Four:
Tattered

She knew that someone had gone through her things. It was hard to miss – her underclothes and few special things had been bunched up and left to wrinkle in the drawers instead of being neatly folded like Elsie had left them. The Bible was still there, though, and that was what was important. She immediately pulled the book out and held it close to her chest, inhaling deeply and closing her eyes. If she pretended just for a few moments that she was holding Joe again, it made everything so much more bearable…

A single tear coursed down her cheek and Elsie opened the Bible, expecting to take out the single photograph that was between its pages. Joe had been so pleased, so proud, to have the photo taken: it showcased his growing family, and to that end, so had she been proud. It was of Joe, Elsie, and her sister, Becky – poor lass 'a little touched' – and wee Sarah, who they had thought would be the first to survive infancy. A few days later, influenza had reigned, taking the tiny babe – and almost Becky and Elsie with her. Elsie hadn't known till days after it happened, till she was much stronger, that Joe had already buried their daughter alone.

The photograph was nowhere to be found. She flipped through every page, and let out an undignified noise of fury at the thought that someone would steal something so important to no one but her! A sob tore at her throat when she realized that the only person holding her a grudge so far was the bloody infuriating housekeeper – surely Fiona would not be such a wicked little girl as to take something like that.

She let her anger get the better of her; it was stupid, it was selfish, it was dangerous. But the photograph was all she had left of her family, and she would fight to the death to keep it. Mrs. Potter hadn't the right to go through her things, let alone take something so bloody important –

She stormed into the housekeeper's sitting room without knocking and slammed the door shut behind her. "Give it back," Elsie ordered in a low, dangerous tone.

Mrs. Potter looked up with false innocence painted all over her features. "Why, Miss Hughes, I have no idea what you're talking about –"

"I think you do," Elsie ground out furiously. "Give it back to me now. You have no right to go through my things – and don't think I don't know your disgusting perfume that smells like cat piss."

"That perfume was a gift from Her Ladyship," Mrs. Potter said, her voice taking on a dangerous edge. "And you would be well-put not to accuse your betters of things you know not of – haven't you asked the girl yet why she took whatever you're looking for?"

"Fiona wouldn't take it – it has no meaning to her," Elsie hissed.

"Mrs. Burns," Mrs. Potter hissed, her voice lowering to a growl, "you would do quite well to remember that you are still a guest in this house until your employment is secured. Don't tempt me to turn you back into the cold."

Elsie bit her cheek, but she could not hold her anger in check. "Is that how you run a great house, then? By manipulating and frightening everyone until they bend to your will?" The words were sharp, cutting, and she didn't see the housekeeper react until it was too late to stop the blow from landing on her cheek. The pain was sharp, biting, and Elsie blinked back tears.

"If you wish your employment to continue, you will follow the rules I am about to lay down for you," Mrs. Potter said, drawing herself sternly upright. "There will be no followers. You will do exactly as you are told – by me – and nothing more, nothing less. You will stop making stupid cow eyes at Charles Carson. And his daughter is to become a scullery maid when she turns seven, so don't you dare think you can mother her." She leaned in and whispered so only Elsie could hear, "The upstairs maids take care of one another, Mrs. Burns. You would do well to remember that."

Elsie stood there, in shock, hoping that her ears were deceiving her; that the woman was lying. But she knew from her youthful experience in the big house that it would be the truth. The upstairs maids then had been paired off in rooms and expected to handle themselves in matters of sexual satisfaction, to keep the men away.

She had never wanted or needed such a release – she had left as soon as Joe proposed to her, and not long later, she was a bride at seventeen.

"Don't look so shocked, my dear," Mrs. Potter said. "I'd like to think you'd be my special… pet." She was too close, overwhelming Elsie with the stink of her perfume, of misbegotten luxury, of corruption and pain inflicted on others. "If you want your photograph back…"

The evil git was twisting the knife, and Elsie made her choice.

Eyes downcast, swallowing her pride – after all, she needed this employment desperately -, she whispered, "Yes, ma'am."

Charles wondered how he could gently broach the subject of his visiting Fiona in the evenings without offending Miss Hughes. She had been very quiet and withdrawn at tea, going so far as to lean her chair away from him; he was confused by the action, and he had caught more than one hesitant glance in Mrs. Potter's direction from Miss Hughes, followed by a scowl from the housekeeper.

Whatever was going on, he wasn't certain he wanted to be a part of it. Mrs. Potter made his skin scrawl – there was something just… not quite right about her. His mother had warned him more than once that 'the Potter woman' had a cruel streak that needed to be nipped in the bud, but Mr. Jenkyns usually stepped in before disciplinary action was required.

