With my thanks to chelsie fan. Thank you all so much for your amazing support of chapter one, with your reading, reviewing, favouriting (is that a word?) and following. You're all wonderful.

What would she do? She didn't even know where to start. She certainly couldn't do her job; that was obvious. If it got any worse she wasn't sure she was going to be able to feed herself, let alone run the house.

"Mrs. Hughes?" She'd almost forgotten that Mrs. Patmore was there. "Is there anything I can do to help?"

She shook her head. There wasn't anything anyone could do. She needed time to think. "No thank you, Mrs. Patmore. I'm sure you're needed in the kitchen."

Mrs. Patmore moved to protest that her girls could handle supper if need be, but Mrs. Hughes held up a hand to stifle the cook's objections. "Please. I'd rather be alone."

"If you're sure," said Mrs. Patmore softly. She gave her friend a comforting hug and Mrs. Hughes willed herself not to cry.

"Go," she insisted, breaking from the hug first, "and make my excuses?"

"'Course I will," said Mrs. Patmore, and she left her in peace.

Mrs. Hughes sank into her chair, exhausted and overwhelmed. It was too much; it was too fast. She would have to hand in her resignation to the family; there was no way to keep this a secret. She hadn't planned on working forever, but she also hadn't planned on leaving so soon. She didn't have the money or any idea of how she would take care of herself. Her Ladyship's words from her previous health scare sprang to mind: If you are ill, you are welcome here for as long as you want to stay. She was ill now, in a way, and she would bet her boots the offer would still stand. On the other hand, she was hardly going to stay at Downton, spending the rest of her days idle and useless but otherwise healthy. It would be awful enough to have lost her livelihood, but to constantly be reminded of it would be torturous. She had to go - somewhere, anywhere.

She shut her eyes. With them closed she could almost pretend that it wasn't happening and imagined that if she were to open them everything would be perfectly clear. What would she do? She would write to her sister. That's what family was for, wasn't it? They would not turn her away. It felt good to have plan, even if only the beginning of one.

She heard voices in the hall. Mr. Carson's timbre was unmistakable. He seemed to be looking for her, and Mrs. Patmore was doing a very valiant job at trying to put him off. She sighed. They were going to have to have the conversation sooner or later; it might as well be sooner. Clumsily she rose to her feet to open the door for him. She was pleased to have grasped the door handle on the first try, and Mrs. Patmore's failing arguments trailed off as the door swung open.

"I tried to tell him you didn't want-" began Mrs. Patmore.

Mrs. Hughes kept her head down and her voice deliberately low. "Come inside, both of you."

They did, Mr. Carson looking flummoxed and Mrs. Patmore looking guilty. Mrs. Hughes turned to go back to her chair only to hit her hip hard on the side table. Mrs. Patmore sprang into action, carefully guiding the poor housekeeper to her seat.

"Mrs. Hughes?" came Mr. Carson's voice, sounding almost frantic. "What's going on?"

Mrs. Patmore leaned in to whisper in her friend's ear, "Shall I tell him or would you like to?"

"I'll do it," she said firmly. "But would you shut the door?"

"It already is," replied Mr. Carson automatically. Then he looked between the two women in alarm. Why would she say something like that? She turned towards his voice, hoping to see him, needing to see him. If she tipped her head slightly to the side she thought she could make out his face, though it seemed rather watery.

"What on earth?!" exclaimed Mr. Carson. He hadn't seen her eyes properly until she'd cocked her head at him. They appeared different, as if slightly squashed, but what had really caused his alarm was the ring of blood around her irises.

"What?" she asked, suddenly very self-conscious.

"There's more blood than before," said Mrs. Patmore hurriedly. "Just a little more, but Dr. Clarkson said that might happen."

"Oh," she mumbled. He had mentioned it, but he had said so many things, and that hadn't even been close to the most important of them.

"Mrs. Hughes?" repeated Mr. Carson weakly.

She took a deep breath. "As you may have guessed by now, Mrs. Patmore and I did not go into the village for a lost fabric order…" He'd figured as much. It had been a hastily scrawled note from Mrs. Patmore on his desk that had informed him of their departure that afternoon. Even at the time it had seemed strange for them and now he understood why.

It was a difficult enough thing to say as it was, but she found it much worse because she couldn't meet his eye. She felt his concern, radiating off him in waves, but could offer no comforting gaze in return.

"We went to see Dr. Clarkson." This he had also figured. Would that she would just spit it out! Endless possibilities raced through his mind, each more terrible than the last. There was no feeling worse than this, surely. He tried not to let his impatience get the better of him; she was obviously struggling to find the words.

"Why?" he asked, before he could stop himself. "What's happened?"

She straightened her posture, hoping the action would goad her into being more forthright on the subject. It did the trick. "I'm going blind, Mr. Carson. Actually…I think I already am, mostly."

He looked at her dumbfounded. It didn't seem possible, but she was dead serious. He turned to Mrs. Patmore, hoping beyond hope that it was a terrible joke. The cook only nodded her head grimly, and he was forced to face the facts.

"Why didn't you tell me? When did you start to notice?" It killed him to think she might have hidden this from him. How long could it have been going on? Before today she'd always seemed fine to him. Was he really so unobservant?

"This morning," she said softly, putting that tiny piece of his anxiety to rest. "It's been getting steadily worse since I woke up."

"That's …fast."

For the first time that day Mrs. Hughes cracked a smile. He was just so blunt at times; she found it rather endearing and more than a little amusing. "You're telling me," she said archly.

"Sorry, that was….well, never mind what it was," he said gruffly, cursing himself inwardly for his obtuse remark. "What has Dr. Clarkson said? Is it permanent?"

"So it would seem," she confirmed.

