with his heart in it: it was waiting for more moments, more memories. He couldn't bear to think they were going to run out.
What would he do without her?