No matter what the cause, the phrase 'disciplinary action' gave him momentary pause; the implication was dire.

He managed to catch Miss Hughes in the servant's hall alone around a quarter of four. "Hello," Charles said, his voice rising slightly in his excitement. "I was hoping to speak to you today, Miss Hughes – I realize that you might have been offended last night by my visit and…"

"I am not offended," she said softly, not meeting his eyes. Instead, she studiously continued her needlework – she was in the middle of what looked to be a magnificent piece of very detailed lacework, delicate and precise, her fingers working the tatting quickly and efficiently amongst the pins and needles. "But… maybe I should arrange to be absent at Fiona's bedtime, so you may spend time with her unencumbered by the idea of being seen by others."

He blinked and said, "Yes, I suppose you're correct, but –"

"Mr. Carson," she spoke, "I will care for her when you cannot, but you must spend time with her. And it is not my place to be there when you are doing so." Finally she looked up at him, her eyes large, blue, swimming with tears. "You are a good father. And you need be for her sake because no one else will watch out for Fiona like you."

Before he could stop himself, the words left his lips. "You have done."

"She's a lovely girl," Miss Hughes said, glancing away. "Her mother is a very lucky woman."

"Her mother is dead," he said bluntly.

Her fingers flew again, so fast he could barely see how she could keep the threads untangled, and she murmured, "Which is why you should spend as much time with your daughter as possible, Mr. Carson. I would only be in the way."

"It's your room," he protested.

"Mr. Carson," she began, then stopped.

"Miss Hughes," he prompted gently.

She hesitated, looking up at him again, then shook her head and glanced back down. "It's nothing," she said very quietly, worrying her lower lip between her teeth. "I'll stay away until I know you've gone to the men's corridor."

He knew it was inappropriate, he knew it would backfire on him, but he had to touch her – he needed to feel her skin against his, even if it was only fleeting. He reached out and touched her hand; she stilled, her gaze flying up to meet his with alarm, if not outright panic. "Miss Hughes, I've never known Fiona to take so quickly to anyone but Beryl Patmore," Charles said. "Thank you for being there for my daughter and treating her with kindness." He swallowed hard. "And for not accusing me of unspeakable things."

A tiny smile crept at the corner of her mouth. "I wouldn't accuse you of unspeakable things unless they were true, Mr. Carson, and you seem to be far too polite for that," she joked wryly. "Now away with you before Mrs. Potter finds out you've been in here."

Mrs. Potter could bloody go hang – he wanted to be in the room with Miss Hughes. He wanted to watch her working, to study the curve of her neck, the way her fingers moved, the way her cheeks flushed when someone came in and disturbed her.

He found her elegant, beautiful, full of life and promise. But he could never, would never, admit it aloud. God forbid he ever admit it to himself even.

"You're right," he agreed. "Heaven forbid Mrs. Potter get her knickers in a twist."

She bit back a near-hysterical laugh, and he retreated. He paused outside the doorway in the corridor, then turned to look back at her. Charles felt his heart clench in dismay and worry when he watched her beautiful face crumple for a moment, showing complete despair, before she managed to control herself.

He never wanted to be the reason she would cry.

Fiona didn't know why Miss Elsie had left so suddenly; daddy was going to come see her and they would talk about what they did all day today. Miss Elsie had been so very nice and had helped her dress her wax doll in the new nightdress Beryl had sewn for her, but then she'd disappeared.

Fiona hoped she would come back. She liked Miss Elsie very much; she was kind and sweet and she reminded her of granny a little. She missed granny a lot. Granny had told stories and played games with her, and Miss Elsie did that, too.

She wondered if that was what it was like to have a mummy of her own. She didn't know, not really, because she didn't have one and she didn't have any aunts or uncles, either.

Just daddy and Beryl and Miss Elsie.

Mrs. Potter tried to be nice, sometimes, but she scared Fiona. She'd been struck repeatedly by the woman and she'd… The little girl clung tighter to her doll and tried not to think about the bad things and the monster under her bed.

The door opened and daddy walked in. "Hello, pet," he said with a smile. "Why the long face, darling? Didn't Beryl make your dolly a new dress?"

"Yes, but Miss Elsie left," Fiona said with a little pout. "And you won't tell me a story."

"I don't really know any," daddy admitted. "Why don't you tell me a story, and then I'll know one?"

Fiona hesitated, then said, "Okay, daddy." She patted the bed, indicating where he should sit. "Once upon a time, there was a shoemaker –"

She told the story of the shoemaker and the elves, like granny had told her, and she snuggled up against her daddy, feeling safe and sleepy and warm. Daddy would keep the monster away; and if he didn't, Miss Elsie would.

END PART FOUR