A/N: I had something less sad, a completely different sort of chapter, almost entirely written before I scrapped it. It was all wrong. This was right. ~CeeCee

November 1926

Charles looked at the group of eager, interested faces before him. Yorkshire farmers, shopkeepers, publicans, solicitors; working class and middle class people, in couples, trios, some with their children, all waiting for him to speak. About Downton. The place and people which had been his home and life for so long, even if it no longer held as large of a place in his heart as it once had. Those feelings, that loyalty, were crowded to the side, but certainly not replaced, by the love he felt for his wife.

An idea that had been germinating over the summer had come to fruition this fall:

He had become docent at Downton.

An endeavor he had once thought of with scorn and confusion had become something he truly loved; he could scarcely believe it. He had brought up the idea to Barrow, who had responded with enthusiasm. Charles got the impression that Thomas Barrow missed the hustle and rush of the earlier years at Downton, as he would, if he were still butler here. The tours certainly helped in that respect.

And the pure joy on Lady Mary's face when they approached her about the idea of his heading and organizing the regular tours of the house warmed his heart nearly as much as the look of pride in Elsie's eyes when he told her of his scheme. This was the third time he was leading them, and they proved to be as popular as they had been last year, that first time. Perhaps even moreso.

"They're coming to see you, don't think otherwise," Elsie had told him just this morning as they dressed for work.

"They're coming to learn about Downton, and the Grantham dynasty. They have a thirst for history, which I can admire," he replied, flattered by her compliment but knowing there was mischief somewhere in there.

She smoothed his tie down, and her eyes were gleaming. Mischief, indeed. "Oh, I've no doubt they want to learn all about that glorious house and those glorious people. They just trust you to tell them the truth, rather than the Crawleys themselves." She finished fussing over his clothes and kissed him on the corner of his mouth.

"They must know that I'd sooner keel over dead in front of them than reveal the family's secrets."

"Aye, perhaps…but they also know you've seen a lot in the past fifty years in those hallowed halls. Hope springs eternal, does it not?" He helped her into her coat, and put his hat on. "And they don't want secrets from you Charlie; they want the little things: how does Lady Mary take her tea? Does the Dowager prefer roses or lilies? They want to be reminded that the Crawleys are people, just like the rest of us, even if they are a grand English dynasty."

And she was right. That's exactly what they wanted to know. As he led them into the library, a young woman with bright eyes and a green hat raised her hand as he was about to expound on the original construction of the room.

"What does the family like to read, sir?" Her question caused murmurs of interest to ripple out around her. "The ladies, particularly?"

He was about to answer, thinking again how, sometimes, Elsie got it just right, when Barrow appeared at the doorway. He looked somber and nodded at him. He didn't like the expression on the younger man's face.

"Excuse me for a moment, everyone. The tour will resume shortly," he walked over to Thomas, a heavy feeling in his chest.

"Sorry to interrupt, Mr. Carson. But…Mrs. Hughes just received a phone call. I do believe it was her sister's nurse," Thomas looked genuinely concerned. "She took the call in my pantry, and I suggested she stay there until I could locate you. I'll step in, for now. I've sent for Mr. Molesley, who will take over the tours for the rest of the day."

The heavy feeling in his chest spread, and he was suddenly tired. "Thank you, Mr. Barrow. I do appreciate it." Becky, he thought. And went to find his grieving wife.

oooOOOooo

He nearly crashed into Beryl Patmore at the bottom of the stairs. The cook was going to be marrying Albert Mason at the beginning of the New Year. It was unclear whether or not she'd stay on at Downton thereafter, but Charlie was glad of her presence now.

"Mrs. Patmore, my apologies."

"Not at all, Mr. Carson, I appreciate why you're hurryin'," the cook looked ready to weep. "She's in Mr. Barrow's office. I took her some tea, tried to speak with her a little." The woman shook her head, wiped a stray tear from her face with her apron. "But she's just a'sittin' there, quiet-like, not movin'. I am glad you're here, today, Mr. Carson. I really am." She put her hand on his arm and squeezed it.

"As am I, Mrs. Patmore. You're a good friend – to us both," and he left her standing there, not seeing the surprised but grateful look on the cook's face, hurrying to the pantry that had been his for decades, and now belonged to another man. He opened the door without knocking, shut it behind him. Then did something he'd never done in all his time here, as it never seemed proper: he locked it. Some things required privacy over propriety.

She wasn't sitting any longer, but standing in the middle of the room, so still. Her eyes were unfocussed, her face soft. His heart crumbled in his chest to see her this way. He moved towards her, but she held one hand up.

