"Come in," she called, keeping her eyes on the ledger resting on the desk in front of her.
She was vaguely aware that the door had opened and someone was lingering just inside the doorway but just at that moment she needed to concentrate. '12 shillings and sixpence', she recited in her head. No, that couldn't be right, she'd forgotten the shoe polish. She checked again and certain she had it correct this time, neatly entered the balance before reaching for the blotter to soak up the excess ink. Not that she needed to really, it was a habit as much as anything. Lady Crawley had been kind enough to purchase a number of the newer Waterman fountain pens. They'd taken a bit of getting used to but she didn't miss the mess the old ones left on the page, no matter how neat her writing was. Nor did she hanker for the intense scrubbing required to get rid of the dark ink stains from her fingers. A contented sigh escaped her lips, a tidy and up to date ledger always giving her pleasure, and she turned her attention to the person waiting for her, masking her surprise well when she saw who it was.
"Mr. Branson, I apologise," she said as she went to stand, stopping only when he indicated she should remain where she was. "To what do we owe the pleasure?"
She gave him a warm smile. She'd always had time for Tom, not always agreeing with his politics or the manner in which he'd conducted himself with Lady Sybil of course, but water had long flowed under that particular bridge and now she simply saw him for who he was, a kindly man simply looking to do the best by his daughter. She gestured towards the chair she kept for visitors to her sitting room.
"I don't wish to impose," he offered as he sat, "But I was hoping to beg a favour from you, Mrs Hughes." Encouraged by her enquiring eyes, rather than an outright dismissal, he continued. "You see, I rather need a bit of privacy this afternoon. It's nothing sinister," he rushed to clarify, "Only I'm planning a little surprise for Sybbie and need her out of the nursery for a bit. Lord and Lady Grantham are already engaged and Lady Mary is with the Dowager and so I just wondered..."
"If she could play down here with us," she finished, rather more sternly than she'd intended.
"Well, yes," he said meekly. "If you don't mind."
"No, I don't mind," she replied more kindly. "I'm sure between us we can keep her amused. Will you bring her down after lunch?"
He nodded and between them they settled the plan before he bid her goodbye, adding his sincerest thanks. She turned back to her desk and adjusted her focus. Satisfied that the bills were in hand she lifted the hard bound cover of the ledger and let it fall closed against the opposite pages, the dull thud echoing resolutely around the sparse walls. Taking it in her hands, she stood and moved to the bookcase to return to its rightful place. Her finger ran along the spines of its fellow volumes, just a handful of them kept here now having been forced to move most of them to the basement long ago. She still kept a few here, more than were strictly necessary, a self-indulgent reminder of her 30 years of diligent recording keeping. She'd confessed to Charles one evening that it was frivolous on her part to have them on display, these tools of her trade, but that she took pride in them. 'As well you should,' he'd responded gruffly, accompanied by a heartfelt squeeze of her hand. If anyone could understand what she meant by it, it was him.
A glance at the wall clock made her start, lunch would soon be upon them and she'd not yet had a chance to check on Mrs Patmore. Exiting her room she made her way along the narrow stone-floored corridor towards the kitchens, her chatelaine jangling gently against her skirts. The sound of her approach caused two figures half hidden behind a door to shift, the effect of which was to bring them to her attention. She stopped, waiting to see if they would reveal themselves, hoping it wouldn't prove to be the new kitchen maid and the post boy again. She'd had quite enough of separating them for the time being. What the girl saw in the lanky and rather pathetic soul she didn't know but she'd long given up wondering about the flights of fancy these young ones seemed willing to indulge. It was with great relief then, followed by a jolt of confusion, to see Miss Baxter emerge followed by the broad figure of her husband.
"Charlie!" she exclaimed, "Whatever are you doing here?"
It wasn't unusual for him to pop into the Abbey but he'd usually give her fair warning that he would be. His hesitation in responding didn't escape her notice as his eyes flickered towards Miss Baxter. For her part she had the good grace to bow her head and scurry quietly away leaving the former butler to explain himself..
"Would you believe I wanted to see you, my dear?" he offered gallantly.
"I would not," she scoffed in reply, "Otherwise you'd be in my sitting room, not skulking behind doors."
"I was not doing any such thing," he protest, the bowler in his hand used to emphasise whatever point he was about to make, but he could continue no further.
"Oh, it's you," Mrs Patmore remarked as she appeared from the kitchen. "I thought I heard a voice. Checking up on us, are we?"
