A/N: You guys. There were So. Many. Things. I forgot about that happened at the end of Season 3 and beginning of Season 4, so many things that reminded me how kickass (and ahead of her time) Elsie is, and I really DID consider delving into some of them: how she helped Thomas after the incident with Jimmy, everything she did for Anna, including the dressing-down of the despicable Mr. Green; her reaction to Sybil's death, etc. And maybe I will add some of those chapters eventually…but I wanted to get to this day, to this part of the story. I have a pretty good idea of the lay of the land from here on out (even have the final chapter planned, for down the road).

This is my new favorite chapter, Chapter Sweet 16. I hope you enjoy it as much as I enjoyed writing it. ~CeeCee

The London Season, 1923

He'd never get there on his own. She realized that now. A gentle push, mayhaps a touch more, that's all they need, every now and then, she smiled to herself. She wasn't sure she entirely agreed with the status quo: that women should always have to swoop in, unobserved and underappreciated, guiding their men to the best decision, and then let them take all of the credit for it, in the end; but, there it was.

The world was changing, she was well aware; and glad of it, in many respects. They'd get there, in the end, as the women's suffrage movement understood; though it'd never be all at once. It'd be in stops and starts, with lots of burnt toast in-between. She grinned to herself as she made her way down the hallway towards Mr. Carson's temporary study, thinking of his reaction to her electric toaster a few years ago. Stops, starts, and lots and lots of burnt toast, she grinned to herself. Progress wasn't always pretty, comfortable, or even economical, but it was part of living, in her mind.

In the meantime, thank goodness we're here to help them along, our men, she smiled again, patting the pocket containing the picture postcard Anna had picked up for her earlier today whilst she was running errands for the young ladies. Elsie Hughes had turned sixty last year, thank you very much, and it was right about that time she decided to stop pretending that Charlie Carson wasn't, in nearly every way that mattered, exactly that: her man. There were benefits to getting older, it seemed. Being indiscreet, even if it was only to oneself, seemed to be one of them.

She entered the darkened study Mr. Carson was using at Grantham House, and eyed the board on the wall, trying to gauge exactly where the card should be pinned to have the maximum desired effect. She found an open spot, and started tacking the card down. No, Elsie, you would spot it there, ye daft woman, but he won't see it.

She shook her head, pulled the card out. Aimed her eyes higher. Charles Carson was a very tall man. She stood on her tiptoes, and pressed the thumbtack in. Yes, that was right at eye-height for him, she was sure. Hadn't she been looking up at him for over thirty years now?

And, for second, it flashed through her mind (and let's be honest, her body) what it might be like to be reaching up, on her tiptoes nearly, not to help her man come to the best decision, but to put her arms around his neck. For a moment, she could almost feel it, the smooth texture of his collar, the warmth of his neck, the short hairs at the base of his nape, mingled silver and black…

"Now really, get yourself together," she muttered, stepping back, shaking her head. Her stomach rolled in a not completely unpleasant way. She couldn't help but smile as she left the room, though. They'd all have their day at the seaside, in any case, and whatever that may bring.

oooOOOooo

They nearly filled one Pullman car themselves, and were rowdy enough that any other embarking passengers raised their eyebrows and found somewhere else to seat themselves. Charles resisted the urge to shush them every five minutes, partly because he knew it would do no good, and partly because this was their special day off, and they had all worked very hard the past few weeks.

"Well done, Mr. Carson. I think this was a fine idea, and the staff are quite thrilled, even if it's a defeat of sorts," Mrs. Hughes was suddenly at his elbow, standing next to him at the head of the aisle. He glanced over at her. She was looking very well in a light blue hat and dress. The finery, however, didn't quite offset the devilish twinkle in her eyes.

"No surprise, there, Mrs. Hughes, as I am nearly certain the idea was yours, despite the fact that I was the one who suggested and arranged it," he raised an eyebrow at her, grinning at the shocked look on her face. He may not know how, exactly, but she was the one who brought them 'round to this Pullman car, to this trip to the seaside, to the entire staff, the ladies dressed in light pastels and the young men already with their jackets off, shirt sleeves rolled up, grinning and chatting happily with each other. He'd been wondering all morning how many of his own good ideas had actually been hers, in the end.

"Wonders never cease," she said quietly, then raised her voice slightly. "Can I have your attention for a moment, please, everyone? I promise this will be the last bit of business of the day. Mr. Carson and I, and Lord and Lady Grantham, would like to thank you all for your diligence and professionalism the past few weeks. This excursion is an expression of that appreciation. And while we'd like you to remember and hope you all conduct yourselves as befitting members of a great household, we mostly want you all to simply relax, and enjoy yourselves."

The staff burst into cheers and applause, and Mrs. Hughes smiled and nodded, lifted her hand for silence once more, "And I do believe a special thanks goes to Mr. Carson, for arranging such a thoughtful day of relaxation for all of us." She smiled up at him and the train car exploded again in cheers and calls of his name, shouts of gratitude.

