A/N: Thanks again to my AWESOME beta, silhouettedswallow, for her excellent instruction and for keeping me grounded, focused, and educated about British customs. Despite us being firmly in AU territory now, I do want to keep the storylines as realistic as possible.

I found the literary passage quoted in this chapter ironic, given the book it's from and the nature of Charles's conversation … read on …

Thank you SO much to everyone for reviews, they really make my day and encourage me to move forward.

The story has a Spotify playlist, as all chapters are inspired by songs. Go to Spotify , find user ChelsieSouloftheAbbey and playlist "Music of the Heart."

Funny you're the broken one

but I'm the only one who needed saving,

'Cause when you never see the light

it's hard to know which one of us is caving ...

Makes me feel like I can't live without you,

I want you to stay...

~"Stay," by Rihanna feat. Mikky Ekko

Regret to inform you … sister … died … awaiting instruction … The words played through Charles's head like a curse, stabbing his heart each time he saw them in the back of his mind. The voice in which Elsie had spoken after waking from her spell – the quiet, defeated tone that he could hear in her words, uttered in a brogue that was much thicker than usual – told him that she was not herself, not really. Or, he reflected, she was less like the Mrs. Hughes he'd known for years, and perhaps more like the young Elsie that had arrived from a small farm in Argyll. She'd said once that she wasn't that farm girl anymore, but had she regretted that decision … perhaps regretted not marrying Joe Burns, not taking a different path? What an unbearable thought.

By the next morning, Elsie did seem to have regained some semblance of control, albeit fragile, and he would do nothing to break it regardless of his own feelings. Having informed the staff of what had happened, and that she'd be away from the house for a time with Anna assuming her duties, Charles headed to his pantry. He couldn't stand to see Elsie in pain, but knew he could say nothing to soothe it, either. She wouldn't be alone in this, not really; he and Anna had done all they could to alleviate her work-related duties, and he knew the family would help to arrange her travel necessities, but there was a limit to what she'd accept and Charles knew it. He had never seen her like this; not when she feared for her health a few years back, not even when her mother had died. The thought frightened Charles to his core. She's always cared for you, old man, but there's nothing else you can do for her. She's the broken one now, and you must patiently let her work through it.

Charles ached to hold her in his arms, to help her through this ordeal, but it was impossible. To make matters worse, he had a haunting fear that once Elsie returned to Argyll, reminded of her life as a girl, she'd leave Downton altogether and move. He knew she would still need to work, to earn and save for her own future. But perhaps her voyage would make her nostalgic, homesick for the country she'd left all those years ago. Charles knew she had, in many ways, been living this life in service to support Becky. For all he knew, Elsie might want to pursue a different life, one that afforded a change of scenery, a simpler way of living. She might find herself unable to continue along the path that she had created in order to care for her sister; it might be too harsh a reminder. Charles was well aware that neither of them was young and their work was not easy. Perhaps she would want to work in a shop, to return to life on a farm with a distant cousin or an old friend. He wasn't sure what he'd do if he ever had to live without her. Please return, please stay with me, he kept thinking. I just need a chance.

But he had not uttered any of this aloud as she was readying to leave despite ample opportunity. He had seen her several times that day, but only to talk of work and travel arrangements, nothing personal in nature whatsoever, and the evening of her departure had felt surreal in so many ways. They had always been apart for the Season, of course, but he'd had her letters to sustain him, and there had never been a doubt that he'd return. Her visits to Becky must have been done during those months as well, for Charles had no recollection of Elsie ever having left Downton except for the time her mother died all those years ago. Charles wondered how he'd have felt if their roles had been reversed, and was selfishly thankful that it had been he who had always left, and she who remained. He knew now that he'd never have survived those months if he'd been the one left behind in a relatively empty house.

But he couldn't tell her any of that now, and so he expressed none of his fears aloud. Now that he had told Elsie of his love for her, there was no turning back, no pretending those feelings weren't the reason behind everything he would do for her, and say to her, from this point forward. But he was not sure if those feelings were reciprocated because she'd been unable to say before that horrid telegram had arrived. Still, she had seemed amazed at his proclamation of love, and there had been something in her eyes as he'd spoken … hope … love? ... but it was gone in a flash with Mr. Branson's knock on the door.

Charles heard the car pulling around to drive Elsie to the station. He rushed downstairs and outside, picking up her bag as she was reaching for it. Resisting the urge to touch her or say anything at all, he simply looked at her and tried to fill that look with all the love and support he had to give. With a smile and a whisper, she was in the car and pulling away from him. His heart felt as if it were splitting in two.

