Make sure you have read all previous chapters before you read this. Notifications have been on the fritz lately, and stories aren't always in order by most recent update.

The last chapter was quite short. Here's a longer one to go with it. Hope you enjoy!

Mr. Carson had retreated to his office eagerly once he had seen Mrs. Hughes's handwriting on the letter addressed to him, but now that the door was shut and locked behind him, he became nervous. He laid the others on his desk, but he paced the room with her letter in his hand. He had been wondering since Friday night if he had made a fool of himself. Mrs. Hughes had barely been gone an hour when he had looked at the postcard and set aside his work to write her. It wasn't his usual day, and it would mean a special trip to the post office, but he couldn't seem to help it. He wanted to talk to her, but she wasn't there anymore, so writing was the only avenue open to him. What had he written, anyway? Would she think him foolish or wonder what was wrong with him for speaking so freely? Although he longed to know what was inside, he hesitated to open it. It was not long, however, before he opened it and sat down, devouring her words.

Dear Mr. Carson,

Thank you for your wonderful letter. I very much enjoyed reading it, though the surprise of receiving it early made me quite curious, even a little apprehensive. However, once I opened it Saturday evening and had the pleasure of reading your delightful words, I knew that I must answer straightaway.

Downton was in a bit of a flutter when I arrived, partly due to my absence and partly due to a variety of inconveniences and problems that cropped up just when I returned. I feel now that things are under control, but it reminded me that being here during the Season, even without having to wait on the whole family, is certainly no holiday. Not only are there enough crises to work through to keep me busy, but a few of my staff seem to think that they are on holiday, and they are a bit harder to control at times. Nothing I cannot easily handle, but irritating nonetheless.

You flatter me, I am sure, when it comes to my skill as a housekeeper. I don't deny that I do my work well, but I hardly think that I've reached some unattainable peak of housekeeping excellence. I formed a very favorable opinion of Mrs. Bute during the short time we were together, and I agree that she shows great promise. I know little of how she works with the others or commands her staff, but she is certainly a very pleasant and intelligent woman. I am sorry that she was ill, but I am glad I had the opportunity to meet her. She certainly seems capable of seeing you through the rest of the Season.

Mr. Molesley has settled in well as temporary butler. Lady Edith is away so the only one here for him to wait on is Mr. Branson, but he doesn't seem to mind, as Mr. Barrow did. Mrs. Crawley came yesterday for tea with Mr. Branson and to visit little George. I think waiting on the heir's grandmother has meant a great deal to him, and of course he feels that he bears a certain responsibility towards the children as well, though Nanny Spencer is of course very capable. I was about to tease you and say that you ought to be wary of Mr. Molesley's designs on your position, but I think it might be better said that Mr. Barrow should be wary. Neither of them could hope to displace or replace you, except by your own choice, but Mr. Molesley has certain qualities that Mr. Barrow lacks.

As far as telling the staff, you may maintain the ruse that the day by the sea was your idea entirely and not mine. As we discussed, we worked together on that project, in a way, so they do still have you to thank. And I like the idea of the staff thinking of you as the kind man you pretend not to be. I am glad I was able to make your day by the sea such a pleasant one. I enjoyed it as well, perhaps even more than I expected. Indeed, the more I think of it, the more lovely my memories become and the more I cherish them. I am always content with Yorkshire and Downton, and I was happy to help when I was needed in London, but Brighton was unexpected in many ways. Just as you say, the weather was fine, the staff enjoyed the outing, and you and I enjoyed our time wading in the sea. Can you remember the last time we spent time relaxing together like that? I cannot. In fact, I am not sure we ever have and I Iiked it very much. A trip to Brighton every year is certainly out of the question, but perhaps we should make an effort to do something like it again soon - to stop and smell the roses, as they say. I think I would rather slow down by choice than wait until poor health or old age force it upon me, wouldn't you?

As for the Crystal Palace, Westminster Abbey, the Science Museum, or any of your other suggestions, had it been a special outing only for the butler and housekeeper, I would have been happy with any or all of them. They are quite excellent destinations, I am sure, but I think the company would be what made them special, for I'm certain you would be ready to hold forth eloquently about whatever we saw. What a fantastical notion! But it has put a smile on my face nonetheless.

I hope you are well and happy. I send my best wishes to you and our two families, upstairs and down.

