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She's surprisingly well rested when she makes her way down to breakfast the next morning. She had fallen asleep instantly after she had made it to her room and contrary to what she had expected, nightmares hadn't plagued her dreams.
Her apprehension grows the closer she gets to the Servant's Hall. She frets about what she will encounter.
Whether the other servants have heard her the night before, whether Charles will greet her with a smile or a frown.
For a brief moment that morning, she had debated taking a tray to her sitting room and avoiding the Servant's Hall altogether – but she may be a lot of things, a coward she is not. At least not anymore.
So she pushes her shoulders back and rings out a clear good morning as she enters the Servant's Hall. She's almost surprised when no one pays her any special notice. There are respectful nods and the occasional good morning in return but then everyone turns back to their conversations.
She breathes a sigh of relief and feels her stomach unclench when not even Mrs. Patmore sends her a compassionate glare.
Her stomach is quick to clench up again when the cook puts breakfast down with silent efficiency. It's Mr. Barrow who finally inquires after Mr. Carson's whereabouts.
Her heart sinks to the soles of her feet when Mrs. Patmore curtly explains that he had been called up to discuss something with his Lordship and that they were to eat without him.
Only now that he's not next to her does she realize how much she needs to see him this morning, to find out whether he has changed his mind about her and her character.
When she finally hears his steady footfall nearing her sitting room, two hours have passed. Two hours in which she has pretended to work on the linen rota but not managed to write down a single line.
She swivels around in her chair when he knocks, greets him with a solemn face. Gets up nervously when he steps inside and sits back down again heavily at his apparent confusion over her flighty actions.
He sits down opposite of her and she is reminded of a similarly uncomfortable conversation that had come about because of her dishonesty.
"I've spoken to her Ladyship," he begins and she tenses visibly. "You and I have been given two days off when the Family go to the Sinderbys later this week."
"Whatever for?" she asks hoarsely, can't make head nor tail from what he is telling her.
"To go and see your sister." He glares at her levelly, but there is a barely noticeable, nervous twitching in his left eye.
She gets up from her chair and takes half a turn around her sitting room. She clasps her hands together and unclasps them as she tries to formulate her reply. A large part of her is upset by his interference, by him going behind her back. Wants to strangle him for forcing her hand.
But the rest of her sags with relief over the realization that he will not leave her. That he is still there. That he still cares.
"It's hardly necessary for both of us to leave. I can take the trip myself. No need to bother you with it," she finally says.
He gets up from his chair and walks up to her, grasps her upper arms firmly but not painfully.
"We are to be married soon. Whatever is your burden will become mine. No man – or woman – is an island, Mrs. Hughes."
The corners of her mouth lift slightly at his words. He and his proverbs. She nods in agreement, grateful really.
He clears his throat and steps back. Glad that she has accepted his help; that she's allowed him in.
The train rattles them and she grasps the small parcel in her lap tighter. It had been on a silly whim that she had bought the gift for Becky. She's not even sure if her sister will appreciate it; recognize it for what it is.
His hand comes to rest over hers and she marvels at the way he's touching her so often now. So naturally and freely after years of restraint and distance.
"You never told me what's inside the box."
She turns towards him and smiles slightly. "It's a pin; a pin with a butterfly on it."
His hand keeps covering hers as she turns back towards the window. He's waiting patiently. Knows that there must be more to the gift.
"Becky has always loved butterflies," she begins her story in soft tones while she's watching the English landscape flying past the window. "She loved to watch them flutter around and would squeal in delight when they landed on her."
She can't help the gentle smile that spreads over her face at the memories. "Sometimes when I walked home from school, I would try and catch one to bring home with me. Just to see her smile, to bring her some joy when she had been forced to stay inside because my mother had had work to do."
His hand squeezes hers gently. He's smiling softly as well. Glad that she allows herself to remember the good times with her sister.
"When was the last time you've seen your sister?" He asks quietly.