Mr. Carson regarded her with a look of dismay she could not see. He wasn't sure what he could possibly say to make her feel better, but he had to say something. "Mrs. Hughes, I'm so sorry."

She would not dismiss him by saying that it was all right when clearly it was not. She had lost, in the span of just twelve short hours, the ability to do her job and lead her life, as she'd always known it. She wanted so desperately to be able to look at him, but her field of view was nothing except shapeless blurs at the moment. Her need to see him, combined with her complete inability to do so, caused her panic to reassert itself. The tears came, unbidden and insistent. She didn't mean to cry, but it appeared she didn't have any say in the matter.

She felt Mrs. Patmore's hand on her shoulder, "Come now, we'll figure it out."

Mrs. Hughes only wept harder and Mr. Carson thought his heart might break in two. He'd never seen her so distraught in all his life. He longed to pull her into his arms and rock her until she ceased her tears, but Mrs. Patmore seemed to be taking the lead in the comfort department and far be it from him to push in.

Mrs. Hughes's words came out in short, choppy bursts. "I'll…have to…go," she managed. Mr. Carson looked at Mrs. Patmore, horrified.

"No, no," said Mrs. Patmore, rubbing the housekeeper's back soothingly.

"But…I cannot work, so I cannot stay," she said, gesturing widely at the room around her. Her room, from where she'd kept the downstairs of Downton Abbey running so smoothly for so long. Not my room, she corrected herself: the housekeeper's room. It was a function of the position, after all.

"You can stay with me," insisted Mrs. Patmore. "I've been intending to retire for ages anyways. We'll live together, somewhere close by, and you won't have to worry about a thing."

Mrs. Patmore's pronouncement halted the tears, at least temporarily. Mrs. Hughes knew perfectly well that Mrs. Patmore's intention to retire had been fabricated minutes ago and not 'ages,' but she was touched to have a friend so willing to drop everything for her. She couldn't possibly accept the offer. It was bad enough that she was being forced into an early retirement; she would not drag her friend along with her, willing or not.

"You would leave your post here, to dress me and cook and clean for me? I could never ask that of you."

"You're not asking. I'm offering."

"Even so," she said resolutely. "If I lived on the estate and you visited me that would be one thing, but I will not have you to give up your life here to be a nursemaid, Mrs. Patmore. I mean it."

Her tone indicated that the issue would be taken no further. Mrs. Patmore looked to Mr. Carson helplessly. He didn't know what to tell her. If she wouldn't stay with Mrs. Patmore there was very little he could suggest. He knew better than to push back; it wouldn't get them anywhere. Mrs. Patmore resumed stroking her friend's back. The comforting gesture was all she could think of to do.

"Mrs. Patmore!" Daisy's voice came echoing down the hall. "Something's wrong with the rice pudding!"

"Drat, I'd forgotten all about that!" Mrs. Patmore exclaimed.

"Go then," said Mrs. Hughes wearily. "Don't let me keep you." Mrs. Patmore opened her mouth to protest, but dessert might truly be ruined if she didn't see to it soon. Mr. Carson took it upon himself to relieve her of her post, mouthing the words, "I'll stay," to the anxious cook. Mrs. Patmore relented and allowed him to take her place at Mrs. Hughes's side. Tenderly, he took the housekeeper's hands in his own and tried unsuccessfully to find words to ease her distress. Mrs. Patmore disappeared to the kitchen to see to her duties, leaving the heads of staff to their grief.

They sat in silence for a long time, trying to process the events of the day. He ran his thumb up and down the backs her hands, trying to reassure her with his presence. He had so many questions, but now was not the time to ask them.

"You understand that I have to leave?" she asked very quietly.

He did. Blind housekeepers were not an option and he knew the pain it would bring her to stay in the house, unable to do her job. It saddened him beyond belief to imagine her leaving them - her leaving him.

"Yes," he murmured. "When will you tell them?" The 'them' was left deliberately vague; both the family and the downstairs staff would have to be informed.

"I suppose I ought to tell the family first, perhaps before the dressing gong."

He nodded, but then realized she might not have noticed. "I'll go with you, if you like."

"Thank you, Mr. Carson. I should prefer it." It was a shame that it had happened so suddenly. There would be no time to look for a replacement, nor did she really have the ability to train one. Mrs. Hughes did not concern herself too much with this line of thought; she had far greater priorities at the moment.

"And downstairs? Some of them have got to know something's wrong already." That was also probably true: the longer they left it, the more time for rumour to warp the truth.

"At dinner then. But would you do it?"

He blinked in surprise. "If you wish," he said softly. "But what shall I tell them is happening?"

"Just the facts. That I can no longer see and that I'll be retiring." She didn't want to face them, not all at once and not in the servant's hall where she'd previously commanded such respect. The only two responses she could imagine were pity and amusement, and she didn't know which one she would loath more.

"If I announce that you're leaving, they'll want to know where you'll go," he cautioned her.

"I've given some thought to that." Of course she had. How she had been able to think of anything but that was remarkable. "Would you do me a great kindness, Mr. Carson?"

He jumped at the chance to be useful. "Anything! What is it?"

"I need to…" her voice started to shake a little, but she reigned it in. "I need to contact my sister. She and her husband live in Lytham St. Annes, and I'm sure they would take me in. Would you write the letter for me?"

Her sister. Naturally she'd go to her sister. It made sense that she wanted her family. He could see the logic in it, even if he would prefer she stay at Downton where he could take care of her. Swallowing this impossible desire he returned his attention to what she wanted, what she needed. "Would you like me to write it now?" he asked.

"Yes, please."

He rummaged around on her desk for a piece of paper and a pen. As he prepared to lay ink on paper he was grateful she couldn't see his trembling hands.

"Ready?"

She nodded, and with a heavy heart started to dictate the words that might take her away from him forever.

TBC...