The air was fragrant and delightful, hints of flowering trees flitted around Yorkshire for its inhabitants' pleasure. The last of the snow had melted, replaced by green leaves and fresh flowers. Springtime had arrived, and all were beginning to realize that winter wouldn't be back to bother the English for quite some time.

Inhaling the crisp morning air deeply into his lungs, Charles Carson couldn't help the small smile that formed on his lips as he walked from his modest cottage to the more impressive castle up the path. He checked his watch. 7:28. Just on schedule. As he always was.

The castle in question, Downton Abbey, was one of many remnants of a forgotten era that peppered the English countryside. It was a memorial to a time long since passed, long since abandoned by the noble family that had occupied it for generations. Like many estates of the 20th century, Downton Abbey became too burdensome to maintain, and like its peers, faced the auction block.

Fifteen years ago, a savvy and entrepreneurial Carson purchased the estate at a steal, and transformed the aging abbey into Yorkshire's preeminent hotel. Popular with guests from far and wide, Carson stood at the helm of a grand retreat, fitted with period decor, extravagant meals, and world class service. Granted, it was quite costly to maintain an estate like Downton's, but the steady stream of clientele helped to keep that pressure at bay. Carson felt that it was his duty to provide an oasis for his guests, a place where they could escape to a world of long ago, away from noise and technology and busyness. One could simply be at the Downton Abbey Hotel, and there was no lack of guests who longed for this, or, most importantly, who would pay a premium for this.

Yes, Carson had made quite a name for himself in Yorkshire: a steady and fair employer, a stickler for order and precision, and a man completely dedicated to the small, but mighty empire he had created. This thought always amused him as he walked from his cottage on the estate up towards the castle. Just a hundred years ago, it would be unfathomable that a man like him, a man of no important birth or breeding, could be the master of a castle like this one.

Rather ironic, he mused as he walked through the front doors, greeted by Thomas Barrow, his night manager, at the front desk in the entryway.

"Morning, Mr. Carson," he nodded.

"Morning, Barrow. Anything to report from last night?" he asked as he flipped through the morning mail.

"Nothing too out of the ordinary. The Witherspoons, who are set to arrive this afternoon from London, have requested down alternative pillows and hypoallergenic sheets. The former we have, but for the latter, someone will have to make a run into town."

Carson had to stifle the urge to roll his eyes. People were too soft these days. "Yes, that's fine, I can do that this afternoon after luncheon, I suppose, if everyone else is busy. Thank you, Barrow."

Barrow refrained from comment and the two men exchanged curt nods and went their separate ways.

The morning was a busy one. Carson checked in with the housekeeper and cook, verifying that everything was in order for new guests, departures, and the plated meal that was served each evening. As expected, the machine was well oiled and the ship was rightly routed. In the seclusion of his butler's pantry, over tea, he made his way through stacks of invoices and later, inspected the wine delivery, and by noon, he had almost forgotten about his errand in town to find speciality sheets for their incoming guests. Just as he was gathering his jacket and scarf, he heard that familiar and exhilarating tone emanate from his desktop computer.

The jacket and the scarf were promptly discarded. The sheets could wait. He flung himself into the desk chair and with great haste, opened his email. There it was, he remarked. Another email from her. He devoured its contents, his dark eyes scanning the text back and forth so quickly that he had to read the sentences twice to absorb their meaning.

My dear friend,

It has been too long since my last message (has it been a week, already? Time flies at this age, doesn't it?). I have hardly had a moment's rest in the last week. I told you in my last message that I was starting a new business venture (although, honouring our pact of anonymity, I will not divulge more than that), and it has, at last, come to fruition. We are finally done with the heavy lifting, the renovations, the planning, and now, we're open for business. To say that this is a dream realised is an understatement. I cannot remember a time I felt as excited as I do now. Listen to me, I sound like a schoolgirl! What a notion…

I sincerely wish that all is well on your front. I do hope you were able to read the last book I recommended, or at least get a start on it. Thomas Hardy is such a devilish writer, and I'm eager to hear your thoughts on it. I have missed your commentary this last week, if it isn't too forward of me to confess. I am glad of your friendship, odd as our arrangement may be. At any rate, I'm eager to hear how things are getting on in your world.

As always,

LowlandLady

After reading and re-reading the email, Carson leaned back in his chair, an odd mixture of relief and elation washing over him. It had been almost a week since his last email from LowlandLady, the longest delay in their seven-year anonymous correspondence, and he had begun to worry that something was amiss. But, with this recent message now in hand, he could relax.

