Tying the Knot

A/N: We made it! Wedding day. Oh, I just LOOOOOVED writing this chapter. I've actually thought about it a lot already; the thoughts I wanted to convey from each of them, the conversations they have that day (and not with each other!) I also sort of see how this story is going to play out. I have several chapters planned for the wedding, honeymoon and events that happen in Series 6, plus several after the timeline of the show.

I am also going to take another informal survey: I have an ending planned. This ending occurs AFTER the death of one of our lovers. I'd love to write it, and share it with you all, but I KNOW I said in the beginning of this story I wasn't going to do that, and maybe it's too melancholy, after all! The penultimate chapter I have in mind will serve nearly as well as an ending to this story, and both of them are still alive at that point. Mind you, I think this story has somewhere between 8-10 chapters to go, so the end is still a bit of a ways off.

What say you all? ~CeeCee

The Night Before the Wedding, May 1925

The sadness surprised him, took him off guard. What he'd been feeling the past few weeks was mostly severe nervousness and excitement, almost to the point of giddiness. But as he closed the latches of his battered suitcase, he gazed around his simple bachelor's room, sat, and stroked the duvet at the end of his bachelor's bed.

He'd kept and slept in this room since he'd been promoted to butler, for almost forty years, before he'd ever heard the name "Elsie Hughes". And…this was the last night he would sleep here. Tomorrow he would awaken (he wanted to believe he could get a little sleep this evening, though, at the moment, it seemed impossible) and it would be his wedding day.

His wedding day.

By this time tomorrow night, he'd be honeymooning in Scarborough, with his new wife.

His new wife.

It was all so much to take in. His work, this house, his life: those phrases had all been synonymous for decades and decades. That was all about to change. It was terrifying, in the face of it. He knew he was someone who did not handle change with particular ease, and yet, he was changing his entire life less than a day from now. No wonder he felt tired, and more than a little melancholic.

He began taking off his livery, getting ready for bed. He climbed under the blankets, lowered his lamp, still sitting against the headboard. Realizing that tomorrow night, he'd be at a seaside hotel, in a strange bed, with Elsie beside him. That thought was thrilling and terrifying and wonderful and sobering all at once.

And then he thought of her, as she'd been a few weeks ago, standing in drawing room that evening. Summoned by Lady Grantham, to explain herself. She'd stood there, so trim and small and yes, as she liked to say, tidy, the glamour of the room and the Crawleys in sharp contrast to her staid figure.

She'd been so tense and tightly drawn, but had spoken honestly, and fairly about what she wanted. At first, he'd felt highly upset that it had come to this: why couldn't she go along with the family's generous offer, with Lady Mary's good wishes? With their desire to mark this special day by acknowledging his life's service?

And then she had softened, slightly, catching his eye: said the day was about them, Charles Carson and Elsie Hughes. And he'd suddenly realized how wrong he'd been.

This day, this night, was the last night that his life revolved primarily around this glorious house, and the glorious people that lived and had lived here.

Going forward, his life was about them. Charles Carson and Elsie Hughes. About her. About him.

No wonder he felt…well…like he was burying something away. He was. His bachelor's life, with this magnificent house at the center of it all. Downton had been his mistress forever and a day; but he was taking a bride tomorrow, and it was time to say goodbye to the Charles Carson who'd put the house and the Crawley family before everything else. And goodbyes were difficult.

And so were beginnings. But he was ready.

oooOOOooo

She stood off in one corner to catch her breath. Tom Branson's crashing her wedding reception was a welcome relief, on top of her genuine pleasure in seeing him again. She'd never felt so overly inspected in her life as she had the past few hours. Right now, she just wanted to stand and take it all in. The school house looked really lovely, exactly as she'd hoped.