The following afternoon found Charles overseeing afternoon tea. The Dowager and Mrs. Crawley had surprised everyone by appearing at the house unannounced, as Mrs. Crawley wanted to spend some time with Master George while Lord and Lady Grantham were away. Charles was secretly touched by her love for the boy, and he was grateful to both her and the Dowager for helping to bring Lady Mary back to the land of the living. He knew that the Dowager had at some point formed a type of unspoken allegiance with Mrs. Crawley, something most would never have seen coming but that didn't surprise him much. He saw the similarities they shared even if others couldn't, not the least of which was a fondness for his favorite Crawley daughter.

Charles was managing fairly well, he thought, the butler façade having been temporarily reconstructed over the man. Grateful for the small party seated before him, he was able to talk himself into maintaining his stoic image. The irony of the situation was not lost on him; he knew Lady Mary and the Dowager could see right through the façade anyway. And, actually, Mrs. Crawley probably does, too. But presentation was everything and clinging to the traditions of his occupation was the only way he was going to make it through Elsie's absence. He felt as though the pieces of his façade were held together by the finest of filaments and knew it would not take much to make it come tumbling down again. Hopefully the reconstructed mask would survive the upcoming days … at least enough to allow him to manage the entire below-stairs staff. It was the least he could do for Elsie. Charles desperately needed some time alone, but the duties of the day had not provided it. Perhaps after they leave you can escape for a few moments. But suddenly, as the ladies finished tea and were preparing to look in on the children, Mr. Barrow appeared quietly at Charles's side.

"Mr. Carson, I believe I can manage things from here," he said, an uncharacteristic kindness in his voice that almost made Charles crumble on the spot.

Charles managed a weak "Thank you, Mr. Barrow. That would be much appreciated." He exited the dining room and headed down toward the servants' hall in a daze.

Upon reaching the bottom of the staircase, however, he had a dire need to escape the house altogether. Everywhere he looked he saw reminders of who was missing. Ignoring his coat, Charles headed directly outside, walking slowly, until he came to a familiar spot. Sitting in one of the chairs, he gazed out into the late afternoon stillness. The impropriety of him sitting in the Abbey's gardens – not a member of the family, but a servant, enjoying the smells and sounds of the secluded spot – registered in the butler's mind, but the man decided he simply didn't care.

Some time later Charles noticed the sound of a departing car in the distance, and determined the two older women must be headed home. Then, a few minutes later, he heard slow, strong footsteps approaching him from behind, and found he was not that surprised. He half-expected them, actually, in his heart if not in his mind. He'd noticed her watching him carefully throughout tea, after all. He waited patiently until they almost reached him, then began to rise and turn toward his visitor, as custom dictated he should.

"Please, Carson, stay where you are and allow me to sit. I can manage just fine, but I refuse to get a crick in my neck from looking up at you the entire time I'm here," came the familiar voice.

Instead of obeying, Charles reached for the Dowager's hand, guiding her to a seat before reclaiming his own. They sat in silence for a few moments, each collecting their thoughts.

"Milady, I believed you had left with Mrs. Crawley," Charles began.

"No, I thought it best to stay. My driver will return for me." She hesitated, not quite sure if the man she saw before her would welcome her presence as he would have …before. "I thought you might need, well, someone …" the Dowager replied hesitantly.

Charles smiled at her sadly, hearing the words she meant but was unable to utter. Yes, I could use an old friend … He saw the question in her eyes and nodded, replying, "As usual, you are correct. Thank you."

The Dowager kept her silence for a moment and then continued more firmly, "She knows how you feel by now, surely? Knows about the purchase of the cottage?"

He was shocked at first, then wondered why. Of course she knew. She knows everything. She probably saw your feelings before you did. "Yes, I did manage finally to mention all of that to her," Charles replied sadly, "but only just before her world came crumbling down."

"Well, it's high time you did! Bran- Tom informed me of the contents of the message. I am sure it was quite a shock. I gather no one knew she even had a sister?"

"I did, although I'd only discovered it recently." Charles continued, "So now, after confessing my feelings to her, I find myself once again in an unusual situation." He gazed out into the garden and beyond, getting lost in his thoughts once more.

The Dowager laughed out loud. Her shrill, familiar laugh always warmed his heart with memories of how he understood her better than most, and how she could always see right through to the heart of him. "Oh, I am sure you do … you are lost with no idea what to do next, no plan of attack … no way to fix this for her." She paused, contemplating the man before her. "Patience, Charlie," she said softly.