His friendship with this anonymous woman began in an unlikely way, one fitting of the modern era. One lonely night seven years ago, in this very butler's pantry, Carson, imbibed by one too many glasses of port, wandered into an online chatroom for over 50s. It was harmless enough, he justified. Just putting a toe in the water. He was rather surprised when he stumbled upon LowlandLady's profile. The two hit it off almost instantaneously. Books, music, history, and wine made up their shared interests, and they seemed to have no end to topics of conversation. Over the weeks and months that followed, they chatted almost daily and eventually migrated to emails. They promised one another, however, that they would remain anonymous. Too many personal details could get in the way. So, as it so happened, although CheerfulRoyale56 and LowlandLady had communicated almost daily for seven years, they did not know where the other lived or what they did as an occupation or really anything personal about the other. Still, they were each other's closest confidants, something which their anonymity aided. It's easy to give and receive advice when the other person is almost completely unknown to you.

He paused a moment, then leaned forward, hovering his hands over the keyboard. He was eager to reply to her, to tell that in fact, he had read Far from the Madding Crowd, as she had suggested, and that he found all of Bathsheba's suitors to be wholly inadequate for such an independent woman, that he was planning an anniversary party of the company he had founded, and that he, too, had missed her commentary over the last week. But a glance to the wall clock in his pantry reminded him that he had errands to run before his new guests' arrival. Duty called. So, reluctantly, he logged off, fetched his jacket and scarf, and made his way into Ripon.

Passersby would have noted that there seemed to be a spring in Carson's step that afternoon. One might even say he appeared jolly. Of course, no one knew of the relief he was feeling that his online friend had replied after a long delay, or that he was anticipating the moment that could spare time to respond to her. No one knew of Carson's secret acquaintance. Not a soul.

Then, in the midst of his blissful walk, as he rounded the corner that led into Ripon's city center, he noticed something rather disturbing. In the large square, among dozens of people walking by on their way here and there, was a newly renovated building bearing the name, "Grantham Arms Bed and Breakfast." Small, pastel-colored triangular flags were strung along the outside of the straw-thatched roofed building, and stringed balloons flanked its entrance, over which hung a sign that read, "Grand Opening." If this weren't, in essence, a direct competitor of his, he would have almost found the little inn to be charming. As it were, he huffed, straightened himself upright, and trudged on through town, ignoring the imminent threat that a bed and breakfast in town posed to his hotel.

How had he missed this, he wondered. A bed and breakfast had been renovated and opened for business right under his nose, and he was completely oblivious. Granted, it had been several weeks since he had journeyed into town. Perhaps more. It had been a very busy and successful winter season for them. Having a cottage on the estate made it almost unnecessary that he would need to venture into town much at all, and online deliveries certainly aided that. Still, surely someone would have mentioned this fact to him. Surely Barrow would have noticed and reported back to him. Didn't he live in town?

The spring in his step had disappeared. His thoughts were clouded with worry about what a bed and breakfast might do to his hotel. Business was good, and he had a steady stream of loyal guests, but managing an estate like Downton's, with its unending list of constant repairs and maintenance, was only sustainable because of the steady stream of guests. It was a delicate balance. A charming B & B could siphon off even the most loyal of clientele, and where would that leave him? He shuddered.

He was grumpy and preoccupied as he made his way into a speciality home goods store and purchased the requested hypoallergenic sheets for his guests. It was nearing 3:00 in the afternoon, and he needed to make his way back to the hotel in time for the maids to launder the sheets. Still, he was curious about this bed and breakfast. The businessman in him needed to see what he was up against. Diverting course, Carson entered the Grantham Arms and was immediately greeted with the warm aroma of freshly baked scones and the sound of clinking silverware and the low chatter of patrons enjoying afternoon tea in the dining room to his right. A pretty young woman with blonde hair stood at the helm of the front desk, and a smile spread across her face as he approached.

"Good afternoon, sir. Welcome to the Grantham Arms. I'm Anna. How can I help you?" she asked.

Carson puffed up to full height, a towering figure, no doubt. "Good afternoon. My name is Charles Carson, and I am the proprietor of Downton Abbey Hotel. I came here today to greet the new owners of this establishment."

Anna, too, straightened up to full height. She had heard of this Charles Carson persona in passing. Standing all six feet of him, with dark, penetrating eyes and the most substantial eyebrows she had ever seen, he was all the more impressive in the flesh. "Of course," she said. "I'll fetch them."

