A/N Some of you may have missed the last few chapters due to posting weirdness. Make sure you're up to speed, or this one won't make much sense.

Chapter Nine: Tiger Lily

Elsie Hughes' Christmas Eve began with a pleasant surprise; a Christmas card from London.

Breakfast was ending when the morning post arrived. Mr. Carson had left a list of bills he was expecting and had authorized her to open anything addressed directly to Downton Abbey. She set aside the two envelopes that were obviously bills and eagerly opened the larger envelope postmarked December 23rd and addressed to "All and Sundry at Downton Abbey." She would not have thought Mr. Carson would use such a phrase, but the handwriting was clearly his. The envelope contained two items, the first of which was a colorful Christmas card featuring a family gathered around a table on which sat an enormous Christmas pudding.

"Mr. Carson wishes us all a Happy Christmas," Mrs. Hughes announced as breakfast came to a close. She read further, steadfastly trying to ignore the second item which still remained in the envelope and which she had only briefly glanced. "And, it is confirmed; the family will be arriving on Sunday, as planned. Mr. Carson will remain with them in the city until then."

"Father Christmas must have gotten my letter!" Roger joked from his spot midway down the table. "A Christmas without Mr. Carson!" Elsie was still pondering whether or not to reprimand him when her debate was made moot. Almost as one, Roger was set straight by Mr. Carson's loyal staff.

"Why would you say that?" Geoffrey demanded. "I like Mr. Carson best at Christmas."

"He lets us have wine with lunch." Christopher, the eldest hall boy, reminded him.

"And sometimes he sings carols with us after the family are done with their dinner." said Laurel, the kitchen maid.

"And you only like when he is away so you can be lazy and make us do your work for you." Geoffrey added for good measure.

But Roger would not be shouted down. "But he's a Scrooge. Even Bob Cratchet has it better than us on Christmas."

"You ungrateful whelp!" Mrs. Patmore said, boxing Roger's ear as she stood over him.

"Thank you, Mrs. Patmore. I could not have said it better myself." Mrs. Hughes drew the attention of all to herself at the head of the table, where she sat in Mr. Carson's customary chair. "Now, it's time we got to work. You all know your business and, if we accomplish everything on the list, I am authorized by Mr. Scrooge himself to give you an additional half day on Friday morning." She waved the card at them as her proof.

A general happy murmur greeted this announcement. Roger grumbled something and was promptly pelted with an half eaten corner of toast.

Elsie had to admit. She had been apprehensive about running the house without Mr. Carson there. The last time the family had gone to London was a normal trip for the Season. And back then, Mrs. Pearson was still Housekeeper and Mrs. Cobb was still cook. Elsie wondered if she would be able to keep everyone in line, especially with the holiday excitement. But the staff were carefully chosen and well trained. Roger was the only trouble maker, but Geoffrey was standing up to him. Mrs. Hughes had made it clear on the first day that she had his back and that she would be making a full report to Mr. Carson regarding his two footmen.

Finally, her exterior not betraying her inner excitement, Mrs. Hughes took the morning's correspondence to her office. She had posted the communal Christmas card in the servant's hall, beside the eerily silent bells. They almost looked like Christmas decorations as they hung there, undisturbed.

Now, she had only the large envelope and its remaining contents. Reaching in, she extracted a small envelope addressed to 'Miss Elsie Hughes; Housekeeper's Sitting Room; Downton Abbey, Yorkshire.' She smiled at the use of her full name and Miss rather than Mrs. From anyone else, this mix up would be a sign of disrespect. But she knew it was his way of telling her that, even though she was now housekeeper, she still had a friend below stairs.

