As always, my thanks to chelsie fan.

"Ow!"

She'd bumped her shin, for what felt like the thousandth time, on one of the blasted boxes. She tightened her grip on the stick in her hand, wishing she could snap it across her knee as punishment for not warning her about the obstacle.

"You must go more slowly, Mrs. Hughes. You do yourself no favours by rushing." The nurse was a patient soul, but Mrs. Hughes was a trying subject. She was terribly impatient and stubbornly refused to lower her expectations of herself to a more reasonable level.

"This is as fast as a usually walk," Mrs. Hughes insisted. "You said I would be able to walk as fast as usual."

"Eventually, Mrs. Hughes, but not right away," the nurse said, thinking perhaps they'd underestimated how very quickly the housekeeper was used to walking.

"Rome was not built in a day, Mrs. Hughes," chimed in Mrs. Patmore from the edge of the lawn.

Mrs. Hughes rubbed her shins, exasperated. It had been a long afternoon, and she was quite fed up with what she saw as very slow progress. There had been endless exercises: how to walk, how to eat, how to get dressed - the list went on. She'd been through several nurses, each asking if she was too tired to carry on, and each time she'd insisted they continue. Eventually they figured out that she wasn't about to stop willingly and they'd better send her home before she ran herself into the ground.

"I think that's enough for today, Mrs. Hughes. You've done quite well."

"If you say so," said Mrs. Hughes flatly. Five year olds had more coordination than she; that didn't seem like 'doing very well' in her opinion.

"Don't you take that tone with them!" chided Mrs. Patmore to her left. "You have done well. Hasn't she?"

Mrs. Hughes could not help but feel like a child being scolded and praised in this fashion. The last time she checked she hadn't gone back in time fifty years. Why was everyone treating her like a little girl?

"As I said," agreed the nurse, "quite well, even if you don't believe, it Mrs. Hughes."

Perhaps her frustration was a little childish. She didn't feel like herself at all, and it was aggravating. Apparently, it showed. She tried to make amends, saying "thank you for your help Nurse Jennings. You are a most patient teacher."

"And it will be easier tomorrow and the day after that," the nurse assured her. "Try to use the cane as much as you can, and you'll be racing about in no time."

Mrs. Hughes forced a smile, "I'm sure you're right… Mrs. Patmore?"

"Here," said Mrs. Patmore, touching her elbow lightly. "We'd best be getting back or Mr. Carson will be out of his mind with worry."

"Mr. Carson has better things to do than worry about me."

Mrs. Patmore scoffed. "But he's worried regardless. You should have seen him this morning, fussing like a mother hen, asking after you every five minutes."

"Mrs. Patmore, really, you exaggerate," said Mrs. Hughes, feeling decidedly uncomfortable. The thought of him fussing over her made her more upset than just about everything else. What he must think of her now, a weak, helpless old woman? This malevolent thought swirled around in her head, preying on her insecurities and her fears. Even if she ever did learn to walk and eat and dress herself independently, it wouldn't matter. She would still be about as useful as a glass hammer, and he would think her very pitiful indeed.

Mrs. Patmore caught sight of her friend's face. "Now, I didn't mean to upset you. It's nice that he's concerned; that's all."

"Could we talk about something else?" Mrs. Hughes said, close to tears.

"Certainly," said Mrs. Patmore quickly. "What about?"

"Tell me…tell me about the weather. Or the scenery. Or anything."

"Right!" said Mrs. Patmore with great gusto, "I think it's going to rain, but you probably already knew that…"

Charles Caron lost his place in the wine ledger for what felt like the thousandth time that afternoon. His mind, normally so disciplined, would not focus on which bottles were to be set aside for this coming week. He checked his pocket watch, again. Two and a half minutes had passed since he'd checked it last. It had been like this all day, he felt all jumbled up inside. He'd barely spoken two words to her that morning, once she'd come downstairs. Nothing more than a cursory, 'How did you sleep?' and, 'Fine thank you, Mr. Carson,' before he'd been summoned upstairs and she'd been whisked away by Anna. She hadn't been present at lunch, and he was so busy trying to sort the maids out he hadn't had time to investigate. He'd meant to see her off, but was informed that he'd just missed her. 'Some friend I am,' he'd grumbled to himself. He would make a point of seeing her this evening. That would require him to finish his work now, so with newfound resolve he bent over the book.

His ears perked when he heard the servant's door bang shut. That had to be them, shuffling down the corridor. He checked his watch yet again. Five hours gone; they must be exhausted.

Mr. Barrow watched their slow progress from the end of the hall. "Blimey, cane and everything. She really is blind as a bat," he observed. "Absolutely useless."

Mrs. Patmore gasped, and Mrs. Hughes whipped her head up at the under-butler. Mr. Barrow blanched. He had not truly thought they would hear him. Something inside Mrs. Hughes snapped. "My ears work just fine, thank you, Thomas," she said scathingly.

Mr. Barrow opened his mouth and closed it again as the housekeeper took a menacing step towards him. Her anger was not to be ignored, nor interrupted.

"And I'll tell you something else. You make one more snide comment about my cane, and blind or not, I'll beat you senseless with it. Understand me?"

There was a deafening silence in the hallway. Mrs. Patmore looked torn between shock and delight. Mr. Carson stood frozen in his doorway, angrier with Mr. Barrow than he'd ever been, and more pleased with Mrs. Hughes than he could ever say.