Left alone in the lobby for a brief moment, Carson took this opportunity to snoop around discreetly, inspecting the books on the bookshelf in a nearby sitting area and checking to see if the flowers in the vase on the front desk were real. To his disappointment, they were. Fresh tulips of every color. It seemed that no detail had escaped the owner's eye. The oil paintings on each wall were tasteful, the oriental rug on the lobby floor was well made, and the attention paid to the restoration of the crown molding was impeccable. A chill ran through him. He was not dealing with amateurs.

His inspection was cut short by a very thick Scottish brogue. "Anna tells me that you're the owner of Downton Abbey Hotel," she said. "What a welcomed surprise. My name is Elsie Hughes."

Carson turned towards her and experienced a surprise of his own. Whatever he had expected the owner of this establishment to be like, it was not the woman standing before him. She was petite, perhaps just a wink below his chin, with hair that was neither red nor brown, with a smile that was gentle and warm, and with an air of confidence that rattled him. Here he was, her competitor, and she greeted him like an old friend. He had expected more hostility. He was prepared for that, but not for this.

"A pleasure, Ms. Hughes," he said as he extended his hand to shake hers. "Charles Carson. I'm sure you've heard that I own the Abbey Hotel outside of Ripon." Once he said this, he realized she had already mentioned it. He felt flustered all of a sudden.

She smiled. "I have heard that, yes. What a treat that you'd come all this way to welcome us into town."

"You could say that, indeed," he grumbled, trying to appear nonchalant. His eyes glanced towards the packed dining room. There were at least thirty or so people inside. Good heavens, he thought. "Is it just you who is the sole proprietor here?"

"Ah, no. My business partner, Beryl Patmore, is here with me, too. She's our head chef, as well, but she's busy with afternoon tea and preparing for dinner tonight. Otherwise, she'd come by and greet you, too. You're welcome to stay for tea, if you're otherwise unoccupied."

"That's very kind of you, but I have guests to attend to this evening. I must say, for an opening weekend, you seem to have your hands quite full already." Carson thought back to his own opening weekend and the three guests that stayed there then. To have this many guests for an opening weekend was unthinkable to him.

Ms. Hughes smiled, a proud grin at a job well done. "Thankfully, yes. We've been booked solid for weeks, even before we opened. I think that the combination of modern amenities and old world comfort are appealing. Clearly, it resonates with customers."

Carson blanched. "Modern amenities? Really? And what, pray tell, might those be?" he asked, almost sarcastically.

Ms. Hughes smirked. "Oh, you know, yoga classes, tour-guided outdoor excursions, unlimited Wifi, Nespresso machines in the room. And the like…"

And the like. Carson stiffened. His hotel had none of that. He offered a retreat from the busy and hectic modern world, a place to unwind and relax, without all of that frou-frou. Surely the clientele that frequented his establishment wouldn't need all of those unnecessary modern perks. In fact, they were avoiding that, so all the better for him! This woman and her bed and breakfast were no threat to him. He had nothing to worry about.

"Sounds like you've carved out a respectable niche for yourself here, Ms. Hughes," he said curtly. "I wish you the very best."

"That's very kind of you, Mr. Carson. And of course, the invitation to dine with us always stands. It would be an honor to host you. Mrs. Patmore and I may not be from Ripon, but your reputation precedes you."

In an era passed, he would have tipped his hat at this as he took his leave. But instead, he nodded, returned a small smile, and bowed out of her august inn. Just as he departed and joined the bustle of the street outside, Mrs. Patmore appeared at Ms. Hughes' side.

"Who was that?" she asked, wiping her hands on a cloth looped through her apron, a thin sheen of sweat about her brow, evidence of her time in the kitchen.

"Charles Carson," Ms. Hughes replied as she watched his large frame grow smaller in the distance. "He owns the hotel outside of town. He came in to welcome us to Ripon and wish us luck."

Mrs. Patmore's eyebrows arched suspiciously. "I'm sure he did," she mumbled sotto voce. "Goodness me, he's got a frame on him. Quite a bear of a man."

Ms. Hughes' gaze never left the man's shrinking figure, inspecting it without ceasing. "I think you might be right, Beryl, in more ways than one."

Later that evening, as Barrow arrived to relieve Carson and begin his shift as the night manager, Carson was all in a tizzy. Barrow hardly had time to hang up his bag and jacket in what was once the downstairs servants' hall before Carson descended upon him and bombarded him with questions.

"Did you know that a bed and breakfast was opening in Ripon?" he asked with the pointedness of a prosecutor.

Barrow almost laughed at the sharpness with which this was delivered. After all, who got all worked up about a bed and breakfast? But when he noticed the harsh angle of Carson's substantial eyebrows and the darkness of his eyes, he cleared his throat and answered, "I had heard of it, yes, but I didn't think it was much of a big deal. It's just a small inn. We're a grand hotel. Why should we worry ourselves with something as inconsequential as an inn?"