Too anxious to use a letter knife, Elsie tore the envelope roughly with her fingernail. She was a little disappointed with the beginning of his letter. It was all about Lord Grantham. Overall, his assessment of Lord Grantham was optimistic, and there was relief in some of his words. He offered several suggestions that would make the homecoming better. 'He's had his fill of seafood for a while. Please tell Mrs. Patmore to stick to the less fishy fishes and avoid any kind of fish stew for the foreseeable future.' She read. Blah, blah, blah…

They were obviously things that he did not wish the other staff to see, but they were not of a very personal nature, as she had foolishly hoped. But then she turned over the first sheet and the tone of the letter changed. It became more conversational. By the end of the letter she was smiling broadly.

"Good news from home?" Mrs. Patmore asked, entering the sitting room without knocking.

"You might say that." Elsie answered, enigmatically.

"Well, you can read it all you like later. My schedule says we're supposed to go through the stores and make sure we're set for Sunday."

"You are correct, Mrs. Patmore." Elsie beamed at the perplexed cook. "I can read my letter all I like later." And she definitely would.

-00-

It should not be this difficult to buy a present. Carson mused as he watched the lamplighter struggle to steady his flame enough to light a streetlamp before the tide of people swept him away. How had it gotten so late?

Mr. Carson was beginning to feel desperate. He'd thought to gain an advantage over the crowd by skipping lunch AND tea, but there had been no lull in the madness corresponding with these traditional breaks. If people were stopping for food, there were plenty of people to take their place. If anything, the crowds grew as the day progressed. At every intersection, strangers grabbed at each other for fear of falling into the street to be trampled under the hooves of an indifferent cab horse. The pickpockets would be having a field day, Carson thought. His own wallet was in a buttoned pocket on his right side. Carson knew pickpockets always assumed men were right handed and would target the left lapel.

The day had thus far been fruitless. The only thing he had accomplished was to accumulate a sample of every scent for sale in London. He would have to air his coat for weeks to get the various perfumes out of it. Every store into which he had gone was guarded by a girl with an atomizer, like a troll under a bridge in a fairytale.

And he'd been in every store from Earl's Court to Knightsbridge to Piccadilly Circus to beyond and back. He had lost all sense of smell in a shop on Bond Street with a particularly aggressive perfume troll with a tray of scents in front of her. She had sprayed all five in rapid succession, creating a cloud of Lavender, Musk, Verbena, Rose Water and a strong chemical smell Carson could not identify. He had staggered out of that shop with his eyes watering.

That had been hours ago, but his eyes still stung. Carson realized that his hunger was definitely adding to his foul mood. This would not do. Some of his sense of smell must have returned, for Carson turned off Piccadilly proper and followed his nose to a gathering of food carts. Quickly, Carson's stomach decided he needed a jacket potato and beans. Mrs. Patmore would have a fit if she knew how he ate when in London. He loved the colorful vendors with their assortment of food and beverages, from jellied eel to buttered rum.

As he devoured his supper quickly, Carson evaluated the situation. He'd looked at scarves, frames, chocolates, brooches, pens and, in an act of desperation, hats. He shuddered to remember one hat that had reminded him of a red Indian headdress, all feathers and beads.

Behind him he had left a wake of frustrated and often angry shop girls. Everywhere, he ran into the same problem. Almost nothing was good enough for her and the things that were almost acceptable were far too fine for a gift between colleagues.

He had almost made a purchase at the fourth store, or was it the fifth? It was a colorful, but tasteful French silk scarf. But the poor girl behind the counter had made the mistake of complimenting his taste. "Your wife is very lucky. This is one of our finer items. Most men don't understand the sensuality of silk and how it makes a woman feel." Carson had not considered that Mrs. Hughes would misinterpret his gift of a scarf. He could not give her a gift that could be described as sensual. He had certainly not been thinking of declaring anything, he had only known that this particular scarf would look stunning with her favorite coat and her complexion. A flustered Carson had exited the store very quickly.

Carson had known better than to even approach a bookseller. Everything he had read in the last year reminded him of her somehow. He'd likely resurface sometime after the New Year if he went down that rabbit hole.

