Twenty:
Love is Patient

Enough was enough.

Cora had watched Charles Carson barely holding it together for months; she did not envy the man, not in the slightest. With a teenaged daughter, no wife at hand, and a household to keep running smoothly, lord but she did not envy him. She also did not blame him for snapping at the footmen, demanding excellence from the maids, and even more so, demanding subservience and obedience that he had clearly been denied in the past.

But enough was enough.

Since Fiona had up and vanished in the night, leaving only a tersely-worded note stating in no uncertain terms that she would not be returning to Downton until she had spoken to her mother, he had been absolutely unbearable – to the point that Cora thought she might have to wire Robert and tell him that his former valet was being sacked. But she'd held off, thinking that maybe… maybe Fiona would succeed where everyone else had failed.

Maybe she would make Elsie Carson see sense.

God knew Cora had tried already; the letters between her and Mrs. Carson had flown fast and furious – however furtively – until about the time that would have been Elsie's confinement. Then they had come to an abrupt halt. Cora knew that it was only because her housekeeper was exhausted and –

Then another letter, finally. It had been very short and to the point, informing Cora of the birth of Rebecca Grace Carson, and Elsie's wish to stay in Scotland until the spring.

Cora understood; she really did. Elsie was desperate to hold onto her daughter till the bitter end: Cora would have done the same, had she been allowed. She had miscarried not long after Elsie had left, thanking god that she hadn't told Robert in any of her letters that she was pregnant. The blow would have distracted him, opened him to anger, bitterness, and regret on the battlefield. No, it was best that he didn't know.

Cora sighed and looked out the window, wondering, wishing…

Hoping.

"M'lady, telegram," Carson intoned, holding out the silver tray.

"Thank you, Carson," Cora murmured, taking the paper. He had been no better today; she'd heard him shouting in the servery at a footman who dared so much as grab the wrong spoon at breakfast. "It will get better," she said, finding that saying the hollow words did help her. "I am sorry."

His face betrayed nothing of how he felt, but she knew. "Yes, m'lady," he said, voice unsteady. "As am I."

She opened the envelope and almost sang with joy. "Carson, tell Mrs. Watson that we'll need the Red Room and the Blue Room aired and readied immediately. I will be going to the train station this afternoon; we are having guests for Christmas."

"Uninvited guests, m'lady?"

Cora's smile widened. "Oh no, Mr. Carson – never uninvited guests," she said.

For the telegram read:

4pm train from York. 3 plus me. FAC

And the merest thought that Mrs. Carson was coming home was enough to make Cora all but dance with joy. Even if she knew that the upcoming rows between Mr. and Mrs. Carson would shake the house to its foundation, she also knew that they would overcome it eventually.

She held back a smug little smile and instead focused on the fact that she had a train to meet.

Elsie carefully followed Fiona off the train, juggling the bag with the baby's things in it and her own sparse luggage. Fiona was struggling with Aunt Merrie's valise – which weighed so much she thought that Merrie might intend to stay in England forever – and Merrie had a content armful of blankets and beautiful baby Gracie.

Merrie's lip curled up into a sneer. "This is Downton, then?"

"Auntie, the station is not the same as the village," Elsie sighed. She was tired; traveling with an infant was exhausting at the best of times, but traveling with a baby only seven weeks after having your womb removed to save your life was an altogether different story. Truly, the need to rest was the entire reason she had written to Lady Cora, begging off till spring; she'd never expected Fiona to show up on the doorstep out of desperation.

She had never expected to feel such joy, such elation, upon her return to Downton. She knew she was facing condemnation from her husband, from the village… but she had needed to leave. She had needed desperately to get away from the stress that would cause her to lose the baby; and that meant running away like a child that could not, would not, stop being stubborn long enough to listen to reason.

"Well, it is shabby," Merrie said with a sigh.

"Her Ladyship will send Fred," Fiona said. "He's the new coachman – they fired Baxter for tippling and having it off with one of the gardener's daughters." She stifled a giggle. "Anyway –"

"Fiona!" came a cry from the platform.

Elsie glanced up from her burden and ended up dropping one of the bags. "M'lady!" she gasped.

Lady Cora hurried over – as much as a lady of her stature could hurry, anyway – and she immediately embraced Elsie as thought they were sisters. "My goodness, you are a sight for sore eyes, Mrs. Carson," she exclaimed in her sweet, childlike voice. "How was the trip?"

"I confess that I'm a bit wrung out," Elsie murmured. "And Gracie will need a feed when she wakes up. I'm afraid I will be of no use the rest of the day."

"Then we'll get you back to the house and let you put your feet up," Lady Cora insisted. "Fiona, thank you for undertaking the journey –"

"I needed my mum," Fiona said simply. "I couldn't not go, m'lady."

