Mrs. Hughes locked the cottage door and turned back in the direction of Downton Abbey. Mr. Carson was waiting for her on the tiny front lawn, and when he heard her step on the flagstones, he turned and held out his hand to her. She took it, and they made their way to the place that would not much longer be called home.
"I'll tell his lordship when we get back to the house, Elsie. Then we can be married as soon as possible."
Mrs. Hughes slowed her pace. "I like the sound of the second part of that, Charles, but would you mind terribly waiting until tomorrow before speaking to his lordship?"
"Of course I'll wait, if you wish. But why?"
"I'd like to keep it our secret for the rest of the day," she explained. "I'd like to have you to myself tonight over sherry, and then tomorrow we'll tell the world. Or as much of the world as wants to know."
Mr. Carson chuckled. "I like that idea. Just our secret for the rest of the day."
"There is one possible hitch to my plan."
"What's that?" he asked.
"Mrs. Patmore."
"Hmmm."
"I think we both know that she purposefully sent us off to the cottage alone," Mrs. Hughes chuckled.
"I suspected, but I had no complaints about the arrangement."
"She will probably guess, Charles."
"Do you think she will keep it to herself?"
"I do, but I feel very little faith in her ability or desire to leave us alone about it."
"Well, Elsie, I suppose we shall have to do our best to make it to that evening sherry with our nerves intact."
Mrs. Hughes laughed. "I'd say we haven't much other choice."
The house came into view and they let their hands slide apart.
#####
Mrs. Bute made her way purposefully to the kitchen and stood in the doorway. The kitchen maids ignored her, but Mrs. Patmore took notice and approached.
"What is it?" she asked the housekeeper quietly.
"They've returned, Mrs. Patmore. I saw them come in just a minute ago."
"And? Don't keep me in suspense!"
"I could see it. I could tell. He finally asked the bloody question," Mrs. Bute whispered, smiling. "Now, I'd best get on. I'm due back in Mrs. Hughes's sitting room any second now." She dashed down the corridor.
"About bloody time," Mrs. Patmore muttered.
#####
Mr. Carson entered Mrs. Hughes's sitting room and set the sherry and glasses on the table. She was still seated at her desk, but turned when she heard him come in.
"They've all gone up?" she asked hopefully.
Mr. Carson nodded and closed the door. "Alone at last." He poured two glasses of sherry and handed one to Mrs. Hughes before sitting down. She moved her desk chair across the room so she could sit close to him.
"Did Mrs. Patmore give you any trouble today, Charles?" Mrs. Hughes asked.
"Not really. I caught her watching me a few times, but she didn't say a word to me about it. And you?"
"About the same, although I noticed her deep in conversation with Mrs. Bute several times. You never told me those two were thick as thieves, Charles."
"I didn't notice that they were," he chuckled. "I was occupied with going very slowly mad over a beautiful woman I'd been forced to send away to Yorkshire."
Mrs. Hughes blushed and looked into her glass. "You're exaggerating again, Charles."
"About what?" Mr. Carson was confused.
She raised clear eyes to his. "I'm not beautiful," she told him plainly.
"What?" he replied. "How can you say that?"
"Because it's true, Charles," she asserted. "A tidy figure and perhaps a nice smile, but beautiful? No."
"A tidy figure and a nice smile?" Mr. Carson questioned her. "Is that really all you see when you look in the mirror."
"No, it's not, actually," she answered emphatically. "I also see gray hair and wrinkles that weren't there ten or twenty years ago. If I ever was beautiful, which I doubt, I certainly am not any longer."
Mr. Carson scoffed. "You were always beautiful. I didn't need to be in love with you to see that. I just had to have eyes."
Mrs. Hughes smiled. "Whatever you say, Charles."
Mr. Carson looked into her face for a moment before he stood up, took the glass from her hand, and set it down on the table. He held out his hand to her. She didn't know what he was doing, but she let him pull her from her chair. He led her to look in the mirror, standing behind her with a hand on her shoulder.
"You've told me what you see, Elsie," he said. "Now I'll tell you what I see. But where to start..." Mr. Carson pointed at her nose. "Ah, you've a lovely nose."
Mrs. Hughes frowned. "Are you making fun, Charles?"
"And look at that wonderful expression. You frown, and your eyes are full of suspicion. No, Elsie, I am not making fun. I do like your nose. But your eyes are even lovelier, both when you are happy and when you are not. Don't you see?" he asked.
Her face relaxed a bit. "Well… they are blue," she began uncertainly.
Mr. Carson chuckled. "Yes, they are blue, and they are outlined by very fine black eyelashes. I could talk all day about those eyelashes. And these…" He pointed to the outside corner of one of her eyes.
"What, those wrinkles?"
"Those aren't wrinkles," he told her in a very dignified tone. "They are crinkles."
Mrs. Hughes had to laugh. "I think perhaps you really are mad," she teased.
"Aha! See?" he exclaimed triumphantly. "Your eyes crinkle at the corners when you show your true smile. And you have it half right about your smile. You at least see it as an attractive feature, but it is certainly more than just 'nice.' Sometimes it's adorably cheeky, sometimes it's appealingly satisfied, and sometimes, best of all, it's radiantly happy. But it is always beautiful."
Mrs. Hughes blushed at his effusive praise, and couldn't help smiling.
"You've some crinkles on your chin, too, when you smile," Mr. Carson pointed out. "I love your crinkles, all of them. And that's not all. You've got marvelous ears and an exquisite neck, among many other splendid parts. But those ankles…"
"My ankles!" she exclaimed. "What about them?"