He realized with terror that he had not even looked at gloves yet. How could he have so terribly neglected his true mandate? Well, Harrods was The Place for gloves. Carson could put it off no longer. He would need to go to the epicenter of London Christmas shopping.

He had less than three hours to secure some gloves for Lady Grantham. If he happened on anything for Mrs. Hughes, he would buy it. Otherwise, he would have to try again after Christmas.

Harrods was worse than he had expected. There was a line to even get in the door. Doormen counted the people leaving and then admitted that same number of new shoppers. It took Carson an hour to gain entrance. Luckily, a few enterprising vendors were selling hot beverages to the waiting crowd. Carson had two drafts of a particularly fine mulled wine. His cheeks were warm and rosy by the time he found himself in the women's accessories. The glove counter was a tragic mess. Here, again, Carson would have to wait. A floorwalker took his name and told him it would be a twenty minute wait. He thanked her and headed towards open space.

Looking around, Carson found himself looking down at cases full of watches and brooches. Well, he thought, he might as well shop for Mrs. Hughes while he waited for the glove counter to clear. He hadn't considered a watch. She had very little need of one. There was a clock, sometimes several, in every room in Downton. Indeed, Carson began to wonder why he himself carried a watch. He used it constantly, consulting it almost hourly; double checking the house's clocks or while waiting for a wine shipment. The truth was, the time on his watch was the only time Carson truly trusted.

Thinking she might actually like a watch, Carson began scanning the display cases. Though this area was less crowded than the other areas of women's accessories, it was still crowded. Luckily, Carson could see over most of the other patrons. The delicate lapel watches reminded him of nurses, not of his housekeeper.

Giving up on the notion of a watch, Carson wandered through the brooches. He liked the idea of finding something she could wear daily. Her mother's brooch was too precious and delicate for everyday. Ever since she'd almost lost it on the lawn she had been wearing one of two brooches, neither of which were as delicate or lovely as her favorite. His ears reddened to match his cheeks as he remembered that moment on the lawn. He had come so close to crossing a line that evening. Would a gift of a brooch make her think of that night too? Was that going too far; being too familiar? He saw a brooch not unlike hers, but lacking a stone. He leaned in to get a better look.

"Excellent choice, sir." Carson started as a dark-haired girl leaned in from the opposite side of the counter. "That is one of our most popular items. Are you familiar with the luckenbooth?"

"Is that what it is called? I've seen them before, but I didn't know they had a name besides brooch."

"As you can see, it's entwined hearts with a crown at the top. We've variations with thistles, if you like or stones." Now that he looked closely, he realized that there was a crown and that the delicate silver curves were not random, but were, indeed interlocked hearts. That seemed a little personal, but it was really lovely. He was on the fence when the shop girl continued her speech about the luckenbooth. "The luckenbooth is a traditional Scottish charm and is often given by men to their intended or betrothed."

Charles fell off the fence. Disappointed yet again, he scanned the case for something just as beautiful, but less fraught with meaning. And then, he saw it; tucked away in an almost unlit corner of the next display case. "There!" He cried out.

The shop girl only faltered for a second before heading to that display. "This one?" She pointed to an intricate silver hair comb.

"No, that one." He pointed to the shining silver item.

"This?" She asked with trepidation, finally identifying the correct thing.

He nodded enthusiastically. "Yes. It's perfect. May I see it?"

With a perplexed expression, the shop girl handed it to him. He held it up and watched the light gleaming off the silver.

"Perfect." He repeated. Just then, he felt a tap on his shoulder.

"Mr. Carson?" The floorwalker addressed him. "You are next on the list."

Carson turned back to the attendant. "If you could wrap that up, I'll be back to pick it up and pay when I am done at the glove counter."

"Are you absolutely sure, Mr. Carson? Wouldn't you rather…" A scowl from the floorwalker stopped her words in her throat. "That is, would you rather printed paper or solid?"

