She knew the exact moment.
In truth, there were a lot of little moments. Small things that were, in their own ways, hints that this was only the brief, steady calm before the fall.
"I just don't want you to get tired." Lord, she could have strangled him, but she had to admit, it was sweet, the way he couldn't lie to save his life, the way he had worried for her, been so blissfully relieved to learn she was all right. But no, that wasn't it.
"She gave me a kiss in full payment." That wasn't it either, but she remembered realizing at that moment what an an amazing father he would have been to girls of his own. (They would have had the most beautiful children… but no, mustn't think that way — no regrets. Only forward from here.) So many moments over too many years, all building inside her until it came crashing through that day in a single moment of clarity.
She had arrived home from the fair to find him with Baby Sybil bouncing on his hip, showing the child the wonders of Downton like some adoring great-uncle, and suddenly she knew. Without question or hesitation, she knew, and in that moment, she wanted nothing more than to tickle the child under the chin to make her coo and laugh as a pretext for getting close enough to touch him.
"Oh, you're back, then," he'd said in as relaxed a manner as she'd ever heard from him. In the blink of an eye, she pictured him standing in a small cottage kitchen, shirt sleeves rolled up, fussing over a fresh pot of tea, she having returned from an expedition to the market for their dinner.
That was the moment she knew she was lost.
It's only a matter of time now, she thought. She'd already found herself being more familiar with him than she ever had before. More familiar and more outspoken. Standing just that much closer than before. More quick, chaste touches than usual during their hurried conversations throughout the day — such a guilty pleasure, she knew, but sometimes she simply couldn't help herself. Sparring with him verbally in ways and on topics she would never have dared before the war, before the other scare. Which of them would crack first? Most likely she would, she guessed. Maybe. Maybe not.
Did he know? She thought he did, and that he felt the same, but the real question was whether he would ever let go enough to do something about it. It would not be easy for either of them, especially after so long in this quiet, comfortable world they'd negotiated for themselves over so many years. But she had never taken the easy way, had she?
Truth be told, that was the real reason she hadn't accepted Joe, both times. It would have all been so easy with Joe. Not the work, not running a farm, no. But hard work was hard work no matter if you were on a farm or managing a staff and a large household. No, the relationship would have been easy. He knew her background, knew her family. Held the same beliefs, would have treated her like gold. He was — he is — still a good man. And that was it. Nothing earth-shattering, nothing difficult or trying. Nothing to work for. Pleasant. Kind. Simple. Good. Was that enough? In her heart, she suspected not. She had always thought that the really amazing things in life were the ones that were borne out of difficulty. One had to work for the best, it didn't simply land in your lap.
Her life at Downton wasn't excitement at every turn, but it certainly had its moments. It was work. Sometimes drudgery, usually exhausting. It was not easy, but it gave her freedom.
He was also definitely, without question, not easy. He was difficult on a good day, and on the bad days it took all her strength not to murder him. She was no longer hesitant to challenge him, though. Lord knew, someone had to. Someone needed to help him, push him, drag him, if need be, into some semblance of modernity. No one had challenged him, possibly ever, and so that duty, too, she thought, also fell to her.
And he was — he is — a good man. More than that, perhaps. A man worth working for.
God, what a day.
All she wanted, at this moment, was a soothing cup of tea while she finished looking over a few final papers. If she lasted that long. Much longer, and she'd be asleep on her feet. And speaking of being asleep on one's feet... she rounded the corner and stopped short, coming face to face with six-foot-two-imposing inches of Charles Carson, leaning against the wall outside her parlour with his eyes closed.
She watched him for just a moment. It was another of her quiet, guilty pleasures, taking an occasional moment to watch him when he sometimes sat like that in his seat in the servant's hall, head back, eyes closed, taking rest where he could get it between courses, between the never-ending summons and duties. She wondered what he was thinking in those moments. He wasn't sleeping… she smiled. No doubt counting the silver as a meditation technique, she thought. Her thoughts in her quiet moments could not always be described so chastely.
A heavy sigh brought her back to the present.
"Did you want something, Mr. Carson?"
His eyes immediately opened and he resumed his typical ramrod straight posture.
"I… Mrs. Hughes. My apologies. I was just… resting my eyes while I waited for you."
Hah. Likely bet. He looks as exhausted as I feel. "Resting your eyes. Of course." She simply couldn't help herself sometimes. He was too easy to tease. "Is the constant brightness of the electric lights still that tiring for you? I'd have thought you'd long since adjusted to it. Would you like a headache powder?"
"Wretched woman with your mocking," he said, his deep voice rumbling with humour. He was smiling down at her, and she mentally marked this as another of those moments when she knew; perhaps it was written all over her face, but in this moment, she didn't care in the least.
He recovered first, straightening even further, if it were possible, breaking eye contact briefly. Clearing his throat.
"I was just stopping by to let you know I've finished locking up, and to see if there was anything else you needed before I turn in for the night."
Did he just try not to yawn? Poor man. "Thank you, but no. I think everything is as ready for tomorrow as it'll ever be." Now that she was thinking of yawning, of course, she could barely keep from doing it herself.
"Very well, then," he said, finally meeting her eyes again. "I'll see you in the morning."
"Good night, Mr. Carson."
She assumed he would turn and leave, then, but he didn't. The seconds ticked by, and still they stood, sleepily blinking at one another through tender smiles in the dim hall light.
Did he know the effect he had on her, just by his proximity? Tall, broad shouldered and so unbearably regal. Why… WHY now, after all these years — more than fifteen years in his presence daily, working in close, comfortable harmony, not thinking of him in any such way and now here she was; the man had acquired a little more grey, begun to show his age… beautifully, damn him, he is aging beautifully, he's like fine wine, full-bodied and… oh, stop right there, Elsie Hughes. Just you stop that thought or you'll never sleep peacefully tonight.
"I'm young NOW," he had exclaimed with all the dignity he possessed, and that had amused her. Young, hah. If he were still young, he certainly wouldn't be turning her head like this, would he? She silently thanked whatever deities were watching over her for the years of practice in projecting a calm, collected facade. Sometimes it was all she could do to control herself in his presence.
But she wanted, oh yes.
Wanted to hold his face in her hands, feel him burning, losing control under her touch.
Wanted to pull him to her and stroke his hair, his face, his chest, until he broke — until all his expertly honed poise crumbled and he took her in his arms and let her feel. She knew there was an affectionate, loving man in there (and passionate? yes, that too, she suspected); she had seen glimpses of it over the years, and now she wanted it for herself, wanted it for him, for all the things they had never allowed themselves.
Wanted to give him a safe harbour to close his eyes and lay down his head, to give up some of his — their — burdens.
She wanted him, all of him. Every infuriating, lovely bit of him.
He was standing so stiffly now, hand clenching tightly as if he were holding himself back from… what? What would he do if he ever really let go? The thought made her flush.
The yawn snuck up on her. She'd been so lost in her thoughts — lost in him — that she could easily have drifted off standing there in the hallway. Graceful as always, lass. Instead of drowning in his eyes, you yawn in his face.
Just as suddenly came the overwhelming need to touch him. She laid a hand on his arm, giving it a light rub. It was completely improper, the way she had been unable to stop herself from doing that so often lately, but they were friends, if nothing else. She would take these small liberties with him if he would permit it, and not allow herself to be embarrassed about it.
"Sleep well." She let her hand drift down into his large, warm one and gave it a squeeze. For goodness' sake, Elsie Hughes, let go of the man and go to bed. But he didn't release her hand right away, instead returning the gentle pressure.
"Good night, Mrs. Hughes."
And there it was, once again.
She knew.