A/N: This is the first of two chapters posted. There one isn't quite canon, but...almost. Thank you for all the lovely reviews. If you could leave a tiny review for this one, I would really appreciate it. And to all my fellow Americans - have a safe and very happy Thanksgiving! I'm very thankful for you all. :)
Downton Abbey, 1887
Charles walks with a little spring in his step down the long lane. The weather mirrors his mood. The sky is a robin's egg blue, with bits of wispy white cloud above. The air is warm, but not too much so. A soft breeze lifts his hair.
He doesn't often take his afternoons off. But today is a special day.
One of his Lordship's tenants is driving to Ripon, so he gets a ride on the man's wagon. He will have to walk home, but the way he feels, a run to London and back would be easy. He finds himself smiling like he hasn't done in…well, years.
Since Alice?
The thought of her sobers him. Over ten years have passed since he returned from his misguided attempt at life outside of service.
Look how far you have come since!
That cheers him.
The farmer drops him off about a mile from Ripon. He only has a little further to go. In a lovely meadow, he picks some wildflowers. Blue cornflowers.
No one is in the graveyard behind the old country church.
He takes off his hat, and weeds around his parents' graves. The wreath he laid there after Christmas is an evergreen, and still in good condition.
On the left side of his father's headstone rests his grandparents. And behind them, his great-grandparents. He lays the cornflowers in front of his great-grandmother's stone. Time has worn it down, but he can still make out her name.
Charlotte Carson.
He cannot really remember her face. But he remembers digging in her garden, while she sat nearby. Him bringing her whatever bright blossom he could find. Her wrinkled fingers holding his short, childish ones.
Dad named me for her. He and I used to walk here after church. She loved cornflowers…
He stands up straight, feeling his knees crack. He's still a young man. Barely in his thirties. But being on his feet all hours of the day and into the night takes its toll.
It is worth it.
He goes back to his parents' graves, brushing off his hands.
"I wanted to tell you all," he says quietly, addressing the stones like an audience, "that his Lordship told me yesterday that I will take over after Mr. Davies retires. It won't be until after Lady Rosamund gets married, but I'll be working with him closely every day until then."
The air is still, holding its breath. Like it is listening.
He feels like those sleeping beneath the ground are just beyond his vision. Smiling, with love in their eyes.
He clears his throat, sniffs, and wipes the corner of his own eye. "I'll be the youngest butler Downton Abbey has ever had." He cannot keep the pride from his voice. Not here, not in this place. "Her Ladyship was pleased. She said so. And Viscount Downton shook my hand after dinner last night…it wasn't proper, really, but I am glad he was happy with his father's decision."
It is likely Robert will be Earl for most of his career. They have gotten along well, including when Charles acted as his valet several times on trips to London, before Shaw was hired.
It is vital that the two of them work well together.
He is confident they will.
He wants to make his family proud, even though he feels alone. A number of his cousins live near Leeds, and others have been scattered even farther away, but he has not seen most of them since his childhood.
For all intents and purposes, he is alone.
But not completely.
Mum, Dad, Granddad, Great-Granny…I know you're with me. Always.
Returning to the Abbey later that afternoon, he savors the view of the great house as he walks toward the servant's entrance.
Charles Carson, Butler at Downton Abbey.
Me.
Downton Abbey, 1895
Elsie swallows a little when the house comes into view. Not much daunts her, but the Earl of Grantham's home is much more imposing than Lady MacNair's in Dumbarton.
You knew it would be, girl. This is no time to lose your nerve.
Mrs. Allen introduces her to the few staff downstairs. Many of the rest are in other parts of the house, as it after teatime, and the family upstairs is preparing for dinner.
The sharp-tongued cook Mrs. Patmore is new to her post, the housekeeper tells her. "She's forever after the key to the store cupboard. But she'll never get it from me. And I trust she won't get it from you, either." She smiles at Elsie before leading her up the stairs.
As head housemaid, Elsie will share a room with another maid. She knows it will not be for long.
Either I accept Joe, or follow Mrs. Allen as housekeeper…which is what she intends for me.
She stumbles on the stairs thinking of her dilemma, dropping her suitcase in the process. Mrs. Allen is ahead of her on the landing to the first floor. Just as Elsie falls forward, two men come through the door there. A broad man catches her elbow before she lands on her face.
"Are you all right, miss?" He asks, in the deepest voice she has ever heard. He keeps hold of her until she resumes her footing. His large hand is warm on her arm.
"Perfectly so. Thank you." She looks up into dark eyes, with furry eyebrows knitted together above them. A large nose and dimpled chin.
