A/N: This is the last flashback. I had the idea for this chapter ages ago, but there never seemed to be a good spot for it. This is the first chapter posted tonight.
Just a reminder, I do not own Downton Abbey.
January 2010
Elsie sat blankly in shock. She had been sitting in the car for ten minutes in front of her building, but could not muster the energy to go in. She rubbed her eyes, wondering vaguely why she wasn't crying.
The tears will come soon enough. When they do, will you be able to stop?
Most of the staff had looked like she felt. She was grateful that Mr. Carson had closed the office immediately, and sent everyone home after he told them the news. It may have been surprising to those outside the firm. The managing partner had kept the office open on 9/11, after all.
But this was different. It was not a national tragedy. But all of them were in mourning.
Sybil is dead.
The look on his face when he told the assembled staff showed raw pain. His voice never wavered. It was quieter than normal, but otherwise it was his same steady tone.
She was the only one who saw the effort it took him to tell them without breaking down. She wondered if he was sitting alone at home. Unable to cry, as she was.
Somehow the thought of him crying alone was worse.
Sybil is dead.
She went inside and sat still on the couch. She could not imagine what Tom felt. Today, on what should have been the happiest day of he and Sybil's life together. That poor bairn. She will never know her mother.
It seemed unthinkable. The last time she saw Sybil (it didn't seem right, to know it was the last time to see her) was less than a week ago, when she had stopped by the office. The heavily pregnant young woman was happy, tired, and eager to see her child.
But fate had other plans.
Sybil is dead.
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Charles shuffled forward, as the line crawled forward. He wanted to get through it quickly. At the same time, he wished he would never reach the end. He had only had one fleeting glance so far, of the young face so pale and still. His gaze shifted again to Mary. She stood rigid, one hand firmly clenched in Matthew's, while she politely greeted those in the never-ending line.
He wished he could have cried at home, alone. He was very glad that his own emotion seemed to be shut off for the time being, although the memories flickered ceaselessly in his mind. I will never understand why the young die before the old.
After his collapse and heart surgery, he had gone to a counselor for the first time in his life. Death was no longer a distant destination, one to be put off until the last moment. It could come at any time.
Why do you not tell her that it was she who brought you back? That you'd be dead if it wasn't for her?
He shook off the persistent whispers in his head. Now was not the time to think about Elsie Hughes.
Still, he looked around the room, before spotting her a little further back in line. She and Anna held both of Thomas's arms, trying to comfort him. She seemed to sense him looking, because a moment later she looked back at him.
She was pale, which was understandable. But it was the pain in her eyes that twisted his heart. Charles gave her one solemn nod, wishing he could touch her. Comfort her somehow. Tell her that she didn't have to hold in her pain. If there weren't so many people, he would.
"The line's moving," someone murmured behind him. Apologizing, he hastily caught up to the person in front of him. A few minutes later, he reached the first of the family greeting the mourners.
"Oh, Carson," Violet took his offered hand, holding it between her own. She took a shaky breath. "We've seen some troubles, you and I, but nothing worse than this."
"Nothing could be worse than this," he said softly. He was prepared for the family's grief, but seeing this indomitable woman so shattered, somehow made it infinitely worse.
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The funeral was a blur. Except for the occasional muffled sobs and stifled coughs, the congregation was very quiet. The Bransons and Crawleys were clustered around Tom. His face was completely pallid, except for his red-rimmed eyes.
Charles kept his lips firmly pressed together, as if they were what kept his emotions back. Ever since the visitation and his last look at Sybil, he felt as though a great weight pressed upon his heart, waiting to be lifted.
But how could it? He could not change the past. Nothing could bring Sybil back. Nothing could fill the void she left, one that her infant daughter would never fully know.
Elsie still felt as though she was not physically present; it was as though her heart had been disconnected from her body. She spoke when necessary, handed tissues to colleagues when needed, and provided a shoulder to cry on. But her own grief was locked away, leaving her without the key to release it.
She held Daisy as the young woman cried. William smoothed his hand on his girlfriend's back, tears streaming down his face. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the managing partner get up from a pew in front of them and hurry toward the back of the church. She gently handed Daisy over to William. Trying not to disturb Bill and Beryl, she ducked out of the sanctuary. Alone in the narthex, he paced wildly, his face down, his hands continuously moving.
He moved as though he was afraid to stop. Her heart thumped hard. She swallowed, feeling her throat constrict.
"Are you all right, Mr. Carson?"
He looked up. They stared at each other for several seconds that seemed to last an age. His chin wobbled, and he turned away, leaning his head on the brick wall, his back to her.
The look on her face seemed to lift something from him, freeing him from his blocked grief. There was grief there, and compassion. And there was also a tenderness that he had never seen before. But he didn't want to make her more upset. So he faced the wall.
"I knew her all her life, you see," he gulped, finally feeling hot tears drip from his face. He didn't stop them. He knew she would not think less of him for weeping. "I've known her since she was born." His voice broke on the last word.
Her heart ached at the sound. He gasped and rested his hands against the wall, clearly trying to control himself. She wished she could put an arm around him, draw his head down to her shoulder. Perhaps if they were at Pedro's, and had several drinks between them, she would.
But here, with most of their co-workers and friends feet away, she didn't dare.
Sybil had embraced her once, and told her she loved her.
She loved that girl. She only wished she would have told her, while she still had the chance.
He let go of his own reserve and wept openly. Sitting down on an old pew, he cried as he had not cried for years, not since the deaths of his own family. Pulling out his handkerchief, he tried to dry his face. A whimper, a low moan of grief reached his ears. She stood half turned, her hand pressed to her mouth.
"Don't mind me," she whispered, trying in vain to wipe her tears. "The sweetest spirit we've ever known is gone, and I'm weeping myself."
It was pure instinct for her to reach for him, to put her hand over his as she sat down next to him. Their knees almost touched. They had been friends for years, and except for that horrible time when she almost went to Haxby (and you almost lost him), they had supported each other through thick and thin. But there were certain unspoken lines that had never been crossed.
All that had been swept aside in the face of their mutual sorrow.
He put his hand over hers, slowly running his thumb over her knuckles. Her chest shuddered with suppressed sobs.
"It's all right, Mrs. Hughes," he whispered. "Go ahead and cry. It's better to grieve with a friend than when you're alone."
She didn't know how, but his words seemed to reattach her heart to her body. She gasped, a guttural sound escaping from her lips. She leaned her head against his shoulder. The fabric of his suit was soon soaked. He stroked her hand, crying with her.
When she felt her heart beat again in her chest, it was as if the shattered parts of her body were piecing themselves back together.
Their tears had been mostly spent by the time the funeral was over. Charles followed at a safe distance behind Elsie as they joined the silent crowd. The coffin was lovingly carried to the hearse and placed inside. He stood next to her at the gravesite, his hand held behind her back, just in case she needed steadying.
She didn't.
But she held his hand when the roses were dropped into the grave, along with the first handfuls of dirt.
He didn't let go until the last prayer was finished.
Elsie had ridden with Beryl, but Charles motioned wordlessly to his car as everyone left. Sinking into the passenger seat, she suddenly felt exhausted. She was grateful, so grateful, to have him. As a friend.
For the first time, she wondered if he felt anything more.