"I've been thinking about your ankles ever since that day by the sea," Mr. Carson admitted. "I can't say why, but once I saw how pretty they were they haunted my dreams."
Mrs. Hughes made a skeptical face in the mirror.
"Well, perhaps 'haunted' is a slight exaggeration," he admitted. "But I was surprised how frequently they appeared in my dreams and daydreams."
She sighed in resignation, rolling her eyes, though she still smiled. "Very well, I have a pretty face and pretty ankles and pretty… crinkles. Can we sit down, please?"
Mr. Carson smiled. "Certainly," he agreed. "But while I have you here…" He turned Mrs. Hughes to face him and bent to kiss her. She melted into his embrace at once and they kissed for quite a while, breaking every so often for breath.
"I love you, Elsie," he told her, pulling her to him and resting his chin on the top of her head.
"I love you, Charles," she murmured into his shirt.
"Why don't we finish our drinks, love?"
"Yes, I think we should."
When they were seated again, they talked of wedding plans and what would now be their cottage and telling Lord Grantham and how the family might react. Mrs. Hughes was happy that she could speak so openly of her love after many years of silence. Mr. Carson was amazed that he felt no fear, in spite of the fact that he was about to make several significant changes to his life in a fairly short time. It could only be because of her. He knew there was nothing they could not take on together, and he trusted her completely with his patched-up heart, now whole and healthy. She would never betray or abandon him, of that he was sure. When their glasses were empty they parted, she up the stairs to her room, and he to his pantry to put away the glasses and lock up for the night.
#####
Mrs. Hughes was not yet asleep when she heard something slide under her door. This time she got up at once and hurried to open her door, looking out into the darkened corridor. Mr. Carson was tiptoeing toward the stairs.
"Charles!" she whispered. He turned to her. "Where are your shoes?"
He came back toward her, shushing her with a finger held to his lips. "They're at the bottom of the stairs. It's quieter this way."
She smiled. "Why have you written me a letter? There's nothing you need apologize for."
Mr. Carson smiled back. "Just read it. You'll see." He turned to go, but Mrs. Hughes grasped his hand.
"One more kiss, my darling," she pleaded.
He looked around them and, once he had ascertained that no one was stirring, he pulled her to him and kissed her in one fluid motion. It was impossible not to notice how it felt to hold her through only the fabric of her long nightdress, but it was still possible for him to pull away. Mr. Carson did so, regretfully but purposefully. "Good night," he whispered and disappeared down the stairs.
As he put his shoes back on, Mr. Carson noticed that his skin prickled still, as it had when she had first surprised him in the corridor. She had looked something like an angel in that voluminous white nightgown, with her hair plaited and hanging over her shoulder. She felt nothing like an angel, however, all soft, womanly curves, and those lips that warmed his mouth while setting the rest of him on fire. Mr. Carson wondered how long it would be before he could leave his post, or if he might be married before he handed the reins over to another man. He wasn't sure how busy Lord Grantham would be the next day, but it was imperative that he find a way to speak to him as soon as possible.
#####
Mrs. Hughes turned on her lamp and settled into bed to read Mr. Carson's letter. She had not been surprised to find him in the corridor since he had twice before slid an envelope under her bedroom door, but it was unexpected to see him there without his shoes on. He had thought it very important to put the three different letters into her possession as early as possible, to the point that he risked entering the forbidden women's quarters, but he was sensible enough to take precautions against making noise that could wake someone up. Still, Mrs. Hughes had to chuckle. A year or even six months ago she would never have expected to be treated to such a sight. She opened the envelope and read.
My darling Elsie,
How is it that I have written you hundreds of letters over the course of our acquaintance, but not a single one of them has been a love letter? Some of the letters I wrote you this summer were almost love letters, but I was not ready to call them that. They were letters of affection, I think, rather than merely friendship, but I believe it's time for you to receive a proper love letter from me. I only hope you'll forgive the rather unconventional mode of delivery.
I love you. I don't think I will ever tire of telling you so. I would spend every day doing nothing but saying, "I love you," but if I did that I would only be telling you and never showing you. I love you, but I also want to kiss you, to hold your hand, to make tea for you, to care for you when you are ill, to read to you as we sit in front of the fire, and a thousand other things. Once we are married, I plan to do just that, and anything else you would like. Until then, I will do as much as I can. It may not be much, but I hope you will know that you are cherished and loved, and that you are wonderful.
I wonder what you will think when I tell you that it was a letter that brought me to this place, that brought me to you. Do you remember the note you gave me to read when I returned to London after bringing Isis to Downton? You asked me not to read it until I reached London, and I meant my promise when I made it, but before I was far from home, I had talked myself into opening it anyway. That letter, probably the shortest you've ever written to me, impelled me at last to have done with my foolish denial and let myself love you. I was frightened when I struggled to forswear you, but at some point after I resigned that battle, I stopped being afraid. You cannot imagine, dear one, how much I feared you, or so I thought. What I truly feared was myself, and what might happen if I liberated my heart. I read your note in what I would then have called a moment of weakness and I was overwhelmed. I was no match for love, but I knew I was safe in your hands. If you had not loved me, too, I know you would have broken my heart as gently as you could, and you still would have stood my friend. But I have been blessed beyond what I deserve, in discovering that you love me just as I love you.
I have loved before, but never a woman so strong and true as you. There could be no other so strong and true, nor one so beautiful, for there is only one of you in this world. How lucky for me that I am the man you have chosen to be your husband.
Sleep well, my love, and dream of me. I will see you in the morning. We will meet in an ordinary place to fulfill mundane duties, but we will know that what we have found in each other's hearts is nothing short of extraordinary.
Ever yours,
Charles
To be continued...
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