"Your father has been… well… there is no delicate way to –"

"Charles Carson is an arse," Merrie muttered under her breath.

Elsie felt her face flush straight up to the roots of her hair. "M'lady, this is Merrie Dougal – my aunt. My mam's sister," she introduced softly. "She's been quite protective of Gracie and me… and now Fiona."

Lady Cora's lips pressed together in amusement, and she stifled a titter of laughter. "Ms. Dougal, I'm afraid that your assessment is rather correct. It's a pleasure for you to come visit Downton – I've had the housekeeper make up the Blue Room for you, and the Red Room for Mrs. Carson and Gracie."

That gave Elsie pause, but the wind blustered through the station, leaving them all shivering. Frank, the coachman, took the bags from Elsie and smiled kindly at her; she smiled back, more in relief at being home than anything else. "M'lady, can we go before we all freeze?" she inquired.

"Of course!" Lady Cora exclaimed. "Come, come, you'll all ride inside with me. I do hope you'll allow me to hold your darling Gracie?"

Elsie had just taken the wee one back into her arms and she smiled, this time with all the happiness of an exhausted, new mother. "Oh, aye," she agreed, "but after she's settled a bit. She gets very cranky if we have a pass-round before she eats."

As if to punctuate the point, Gracie started to stir in Elsie's arms, whimpering and wibbling. "Aye, love," Elsie whispered, "we'll go get settled."

It didn't take long to get loaded into the coach and Elsie settled with the baby at her breast, covered by one of her shawls. She remembered a January day not so many years ago when the same shawl had been almost frozen to her body as she'd walked to the Abbey from the station. How times changed…

Now the shawl sheltered the body of the wee babe she'd fought so hard to bring into the world. Elsie could only hope that Charles would see reason and accept their child back into his life. She couldn't bear to think of the alternative.

She knew from Fiona's perspective what she was walking into; the young woman was overdramatic, but it was her silence that clued Elsie in. Fiona clammed up when she knew her father was in the wrong because she never wanted to speak ill of him, even if he was being an unreasonable ass; this was overwhelmingly bad from the way she refused to speak at all.

"M'lady," Elsie spoke up, "Fiona and I have discussed things, and we would like it very much if she could take you up on your wish to underwrite her teacher's certification. I know that your intention is to install her at the village school, and I wholeheartedly agree with you."

Lady Cora smiled. "Oh, good," she said. "I was afraid that Mr. Carson would force darling Fiona here to go into the kitchens. God knows, Robert has discussed it with him often enough – I'd rather put my money where the future lies, rather than the past." She reached over and held Fiona's hand. "You will be a wonderful teacher."

"Thank you, m'lady," Fiona said softly.

"I've never met a lady of title or standing that behaves like you do," Merrie scoffed.

"Auntie," Elsie said warningly, "Lady Grantham has been most kind to Fiona and me over the years – I don't want to repay her kindness with rudeness."

"No offense meant, m'lady," Merrie said.

"None taken," Cora said. "Whatever insults you could hurtle my way couldn't possibly be any worse than what I've heard out of my mother-in-law while my husband is away at the War."

Elise lifted her gaze to meet Cora's. "I'm sorry – I didn't mean to leave you alone through…"

"Stop," Cora insisted. "Everything will be fine."

Elsie wasn't so sure, but in that moment, Gracie released and she had to spring into action quickly or she'd leak all down her dress. "Oh, there's my love," Elsie cooed softly. "Full tummy and warm." She quickly did herself up and moved Gracie to her shoulder, letting her burp indelicately. "Oh goodness, love." Gracie whimpered and sighed, then giggled a little. "M'lady, would you care to hold her now?"

"Would I ever," Cora said with a grin. She held out her hands as the coach swayed when they hit a dip in the road. "Oh hello, my precious bit of lovely," she sighed happily, taking Grace into her arms. "You are absolutely darling, you are – you look so much like your mama, dear heart…"

"She looks like Fiona," Elsie said softly. "Not like me."

"She's very lovely regardless of who she looks like," Cora amended with a smile. "I think you'll be very happy here at Downton, lovely Gracie."

Elsie bit her lip nervously.

There was a light tapping on the door to his pantry; Charles paused in his writing long enough to say a curt, "Come in." He really had to finish his ledgers or there would be hell to pay when the next delivery came; he couldn't make heads nor tails of last week's notes, and it was making him furious with himself for letting it slide as long as he had. He didn't look up; he didn't need to know which bloody maid was coming to make demands on behalf of Mrs. Watson in order to send her on her way and doing what was needed.

There was silence until he grunted a slightly bitter, "Well, are you going to speak or am I going to have to drag it out of you, then?"

