Two:
A Fleeting Smile

By the time the servants settled in for the evening meal, Elsie was exhausted – far more so than she would have been normally. Despite having almost frozen from exposure, she had been expected to do just as much work, if not more, than the other maids had been. She knew it had to do mainly with her position (head housemaid didn't exactly imply resting on one's laurels), but god, how she'd longed to curl up in a bed and get warm, rather than shivering in the far reaches of the west wing, where none of the beds were made up and all of the treasures of the house were dusty and grimy from neglect. Mrs. Potter allowed none of the maids to rest until things were spotless, so Elsie dove in head-first with a bottle of vinegar to cut the grime and a bucket of sliced lemons to polish a worn bedstead with. She had cleaned the worst room in under an hour, and the housekeeper barely acknowledged it – just directed her to another room to work on.

Her hands were roughened now, where the acid from the vinegar and the lemons had already eaten away the softness of her skin, and her fingers were bent and swollen from the sheer amount of work she had put in. Not to mention that she was still chilled to the bone, as Mrs. Potter had denied the maids the 'luxury' of a fire in the grate. Elsie felt god-awful, but every time Mrs. Potter glanced at her with that derisive glare of hers, she felt an answering fire in her belly that made her defiant. The old bat wouldn't get the better of Elsie Hughes – no, she would not.

A bowl of stew and a hunk of bread were set down in front of her, as well as an empty cup for tea. Elsie found herself waiting patiently for the butler – Mr. Jenkyns – to say the prayer, then she tore into her food with as much grace as she could be bothered to muster.

Halfway through the meal, the empty chair next to hers was filled by a very tall, sturdy man. "Charles, you are late," Mr. Jenkyns scolded.

"I had to assist Nanny Foster on His Lordship's orders," Charles rumbled in a voice that did not seem unkind. It pierced Elsie's shell, and she glanced over at him, seeing the man who had been her savior earlier in the day really for the first time. "Lady Mary has the colic, you see, and she settles a bit for me; Fiona had the colic when she was quite small."

"It's an honorable thing, what Charles does," Lady Cora's maid – Rose – defended loudly. "Otherwise, we'd hear no end of all the screaming from the nursery."

"Enough of your cheek," Mrs. Potter scolded. She turned to look at Elsie and said, "Miss Hughes, you might care to try breathing between bites. We eat in a civilized manner in Yorkshire."

Mr. Jenkyns frowned. "Sophie, let the woman be," he muttered. "She came to us in the freezing rain and you've worked her like a dog today. It will be a wonder if Miss Hughes does not take ill."

Elsie knew better than to speak out of turn, so she merely slowed her bites, carefully chewing each one before moving on to the next. She knew that the English considered her people, still, to be wild heathens from the North, despite the fact that they had been domesticated long hence to the English yolk. It's not that it didn't chafe; just… they were used to the harness now.

She felt, rather than saw, her neighbor's curiosity as he looked her over. Elsie didn't know what he expected to find – she was entirely too short, too rounded, and she had grey hairs beginning to come in. But there was no reason to expect him to care about a farmer's widow from Argyll.

She'd left behind her home, her late husband's family, and a string of small graves marking the babes that never drew breath. She could not bear to be the focus of their disappointment anymore; nay, best that she make a new life for herself without distraction. So she had applied to Downton. Once upon a very long time ago, when she had been a girl, she had been a housemaid in one of the Duke of Argyll's grand houses, and she had learned everything she would need to know. But then, she had been swept off her feet by the sweet farmer who brought the lambs and fresh mutton for the table and the wool for the Duke's tartans. They had had such a life together; backbreaking work, hard work, but they loved one another quite so, and it never seemed like such great hardship.

Nine babes; six were stillborn, five of them delivered too early to be safe. Three had survived into infancy, only to be carried off by disease. The last had been her undoing, really – dear tiny Sarah, who had been nearly a year old when she had died from a raging fever and seizures. Joe had been heartbroken and refused to touch Elsie again, for fear it would continue happening, that they were being punished for some slight against God himself. And just a few weeks later, she had gone to the barn to help deliver a lamb and had found him swinging from the rafters.

Was it any wonder she had sold the farm and left everything behind?

Suddenly choked by her food, Elsie pushed her bowl roughly away, hearing it clink against her water glass. The other diners looked up with alarm. She didn't care.

