A/N: I wrote this chapter right after I posted the previous one, although I should have been working on another story. Please direct any and all comments in that respect to Frak, she who 'has such a way with words'. ;)

I'm not sure if any of you saw it coming, but this is the last part of this story. I could have dragged it out, but I was afraid of overdoing it: and anyway, some of the plotline will be back to haunt you in 'The Most Improper Behaviour', so you have that to look forward to! I hope you enjoyed it, but even if you didn't, I'd love to hear what you thought. Thanks for reading!

She stood before him, worrying her lower lip with her teeth—a gesture Robert found strangely alluring, especially in the low light—and for a minute he thought he actually had a better hand in all this.

The idea flew away from him as soon as she spoke.

"Milord, I cannot even begin to thank you for what you did today—and I hope you wouldn't misunderstand me when I say I wish you didn't."

The grave, serious look she was giving him told him straight away that she disapproved—and the thing she disapproved of was not of the state of ladders in Downton.

He sighed and turned away from her, picking up his empty glass and twirling it between his fingers for a lack of better things to occupy his hands with. "I see."

"No, I don't believe you do."

He all but jumped in his haste to get himself closer to her, the glass forgotten, slipping from his fingers and onto the thick rug. Now there was no more than a yard between them, and their eyes held, firm and strong.

"Would you care to enlighten me, then?"

She seemed to be weighing many different options up in her mind, before she finally reached out and squeezed his upper arm for the shortest of moments, pulling her hand away before Robert had a chance to grasp it. "Had I been ten, maybe just five years younger, I would have been terrified of your attention, milord—terrified, but flattered, too. And it would have been the end of me, of yourself, and of many things you care about much more than do you about this," she gestured vaguely at the air between them, "even if you do not believe it to be so right now."

He knew at that precise moment that she would make a great housekeeper, a surrogate mother to many a young girl, a woman standing silently behind the helm and steering this house into calm, safe waters.

But he also knew that, should he decide to continue pursuing her, she would simply turn on her heel and march off downstairs, and he would never see her again. She would be gone before the maids woke up the next morning, taking none of the money he owed her, no character, not a single thing that could have been associated with Downton.

With himself.

She knew he understood her, she must have known, but still she continued in a low, gentle tone, "And yet, luckily for everyone involved, I am not ten or five years younger. I am who I am, and though I haven't seen a great deal of the world, I believe I know what would really happen, were I any different. Were you any different, for that matter, milord—for I do not believe you would wish any woman harm."

"You may not know me very well," he retorted, angry with himself, with that overwhelming pull he felt towards this woman: the need to touch her, to hold her, to converse and take council with her, to be a part of her life.

He could be a part of it, should he make a correct choice. Not in the way his stubborn head believed him to be the best for them, but a part of her life as it was.

Her employer. The man who lives under the same roof as she, walks the same corridors, drinks the same wine—but is never with her, only next to her.

Or not at all.

She shook her head and reached out again, this time resting a hand on his shoulder in a silent gesture of reassurance. "I do beg to differ, milord."

She didn't protest when he took hold of that hand, brushed his lips against her knuckles and let it go gently, eyes fixed upon her face. "I shall make sure you won't have to change your opinion of me."

She nodded, visibly relieved, and took a step back, heading for the door. "Goodnight, milord."

"Goodnight, Miss Hughes," he answered softly, knowing with overwhelming clarity he would never be able to call her by her given name, should he wished to stay true to his words.

Mr. Carson was waiting for her downstairs, just as she predicted he would. Suppressing a smile, she nodded at him politely and passed him by to go into the kitchen, knowing he would follow her anyway.

He did.

"Have you forgotten something upstairs, Elsie?"

She liked the way he said her name in this deep, velvety voice of his, so she gave him a bright smile as she turned to him, pretending to really notice him for the first time now. "On the contrary, Mr. Carson. I went to take care of something I remembered very well."

He raised his eyebrows, clearly intrigued by her words. "And were you… satisfied with the way you'd taken care of said matter?"

He could be quite charming in that old-fashioned gentlemanliness of his, she thought as she poured tea for them both and sat down in Mrs. Reynolds' chair—a place he let her occupy after the housekeeper retired for the night. "I believe so."

Mr. Carson joined her, clasping his large hands around the teacup. The drank in silence for a while before he spoke again; his words could have been interpreted as completely disconnected from their previous topic of conversation, had they been directed to anyone but her. "His lordship is one of the best men I have had the honour to know."

She held his gaze with as much courage and will and she did Lord Grantham's, and smiled at him in a way Lord Grantham could only pray to have witnessed directed to him.

"Perhaps he is, Mr. Carson.

"But he is not the best man for me."

The End