"Mr. Carson, this is Elsie Hughes. The new head housemaid," Mrs. Allen says. "Elsie, this is Mr. Carson, the butler. Are you all right?"
The blood rushes to Elsie's face. "I – am fine, Mrs. Allen. Thank you. I just lost my balance on the stairs." She turns quickly to the man standing next to her. "I am honored to be here, Mr. Carson."
"We are glad you arrived safely. You must have had a long day," he replies, letting go of her arm and motioning for the other man to go downstairs. He hands her the suitcase, and she takes it. "Lady MacNair spoke very highly of you. Mrs. Allen, I'm going to ring the gong in a quarter of an hour."
"Right you are, Mr. Carson. I'll be right down."
The butler descends the stairs, and the women keep going up.
Neither the housekeeper nor the new housemaid see him miss a step, and catch himself on the railing.
Elsie wishes she could crawl into bed in the attic, and not come out for a week. This is no way to begin! Nearly falling on my face in front of the butler!
Despite the grey hairs streaking through his black hair (she suspects he subdues it with great deal of pomade), he looks young. Much younger than she would have thought for a butler of such a great house.
"How long has Mr. Carson been the butler?" She asks as Mrs. Allen unlocks the door to the women's side. She really wants to know how old he is, but she is too sensible to ask that.
"Let me see…going on eight years now," the housekeeper opens a door to one of the bedrooms. "He came here nearly twenty years ago, as second footman. Martha has the left bed, so the right is yours."
He cannot be much more than forty.
Elsie sets her suitcase on the spare bed and removes her hat and gloves. The room is not as drafty as her old one.
Or her room at home that she used to share with Becky.
"After you're settled, come down to the servants' hall," Mrs. Allen says. "The family will be having dinner soon. We have our dinner after, so there's no rush." She leaves, her keys jingling at her hip.
Sinking down on the bed, Elsie sighs. It has been a long day. And every day after this one will be long as well.
She is not sure what she thinks. Of course, it is far too soon to think she won't get on at Downton. But Joe won't wait forever for a more definite answer, either.
Re-reading his letter again, tears come to her eyes. She is practical enough to know it is not simply that she misses him. Which she does.
But she also misses home. Scotland. Dear Becky, and Mam.
Downton is a strange place.
Before traveling to Yorkshire, Lady MacNair had allowed her to go home for one more visit. That was the last time she'd seen Joe, as well as Mam and Becky.
She unpacks her suitcase, putting away her scarce belongings. Tucked in one corner of the case is a small wrapped bundle. An envelope with her name written in her mother's handwriting intrigues her.
Inside the bundle is a very old handkerchief. One corner is embroidered with the letter C. It is folded in such a way that when she opens it, she almost misses the faded blue ribbon fluttering onto the bed.
She carefully sets both ribbon and handkerchief aside to read Mam's letter.
My dear Elsie,
You might be wondering why I didn't give this letter to you personally, or the gift sent with it. In truth, it is because even now thinking of doing it brings tears to my eyes. And I have no desire to keep you from leaving Scotland. This choice is your own.
Whether you decide to accept Joe, or stay at Downton, I love you. Da would have been so proud of the woman you have become. It is him you should thank for the handkerchief, as it has been kept by his family for many years, not mine.
I'm sure you remember your father's grandfather, Iain Hughes. We went and saw him as often as we could when you were small.
Elsie sits up and gazes into the orange glow of the oil lamp. "Poppa," she whispers.
She can remember the scent of wood-smoke in her great-grandfather's house. His black cat. The way his stubble scratched her face when he would give her a kiss. How she "showed" him her doll, letting him hold it, so he could feel the button eyes and cloth body.
A laugh bubbles from her mouth. He told her more than once that his house smelled of trees because he used to be one. She almost believed him.
But what does a delicate piece of cloth have to do with him?
Or with her?
The handkerchief belonged to him. It was something he kept near him always, according to your great-aunts. Aunt Sarah thought it belonged to your Poppa's sister Catherine, called Kit, and that the ribbon once had a lock of her hair. She died when she was very young, when she was about seventeen. Poppa hardly ever spoke of her to anyone, even in his last days.
He told your father the handkerchief reminded him of a happy time in his life. This was a surprise to Da, and everyone else in the family. We thought Poppa was miserable when he lived in Glasgow. Especially after Kit died.
I have often wondered if he was fond of that time because it was when he was young, or if it reminded him of when his family was still together. For whatever reason, it was very dear to him.
As were you.