Carson couldn't believe his ears. He threw up his hands in defeat. "Not much of a big deal? Inconsequential? It is a big deal, Barrow. These women aren't amateurs running some greasy motel on the side of the motorway. I stopped in today. It's well done. Very well done. I don't think we need to worry too much, but some advanced notice might have been appreciated."

"My apologies, Mr. Carson. Next time an inn opens up in town, you'll be the first I speak to about it," he replied.

Carson had to hold his tongue at the cheek of this. He settled, instead, for an exasperated sigh as he huffed off and retreated to the sanctuary of his butler's pantry. Now that Barrow had arrived, he was off the clock and could decompress from the numerous stressors of the day. Alone for the first time in hours, he closed the door, loosened his tie, divested himself of his suit jacket, and poured himself a large glass of scotch. Change was anathema to him, and today's discovery felt cataclysmic. For years, he had felt in control of the small empire he had created, and in Yorkshire, he faced few threats. He liked to believe that no one dared compete in his own backyard. But that Scottish woman, with her air of confidence and her fine taste and her fully booked inn– he was rattled and he couldn't deny it.

The amber liquid was disappearing in slow and steady increments. Feeling somewhat more at ease, he remembered that he had a message he had yet to respond to. Logging into his computer, he felt a familiar calmness envelop him. He reread her message a few more times as he sipped on his Scotch a little more, thinking of things to say back to her. These were the moments he felt most like himself, these moments at night, writing to this woman he didn't know. They talked about everything and anything, and she always put him at ease. He often wondered what she was like, what she looked like, smelled like, sounded like. In fact, not too long into their correspondence, less than a year or so, he had half a mind to suggest meeting. But he worried about what she would think of him, if she felt the same way, that he convinced himself out of it. Now, too much time had gone by to propose meeting again. Their friendship, with its rules of anonymity, would have to remain as it were. Besides, he didn't want to ruin a good thing. He didn't want to lose the best friend he had.

Carson finished off the rest of the scotch and began typing his reply to LowlandLady.

Dearest friend,

I cannot tell you how relieved I am to see your reply in my inbox. I was beginning to worry about your uncharacteristic absence. But knowing that you are alive and well (and now a successful businesswoman!) I can rest easy. I commend you for your entrepreneurial endeavor. I'm sure that you'll succeed at whatever you set your mind to. I only wish I could stop by your shop (for some reason, I imagine it to be a shop, filled with the most delightful goodies) and be your first customer.

I have been musing of late about the peculiar form of communication that this is. I feel as if you know me intimately, and I, you, and yet, we know nothing of one another. I wouldn't know you if I passed you on the street. It has its perks, of course. I can be honest with you in a way I cannot with anyone else. But in times like this past week, where I worried about your long delay, I wonder…well, I wonder…

In keeping with a spirit of intimate anonymity, as we oddly have, I will confess that I was rattled today in a professional way, something that is rather rare for me. Now that you're an entrepreneur, I'm sure you can appreciate the vulnerability one faces as one supports oneself. The market is a cruel and unfeeling mistress and she reminded me of that today. Don't you worry, though, nothing is out of hand yet, or at all. I will persevere and compete and prevail.

As for your bit about the devilish Thomas Hardy, I did, in fact, finish that book at your insistence, and found all of those suitors to be wanting. All of them. But I did enjoy it. Perhaps you could recommend another of his. I've heard Tess of the d'Urbervilles is rather good. Risque, but good. Thoughts?

Sleep is calling my name now, and I must oblige. I wish you a fond tomorrow, dear friend.

As always,

CheerfulRoyale56

Satisfied with this response, Carson hit send, logged off, and gathered his things before making the long walk to his nearby cottage. The air was cool and the moon sparkled in the night sky. He loved spring, he mused, and the new life it signaled. By the time he arrived home, the scotch had worked its magic, and he felt sleep overcome him almost as soon as his head hit the pillow. For reasons unknown to him, he dreamt of tulips of every color that night.

A/N: Hello, there! It has been about (oh geez) five years since I have written any fanfic, and back then, I was exclusively an Andith shipper. But after rewatching the whole series in anticipation for the new movie, I have been bitten once again by the fanfic muse and thought I'd try my hand at some Chelsie fic. I hope you all enjoy it! And for the Andith shippers reading this, I will definitely try to finish my old fics, as well. I appreciate your patience!

I hope you enjoyed reading this! I would love to hear your thoughts :)