A/N: The next few chapters will have trigger warnings attached.

TRIGGER WARNING: sexual abuse of an adult.

Five:
Shifting Sands

May 1891

Elsie hated herself. She hated herself for not fighting back; she hated herself for taking Mrs. Potter's abuse. She hated herself for living; she didn't feel like she had the right, nor the privilege, to die. So, instead, she hated herself because it was easier.

No one else knew of her shame, of the evenings spent in Mrs. Potter's company as Mr. Carson tucked Fiona in and read to her from books that Elsie supplied from the library or the mail order catalogues. No one knew that Mrs. Potter was a cruel and sadistic mistress to her 'pet'; Elsie felt dirty, sick, every night when she crept away to the bath, hoping to wash away the bruises, the scent of another woman.

She could not even find the strength to cry. What good would it do? She had made her bed – with Mrs. Potter under the bloody coverlet – and now she must live with the consequences. The woman still had yet to give Elsie back her photograph, despite telling her over and over again that she would.

So she kept her on a string like a toy, drawing her back over and over again.

Elsie gained no enjoyment from it; her body reacted to Mrs. Potter's intimate touches, but her mind cowered in shame, submitting without thought or reason behind the action. God, if only she had the courage to –

Fiona was the only thing that kept her sane. The girl loved her unreservedly and as sweetly as she could, and she did not judge Elsie like the adults would. It didn't matter that she was being fucked – and there was no other word, so hard, so harsh, so cruel… aside from rape, and god knows it practically was – by the housekeeper; she was perfect and the best of friends in Fiona's eyes.

If Mr. Carson knew… he would take the child away. And then Elsie would be left with nothing but her sorrows and a wish to drown herself in the bath.

She didn't want to think of Mr. Carson – not now, when she was scrubbing away the faint scent of Mrs. Potter's perfume from her thighs. He was too good, too perfect, for her: he would never allow himself to be tainted by such scandal as Elsie had wrought upon herself. She was a fool, a bloody fool…

Mrs. Potter was the jealous type, and she punished Elsie severely when she knew that Elsie had interacted with Mr. Carson. She did not like to share her toys, and her 'pet' was not allowed to have other friends. He did not stop trying to engage Elsie in gentle discourse, however, and she found herself eager for the stolen moments. Charles was a good man, a kind man, and the staggered difference between his rugged gentleness and Mrs. Potter's harsh cruelty made Elsie hate herself even more.

When Mrs. Potter was between her legs, Elsie closed herself off, retreating to a place where she could pretend she was good enough, worthy enough, to win Charles Carson's love. The housekeeper's angry touch, her cruel tongue, all gave way to a delicate fantasy world where Elsie and Charles made love instead of the travesty, the blackmail, the… the pain… that Elsie endured in reality.

And she hated herself even more because he would never love her; not after what she'd done. She had brought this upon herself. It was all her own bloody fault.

She bit her lip so hard she drew blood.

Layers of bruises covered her thighs, her sex, her belly… and she closed her eyes against the torrent of tears and pain as she tried, yet again, to wash away the filth.

Miss Hughes, I'm terribly afraid I've fallen in love with you…

Charles knew the moment he was lost entirely; he would never forget it as long as he lived. Fiona had run across the servants' hall, her doll snugly in her arms, to tell Miss Hughes about the new dress that she was going to get for her birthday. She had been all smiles and happiness, interrupting Miss Hughes as she tatted lace for Her Ladyship's new gown. And in the span of little more than a heartbeat, Miss Hughes had set aside her project and had scooped Fiona onto her lap, smiling indulgently as a mother would do, listening to Charles's little girl prattle on and on.

He longed with all of his heart to see her smile again. She did not do it often, her face normally carrying a sad, pensive countenance that pained him physically. He wanted her to be happy, to smile and laugh and – and – and what if she did? She would not ever care for him the same way he cared for her. His desires were improper, his wants ungentlemanly. She would be horrified if he ever told her how he wanted to know if she tasted as delicious as Beryl's apple tart. He wanted to know if she would bite her lip to stay silent (he rather thought she would, and it made him instantly hard when she did it in the servants' hall when she concentrated) when he would thrust into her, taking pleasure in the union of their flesh.

She would loathe him if she ever knew.

Miss Hughes did not want him; she went out of her way to not be alone with him. He wanted her with fierce desperation, with a love that came out of nowhere and shocked him with its intensity. He could not deny himself, not now. Not when he had already warred with the guilt and won, standing victor over his broken heart.

He loved her, and he could never ever tell her.

She would hate him.

No, better to love Miss Hughes from afar than to risk having his heart shattered again.

If he did not try, he could not be hurt.

Miss Hughes burst into the room Beryl shared with Genevieve (another kitchen maid), and pushed Fiona inside. "Miss Patmore," she barked, interrupting the women's change into their nightwear, "keep Fiona here and whatever you do, don't allow Mrs. Potter near her."

Beryl paused for a long second before letting her nightdress drop over her shoulders, her waist, her knickers. She turned and got a look of the head housemaid and gasped aloud. "Miss Hughes, what ha-"

"Just promise me," Miss Hughes demanded, "that you will keep Fiona safe, no matter what."

The Scotswoman's eye was bruised – blackened – and swollen closed. Bloody scratches ran down the side of her face and the part of her neck that was exposed by her torn collar. Her hair was half down, pins sticking out akimbo where they could no longer hold back and tame the curls, as if someone had yanked it hard, repeatedly, and Beryl saw blood congealing in the woman's hair. She had been attacked – with the force of a beast – make no mistake.

"Come here, Fiona, love," Beryl said, her voice shaking. "Auntie Beryl's got you now, love." She invited Charlie's little girl into her arms and held her, letting her cry. "I love you, darling. I'm not going to let anything happen to you."

When she looked up again, Miss Hughes was gone.

END PART FIVE