As always, my thanks to chelsie fan.

Over the next few days, some semblance of a routine was established. Mrs. Hughes had taken to sleeping late, a luxury she snatched as poor payment for the hand she had been dealt. She ate breakfast alone in her room, tea and toast mostly, doing her best not to get crumbs in her bed sheets. Afterwards she tried to help Anna where she could, as most of her work had fallen to her and Mr. Carson. There was no word on her replacement, though rumour had it Mrs. Bute would be up from London to smooth things over. Mrs. Hughes had remarkably little feeling on the subject. This was more likely a result of repressed emotions than one of true acceptance.

After luncheon, which she patently refused to eat with the staff, she went down to the hospital to meet with the nurses or perhaps Dr. Clarkson. She did get better at walking, though not so fast as she would have liked. She learned all manner of things, like how to pour water without overfilling her cup and how to navigate rooms she didn't know. She acquired many more bruises on her shins, but with them had come a renewed mobility that pleased her greatly. The nurses were kind and rather well practiced at this kind of rehabilitation after the war. After her third visit, Dr. Clarkson stopped bothering to check her vision, as there was so little of it left to assess, and the bright lights only made her eyes hurt. There would be no going back to seeing shapes again, for the edges of everything were gone, leaving only patches of light and shadow.

Since she refused to take meals with the others, Mr. Carson insisted on taking his dinner with her, after the servants were finished. She complained that she was being a nuisance to him and that it was a waste of his time siting through two suppers, to which he gave her such a stern talking to about his "right to spend his time as he saw fit" and "doing what friends ought to do" that she hastily (and happily) withdrew her objections. His company was a joy to her and after her tearful first few nights they had made a decided effort to steer clear of any uncomfortable subjects. She was grateful for it, as it made their evenings together a warm happy thought to fixate on during the more trying moments of the day.

And trying moments were plentiful. That afternoon she spent trying, and failing, to remember where on God's green earth she'd put the blasted cleaning rota. Somewhere in her sitting room, there was a thick red book containing the schedule that dictated the cleaning of every room in the Abbey. When Anna had not found it where Mrs. Hughes thought she'd left it, they'd spent some thirty minutes (that Anna didn't have) trying to locate it.

"Here!" cried Anna triumphantly, "it had fallen behind the shelf!"

Mrs. Hughes gave an exasperated sigh and leaned back into her chair. "Why it was on that shelf in the first place I will never know."

"Never mind, Mrs. Hughes," said Anna, flipping through the large volume. "What was it you wanted to show me?"

"I don't know why we're bothering with this, as you're just going to have to explain all of this to the poor soul who comes to replace me anyways. Really Anna, they'll just have to make you the housekeeper and be done with it."

Anna laughed merrily, "They will not. I'm too young by a half, not to mention too…" Anna trailed off somewhat awkwardly, having said about four words too many.

Mrs. Hughes cocked her head suspiciously towards the young maid. "Anna, come here," she commanded. Anna approached, feeling very much like she'd been caught out.

When she'd come closer, Mrs. Hughes reached for the girl's arm. Clasping it gently, she endeavored to phrase her question as delicately as possible. "You're not…well…you haven't something to tell me?"

"I don't know," Anna said breathlessly. "Maybe. It's too soon for the doctor to tell, but…maybe." Mrs. Hughes heard the delight that accompanied this hurried, excitable statement and broke into a wide smile.

"Anna, that's the most wonderful news I've heard in a long time."

"It's not wonderful news just yet, Mrs. Hughes," laughed Anna nervously.

Mrs. Hughes nodded. "But it will be wonderful when it comes, my dear. And it will come."

"Yes," said Anna bouncing up and down slightly on the balls of her feet, "I pray it does. You won't say anything? I want to be sure before I get Mr. Bates's hopes up."

"Nary a word," agreed Mrs. Hughes. Her mind flitted into the future, visions of Anna as mother, rocking a babe in her arms. It was fitting - perfect, really. Mrs. Hughes felt a sharp pang when she realized that she would likely be miles away when Anna's child was born. There was so much that she would miss by leaving, so much beyond work. She'd spent almost two decades of her life at Downton; it was natural that she had become tangled up in the lives of the people there. Anna's news made it impossible to pretend otherwise.

Anna perceived the distinct shift in the atmosphere, and she had a fairly good idea why. "You will come and visit the baby, Mrs. Hughes? If there is one?"

"Of course I will," said Mrs. Hughes thickly, "I'm sure we'll manage it. Somehow." She drew a deep breath, summoning back the cool professionalism she'd cultivated over the years. "Now, find the pages marked last month. That will tell you the last time the windows in the East wing were washed…"

He spent his days thinking about her, even when he should have been focused on other things. It didn't seem to matter what he was doing. She always made an appearance. Distributing the post. Mrs. Hughes. Inspecting the tea service. Mrs. Hughes. Polishing the silver. Mrs. Hughes. Mrs. Hughes. Mrs. Hughes.

Seeing her in such difficulty shed a new light on her, one he hadn't seen before. There was a vulnerability about her now that he had before never been privy to, in fact one that he hadn't believed her capable of. It wasn't the tears, for he had seen her cry before. Over the years their grief had coincided on occasion, but she had never openly needed him, not like this. Her personal grief she kept locked away. She'd never told him about her health…scare. He still shuddered to think of it. He'd heard about her mother's death second-hand from Mrs. Patmore some six months after the fact. Granted, it had been more than a decade ago and he had been in London with the family for the Season when it happened, but she had deliberately neglected to mention it in her letters. He'd never confronted her about that either.

Over the past few days she'd been building walls, isolating herself from the staff as much as she could. He didn't blame her, but he didn't like it. At least when they were alone, she could be somewhat honest with him. But not too honest… Their last few meals together had been purposely lighthearted. He filled her in on the household news and told silly tales from his time in London. She'd poked fun about her lessons that afternoon at the hospital and regaled him with stories of her youth when she'd been a farm girl. It was comfortable, easy, and a lie. They were dancing around the reality staring them in face, happier to push their feelings to the side, unexamined. Both of them were guilty of it and, after almost two decades, both very well practiced. They could dance around it all they liked, but they had to know the music was going to stop very soon.

TBC...