"Best stick with solid, unless you have plaid?"

"No, but we've plaid ribbon. I can make you a bow."

"Thank you, that would be lovely." Charles smiled kindly to the girl and headed off to the glove department.

"What do you mean trying to talk a customer out of a sale?" Hissed the floorwalker to the flummoxed girl.

"But look at what he's buying." She held up the silver item. "He was so close to buying a luckenbooth and then he buys this. I don't understand."

"When you have money burning a hole in your pocket, see what silliness you buy. It's not our place to question. Just sell them what they want and move on to the next person."

Carson had now reached the anarchy that was the women's glove counter. A weary looking girl with flushed cheeks handed a wrapped box to a tall, stately woman and sighed, "Next."

Noticing she was frazzled, and hoping to cheer her up, Carson asked, in his deep baritone, "Do you have anything in my size?" Carson held his right hand out for her inspection, as though expecting her to measure it. The girl looked up, startled, but laughed when she saw his smile.

"It's almost over." He whispered encouragingly. "I'll try to keep it simple. I'm just looking for a pair of long silk gloves in black or white in medium."

Her face fell. "If only it were that simple. The silk gloves have been very popular and we are running low. And the ones we still have are in such a state, it might take some time to locate a matched pair."

"Well, unless there is a new fashion, I think it is important that they match." Carson checked his watch and then scanned the displays. "How about those?"

"Those are the exact opposite of what you asked for, sir."

"Yes, but time is running short for both of us." He reasoned.

"I shall see if we have a pair. It's very likely. The kid gloves have not been as hard hit as the silk."

"But they are matched."

"Well, yes, they are the display pair."

"And I'll take them."

"But is that the color you would like? It's not a color for everyone."

"I think she'll love them."

"Alright," the girl said, taking the plastic hands down from the display behind her and removing the gloves. "After all, it's the thought that counts."

"If that's the case, we're in trouble." Carson said to no one in particular.

"Would you like them wrapped?"

"Have you the time to wrap them? I am having something else wrapped at another counter."

"Of course, I have time. If I'm not helping you, I'd be helping someone else and you've been much kinder than most today." Deftly, she boxed the gloves and pulled out a precut sheet of dark green wrapping paper. "Would you like ribbon and a bow?"

"Certainly. Your choice." Charles looked back towards the brooch counter. The attendant there caught his eye and smiled, waving the wrapped gift for him to see. He nodded his acknowledgement and turned back to pay for Lady Grantham's gloves.

"Happy Christmas." The glove girl said as she gave him his change and the wrapped gift in a small, paper Harrods bag.

"And a Happy Christmas to you, young lady."

This time she sounded a little brighter as she called, "Next."

Carson pushed his way back to the brooch counter. "As promised, I'm back."

"Yes, Mr. Carson. Here is your item." He put the second package into the bag with the first. "That will be eight twelve and three." Carson paid happily. He had found the perfect gift for Mrs. Hughes and there would be no question of it being an appropriate gift between the butler and housekeeper. Carson checked his watch again. He had twenty whole minutes to get back to Painswick Place.

"Thank you and Happy Christmas."

TBC...

A/N Charles' shopping trip was very much a collaboration. Thank you for the great suggestions for what Charles should buy Elsie. Specific thanks are below.

I love to hear from all of you. Christmas is coming!

Sorry, MonaLove, it is WAY too early for an engagement ring, but I used several of your other ideas. Thank you GreysonSteele for the luckenbooth suggestion. Tammy333, I could not fit in the music box this go round, but I'm holding on to that for a later date. Thank you HappyHeart2 for the scarf idea. And, evitamockingbird, you were absolutely correct that Charles would take all day to shop. Thank you to Chelsie fan for reminding me about the ornaments. They will come into play next chapter. Oh, and yes, thank you Julian Fellowes for creating these two characters, even if you are in my dog house right now for not using them enough.