The tables were heavy with roasts and potatoes and cold salads, none of those fussy, posh bits they all nibbled on at their own 'dos. Everyone was mingling together: Isobel Crawley was deep in conversation with Miss Baxter and Mr. Moseley; Master George and Miss Marigold were running around with some of the tenant farmers' children, crawling in and out from under the tablecloths; Lord Grantham was telling a story with grand gestures to Andrew, Daisy, Thomas and Lady Edith, who looked flushed and happily distracted. The Bateses were chatting with the Dowager. There were dozens of cheerful and unusual tableaux around the room, and it did her democratic heart good to see it.

"You can't hide forever over here, you know, you're the bride, after all," Mrs. Patmore was suddenly at her elbow, handing her a glass of punch.

"I'm not hiding, not really," she insisted, smiling at her friend. "Here's to you, Mrs. Patmore, and everything you've done to get us to this day." They toasted each other, and Elsie felt grateful to have such a good friend in her life every day.

"Some things require more thanks than others, and I'm not talking about the menu, Mrs. Hughes, Carson, that is," Mrs. Patmore shook her head. "Not sure I've ever been asked to attend to a more awkward errand than the one you set me up with awhile back." She rolled her eyes, grinned.

"Aye, well it all worked out in the end, I suppose," Elsie mused, touching her wedding ring thoughtfully, searching for her new husband in the crowd. She smiled when she saw him. He was holding Miss Sybbie, deep in conversation with the young girl.

"Well, I suppose you won't really know until tonight, eh?" Mrs. Patmore retorted, breaking her sentimental reverie.

Elsie gasped, turned towards Beryl Patmore, and then, couldn't help herself: she started giggling. Then so did the cook, her face turning pink. Elsie could feel her cheeks getting red as well. They held on to each other with the hands that were free of punch glasses. Oh she was nervous, worried, excited, terrified, but right now, it all seemed very funny. She probably ought to eat something before she had anymore punch.

"Why am I not surprised to find the two of you in the corner, laughing like a pair of schoolgirls?" Tom Branson's Irish lilt interrupted them.

"Ah, Mr. Branson, yeh know only the half of it, maybe even less," Mrs. Patmore responded, drying her eyes. "Well, I'd best go see to the carving now."

"Keep in mind you're a guest, Mrs. Patmore, and a valued one at that. Don't work too hard, now." Elsie waved at her as she hurried away.

"And be too tired for the hooley later on? Never!"

"Yer havin' a hooley, Mrs. Hughes?" Tom Branson asked joyfully.

"Yes, indeed, Mr. Branson, later on, when the posher people have gone," her eyes twinkled a little at his delight. He was a fine lad, and a better brother than either of the Crawley ladies deserved, in her opinion. Though she noticed they both sought his approval in ways that they didn't their parents, so perhaps, on second thought, they did endeavor to deserve him. "You'll have to decide which side ye fall on."

"That's always been the biggest question, hasn't it, Mrs. Hughes?" He leaned in, kissed her cheek. "Mrs. Carson, I should say. Sybbie and I came back on the perfect day, I think."

"Well, I know everyone is glad to have you home, and we're honored that you and Miss Sybbie could be here," she replied, and they both looked over at Carson, still deep in conversation with the wee lass.

"Who'd have thought Mr. Carson would marry a progressive such as yourself?"

"Well, Mr. Branson, be sure you don't call me a 'liberal' in front of him, or he's liable to change his mind about the whole thing."

"In all seriousness, Mrs. Hughes – Carson – I'm very happy for you both. Mr. Carson is a good man, a kind man – "

"Aye, he is," she interrupted him gently, hoping he would carry on with consideration.

"But I think he and I have more in common than he'd warrant. You temper him, in the best way possible, when he's headed for an extreme world view on one thing or another. Just as Sybil did for me," his eyes were glossy with tears.

"We all still miss her, Mr. Branson," she put her hand on his arm, squeezed. "Aye, not as you do, but she was a light in the world like very few others are."

"And you helped me, so much, Mrs. Carson, in those dark, confusing days afterwards, when Sybbie was a baby, and I could barely think for grief," he gave her a long look, and she knew they were both remembering the trouble with Edna those years ago.