"Miss Hughes, perhaps it would be best if you retired for the evening," Mrs. Potter said in an icy tone. "It will give you time to rethink upon your attitude and whether or not you would like to continue your employment here at Downton."

"Thank you, Mrs. Potter," Elsie said quietly, knowing that the war was not lost yet – even if she was conceding a battle due to fatigue and emotional inadequacy. "I will do that." And then she retreated from the table, taking the stairs two at a time until she had reached the women's corridor. She crept into the room she would be sharing with – well, she didn't know yet – and hurried to get herself ready for bed.

She was almost tucked up for the night when the door opened and the very slight figure of the little girl from downstairs came in. "I'm sorry, Miss Hughes," Fiona said very politely, "for disturbing you while you're going to sleep. I'll be very quiet and get ready for bed. I have to get up early to wake everyone up, you know. Mrs. Potter says it's my job now."

Elsie blinked; surely, they didn't mean she was to share a room with a six year old! Why wasn't the girl still in rooms with her father? Was she meant to be a nursery attendant, too, on top of all of her other duties? "Fiona – don't think I don't want you here, but what on earth are you doing in here?"

The little girl looked at her and said, "This is my room, too. Mrs. Potter says it's not 'popriate for me to live in the men's quarters with daddy no more."

"Any more," Elsie corrected gently.

"I wanted to be in Beryl's room, but she already shares," Fiona said with a pout, "so they put me in here with Miss Grey. But then Miss Grey went away and now you've come."

Elsie hesitated for a long moment, then said, "Well, put your nightclothes on, dear, and then I'll tell you a story before bed."

Fiona bounced around the room, changing into her nightdress and telling Elsie all about her day; Elsie didn't have the heart to tell her to be quiet. She just watched the small girl being herself and felt a deep, sad longing for everything she had lost and would never have again.

"Daddy will be here soon to tuck me in," Fiona announced cheerfully. "He always does, Miss Hughes."

Elsie surprised herself by saying, "If we are to be roommates, love, you may call me Elsie."

Seeing Fiona smile was enough to melt Elsie's heart. "Oh, we'll be good friends, Miss Elsie," she announced excitedly, hurrying over and jumping onto the twin bed with Elsie. "You said you would tell me a story? Will you? Daddy doesn't tell stories anymore, and Granny isn't here to tell them either –"

"I shall," Elsie agreed gently, putting her arm around the girl's shoulders. "Once upon a time, there was a young girl who loved to go fishing in the sea…"

Charles crept up the stairs quietly; he knew that if he overstayed his few minutes' welcome in the women's corridor that Mrs. Potter would forbid him to see Fiona in the evenings. So it was best if he remained as quiet as possible.

He knocked gently, twice, on the door of the room his daughter shared. He was unsurprised to hear the new head housemaid's melodic Scottish voice calling back, "Come in."

He was, however, astounded, to see his daughter curled up in bed with Miss Hughes, sound asleep. "Miss Hughes, what is –"

"I told her a story and she fell asleep," Miss Hughes said in a matter of fact tone. "I don't have the strength to move her to her own bed, and she said you would come to tuck her in, so I didn't bother."

Charles studied her for a moment, knowing just how inappropriate it was that he was seeing her in her nightdress, no matter she was covered also by a dressing gown. Dear god, what would his mother have said? What would anyone say? Tongues would be wagging and she would likely be ruined –

"Are you going to help me or are you just going to stand there and look like you're about to keel over?" she demanded. "She is your child, not mine."

The words cut him straight through to the soul. Oh, truth, how he was failing Fiona –

He scooped his precious daughter up and placed her into her bed. He tucked her in and pressed a kiss to her forehead as he whispered, "I love you, my girl."

She had risen from her bed and was watching him. He could not bear the thought of her judgement, not now – not today. Any day but the anniversary of Alice's death. Not when the grief was so raw and painful, when every moment felt like an eternity.

He straightened up – and he ran.

Charles Carson ran like all the hounds of Hell were set loose upon on his heels.

Because he had seen in her eyes, in Miss Elsie Hughes's beautiful blue eyes, all the promises of the world, sparkling and new, just waiting for him to lead her on a path of discovery –

And he could not.

He would not dishonor Alice's memory.

He would not, could not, love another.

But he did hide a fleeting smile at the thought that she was watching over his Fiona.

END PART TWO