Nine:
All Things New

June 1891

"Auntie Elsie, I'm seven today," Fiona proclaimed in a very grave tone.

"Yes, you are," Elsie agreed as she plaited Fiona's hair. It was still black as night outside, and the only light they had was the flickering candle. "Seven is a very good age." She refrained from telling the girl that it was her birthday, as well, and that thirty was not such a very good age. "Why don't I do something special with your hair today because it's your birthday?"

Fiona gasped. "Will you, Auntie Elsie?"

"I will," Elsie murmured. "You must promise to be very careful and not lose the comb I'm going to use to put your hair up with. It was my mam's, and it's very important to me."

"I won't lose it, I promise," Fiona said, her small voice squeaking in excitement at the idea of having her hair up like a young lady.

Elsie retrieved the brown rubber hair comb from its hiding place, then began to wind Fiona's plait into a tight chignon at the back of her head. She secured it with the comb and pulled back. "All finished, love," she said with a small smile. "You look lovely."

"Daddy had a new dress made for me," Fiona announced. "It's beautiful, Auntie Elsie – it's pink with blue ribbons and a bow. I'm going to wear it to dinner tonight."

"I'm sure you'll look very beautiful," Elsie assured her softly.

"Are you coming down for dinner tonight?"

Elsie shook her head. "The doctor doesn't want me up yet," she said softly. "I hurt my head very badly, love."

Fiona frowned. "Will you help me put my new dress on, though?"

"Of course I will, darling girl," Elsie assured her gently. "And I wish I could come down with you."

"I better go wake them up or Mrs. Oren will be cross," Fiona said, bouncing out the door.

Elsie climbed back into bed and closed her eyes, wondering if something earth-shattering was supposed to happen once you became thirty. She didn't feel any wiser or any smarter, so as a practical woman, she supposed it only meant that you were another year closer to dying.

"Mrs. Hughes, I am Dr. Clarkson – I'll be taking over for Dr. Mitchell, since he has retired to Brighton for his health," the man said as he held up his hands in surrender. Elsie had seen the unfamiliar man entering her room, even though she knew to expect the doctor, and had backed herself into the corner, cowering. "Dr. Mitchell has told me what has happened to you, and I am sorry –"

She was shaking, seized with a primal fear she could not dispel, could not reason with. She opened her mouth and words tumbled out, but she had no control over them.

He responded in kind, in Gaelic, soothing her gently with promises and pretty words that settled her panic down to mere anxiety that she could fight. She'd not expected him to be a fellow Scot, and she found herself glad of that small favor.

"Will you come sit down, Mrs. Hughes?" Dr. Clarkson invited gently. "I promise, I only want to examine you so I may give you a general day you may be released back to work."

She nodded stiffly and moved to sit on the bed. Knowing that the doctor was coming, she had worn a basic shirtwaist and a skirt that were easily enough dealt with. She hated – loathed – that she must undress, be prodded and examined, and then told like a child that she either was or was not healthy enough to work again. She still felt so much shame about the scars on her body, the bruises that had not healed in the week since Mrs. Potter had attacked her. She was so ashamed of the fact that she had dreamed, more than once, of Mr. Carson kissing his way up her thigh and tracing the scabs that spelled out 'Sophie' with his tongue and fingertips.

Dr. Clarkson examined her gently, without emotion, and then allowed her to get dressed again. "I think, Mrs. Hughes, that – barring the obvious bruising on your face – you should be allowed to go back to work as soon as you feel physically capable of climbing the stairs."

"Tomorrow?" she inquired hopefully.

"Tomorrow would be a good start," Dr. Clarkson said with a smile. "While I am here… do you have any questions for me, Mrs. Hughes?"

"I do," she confessed. This man was so very different from the last doctor, who had prodded her and touched her in a way that made her question whether or not he was towing the line of impropriety. She felt almost… comfortable… with Dr. Clarkson. "Before I came to Yorkshire, I was married. We lost six bairns to stillbirth and three as wee babes to measles and influenza. I just… everyone assumes it's the mother's fault when a babe dies –"

"There are a lot of factors to take into consideration," Dr. Clarkson said gently. "Sometimes, partners are not well-suited for making bairns, and that will lead to stillbirth and miscarriages. Sometimes, there are things wrong with the babe itself. And sometimes, it just happens."

Elsie swallowed hard, and murmured, "My sister was born… funny. Mongoloid. Two of my bairns… they were the same. They were stillborn."

He nodded, understanding suddenly. "Mrs. Hughes, I'm sorry – those things do tend to run in families… but it is not your fault. There is nothing you could have done."

Her lips pursed together into a thin line and she tried so very hard not to cry. "If I were to… try to have another child, would it be more of the same?" she whispered.

"Possibly. With a different partner, things might be completely different –"

"My husband is dead," Elsie said, her words blunt, stunted. "Things would have to be much different at all for me to have another child."

"I see," Dr. Clarkson said. "Mrs. Hughes, there is no reason to think that things would not be entirely different with another partner. Especially if said partner already had children so you would know that they were capable of fathering hardy stock."

She hesitated, then nodded. "I am just turned thirty," she said quietly. "I cannot imagine my time to conceive children to be much longer."