"Two years ago," she replies and turns back towards him. Sees his eyebrows lift in surprise. She cocks her head at his reaction and he hastens to explain.
"I'm sorry; it's just that from what you told me I thought it would have been much longer than that."
She understands now and shakes her head. "After my mother's death, I usually tried to go and visit during the season. I've never stayed the night before, couldn't have afforded the hotel rates most of the times, but I went each and every year. Except last year that is." She sighs. She isn't sure how much good her visits have done, half of the time she hasn't even been sure whether her sister recognized her. But her guilty conscience had always forced her to return the next year.
"Of course, you had to come to London." He sounds contrite and she doesn't want that. She squeezes his hand.
"Don't worry about it, Mr. Carson. I'm glad I did." She smiles at him teasingly and loves the way his eyes light up.
Yes, she is immensely grateful for London and Brighton. Sunshine and sea and steadiness.
"So am I," he rumbles and with that both close their eyes and try to get some sleep before the emotionally draining afternoon that awaits them.
She's glad that he decides to stay behind when they finally reach the care home. He mumbles something about giving her some privacy with Becky first, but he doesn't fool her. She has felt him growing tenser the closer they got to the house. Has seen the way he blanched at the sharp smell of disinfectants when they entered.
Not that she blames him. Even though this is one of the more expensive establishments, it is no home. It is sterile, clinical and practical. The pale yellow on the walls the only attempt at providing something akin to cheerfulness.
She follows the ward sister and tries not to let her irritation at the woman's incessant talking show.
"Well, here we are, Mrs. Hughes. Becky has had a good day so far, but it's been a while since you've been here –"
It's the second time the nurse has alluded to her neglect of Becky and Elsie wishes now that she had allowed Charles to set the woman straight the first time it had happened right during the greeting. But she had stopped him with a gentle hand on his arm and a small shake of her head and he had acquiesced to her wishes.
"– and Becky might not recognize you right away. You know where to go if you need assistance." And with that the woman turns around and leaves her alone.
She can see her sister sitting in her wheelchair in front of one of the tall windows and she can't help the soft gasp that escapes her.
In the last two years Becky's hair has lost all its colour, the silvery white making her look older and frailer – reminding Elsie eerily of her mother during her last year.
She carefully walks over; taking in her sister's clenched hands, the way her head is tilted slightly to the side, the small dribble of drool that has fallen onto her shoulder.
The urge to leave is overwhelming but she will not run out. Pushing her shoulders back, she closes the last bit of distance between her and her sister and comes to stand in front of her.
Becky doesn't startle, instead her blank eyes slowly try to focus on the new arrival. There is no sign of recognition on her face. She looks at Elsie but the older sister gets the feeling that Becky isn't really seeing her.
When the silence stretches too long, Elsie begins talking about her journey. She rambles on about the landscape and the weather as she sits down in front of her sister, who is still looking at her solemnly – her eyes empty.
"I've brought you something," Elsie exclaims, her voice too high, too cheerful.
She unwraps the parcel and for a second can't remember why she wrapped the gift in the first place. It's not like Becky would have been able to open it on her own – not even on the best of days.
Elsie picks up the little pin and shows it to her sister. "It's a butterfly," she explains and bites her lip in frustration when Becky doesn't show any kind of reaction. Taking a deep breath, Elsie leans forward to attach the pin to Becky's blouse.
It's not easy because of the warped way in which Becky's body is positioned in the wheelchair and Elsie has to lean in even closer.
And that's when she feels it.
Her sister has brought a clumsy hand to Elsie's hair – the touch not rough but almost reverent. The older sister holds perfectly still even though her back protests against the uncomfortable position she is forced to hold.
She feels Becky lightly fingering her hair, the little toll of it she had artfully pinned to the side of her head in the morning. Feels Becky pulling the strand out of its confines with infinite tenderness before pressing it to her face, inhaling deeply.
Elsie waits for another moment before righting herself.