"Don't, Charlie," she spoke barely above a whisper. "Not here. If ye touch me now, love, that'll be the end of it. The tears'll come and there will be naught to stop them. There's too many of them, over fifty years' worth, and I shan't shed them here."

He nodded, torn. Everything in his being longed to physically protect her, hold her close, keep the grief at bay. As if anything could. It struck him that had her sister died even three or four years ago, he might never have even known of her grief, let alone share in it. He wanted to hold her, yes, and he could feel that she needed it, too. But even behind closed, locked doors, she wouldn't give this house her pain. As he gazed at her, he realized she really could have hidden her grief from him, five, ten years ago.

They just stood there for a few moments, all of the invisible strings connecting them pulling tight, singing with sorrow, like a minor chord played on a violin.

"Let me walk you home, then," he finally said.

"What about the tours? They've only just started," she replied, sounding as sensible and no-nonsense as ever. "Nothing against Mr. Barrow, but he'll not conduct them the way you do."

"He's sent for Mr. Molesley."

Elsie's eyes lit up. "Good on him. He's learning," she even smiled a little, as she mused over Thomas' clever course of action. "It's heartening to see it happening, at long last."

She stepped closer to him, gazed up him for a long time. He placed his hands behind his back so he didn't reach out and stroke her cheek. "Stay," she finally said. "Stay until things get sorted. Mr. Molesley might take some time, if he's teaching today. I'll…I'll take my own time walking home, and I'll see you there soon enough."

He went and got her coat, helped her into it, as he had only a few short hours ago. He remembered their bantering, happy conversation from merely a few hours ago and was hit by a fresh wave of sadness.

"She was mine, as few others are," she said softly. "For so long, Charlie, she was mine. The joy of her, the burden of her. And now…she's gone." Her voice caught just a little as they walked to the door together. He turned the lock and began to open it, when she pressed her cheek briefly against his shoulder. Then she ran her hand across his face, pushed the door open, and walked quickly down the hall.

And then she, too, was gone.

oooOOOooo

The day was chilly and windy and grey, exactly suiting her mood. She rushed away from the looming bulk of Downton, away from Charlie's warm gaze and yearning eyes, before she could fold into them. For now, her grief was hers, no one else's. She even resented the broken sound of Kathryn's voice on the end of the telephone, which was wholly unfair and wholly true.

Her grief was a huge thing, filling her. She could feel the tears pressing against her entire face, and she shoved them away as hard as she could. Not here, not now. She practically ran from Charlie, not wanting to succumb, at least not yet, to the comfort he could provide. Because wasn't ready to deal with the behemoth of sadness inside of her, but for another reason, which she admitted to him in so many words, before she made her escape:

Becky was hers. Had been hers. She'd been Elsie's for just over fifty-three years, and no matter how many ways she twisted and turned her mind around it, she felt that what she had given her sister wasn't enough, that it wasn't even close. And yes, her grief was a giant thing, but so was her guilt, because now she didn't have to worry about being enough, of doing enough, of working harder and longer.

She took a deep breath of cold almost-winter air, damp and fragrant with dried leaves and wood smoke. It felt good, almost icy enough to sting her nose and throat a little. She pressed on her walk, now wanting to be in her own chair in her own sitting room.

Then she saw the geese.

Geese, standing in the field to the right of her, giant, pink-footed things, at least two dozen of them. She didn't think. She ran towards them, sending them skyward, darker grey vees against the lighter gray of the scurrying clouds. They sent out honks of outrage into the November morning, echoing the anger in her own heart.

oooOOOooo

He arrived home late afternoon, with a hamper of food Beryl Patmore had pressed into his arms. He stepped inside, where it was very quiet, very still, as if the air itself hadn't moved in a while. He found her in the sitting room, on the floor, in the center of a makeshift collage of photographs, tickets, drawings, letters and other faded paper mementos, fanned out in front of her on the dark red throw rug. He stood at the outer edge of the paper explosion, not wanting to disturb anything.

She looked up at him, smiled. "Hello, love."

Her eyes were bright. Her mind and heart were somewhere in the past, he could see, remembering something that made her happy. She stood, surrounded by memories.

He reached his hand out to her, the steady one, and she grasped it, stepping carefully over the pieces of her past, pieces of Becky, scattered below her, her tears already falling. She stood close to him, her eyes seemingly unable or unwilling to focus on him, on their home, on the present. She was still somewhere else, with her sister. He waited, put his other hand on her face. He could feel her pulse threading quickly on the side of her neck.

She finally held his gaze. "Charlie, I –" she got no further before the sobs overtook her, and he gathered her up against him, as closely as he could, trying to take her sorrow and guilt and anger on as much as he could, knowing that it wasn't enough, it couldn't be enough, but endeavoring to, anyway.