"Tom, Mrs. Hu-Carson!" Mary was moving towards them, smiling brightly, breaking the moment. "Tom, Sybbie is in a desperate search for her father and Mr. Carson, for his new bride. We're all sitting for lunch now, though I must speak with Mrs. Hughes – Carson –for a moment, if I may?"

She turned towards Elsie as Tom moved towards Charlie to lift Miss Sybbie into his arms. Her new husband caught her eye, raised an eyebrow at the perplexing pair of she and Lady Mary, then smiled broadly at her, nodded. She smiled back. She could feel the younger woman taking in the moment but didn't worry herself about it.

"What can I do for you, m'lady?" She kept her voice professionally neutral.

"It's more what I can do for you¸ Mrs. Carson," she paused, and Elsie really looked at her beautiful, composed face. She was struggling, underneath her poise. Lady Mary was struggling to speak. "I wanted to apologize to you about before, about insisting that you and Carson get married at Downton. It…it was well-intentioned on my part, borne out of my dedication to Carson, but short-sighted. I can see that now."

"You know he'd forgive you anything, m'lady," Elsie replied, her heart softening a little towards the younger woman.

"Yes, I know," she smiled over at the man in question, who was heading their way. "But…but it's your forgiveness I am asking. I was wrong, and I overstepped my place." Mary looked mildly flustered.

"Of course it's alright," she replied quietly, which was all she could manage in her shock. Charlie was nearly upon them, so she spoke very softly, so only Mary could hear. "And I would like to thank you, m'lady, for procuring a beautiful wedding jacket for me, despite the confusion with Lady Grantham."

Mary arched her eyebrow, and suddenly smiled. "We're not so different from one another, are we, Mrs. Carson?"

"Less than I previously thought, m'lady," Elsie replied.

"Congratulations," Mary leaned over, her eyes now twinkling, and kissed Elsie's cheek. "I mean that. I can see now that Carson was right – he is the lucky one." And she drifted gracefully away with another kiss, this one for Carson's cheek, and not another word.

He looked after her for a moment, then down at Elsie. She smiled up at him, took his arm.

"What was that about, dare I ask?" His eyebrow went up, in that way she loved.

"A wedding day miracle, is what it was," she laughed, stood on tiptoe, kissed him by his ear. "Let's go eat. I'm starving."

oooOOOooo

The hooley had begun.

They'd eaten, they'd supped, they'd talked, they'd laughed and smiled, all the while his hand had been twined with hers on the bench. Then everyone had stood, Lord Grantham had spoken, and the lords and ladies had left, though Tom Branson had stayed behind. Most people shed their jackets; ties were loosened, hats removed, sleeves rolled up. The younger men pushed the benches and tables to the edge of the room for those who wanted to sit and watch, rather than participate.

Instruments appeared: violins, hand boxes, accordions, tambourines. Someone rolled the school's battered upright piano into the center of things.

And with a collective nod from the musicians, the music started. Hands clapped, feet stomped, spoons were smacked on open palms, and then the young people took to the floor, whirling around in twos, then the not-so-young people, like Miss Baxter and Mr. Molesley, two people that seemed as unlikely to dance a reel as any pair, were spinning around the dance floor.

Charles looked over at Elsie. She'd removed her hat and the lovely jacket Lady Grantham had gifted her. A few tendrils of hair had escaped their pins and hung about her face. She was clapping along to the music, leaning into him casually, and he was suddenly, forcefully grateful he'd not carried on with the momentary insanity of getting married at Downton. He was sitting in his shirt sleeves, with his bride leaning against him. That could not have happened in the great hall of the great house where they had worked for so long.

She caught him looking and grinned up at him. He placed his arm around her – that was allowed, he felt, in public, by a newly married couple. And it was a hooley, after all, not a cocktail reception. Miss Baxter and Mr. Molesley were heading towards them, red-faced and sweaty from dancing. Miss Baxter had a pair of white roses in her hand.