Sincerely,

E. Hughes

Mr. Carson was red from his collar to the roots of his hair when he finished reading the letter, but he could not prevent a bemused smile from crossing his face. Mrs. Hughes had certainly not thought him too forward. She seemed to have taken his letter as rather a challenge! To think of the two of them on an outing, alone, was not unpleasant, but as she had said, it was quite an outlandish notion. Mr. Carson had never seen more effective flirting by letter; he was thoroughly disconcerted. He wasn't sure what to think of it. But if he were honest with himself, he had been thinking of it since Thursday. She had flirted with him at the beach, too, in her teasing way, and somehow persuaded him to take her hand. But he could not place all of the credit or blame - he was not sure which it should be - for flirtation on her. Hadn't he flirted back, a bit later, though in his own clumsy and almost accidental way?

When they returned to dry land, he dropped her hand, but gently, not as though she had burned him, and picked up his shoes and socks. They walked barefoot together to a refreshment stand, where he bought them each an ice cream cone - vanilla for himself and chocolate for Mrs. Hughes. Then they wandered about on the sand, occasionally running across their staff and greeting them. The time was drawing near for them to leave to catch the train back to London.

"Do you think we should go wading a bit more to wash the sand from our feet before putting our shoes back on?" Mr. Carson wondered.

"There are some taps up in the changing area where we can wash the sand and salt water from our feet when we're ready to go," Mrs. Hughes told him.

This was a relief to Mr. Carson, who didn't wish to take any sand back to Grantham House with him, but he still wanted to go back to the sea, to wade in the water one more time before they left. He had enjoyed it more than he expected - the cool water was very refreshing. "Will you come with me and get your feet wet one last time?" he asked.

"Certainly," she replied with a bright smile. When they reached the water's edge, they laid down their shoes. Mr. Carson hoped Mrs. Hughes didn't notice how his eyes lingered for a moment on her shoes and stockings on the sand, but he couldn't be sure. She grasped her skirt, this time getting a better grip on it than she had before.

Mr. Carson now held out his hand to her. "So we'll both feel steady," he explained, smiling. She took his hand immediately, though her surprise was written plainly across her face.

They went a little farther out than they had the first time, and Mrs. Hughes pointed out schools of tiny fish swimming near them.

"I wonder what those fish make of us wandering through their territory," Mr. Carson mused.

"Oh!" Mrs. Hughes exclaimed. "Something just nipped my ankle!"

Mr. Carson laughed, but offered, "would you like to go back now, Mrs. Hughes?"

"Yes, I think so," she responded. "Oh! Another nibble! It seems those little fish do not appreciate our invading their territory."

"I suppose that answers my question," Mr. Carson observed.

"I wonder why the little creatures chose only me as their only victim," Mrs. Hughes wondered as they made their way back to the shore. "One of them might have given you a little bite as well, but none did."

"Perhaps your ankles are just more delicious than mine," he replied. Mr. Carson's face immediately turned a deep shade of red when he realized what he had just said. "That is, I intended no disrespect... was only jesting... didn't mean…" He could not think of anything to say that could possibly erase his wildly inappropriate remark.

Mrs. Hughes was looking a little pink herself, but she had mercy on him. "My goodness, Mr. Carson, that sounded a bit risqué," she remarked, with a reassuring smile. "But I take no offense."

Mr. Carson was relieved that she had not reacted badly, though he was still mightily embarrassed. Delicious ankles? he berated himself. What on earth were you thinking, man? Another voice whispered to him that he was, indeed, thinking of her ankles. He had never seen much of her ankles, and most certainly never bare. It was probably seeing her stockings on the sand that had put the thought in his mind. But why would he even be thinking of stockings and ankles in reference to Mrs. Hughes? He was near her all the time and had never made such a scandalous remark, much less had any thought of her bare ankles. They were lovely ankles, he had to admit, but he had no business thinking about them.

Mr. Carson was flustered all over again at the memory, but this time he at least had the comfort of knowing himself to be alone in a locked room. He wondered how he should answer her letter. Should he flirt back? He wasn't sure he would know how to go about it, at least with Mrs. Hughes. She was different than other women somehow, although he couldn't put his finger on just how she was different. If he tossed a few provocative remarks into his letter, he could hardly offend her, considering the manner in which she'd written him, but he could only be himself with her. He knew he didn't always please her, or even meet with her approval, but he could not be false with her. She would know it in an instant, even in a letter, and that would offend her more than all the off-color comments in the world. He took out pen and paper and sat down at his desk to compose a reply.

To be continued...

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