As always, my thanks to chelsie fan.
When she left, a piece of him left with her: one he had only recently realized she possessed. He spent the entirety of the day distracted, spending all his energy trying not to think of her, when that was impossible. That night he gave in to his thoughts and let himself imagine he was holding her again, that she had let him tell her he loved her, that she had promised to stay.
The entire week was much like this. He'd known for years that she was more than merely the housekeeper, and while he missed her seamless efficiency and her quiet guidance, that wasn't the loss that plagued him. He had anticipated missing their evenings together or her smiles as breakfast. He knew the joy he found in her company could not entirely be replaced. But to have come to understand that he loved her and have had her torn away moments later was too much. He grew angry; at her for leaving, at himself for not telling her he loved her sooner, at the world for ever putting him in this situation. He resolved to forget her. What else could he do?
His anger, naturally, was impossible to hide from the staff. His words were gruff, his temper short. She had been his calming thought for a long time and now she was off limits. The fact that she had taken that sense of balance and peace in him with her made him angrier still. He knew he was unreasonable, but he didn't care. Mrs. Bute could hardly believe this new Mr. Carson who was so furious and unkind. He'd always been patient with her before, even if he insisted on the highest possible standards. Now he was borderline unbearable to be around.
It was late Sunday night when there was a great crashing sound in the downstairs corridor. Daisy had been helping the footmen ferry the wine from upstairs. This was not usually her job, but Mr. Carson had forgotten about it and they'd thought it would be a kindness to return it all themselves. Unfortunately she dropped an armload on the stair, smashing glass and spilling wine everywhere. Upon discovering the unhappy scene, Mr. Carson gave them a right earful. He voice bellowed through the downstairs, so loud it was impossible not to overhear. They may have been careless, but they did not deserve such treatment. Daisy looked about ten years old again. She'd only been trying to help. It could have happened to anyone, and it wouldn't have happened at all if he'd done his job correctly. Nobody said these things back to him of course, but how they wanted to!
When he'd finished his tirade, he left them to clean up their mess. He stalked back into this pantry, followed by a very unimpressed Mrs. Patmore.
She walked in uninvited and shut the door firmly behind her.
"Mr. Carson, I do not believe that was entirely necessary."
He did not seem surprised to see her, but he was not happy to have his office invaded in such a fashion. He refused to stand up; instead he brushed her comment off with a wave of his hand and started rummaging around in his desk for the picture he'd deliberately hidden from himself. A picture he needed to be rid of once and for all.
"They were being cavalier," he muttered dismissively.
"They were not. They were helping you. And the next time you have a mind to yell at Daisy like that I'd thank you to hold your tongue and leave it to me!"
He stopped his search for the photograph to address Mrs. Patmore head on, his face turning red with anger. "I would remind you, Mrs. Patmore, that I am perfectly within my right to discipline any staff member of this house, in any manner I see fit," he seethed.
"Keep disciplining them like that and they'll all have quit by Monday! And I won't blame them."
He made a low noise in his throat, somewhere between a growl and a scoff. Mrs. Patmore, despite her anger at him for his behaviour, felt quite sorry for the man. He was clearly hurting and she knew precisely why. She made a decided effort to soften her tone. She hadn't come simply to berate him. This needed to stop.
"When the butler goes to pieces so does the staff," she said.
He looked at her incredulously. "I have not…gone to pieces!"
Oh, that was rich. "What on earth do you call this!?"
He pressed his lips together firmly, trying to gather his thoughts. "I admit that I have been slightly more irritable this week than usual, and for that I apologize, Mrs. Patmore."
He looked at her as if to say, 'Are we finished here?' Mrs. Patmore stood her ground.
"She'd be furious, you know, if she knew how badly this week had gone."
She would be, for a multitude of reasons ranging from his private misery to how dismal the linen closet had already become, but how dare Mrs. Patmore evoke her? She had no right to drag her into this, no right to remind him of exactly how inept he had become in her absence. It was pathetic, he thought, well and truly pathetic of him. He felt his anger rise again, furious at himself for being so affected…so vulnerable…so stupid. She was probably fine without him and here he was so completely useless and-
"Mr. Carson?" Mrs. Patmore's voice broke up his thoughts.
"I do not wish to discuss her," he said shortly.
The pain in his voice was so evident; no matter how angry he was, it was there. He'd become so wrapped up in his own misery he wasn't capable of seeing past it to his actions or to the indignant cook in front of him who was trying to help. She tried to have patience with him, but her patience had worn quite thin with the pair of them.
"You are not the only one who misses her you know! But you don't see me shrieking at the staff and shirking my work! For heaven sakes, Mr. Carson! If this arrangement was so disagreeable to you why didn't you propose something else?"
It was a low blow to mention how much his work had suffered this past week, but it was the only way to reach him, and it worked. He glared at her, his collar feeling uncomfortably tight, his hands clenching into fists of their own accord.
"I don't recall you pushing back particularly hard when the plan for her to live with you fell though," he snapped.
"That's because she hasn't been patently in love with me for the past twenty or so years!"
There was a beat of silence where the both stared at each other. When he found his voice it was hoarse and unsteady.
"She said that to you? That she was in love with me?"
"Not in so many words."
"In any words, Mrs. Patmore?"
Mrs. Patmore was nearly in tears. Good Lord, was he truly so incredibly thick? She took a deep breath. "How about in every little thing she's done since the day she set foot in this house!"
He stood abruptly. He couldn't listen to this. He couldn't even think straight, his head all muddled and cloudy. He stormed out of the room without another word, his face like thunder. Mrs. Patmore followed him.
"Where are you going?" she called after him, as he strode down the hall.
He didn't turn to look at her. "Out, Mrs. Patmore. I'm going out."
"It's past ten o' clock!" she reminded him. He didn't break his stride. "Mr. Carson, it's raining."
He paid her no mind. Up the stairs and out the back door he went, letting it slam shut behind him.
He walked for a long time, in no particular direction. It was dark, almost too dark to see the path in front of him, but he didn't care. He just needed to get as far away from the house as possible. It was raining, as Mrs. Patmore had said, a cold steady rain that soaked through his shirt, but he barely noticed. Mud covered his shoes and splattered his trousers as the driveway gave way to dirt roads, and still he walked. Past the farms and over the hills of the countryside he went, at a fairly rapid pace. His breath came in shorter bursts and heart beat faster, but with every step away he felt better. As if he were safer, now that he was finally, properly alone.
Eventually he stopped, his clothing soaked and filthy, and sat down beneath a large yew tree, which offered some protection from the rain that was now pouring from the sky. He looked down the road at the row of cottages that ran south. The one closest had a lamp flickering in the window. He stared at it, it's soft light blurred by the windowpane and the sheets of water coming down.
If this arrangement was so disagreeable to you why didn't you propose something else?
Mrs. Patmore's words rolled around in his head, almost idly. Away from the house they were just words, and he could imagine them detached from the emotion they had been said with. It repeated over and over again, calmer each time. If this arrangement was so disagreeable to you why didn't you propose something else? He sat there and looked at the light in the cottage for a very, very long time, ignoring the way his fingers and toes went numb from the cold. He stared, mesmerized by the light in the window. And he had an idea.
TBC...