"Congratulations again, Mr. and Mrs. Carson," she said in that unflappable, serene voice she had. Mr. Molesley nodded in agreement, catching his breath. "Mrs. Carson, may I?" She held up the flowers in her hand and gestured to her hair. Elsie smiled in acquiescence as the lady's maid pinned the blossoms expertly behind her ear.

"I want to thank you, Miss Baxter, for the extra hours you put in last night to kit out her ladyship's coat for me. It was very kind of you to go out of your way for me, though I notice it's your way often enough, to help others," Elsie took the younger woman's hand and squeezed. Charles saw Mr. Molesley watch the exchange carefully, particularly noticing the adoring gaze he cast on Miss Baxter.

"It was my absolute pleasure," Miss Baxter smiled gently, her cheeks going pink.

"Shall we get some punch, then, Miss Baxter?" Mr. Molesley said, and the two moved away, his hand resting lightly on her back. Charles looked after them for a moment, thinking. He'd never really paid mind to their interactions in the past, but now it seemed…

"Do you think there's something going there?" He leaned conspiratorially over at Elsie, who was also grinning after them.

She turned her head back towards him. The flowers Miss Baxter had placed in her hair made her look particularly fetching. "You mean, inappropriate? Or not befitting employees of the grand house of Downton?" She was smiling mischievously up at him.

"No, I meant more, well, they seem particularly fond of each other, in a way…" He wasn't sure how to explain it to her; looking at the pair of them reminded him vaguely of him and Elsie twenty or so years ago, though each of them was as different from the younger couple as possible. But still: there was something reminiscent, about it, a dancing on the edge of something, something more, beyond their roles at Downton.

"Ye mean, are they in love with each other? Of course they are, ye daft man," she was laughing, but not teasing him. "They've been so nearly since she arrived a few years ago, to the best of my estimations. Lucky for them, the world is changing, and fast. They'll get around to it sooner than we did, I think." She paused, took a deep breath, and looked out on the dancers spinning around. "Now, Mr. Carson, are ye goin' to take yer bride for a reel on the dance floor, especially seeing as I'm looking like Robin Goodfellow about to dance away with the fairies, at the moment?"

"I was thinking more along the lines of Queen Titania," he smiled, touched the flowers in her hair. "And I don't mind a dance, but there's something else first…" he stood, nodded towards the musicians. The head fiddler nodded, made a gesture, and the music abruptly cut off. There were cries of protest, until the man shouted out:

"If you may, everyone, the groom!" Every head in the place swung towards him, including the one that mattered the most, as he stood. She rose after him.

"Yer not going to speak now, are ye?" She looked perplexed.

"No, indeed I am not. You said you wanted a hooley, and you got it, and I planned accordingly. Lest you forget my background on the stage," he raised his eyebrow at her, and she laughed, still looking confused but happy.

"I'll not bore you with a speech, we've had enough of those today," he said as he stepped into the middle of the crowd. There were intermittent cheers at this proclamation, and he raised his eyebrows momentarily. There was a bit of nervous tittering in response, mostly from Downton's younger staff members. "I'll say only that this is dedicated to my own Scottish lass," he nodded towards Elsie, who was standing in the crowd, grinning at him.

He cleared his throat, and began singing:

"O the summer time has come
And the trees are sweetly blooming
And wild mountain thyme
Grows around the purple heather.
Will you go, lassie, go?"

His voice was still strong, and clear, and true, even after all of these years, but none of that really mattered. He saw the look on her face when he began singing the familiar lyrics, the surprise, the joy, the love, and that was what mattered. She moved towards him, and he put his arm around her waist. She looked up at him, and joined in, as most of the crowd did, on the chorus:

"And we'll all go together,
To pull wild mountain thyme,
All around the purple heather.
Will you go, lassie, go?"

And as their voices carried through the late Yorkshire afternoon, Charles thought of the suitcase he'd packed last night, for his honeymoon, which began in a few short hours. The sadness, the melancholy he felt that an enormous part of his life was ending was all mixed up with this new joy, this excitement, fear, wonder, and most of all, love. He looked down at Elsie and sang the final chorus again:

"Will you go, lass, go?"