"Most women go through the change of life in their late forties," Dr. Clarkson said. "You have plenty of time to decide, yet, Mrs. Hughes."

She inhaled deeply, then blushed. "I am sorry I needed to be so forward with you, Dr. Clarkson –"

"No, please, I would like you to be comfortable with bringing any problems to my attention, Mrs. Hughes. I plan to be in Downton for a long time, so knowing your history is important now."

"So I may go back to work tomorrow?" Elsie said, her voice full of hope.

"Yes," the doctor confirmed.

Neither of them noticed the door closing, as it had been opened a crack.

Charles stood in the corridor, Elsie's luncheon on a tray in his hands. He hadn't realized she was in with the doctor when Mrs. Oren had charged him with carrying up her food. He hadn't realized until it was too late and he'd overheard her telling the doctor about losing her children, and then he'd remained rooted to the spot, his heart clenching, breaking, for her as she asked if she might ever be able to have another child.

It wasn't fair; he had Fiona, who he had not asked for, never dreamed of having, and she had nothing. She, who would be an amazing, beautiful mother, had been punished beyond her means by having her children taken away by a vengeful god.

He finally managed to take a step back, close the door, hold his breath to compose himself.

When the doctor emerged from the room, Charles made it appear as though he'd just come to a stop in the hallway. "Dr. Clarkson," he greeted.

"Mr. Carson – while I'm here, did you still wish for me to look at Fiona's back?" Dr. Clarkson inquired. Charles had noticed that she had begun to have a more pronounced curvature to her spine and she spent a lot of time with her shoulders hunched. That would never do.

"Yes, that would be one thing off my mind," Charles said with a sad smile. "She's in the kitchen with Miss Patmore, baking bread."

Once the doctor was gone, Charles knocked on the door and waited.

"Come in."

The words were quiet, muffled by the door. He pushed the door open and said, "I'm afraid luncheon is nothing special today – just bread, cheese, and pickle."

"I wasn't expecting anything special," Mrs. Hughes said softly. "Thank you, Mr. Carson."

"Fiona asked me earlier when your birthday was – she wants to plan a big cake with Beryl…"

"Today," she said. "My birthday is today. I wouldn't dream of spoiling her big day by sharing. I've got a gift for her, though – it isn't much, but if you'd give it to her later at dinner…" She reached into her chest of drawers and pulled out a box that looked like it had come from Leighton & Meyers in Thirsk. "They are handkerchiefs with her initials on them so she won't lose them and come looking for mine," she said with a small smile.

"Mrs. Hughes, that is… that is very thoughtful of you," he said softly. "Not the giving up celebrating your birthday, but the gift –"

She smiled wanly. "It's the least I can do, Mr. Carson. I'll be back to work tomorrow, and moving into the housekeeper's room over the next few days."

He paused in setting down her tray. "You'll be leaving this room."

"Aye, Her Ladyship has already sent someone down to bring a larger bed into my new room," she said. "That way, we can move Miss Patmore into her own room, as befits the assistant cook."

"But Fiona –"

Elsie looked at him blankly, then said with much care in her tone, "Oh, Mr. Carson, you didn't think I would abandon Fiona, did you? Lord, no – that's why Her Ladyship has had the lads bring in a bigger bed. It makes no sense to have two small beds when Fiona ends up in mine as often as she does her own. I would never turn your daughter out, Mr. Carson. Maybe when she's older, I'll bring in a smaller bed, but for now… she's still young."

He was speechless, struck dumb with absolute love for the woman in front of him. Even with all of the chaos around them, even with her worries over her health, even with – even with – she still took the time to care so much about his daughter, who should have been the very least of her worries.

"Mr. Carson?" she questioned very softly. "Are you all right?"

He swallowed hard, licked his lips, exhaled. "Mrs. Hughes, I find myself quite… amazed by you."

"There is nothing amazing about me, Mr. Carson," she said.

He begged to differ on so many levels. The palms of his hands fairly itched with the longing to reach for her, to impart upon her just how much he begged to differ.

Without conscious thought, he did reach for her, taking her hand and squeezing it for a moment before drawing her closer. "Mr. Carson," she breathed; he could not tell if it was assent or condemnation, but he wanted to kiss her so badly he could barely breathe.

He abruptly released her hand and backed away from her. "Mrs. Hughes, I am sorry – that was –"

She closed the gap between them with two delicate steps and stood on her tiptoes, drawing him down for a kiss that made him weak in the knees. She took advantage of his shock, deepening the kiss, running her tongue against the length of his. He broke the kiss and nibbled on her lower lip, the one she worried all the bloody time, then pulled away completely.

"Happy birthday to me, Mr. Carson," she said very softly, almost wistfully.

He blinked. She had no idea how much he wanted her –

And all he could see was how much she wanted him in that moment.

"I'll leave you to your lunch," he croaked, retreating before things got out of control. Besides, he was needed in the drawing room; he never should have been in the attics this long.

"Mr. Carson," she called softly as he made to leave. He turned and looked at her. "Please be patient with me," she whispered. "Please."

He would wait; he had all the time in the world.

END PART NINE