As always, my thanks to chelsie fan.

It had been a week since … since what? Since 'it' happened. She didn't even know what to call it. There was still no word from Lorna, and Mrs. Hughes was starting to worry that her sister's letter had been lost. Perhaps she would write again, if there weren't anything in the evening post. She couldn't imagine what was taking the time. It was not the kind of matter one sat on for long.

She was stuck on a thought again. It was happening on a regular basis now, whenever she was alone with nothing explicit to do. Her boredom resulted in her spending much longer thinking on subjects she normally wouldn't pay much mind to. Mostly worrying. That was hardly surprising.

Her stomach rumbled, momentarily distracting her from her sister's wayward letter. Mr. Carson would be there any minute bearing their supper. She strained her ears and was gratified to hear the familiar footsteps in the hall that she knew to be his. A mere moment later her door swung open.

"Beef stew, courtesy of Mrs. Patmore," he announced with all the grandeur that usually accompanied his introducing distinguished guests upstairs.

"Stew again?" she asked, furrowing her brow in suspicion. This was the third supper of it in a row - most unusual.

"Don't think that Mrs. Patmore is accommodating you," said Mr. Carson innocently. "I assure you it's a happy coincidence." He made a point of carefully setting out their plates with excessive formality.

"See that she isn't," replied Mrs. Hughes darkly, thoroughly unconvinced by his performance. She was more than capable of eating whatever they put in front of her, even if stew was easier than most dishes.

"Would it be so bad if she was?" asked Mr. Carson.

"Yes!" she shot back emphatically. "You two have been babying me enough as it is."

"Babying?" replied Mr. Carson incredulously. "Whatever do you mean?"

"You know exactly what I mean," said Mrs. Hughes, tucking into her supper.

"I'm afraid I don't, Mrs. Hughes," he replied, racking his brain for any action over the past week that could be taken as evidence of 'babying.'

"So you had nothing to do with the car being arranged to drive me to the hospital this afternoon when I am perfectly capable of walking? And you've no idea who might be making up my bed for me each day? And you certainly aren't the person responsible for the endless cups of tea that magically appear wherever I am? Shall I go on Mr. Carson?"

"Daisy brings the tea," he pointed out. He'd directed the assistant cook in precisely how Mrs. Hughes liked her tea and instructed her to send her a tray at regular intervals. Daisy had taken the command to heart and done exactly that.

"At your request."

There was a beat. "Yes," he admitted, "but you can hardly fault us for it. You never ask for what you need Mrs. Hughes. You leave us to guess." He was defensive, and he had a point. She didn't let them help her, not half so much as they would have liked to. He chalked it up to stubbornness, and her difficulty in accepting her situation, but he was not about to take any talking down to on the matter.

"That's another thing," she said, deftly changing the subject. "You must stop calling me Mrs. Hughes. I'm not the housekeeper anymore so I suppose your options are Miss Hughes or - and I would prefer greatly prefer this - Elsie."

"I don't see why I should," said Mr. Carson firmly. "You haven't been replaced yet."

"But I've been officially relieved of my post, Mr. Carson," she sighed, "which is more than enough reason. You of all people should know that."

"It's not right," he said, more to himself than to her. "You are Mrs. Hughes, and that's all there is to it."

"Elsie," she corrected firmly. "Mrs. Hughes is gone, Mr. Carson. You must accept that just as I must." Her voice was cold. Detached. Unfeeling. It aggravated him, but he wasn't entirely sure why.

"You speak as if she's died," he said shortly.

"Hasn't she? In a way?" She had been Mrs. Hughes for so long, but with every day that passed she felt less and less like her. She'd been stripped of her position, her responsibilities, her authority; even her keys were now in Anna's tender care. Her name did not seem to fit anymore. Somewhere, buried deep, there was a woman named Elsie. A woman she needed to be reacquainted with.

"I don't think-" he began gruffly.

"Please, Mr. Carson," she said, smoothly interrupting him. "It would be a great help to me if you did."

He considered her for a moment. Seven days and he still tried to search her eyes for hints of expression, when he knew he'd find none there. The blood that had alarmed him so much that first day had disappeared, leaving them clear, almost normal-looking. They were the same vibrant hue as always, one that reminded him of a sky at twilight, but they distinctly lacked something. They would not sparkle when she teased him, nor flash when she was angry. They were still pretty, but with a flat, emotionless quality that he found distressing. He'd relied on her eyes to tell him how she'd felt when her words didn't. Now, he had to rely on the subtle changes in her inflection or how the corners of her mouth twitched, to see that she was pleading with him to accept her request.