Before he died, he told us he wanted you to have it when you were grown. He said he hoped it reminded you that love does not end, and that at times happiness is found in unlikely places.
It is yours now. When you see it, remember what he said. And remember those who love you, both those in your past and in your present. See where God leads you. I trust that you will go the right way.
Your sister and I will keep you in our prayers, as we know you keep us in yours.
God bless you.
Love,
Mam
Elsie sets the letter down, crying softly. Grabbing half-blind at her own handkerchief, she dabs her eyes.
It means everything to her that she receives the gift now. Today. She had felt guilty in accepting the post at Downton, both for leaving Joe without a definite answer, and for leaving her family behind.
Her mother's blessing gives her strength.
She kisses Poppa's handkerchief. It is a piece of home, a bright corner of happiness, of love, of hope. She folds it carefully with the ribbon inside.
She doesn't know if she will accept Joe's proposal. But in the meantime, she has a job to do. She washes her face and goes downstairs to the servant's hall.
The footmen, Fred and Peter, wait nervously as Charles inspects the table. Lord and Lady Merton have been invited for dinner, as has the Dowager.
"Well done," he says finally, and the two younger men breath sighs of relief. He tells Peter to wait in the hall until after he returns upstairs, after checking the wine. The Dowager may arrive early. She often does.
He goes through the door to the servant's staircase just in time to catch a woman from falling on the landing. Mrs. Allen stops on the stairs, and Fred nearly runs into his back. He asks the woman if she's all right.
She assures him she is, in a pretty lilt that leaves him in no doubt of her country of origin.
Ah, she was arriving today. The new head housemaid.
Mrs. Allen introduces Elsie Hughes to him. She is older than he expected, though with her experience, he thinks he should not have been surprised.
She is a woman, not a young girl.
A woman with dark eyes, of an unknown color. As he waits for her to regain her balance, he wonders at her firm grip on his arm. As if it is she who usually does the steadying.
It is clear she is embarrassed to have almost fallen in front of him. It is all he can do to keep from smiling when she blushes.
I will have to have a word with the footmen, and the hall boys.
The sound of his own name has never made his belly flip over.
He can't remember the last time he missed a step, either.
He looks up after he stumbles, hoping the women didn't see him. They are out of sight, still going up. He breathes a sigh of relief.
Looking after the family and their guests at dinner, and overseeing the footmen, provide more than enough to occupy his mind. By the time he trudges downstairs, he has forgotten the new head housemaid.
Until Mrs. Allen gestures to her before he sits down. Flustered, he bangs his knee against the corner of the table. He covers his clumsiness by clearing his throat.
When he tells Elsie what he always says to newcomers, about upholding the honor of the house and the family they serve, she listens demurely, her hands folded at her waist. But there is a glint in her eyes that he does not miss.
Is she laughing at me?
He finishes his short speech, with a reminder to all present that it applies to them as well. He sits down and the servant's dinner begins.
She has to concentrate not to smile while Mr. Carson speaks.
Yes, yes, of course we must 'uphold the dignity' of those we serve, but he speaks of them as though they're more than mere mortals. I want to do my job well. But that is all that it is – a job.
Martha, her roommate, says the butler is stern, but fair. Peter glances at the end of the table.
"He's an absolute sergeant," the footman mutters under his breath. "I think he was born wearing his livery. He's got no heart at all…if someone ever cut him, he wouldn't bleed. He's probably stuffed with sawdust."
Two other housemaids and one of the hall boys giggle.
"I'm sure he's just like any other person," Elsie says. "Like you and me. Warts and all."
Mrs. Allen clears her throat from her place at the foot of the table, and the chatter about the butler stops.
Over the next several months, Elsie grows accustomed to her new life. Getting to know Downton and its people, both upstairs and down. The American countess is perhaps the only person more foreign than she is within its walls. But the young woman has a good head on her shoulders.
"I'll admit, when his Lordship married her, I wondered if she'd cope," Mrs. Allen confesses one evening as she goes over the linen rota with Elsie. "But she learned fast. There's no doubt she's the mistress here now."
"I wager the Dowager would dispute that," Elsie grins. The older woman smiles, lines appearing around her eyes.
"And you'd be correct. If he weren't such a stickler for tradition, I believe Mr. Carson would agree with the Dowager. But he will never say so. Not to me, not to anyone."
The comment reminds Elsie of something that has nagged at her. "I notice you never speak with Mr. Carson, except when others are present."
"Yes," the housekeeper underlines a note in her book. "He feels, and I agree, that we must maintain the same standards as the rest of the staff. Footmen and housemaids are not to be alone together."