What followed was a heated conversation held in muted tones, highly reminiscent of times gone by when the three would argue the balance of power between them. The butler's growl of opinion going up against the shrill tones of a frustrated cook, followed by the considered and somewhat calmer voice of the housekeeper. If they'd been aware of the growing volume of their voices and how they carried to those sitting quietly in the servant's dining hall, they'd have checked themselves. As it was, those listening only smiled at one another, finding something eminently reassuring about the whole thing. As the hall clock struck midday the three elders were startled back to their surroundings and, in the case of two of them at least, their responsibilities.
"Daisy, set another place for Mr Carson seeing as he's staying," Mrs Patmore instructed as the slip of a girl passed. "And hurry up with that soup!"
Charles allowed himself the smallest of smirks as he caught Elsie's eye, and with a gentle bow and gesture of the hand indicated she should go ahead of him into the adjacent room. They took their places at the long table, its worn oak surface already laid out ready and waiting for them. She leaned very slightly towards him, her head bobbed down.
"Are you going to tell me what you're doing here?" she whispered under her breath, not wanting to raise the attention of the others.
"I shall, but later," he replied firmly but with equal discretion. "However I did stop in on Mr Brooks on my way..." he began before a brief touch of her hand to his thigh stopped him.
"No more snails and slugs, Charlie," she pleaded, "Anything but those."
She let her eyes settle on his and saw a fleeting look of something that she couldn't quite discern before it disappeared. She frowned. But before she could think more of it, Mr Barrow arrived to take his seat at the head of the table and signalled that lunch was now underway.
The easy chatter that took up across the table and the clatter of spoons against bowls gave Elsie and Charlie ample cover under which to talk quietly between themselves. And for the most part the others left them to it. It wasn't quite the same as their lunches spent at the cottage but in some ways, she reflected as he shared with her a bit of harmless gossip he'd picked up at the pub the previous evening, it made a pleasant change. Their conversation meandered happily and before too long the meal was concluded. She noticed Charles' empty plate as he leant back in his chair, clearly sated by a hearty midday feast of leftover chicken in a rich sauce and a generous slice of blackcurrant tart. Perhaps he missed this, she mused. Sandwiches in the garden were all very well but stemmed from necessity rather than want.
The scrap of chairs against the tiled floor rebounded around the room as one by one duties were returned to, plates stacked and sent back to the kitchen for washing. Issuing a few afternoon tasks to the younger housemaid, Elsie turned to Charles eager to know his plans for the afternoon but didn't get that far as the patter of tiny footsteps announced the arrival of Miss Sybil.
"Mrs Hughes!" she cried, her short arms just about reaching around the housekeeper's waist.
Elsie laughed, "Now, who do we have here?" patting the child gently on her shoulders.
"It's me, of course! Sybbie!" she huffed, outraged at the suggestion that could have been she'd been forgotten.
"Ah well, now that's a shame," Elsie replied with mock seriousness, "Because I was expecting someone quite different."
"Who?" she asked curiously, stepping back, her hands placed on her hips, her head tilted very slightly to the side..
Elsie regarded this bundle of energy, thinking back to a time when another little girl with similarly dark hair and equal defiance in her eyes had fallen for her teasing, succumbing to the same childhood innocence despite the determination to be as grown up as her sisters. She felt a twinge of sadness for the woman taken too soon and caught Charles' eye, knowing he'd be thinking much the same. He gave a nod of shared understanding as she went to deliver the much used punchline, this being a game she'd played with all the bairns of the house.
"Your daddy promised me an Assistant Housekeeper for the afternoon but," she shrugged resignedly, "I'll guess you'll do."
Sybbie's laughter lit up the room, her excitable exclamations as she promised to be a true and faithful servant to her Mrs Hughes. Charles and Elsie stood side by side as they watched as the little girl proceeded to dash around the hall, touching everything she could reach, such was the novelty of being downstairs.
"I see you have your hands full this afternoon, Mrs Carson," he drawled darkly into her ear, "But perhaps you'll have time for me later?"
The combination of his words and tone, the proximity of his body to hers, sent a ripple of anticipation through her. She surreptitiously checked to see if he could have been overheard but everyone was either taken up with their work or the sight of Sybil who by now had asked Andy to lift her up so she could look through the high window at the end of the room. She shifted closer to him, her skirts brushed up against his leg so that when she let her hand find his, no one was any the wiser.
Their fingers entangled, she kept her voice deliberately low and heavy as she whispered, "Oh yes, Mr Carson. I always have time for you."