Becky's eyes are filled with tears as she looks at her older sister and Elsie can't help the rush of tears to her own eyes.
Without breaking eye contact, she removes her handkerchief from her sleeve and gently dabs at Becky's eyes and mouth before putting her hand to her sister's cheek.
Her thumb lightly caresses Becky's cheek and a few tears spill when her sister presses her face into Elsie's hand. Elsie doesn't want to break the spell of the moment, so she doesn't say anything.
Instead, she begins humming an old Scottish lullaby and suddenly their mother is there with them and Elsie can't remember the last time she has felt this complete.
This is how he finds them a short while later. His future wife tenderly brushing her younger sister's hair while humming softly.
He stops in the doorway and takes a moment to study them.
Elsie has prepared him for Becky's looks and while her physical deformations are plainly visible, it's the likeness to her older sister that captures Charles' attention.
"Are you coming in or would you prefer to stay there?" His fiancé's soft lilt reaches him and he has to smile.
He gingerly steps into the room and makes his way to the two women. Becky hasn't reacted to his arrival yet. He looks at Elsie questioningly and she nods her head encouragingly.
He comes to stand in front of the younger Hughes sister and hopes he doesn't scare her with his height, his stiff posture (but he can't relax, is too nervous to loosen the tight set of his shoulders).
"Hello Becky. It's a pleasure to meet you." He has carefully modulated his voice into a soft rumble.
Blue eyes look up at him in wide-eyed wonder and he forces himself to smile. But then Becky's eyes widen some more and she tries to turn around to her sister in agitation.
He steps back in alarm when Becky voices her disquiet by producing nonsensical little sounds, her hands flapping next to her body.
Elsie tightens her grip on her sister's shoulders, closes her eyes against the look of discomfort on Mr. Carson's face. Tries to quell the feelings of embarrassment and disappointment snaking through her body.
Although he has stepped away, Becky won't stop her anxious actions – becoming more and more frustrated as the others don't understand what she's trying to communicate.
Charles' shoulders slump when he catches the tears in Elsie's eyes. He shouldn't have intruded. He wishes he hadn't disappointed her, hadn't made this even harder than it already is.
He wordlessly turns to leave the room. He knows he is fleeing but he finds it impossible to deal with the situation.
When he takes a step away from Becky, the woman's noises increase in volume and he stops again. He looks like a deer caught in the headlights as he looks to Elsie for help.
The older Hughes sister takes a deep breath and squats down to her sister, tries to make sense of what Becky is trying to tell her – for his sake as much as her own. This painful situation has to end and fast.
"Maybe I should…," he tries but his voice only seems to increase Becky's fit even further.
It's then that Elsie knows what her sister is trying to indicate and she bites her lip – in relief, in distress. It's a maelstrom of emotion her lip has to absorb in this moment.
"I think," Elsie says quietly and her sister lowers her voice, obviously hopeful that her older sister will fulfil her wish. "I think she'd like you to sing."
"Sing?" His surprise makes his voice sound disapproving and he watches in silent horror as Elsie's eyes begin to cloud again. Then she lowers them, stepping behind her sister again.
"You don't have to, of course," she says and she doesn't mean it as a rebuke. She knows how difficult dealing with Becky is – how repulsed one can feel by her behaviour.
He starts humming lowly at first – hesitant, careful. So very set on making this right again. To prove his worth in this relationship, to be some sort of support and not an additional burden.
Becky quietens completely, her eyes focused on the man in front of her. A delighted smile eventually breaking out on her face.
Becky's reaction emboldens him and from somewhere the words come to his mind and he begins singing lyrics that he hasn't sung in years but that have never seemed more fitting than in this moment.
"Dashing away with a smoothing iron…"
His eyes lock with hers and the tears in her eyes tell him that she knows – everything.
As promised, there is one more chapter after this. Thank you so much for reading and if you left a review, I'd be very, very happy and grateful.