A/N: Slightly more rapid turnabout in honor of the fantastic sensitivebore whose fast updates, along with her mad literary skills, are legendary. Playing around with some different characters in the upcoming installments. Hope you enjoy!
"So."
"So."
The tea's been poured into the delicate china cups that she saves out for best use. The biscuits she made (alright, she bought them; she's got no time for baking at present) are on a plate, arranged in a neat pattern.
"Sooo. So I want details, Mrs. Carson. Details. How is married life treating you?"
Mrs. Carson colors prettily and looks away for a moment, flustered. She shifts in her seat, smooths her skirt.
"Fine, Mrs. Patmore. Married life is fine."
It's that cat that ate the cream look, and Beryl's not going to let her get away with it. Not after all they've been through together, not after how close they've become.
"Fine. Bah. That's no answer. I can see by your face that it's more than fine."
"Whatever do you mean, Mrs. Patmore?" And Elsie mentally shakes herself, angry at not being able to better conceal her overwhelming joy in not just being married, but being married to him.
"In fact," Beryl says slyly, "you look quite content. Quite," she pauses for a long moment, "satisfied." She focuses on sipping her tea and making a valiant effort not to laugh outright.
Elsie lets out an indignant huff and stiffens her spine as she used to do before an argument about the store cupboard key or some other bit of household nonsense.
Beryl raises a hand. "Now don't wind yourself up, Mrs. Carson. I was only having a bit of a lark. I can see for myself that all is well between you."
Now this really is going too far. Of course Beryl would take certain liberties, but honestly. As if she's going to sit here in broad daylight and allude to any of the private things between her and Mr. Carson. It's that tone, though, that smug, teasing tone that always gets her riled.
"Cat got your tongue, Mrs. Carson?"
Snap out of it Els; your mind's chasing mice. "No, Mrs. Patmore, not at all. Care for some biscuits?"
Beryl sees she'll have to change tactics if she hopes to get even a morsel of information from her tight-lipped friend. Nary a word she'd said on the subject of their engagement, and it the talk of downstairs for those three weeks and a good bit after. Beryl never could see as how folks was so surprised; anybody with eyes could see he was besotted by her. From the very first moment she stepped into the house he was captivated, though he tried so hard to conceal it by sniping and grousing at her just as much, if not more, than the others. But Elsie Hughes was more than a match for him. She never baited him, never gave him a legitimate opportunity to dismiss her and she worked as hard or harder than any other member of staff. Beryl wondered if things might change between them once Elsie became Mrs. Hughes, but if anything they were more stilted and formal with one another than before. Gradually, so gradually that one could almost ignore it, almost, they began to soften towards one another and it became unusual to find one without the other. Bookends, like. So, no, she wasn't surprised that they married. The surprise of it was that it took them both so long to see sense. She fancied Mrs. Hughes knew, though. Couldn't prove it, though she tried in those last few weeks. That stubborn Scottish queen gave up no secrets, betrayed no hint of real emotion. Both of them, really. More like statues than people. But now, to look at her now, how could you not know? How could you not have known they loved each other more than the world itself?
"It seems you're the one gathering wool now, Mrs. Patmore," says Elsie chuckling gently. "And what's the news at the big house?"
"It's all the same for that lot: guests and dinners and balls. Mr. Barrow's settling in better than expected."
"How do you mean? Mr. Carson trained him personally." Elsie has that indignant lift to her chin, that straight spine.
That last bit was very Scottish, thinks Beryl. Calm down, missy. No one's putting the blame on your man.
"I only meant as none of us was sure the lad had it in 'im, to replace Mr. Carson, I mean," says Beryl mildly.
At that Elsie relaxes. And now Beryl pounces.
"These biscuits are good. Quite good. Make 'em yourself?" She glances at Elsie out of the corner of her eyes.
"Nooo," Elsie laughs. "I haven't the time to be baking these days."
"And what do you get up to here in this little cottage all by yourself?"
"I'm not by my-," Elsie breaks off abruptly. She'd been had. She sits stiffly, a mutinous frown on her face. "You tricked me, Beryl Patmore."
"Oh, aye, I did. How else is a friend to get a little information from somebody so tight-lipped. Come on, now! Only a fool would miss that little switch when you walk or how you get all shirty when anybody so much as mentions his name. Out with it, my lady. I thought we was friends."
"We are friends, Mrs. Patmore, very good friends." She folds her hands in her lap primly. " I just don't know quite what you're talking about, that's all."
Beryl looks at her friend hard. "I'm talking about what's keeping you from being able to make biscuits yourself, Elsie my girl." She sits back in her chair with a wicked grin, triumphant, as Elsie goes from deep pink to nearly purple with mortification.
"Mrs. Patmore, I…"
"Save your breath to cool your porridge. Just tell me this." She leans forward, intent. " Are you happy, truly happy?"
Elsie sits for a moment, quiet and thoughtful, so beautifully elegant in her simple cream blouse and navy skirt. She's luminous now, lit from within by joy and wonder. She takes a sip of tea and meets Beryl's gaze calmly. "I am, Mrs. Patmore. I am."