"Alright," he conceded graciously, "but I have one condition. I'll not have this be one-sided; you'll call me Charles."

"But-"

"Elsie." Her name rolled off his tongue with surprising ease and it effectively silenced her protests. "That is my condition."

"You are still the butler," she pointed out. "It would be convention to call you Mr. Carson."

"As you insist, you are not the housekeeper, so there is no obligation there. You are my friend – Elsie – and the convention for that is to call me what I wish."

She smiled. He spoke forcefully, but his voice was laced with a kindness that produced a striking image in her mind. She could just see him, mouth barely containing the smile his eyes betrayed, while he put on an air of seriousness that underscored his sincerity.

"What is it?" he said, feeling like he'd been left out of a joke.

"It's just…I see you," she said, delighted. "Charles," she added for good measure.

"Literally?!" he exclaimed, thunderstruck.

She laughed, a great peal of laughter, at his surprise. Poor man. How she had confused him! "No, no. Not literally. But very clearly in my mind nevertheless."

"Ah." He beamed to see her laughing so freely; there was something about her laughter that made his heart soar.

The meal was over and she carefully folded her napkin back up. "I have a favour to ask you."

"Oh?"

She stood slowly and Mr. Carson rose to offer his assistance, even though he didn't know where she was going. She heard his chair scrape against the floor and waved her hands dismissively at him. "Not babying, my eye," she remarked, swatting him away. "When I need something from you, I'll ask."

"But you don't like to ask. If I offer, you don't have to."

She froze mid-step. "Wait a minute. You've been fawning over my well-being all week …because you want to save me the difficulty of ASKING?"

"This is the first time that you put that together?" he asked, equally surprised. "I thought that was obvious."

Goodness. She hadn't thought of that at all. "I just thought you were set on driving me round the bend," she said incredulously, a smile playing at the corner of her lips. All of her irritation at his maddening behavior vanished, replaced with shock at how sweet he'd been.

"Really, Mrs. Hughes, you give me no credit at all." She couldn't tell from his inflection if he were genuinely hurt or continuing the teasing she'd started. She frowned, trying to puzzle out his emotions. Come to think of it, perhaps it was a little bit of both.

"You wanted a favour," he prompted her gently.

Mrs. Hughes straightened up a little. "Yes, yes, I did." She made her way to her desk, running her hands across the edge, locating each corner in turn. "I put them here somewhere…"

Mr. Carson watched her curiously, trying to figure out what she might be looking for and to resist the urge just to ask her outright. Her hands settled on a couple of books, and she seized them triumphantly. "Here they are," she said, turning back toward him. "Oh blast, where's my chair again?"

Happy finally to be of use, he took the opportunity to guide her back into her seat. He touched her all the time now, in little ways like this, but his heart still skipped a beat every time they made contact. She'd taken to grasping his arm, even if his sleeve would have sufficed, because she liked the steady feeling it gave her.

When she'd sat down, she held the books aloft to him, "I need you to return these for me." They were two volumes that she had evidently borrowed from his Lordship's library. The Mill on the Floss, which he knew for a fact she had only just finished, and Songs of Innocence and of Experience, which had her bookmark poking out about half way through. "Obviously, I will not be needing them anymore," she remarked dryly.

She had tried to keep her manner lighthearted, but she didn't fool him. He caught her bottom lip tremble as he took the books from her hands, his fingers gently brushing hers as he did so.

"Elsie?" She'd turned away from him, trying to compose herself. She felt silly, to be so emotional asking him simply to return a few books. It bothered her, a great deal more than it should have, that she hadn't finished the last one. Mrs. Hughes made a point of always finishing a book, even if it was dreadful. No matter how poor the prose or convoluted the storyline, she had a stubborn determination to finish what she had started. This way, even if she looked back on it in disappointment, she would pass her judgment on it knowing all the facts. On occasion a book would surprise her, drawing her in as she read more and rewarding her in the end for not giving up on it. She re-read her favourites repeatedly, the characters on the page like old friends to her. It pained her greatly to think she would not have the pleasure of spending time with them ever again.

Mr. Carson, keenly sensing the great loss he had just witnessed, reached for her hand. His kind touch made it harder, not easier to pretend she wasn't upset.