"The least you could do is look at me."

He jerked his eyes up, getting dizzy from the contrast between the paper and his daughter's face. "So you've come back, then?" Charles said.

"Yes," Fiona said quietly. "And I've made my decision about what I'm going to do."

Charles curled his fingers tighter around the pen; he knew he was being ridiculous, hard, far too demanding of her, but he couldn't back down now. He had put it to her and now he looked like a damn fool… "Fiona, I –"

She looked at him and for the first time, he couldn't read her. It was terrifying that he had known her every day of her life and he could not read her face; it rendered him impotent in a way he couldn't fathom, couldn't understand. She was silent for a moment, waiting for him to finish speaking, but he couldn't even do that. So, finally, she said, "You asked me to make a choice. I've made my choice. I will be going to school for my certification. Lady Grantham says I will be contracted to the village school once I'm certified, and I can pay her back from my first year's salary. I should have her investment repaid within the first six months."

"I hope you know what you're doing," Charles said, trying to keep his emotions out of his voice; dismay that she had so readily chosen to leave him, worry that she would be so far away where he could do nothing to protect her, fear that she would never come back – just like Elsie. "The Dowager Countess was just saying the other day how much she wished you would come cook for her at the Dower House…"

"As honored as I am by her faith in me, it's not what I want to do with my life, dad," Fiona said very quietly. "And no amount of fighting and shouting and insults bandied about will change that. So don't try that again. You made me make a choice, and I've made it." Her arms were crossed protectively over her torso, and he hated himself so much in that moment; he had caused this, all of it…

"I am sorry, Fiona –"

"Save your breath," she said, her voice barely more than a whisper. "I want you to stop talking and listen to me, dad, because you never stop talking. You never listen to me. Never."

"I – I –" He conceded the point, falling silent.

"I love you because you're my dad," Fiona said finally. "Because you used to tuck me in every night and tell me stories and… and you're my dad." She paused, took a deep breath, and continued, "But you haven't behaved like my dad in a long time. Since you and mum fought and she left, you've been… you've been horrible. I love you because you're my dad, and I hate you because you're no better than Mrs. Potter and Mrs. Oren were. You never have a kind word for anyone and you're twice as hard on me as you are anyone else." She fell silent for a long time, took another deep, shuddering breath when he didn't dare deny her words. "You have your favorites," Fiona mumbled. "And so did she – but I cannot begin to think that you would do anything that she did to Lady Mary. I resent that girl because she's stolen my father from me, but… I cannot hate you for finding someone you care for more than me. I've never been good enough for you, have I? Mum and Aunt Beryl were the only ones who really cared about me; you didn't even care that mum and I were being hurt every day by Mrs. Potter –"

His eyebrows rose up into his hairline. Charles couldn't believe the absolute twaddle coming out of his daughter's mouth – did she really carry so much deep-seated anger and hatred toward him? "I didn't know you had ever been hurt by Mrs. Potter," he said, his voice low and soft. "I knew your mum had, but not… not you. Why didn't you tell me?"

She flushed bright red; his stomach sank and he resisted the urge to bury his head in his hands. All the horrors Elsie had told him after her nightmares. Had they all been visited on his darling girl, too? God, how much of a fool had he been? How could he have been so blind? "How could I tell you?" Fiona asked. "Mum helped. She made me realize as soon as I was old enough that it's okay for me to touch myself there – that someone else that I love very much can touch me there. I'm not dirty or broken or tainted because of it; I was a little girl. And as long as I remember that my consent to be touched is what's needed, I should not be ashamed of what that woman did to me."

His heart was breaking for her; god, he wished – he wished he had known, so he could tear the bitch limb from limb. And then he vaguely remembered Elsie breaking the woman's arm. Dear god, she had gone to the mat, fighting for Fiona even then, and he hadn't even realized –

"Don't you dare say you're sorry," Fiona hissed. "Don't do it. It's not about you, dad. Not this. I don't want you to pretend that you can make things magically better by apologizing, because it's just not going to happen. You need to sit there and be wrong and live with it."

He hung his head, miserably accepting his daughter's scolding. The worst part was that nothing she had said was in any way untruth. He was the worst man alive. "I – I don't know what to do," Charles admitted, letting the sadness overtake him. He'd lost Elsie because he'd made one stupid, flippant comment; he was about to lose Fiona because he'd pushed her away. He didn't know what to do.

"Well… Her Ladyship sent me to fetch you to bring tea up to the drawing room," Fiona said with very little emotion. "Maybe you can start with that. Don't expect miracles, dad."

He didn't want a miracle.

He just wanted a glimmer of hope where there was none.

END PART TWENTY