Then, very quietly, came Mr. Barrow's reply. "Yes, Mrs. Hughes."

"Good," she spat.

Mrs. Patmore locked eyes with Mr. Carson, who raised his eyebrows at her and opened the door to his pantry a little wider.

"This way, Mrs. Hughes," Mrs. Patmore coaxed, leading her towards Mr. Carson. The cook leaned in and with a low voice whispered in the housekeepers ear, "before you make Thomas wet himself."

Mrs. Hughes did not acknowledge the joke, her scowl set in stone. The woman's piercing glare may have been gone, but her capacity to inspire fear had not been diminished in the slightest.

Mr. Carson felt a surge of pride. That was his Elsie Hughes, not about to take any of this lying down. He ushered them inside, anxious enough to hear about their day to postpone dealing with Mr. Barrow. For now.

The door to the pantry shut firmly behind them, and her mask crumbled, slipping through her fingers like sand. Thomas was right. No matter what she said, he was right. Useless. Worthless. Broken. Mrs. Hughes tried and failed to suppress a sob and Mr. Carson looked at her in utter bewilderment.

"Mrs. Hughes-" his warm voice was her undoing. Her hand flew to her mouth, and she burst into tears.

"Oh for heav'n sakes!" she exclaimed, fed up with herself. Every tear she wiped away was replaced by two more. She could feel Mr. Carson's gaze upon her and her cheeks burned. This was precisely what she didn't want: his seeing her like this, his eyes surely filled with pity and disappointment. She tried hard to push her emotions away, but she was just so tired and there was no energy left. Her knees went weak and the cane slipped from her hand, clattering to the floor.

He caught her. Not that she was in any real danger of falling, but he caught her nonetheless in great, strong arms that encircled her waist and pulled her sobbing form to him. It was something he'd wanted to do since this entire miserable business began and he wasn't going to let the opportunity slip by now. He owed her that. With a passion and a possessiveness that shocked all three of them he crushed her to his chest, trying as best he knew how to give her some sort of comfort.

Mrs. Patmore could hardly contain her surprise at the butler's impassioned gesture. She mumbled some nonsense about fetching a cup of tea for them and made herself scarce. Evidently, Mr. Carson had the situation under control.

He'd spent so many years barely touching her that hugging her tightly felt surreal. He could throttle Thomas. How dare he make her feel this way? But it wasn't just Thomas that had brought her to weeping uncontrollably, was it? It was all of it. Just all of it.

She was hitting him. It started so gently he didn't recognize it at first, but it escalated until she was beating her fists against his chest as she implored him in no uncertain terms to let go of her. He jumped back, confused and horrified that he might have frightened her. What had he been thinking? He'd overstepped, hadn't he? He'd thought he was helping, but now he wasn't sure. She seemed as upset as ever and thoroughly cross.

Mrs. Hughes stumbled backwards and struggled to find her footing again. He ached to reach out and steady her, but after her protests he dare not. She looked small and fragile, but oh so very determined. "Charles Carson," she choked out. Whether her words were hampered more by anger or upset he could not tell. "I'll not have you pitying me, I cannot bear it!"

Is that what she thought? That he PITIED her? He felt dreadful for her, certainly. He was furious on her behalf, there was no doubt. But pity? Elsie Hughes could never be the recipient of pity, not from him.

But there she was, backed into the corner of the room like a wounded animal, practically hissing at him.

"Elsie Hughes," he said softly, "you have never been more wrong in your entire life."

Pity. He was almost insulted. As if he could pity the most resilient person he'd ever met.

"There has never been anyone less pitiful than you," he insisted, taking a cautious step towards her.

"You cannot mean that," she sniffed.

"I do. I could never pity you." He said it so warmly and so seriously she didn't have any choice but to believe him. He'd just wanted her to stop crying. It broke his heart when she cried. "I only meant to be comforting. Isn't that what friends do?"

"Yes," she said, almost to herself, "yes, that's what friends do." She bit her lip in an effort to hold back more tears. Not pity then, but genuine heartbreak for her. She was touched at his sentiment and suddenly longed for him to hold her again.

"I am on your side," he reminded her gently, "if you'll allow me to be."

She nodded, more tears slipping down her cheeks unchecked. She reached out for him and in an instant he was there, wrapping his arms warmly around her.

Eventually, they sank into a chair, and he shifted her onto his lap, as she cried into his chest. He rocked her back and forth gently, saying nothing. It struck him that this was beyond unacceptable, him holding her like this. All propriety had dissolved in the face of her tears, and he was surprised to discover that he didn't care. She needed someone, and he felt an unprecedented compulsion to be that person. If today had taught him anything, it was that he wasn't content to sit back and let Mrs. Patmore and Anna handle all of it, even if they were willing to do so. She was his responsibility somehow, her happiness his job. When had that happened?

It didn't matter; they were there now, and there they would stay. As her tears ran their course she pressed her ear to his chest, comforted by his steady heartbeat and his hands resting on her back. Not pity, then. Not pity.

Some time later, when they had not yet shown up for dinner, Mrs. Patmore took it upon herself to put a few things on a tray and look in. She found Mrs. Hughes curled up on his lap, fast asleep. Mr. Carson brought a finger to his lips, urging the cook to set their supper down quietly. Mrs. Patmore complied, putting the tray down at arms reach and silently tiptoeing out of the room. Gently, she closed the door and chuckled triumphantly to herself.

"Well, I never!"

TBC...