And then she drifted away like a blue cloud, to sit with Mrs. Patmore and Daisy, leaving him standing there, basking in his staff's appreciation.

Blasted, blessed woman¸ he thought to himself, and couldn't help but smile.

oooOOOooo

What a truly wonderful day, Elsie Hughes thought to herself, feeling the shifting sand beneath the checked blanket. She smiled over at Beryl Patmore, who grinned back at her, over the heads of Daisy, Ivy and Mr. Levinson's young valet, Ethan, the younger folks chatting and eating sandwiches, drinking lemonade and cold tea.

Her eyes traveled along the expanse of shore. She saw the Bateses, near the penny lick carts and beachside cabanas, and she was glad to see some of the worry lifted from their faces, at least for the moment.

All of the men, with their trousers and sleeves rolled up, feet dusted in sand. Even Thomas laughed out loud as he tossed a ball to Mr. Molesley, who caught it and glanced at the serene Miss Baxter for approval. Her face broke into a bright grin in response.

A few of the maids and hall boys were frolicking in the surf, splashing each other with salt water.

"This was a fine idea, Mrs. Hughes," Beryl Patmore finally said, sighing, wiggling her bare toes in the sand.

Elsie's toes responded in kind; there was something very earthy, almost illicit, about how wonderful the warm sand felt on her feet. It made her feel young. No, that wasn't it; it made her feel exactly the age she was, but bolder somehow. More alive.

"I'll relay your compliments to Mr. Carson," she responded, winked, and both women chuckled heartily. She shaded her eyes, scanning the beach for the man in question. He was standing on a dune about twenty feet away, surveying the ballgame, a contented look on his face. With one last eyebrow raise at Mrs. Patmore, she got to her feet and walked up the slight incline to where he was standing.

"Does it still feel like a defeat, Mr. Carson?" She stood beside him, and realized that, despite the fact he was still in his vest, pocket watch in place, he'd removed his shoes, his bare toes sinking into the sand, alongside hers. The sight of them sent another one of those slow, languorous, dangerous, delightful roll through her lower belly.

"Not as such, Mrs. Hughes," his eyebrow shot up. "Though I still contend that the Crystal Palace holds its own charm, as well." She noticed that his eyes traveled downward, to their bare feet, side by side, covered in sand. No fools like old fools, she thought. And then took a chance.

"We'll not have uncovered our feet and not dip them into the surf. Come on, let's go," she grinned up at him, enjoying the way he usually coiffed hair danced in the sea breeze. And she started towards the waves, glancing behind her, to make sure he was following. He was, with a look that was equal parts excitement and trepidation.

Exactly right, she thought, and chuckled to herself.

oooOOOooo

"You can always hold my hand, if you need to feel steady…"

It was late, and he really ought to be asleep. He was tired, in that pleasant, warm, heavy way one gets tired after spending the day walking in the sand and bracing against the sea air. And there was no denying that is had been one of the best days in recent memory, one of those days that felt completely, start to finish, even its imperfections adding to the contentedness he felt steeped in.

And yet.

He couldn't sleep. He could blame his somewhat unfamiliar room and bed in Grantham House. But of course that wasn't it. He should drifting off, satisfied, happy and calm, but part of him didn't want to let those feelings go yet. He knew himself, and knew that when he awoke tomorrow, the magic of the day would have dissipated, the way he felt now, a memory, or a memory of a memory.

He was as awake as he'd ever been. And it was all due to her hand in his, as the cold sea water swirled around their bare feet.

But it wasn't just that. No. Their hands had been joined, in the past. It wasn't just her hand, but her words. Not just teasing. Warm. Flirting.

He'd loved her for so long now, it was second nature to him. And, he supposed, as was the way when you loved someone for so long, you took it for granted. You took them for granted, that they would always be there, exactly where you wanted them to be. He kept thinking back, to when there was a possibility that she was ill, very ill, and the relief that flooded through him when he found out she wasn't.

They never discussed it, because he wasn't to have known. And then…well, things went back to the usual. They went back to their own version of usual, of day-to-day.

But holding her hand, so cheekily, earnestly offered, made him feel like…like maybe he didn't want to go back to the usual. She was right. They were getting on, there was no denying it.

What did he want the rest of his life to look like? Who did he want to spend it with? And how? His mind and heart kept going back to Elsie Hughes, her cheeks pink in the sun, her hand in his, talking of nothing and everything, as they always had, for years, for decades, but…but with the promise of more. Of something else. Of her hand not only in his, but her hand on his cheek, on his sunburned brow.

He sighed, restless and happy and terrified all at once. He sat up, turned up the bedside lamp. Took the postcard of the seaside that he'd finally spotted on the board in his study.

Smiled at it, laughing. Proof, that she'd planned the whole thing. As part of him knew. She'd been keeping him steady for years now, whether he knew it at the time or not.

He looked at the card in his hand. Raised it to his nose. It smelled a little of lavender and sandlewood, as if she'd carried it in her pocket, determining the best time to plant it in his office.

He pressed it to his lips. And began formulating a future that he'd never dared consider.