The old name startled him back to reality. Looking back at her, he slowly nodded his agreement.

"What is it that you are afraid of?" she asked.

Charles stared at her for a moment, marveling once again at the similarities between the three women in his life that he valued above all others. The Dowager, Lady Mary, and Elsie Hughes … so often at odds, because they are so alike. Never afraid to challenge him, to speak directly when needed.

"She doesn't know about my past," he said simply. "I'm actually not sure what details she has guessed at, of course, but there's no way she could have divined the entire truth."

"You cannot possibly believe she'll think less of you for it?" she asked incredulously. "That woman is in love with you, Charles, and has been for much longer than you know, of that I am quite sure. Within that kind of love lies power, and that power carries a unique form of protection."

Charles smirked. "With all due respect, Milady, I am not sure I agree with your assessment. How could she not think less of me? She came from a farm in Scotland, most likely from a loving family." He paused. "But of course I've told her nothing. We had an agreement, you and I …" he said. His face took on a hopeless expression, and he realized he was fighting tears. It would not be the first time he had cried in front of this formidable woman, but he could not allow himself to break quite yet.

"You have my permission to tell her everything," she said, cutting him off. "After all, I will be entrusting you to her care one day," she said with a sad smile. "I trust her implicitly."

Seeing the warmth in her gaze, he nodded. "Thank you, Milady … for everything."

They spent a few moments in silence, hearing only the early evening buzz as it rose from the garden, and the Dowager started to rise from her chair. "Yes, well, that is enough emotional discussion for one day. Help this old woman back to the house," she said. "It's high time I returned home. It should be a quiet evening here, I imagine … do try to get some rest."

He rose, offering his arm to her, which he noted she took gratefully. It's true … we are all getting on …

"Thank you, Carson," she said to him, their familiar roles falling into place once again.

"You can always lean on me, Milady," he replied.

"I know that. I've always counted on you being here," she answered softly, the words almost catching in her throat. She hoped he hadn't noticed, but realized the wish was futile; the ever-attentive Charles Carson didn't miss much … at least, not where she was concerned.

Having seen the Dowager off, Charles entered the house once more. Mr. Barrow informed him that he'd be more than happy oversee dinner for Lady Mary and Mr. Branson. Charles was grateful for the man's uncharacteristic kindness, realizing something must have happened recently to change him. Yes, and he also has a mutually caring relationship with a certain Scottish housekeeper.

Charles knew he'd never be able to eat much that evening. It was highly unusual for him to miss dinner, to not assume his seat at the head of the table, but he found he could not face anyone just now. After turning the servants' dinner over to Mr. Barrow as well, Charles headed down the hall. He approached the sitting room door, noticing that it was slightly ajar. What are you doing, man? You really should not be here. Just then, Anna stepped out and bumped directly into him.

"Oh, Mr. Carson!" she exclaimed. "I'm ever so sorry."

"It is I who should be sorry, Anna," came his feeble reply. "I hope I haven't hurt you."

Anna shook her head silently. She looked into his eyes, and said in her quiet voice, "I'm all done in here for the rest of the day, Mr. Carson. Please take as long as you need, and just lock up behind you tonight." She removed the sitting room key from the chatelaine that dangled from her dress, handing it to him. "It's only a few days, and I'll be taking the ledgers home so as not to stay here too late. I'll get the key back from you at breakfast."

"Thank you, Anna," he managed to whisper. He took the key from her hand (so small, that hand, just like Elsie's … small yet STRONG, this one … no wonder Anna is her favorite … they are so alike) and watched the young woman head down the hall, where her husband was waiting for her with a look of love in his eyes. Mr. Bates then glanced at Charles and they shared a brief look of understanding before Charles turned away, tucking the key into his waistcoat pocket.

He entered the housekeeper's sitting room, closing the door behind him. Sinking down into his usual chair, the filament snapped at last, and he wept. He cried silent tears for Elsie's pain, for what she would have to endure these next few days as she buried her beloved sister, her last link to her natural family. He cried for himself, for the hole in his heart that would reside as long as she was gone. He was now more committed than ever to the vision of the future he'd planned, but the uncertainty of it overwhelmed him more than before.