"Elsie?" he ventured again.

She exhaled sharply. "It's a stupid thing really…" she hurriedly wiped away a stray tear that escaped, "but not reading... I think that might be the worst thing about all this, silly as that is."

"It's not silly," he returned. They had spent many evenings discussing books, and he'd always found her commentary entertaining and insightful in equal measure. It was one of the first things he'd ever learned about her when she'd come to Downton – the head housemaid with a taste for novels, and plenty of opinions to go along with them. He'd delighted in a friend who shared his enthusiasm for literature, and while he might not share her love of the Brontë sisters, their tastes otherwise overlapped quite a bit.

His eyes fell on the bookmark tucked into the book of poems by William Blake. "I didn't realize you enjoyed poetry so much," he remarked, trying to engage her again.

She shrugged. "Sometimes. I thought I'd give him a chance. I like his style, even if he's probably a little too radical for your tastes."

"Don't be so hasty," he frowned, opening the volume. "Perhaps I've yet to make up my mind."

"A lie if I ever heard one, Charles Carson. Any poet so hostile to the Church of England will never hold much of your respect."

She was right; naturally, Mr. Carson did not care for Mr. Blake's view on a good many things. He hadn't thought her so different from him in this regard. "But he holds yours?" he asked, genuinely curious.

"I was only half-way through this lot," she said evenly, referring to the volume in his hands, "but I certainly respect his command of the English language. And his etched illustration."

"Certainly," agreed Mr. Carson, examining the book more closely. Each poem was surrounded by beautiful and intricate drawings. This was a fine book and he could see why she'd been taken with it.

"The point is moot now," she said forlornly. "Would you just promise to put them back for me please?"

"I will," he said, squeezing her hand, "but your opinions are not moot, thank you very much."

She smiled at his gentle insistence. Even if he disagreed, he valued her thoughts and she treasured that. She squeezed his hand back, a thank you of sorts.

"Would you like me to read some of it to you?" he asked, hoping she would agree.

"Yes, I should like that very much, Mr. Car-… Charles." It still felt strange, but very pleasant, to say his name. "I should like that very much, Charles."

He moved his chair as close to hers as possible, making it easier for him to hold her hand and prop the book open at the same time. She caught a whiff of his pomade as he bent his head closer to hers and her breath caught slightly at the nearness of him. She gripped his hand tighter and wondered where on earth the fluttery feeling in her stomach had come from.

He spoke in low, hushed tones, as if the words were a secret for only her to hear. "The sun descending in the West, the evening star does shine…"

She lost herself in his voice, the deep rumbling sound transporting her to a happier plane of existence. Her mind was filled with visions of heaven and earth painted masterfully by his powerful, understated delivery. With each stanza she slipped further and further under the spell he weaved, a special magic just for her. When he finished, there was a long silence, neither of them willing, nor able, to speak. He studied her face, in greater detail than he'd ever been able to before, drinking in her blissful expression. He wanted to hold on to this feeling forever.

She tilted her head up at him and he found that she was ever so close. Far too close. Did she know that? She must. Surely she must have felt his breath on her face or smelled the scent of his aftershave, but she leaned in anyways. His hand cupped her cheek, and when she didn't pull away he found the temptation impossible to resist. Painstakingly slowly, he lowered his lips towards hers.

A sharp rap on the door shattered the silence, and he jumped away from her in surprise. The spell had been broken, leaving him feeling dazed. Mechanically, he moved towards the door, flinging it open with uncharacteristic vigour. "What is it?" he demanded.

Jimmy looked rather taken aback at being addressed in such a gruff fashion. "Post for Mrs. Hughes," he said nervously, holding it out as a barrier between himself and the ill-tempered butler. "You did say to inform you immediately of anything with a return address of-"

"Yes, thank you, Jimmy," said Mr. Carson, cutting off the boy when he spotted the letter in his hands. Jimmy relinquished the letter and darted off as quickly as he dared.

He turned back into the room to find her sitting rather stiffly in her chair, her blissful expression replaced with a worried frown. Oh, dear. What had he done? What had they done? Well…almost done. His mouth felt very dry and he didn't know what to say to her. This whole evening was so emotional and unprecedented; it made him feel very overwhelmed. He longed for her guidance. "Elsie…what ... what would you like me to do?"

She raised her eyebrows. "Well," she said calmly, her voice betraying nothing of the emotions roiling inside, "I suggest you open it."

TBC...