After a few minutes, Charles wiped his tears and stood from the chair. Moving around the room, he took in all that it contained, focusing on the contents as a way to order his mind. He counted everything, a technique he often used to calm himself when he was agitated. He counted her chairs, the pieces of china on the shelves, the pictures on the wall, the books. What's this? She's moved them again ... Charles approached the bookshelves, examining them. He knew she rearranged each shelf when a new addition upset the order of the books. Sometimes she'd organize them alphabetically by title instead of author. One time (he still shook his head in amusement), she actually arranged them by size. Charles suspected she'd done that in order to irk him.

Wait … what's this? Charles examined the spine of one book more closely. Dickens … truly? It was one he'd never noticed on her shelves before, and he wondered if she'd been keeping it in her room. The novel was one of his favorites, one he'd mentioned to her several times over the years … and one in which she had never seemed interested. He knew that she preferred poetry and works of more modern literature, the kind that shocked the senses instead of just the mind. Men sewn together from bits, indeed. Yet he'd occasionally read the books she mentioned, if for no other reason than to have something to discuss with her. Why did she never tell me she owned this? For how long has it been here?

Removing it slowly from the shelf, Charles noted that it was worn, as though it had been well-loved. He knew that the only second-hand books she ever had were discarded ones from His Lordship's library, and that this was certainly not one of those. The book in his hand had only ever belonged to Elsie Hughes. She was ever so frugal, but relished being the first to ever crack open the pages of a new book. Hers was a small collection, but one of which she was infinitely proud. Opening the cover, he smirked as his fingers brushed over the dog-eared pages, knowing how she curled the corners with her delicate fingers as she read, as if she could not wait to turn the pages to see what was to come. All of Charles's books looked brand new, despite having been read dozens of times. Only one of many ways you are different, one of the ways that has never really mattered.

Charles took the book back to his chair and sat. Despite being in her room uninvited and going through her things, he couldn't bear sitting at her desk, in her chair. He felt as though that would be the ultimate intrusion. He opened the novel gently, seeing her name written on the inside cover. E. Hughes. He sighed, tracing her firmly-written script with his finger, as though by touching her name he could feel closer to her.

Turning the pages, he began to read the familiar words. He acknowledged with a smile that she had none of the passages marked, had noted no words to which she wanted to return. When Charles borrowed one of her books, it always annoyed him that she had notes throughout the pages, marking passages that held special meaning for her. He chastised her on more than one occasion for it ("One should not deface a book in such a manner, Mrs. Hughes.") but of course she paid him no heed. He continued reading, getting lost in the pages as their sentences soothed his wounded heart, a distraction at last.

As the hours progressed, Charles continued to read, finally starting to feel sleepy. One more chapter after this one, then you'll turn in. But then his eyes fell onto the next page, and he was shocked into wakefulness. He noticed the bracket that was drawn around the text in front of him, with one word scrawled faintly in the margin: London. He knew the passage, of course, and somehow his mind knew instantly that she'd purchased and read this book when he'd been away for the Season. Realization finally dawned. He quickly flipped through the remaining pages … No, she's only marked this selection, THESE words …

Suddenly, the story no longer mattered, only the passage she'd so carefully bracketed so that she could return to it again and again, to reflect upon it, as she'd told him so many times she did with words that moved her …

You are part of my existence, part of myself. You have been in every line I have ever read, since I first came here …

In disbelief, Charles kept reading:

… you have been in every prospect I have ever seen since – on the river, on the sails of the ships, on the marshes, in the clouds, in the light, in the darkness, in the wind, in the woods, in the sea, in the streets. You have been the embodiment of every graceful fancy that my mind has ever become acquainted with. The stones of which the strongest London buildings are made, are not more real, or more impossible to displace with your hands, than your presence and influence have been to me, there and everywhere, and will be …

Holding his breath, Charles prepared for the last bit, the part that had terrified him the most ever since her cancer scare … the thought that he might one day lose this woman without ever knowing how she truly felt for him:

… to the last hour of my life, you cannot choose but remain part of my character, part of the little good in me, part of the evil. But in this separation I associate you only with the good, and I will faithfully hold you to that always, for you must have done me far more good than harm, let me feel now what sharp distress I may.*

Charles noticed his hands shaking; once again, he was hit with the force of his own feelings and of something infinitely more powerful … hope. Closing the book – her book, the one she knew I'd never borrow because she knows I own it myself – he took it with him as he locked the sitting room and headed up to his own quarters. He was unaware, this time, of the tears spilling down his cheeks.

A/N:*Passage quoted from Great Expectations, by Charles Dickens