"And you do not think the butler and the housekeeper should be considered an exception to the rule?" Elsie cannot keep the skepticism from her voice. "What if you need to speak about something discrete, or if you disagree with him?"
Not that I have ever heard a breath of disagreement from you.
"Those are valid questions," Mrs. Allen says patiently. "But when you become housekeeper, you must understand. If a situation arises among the staff that requires discretion, I write him a note and leave it in a secure place in his pantry. He decides what to do, and writes back to tell me. The same goes for disagreements. You will get used to it in time."
That is absurd.
Mrs. Allen sighs at her expression. "I know it may seem excessive to you, but that is how things are done. There has never been a complaint from the family about our behavior."
"Of course not. But both you and Mr. Carson have a high regard for honor," Elsie argues. "Isn't it important, though, that as heads of downstairs that you understand each other as-well as people, and not just as colleagues?"
It seems obvious to her that running a household well requires knowledge of the fellow head of staff as well as everyone else.
She is astonished that Mrs. Allen knows virtually nothing of Mr. Carson, outside of what she gleaned from when he was a footman. Not even what his favorite vintage is.
"I don't see what that has to do with running the household," the housekeeper persists. "Personal details have nothing to do with it. This is the way the house ran when Mr. Davies was in charge, and his predecessor before him."
And I am sure Mr. Carson is glad it has stayed that way.
It is clear Mrs. Allen defers to him in everything, despite the fact the woman is older and has plenty of experience. And even though there are no stains on the honor of either head of household, Elsie has noticed a number of details that she would not hesitate to bring to the butler, were it her place to do so.
Like how Peter has a gift for passing off his own work, leaving Fred and Patrick to carry a heavier burden. How the housemaid Esther bullies the hall boy Tim. The poor boy has been caught in tears by Mr. Carson, and the butler has lost patience with him more than once. And Elsie has serious misgivings about her Ladyship's maid, O'Brien. Who knows what is going on there?
It is not that Mrs. Allen does not notice these things. But the woman tends to leave problems among the staff festering until they boil over and cannot be ignored.
And that is something Elsie cannot abide.
On the whole, she likes Downton Abbey.
It is a good place. Most of the staff are diligent and friendly. Even Mrs. Patmore has a sense of humor beneath her sharp tongue and short temper. Elsie's wages are generous, and she is cheered by Mrs. Allen's faith in her.
When you become housekeeper, she said. Not if.
When.
I can make a life here.
She finds herself looking forward to a future in service.
The day the position is officially offered to her, she takes a walk to the village to clear her mind. Thinking of Scotland, of home.
Writing to Joe is one of the most difficult things she has ever done. He is a nice man – very nice – and there is a certain comfort in knowing what to expect as a farmer's wife.
But she doesn't want to give up her position. She takes pride in her independence, and it feels good to send most of her wages back to Mam.
Within a year Mrs. Allen retires.
And Elsie inherits her chatelaine.
The first challenge she faces is gaining the butler's trust. She thinks it is important that they talk with each other, really listen to each other. But she knows better than to simply barge into his pantry.
She thinks about inviting him to her sitting room, but she thinks he would find it improper.
There must be another way.
Downton Abbey, 1896
Charles is sorry to see Mrs. Allen leave, though he knew the day was coming. It is yet another sign that time moves on.
At least he has grown used to Elsie Hughes. Enough that he doesn't stumble on the stairs, or bark his shin against the table. It helps that she is utterly capable at whatever job she's given, and is entirely professional.
More than once he has lain awake at night, wondering what she thinks. About anything.
He has an inkling she will not be happy simply carrying on with how the downstairs has always been run. Mrs. Allen said as much when she wrote him farewell.
But he is surprised.
The first fortnight after Elsie becomes housekeeper, nothing changes. The housemaids seem to take the change in their stride. His high standards are maintained.
One morning as he enters the servant's hall for breakfast, he stops short at the sight before him. Esther, hurrying down the stairs, collides with him.
"I'm sorry, Mr. Carson-"
He pays no attention to the flustered housemaid.
He is too busy glaring at the housekeeper.
She stands behind a chair not at the foot of the table where she should be, but at the corner. Right next to his chair.
He opens his mouth to ask her what she is doing, but realizes he can't, not without making a scene. The staff are curiously looking in his direction. He strides to his chair and sits down. Everyone else follows suit, including the woman at his right hand.
Improper, roars his brain as the kitchen maid carries in the toast. Before he can pick up the top piece, the housekeeper does so and begins spreading jam on it.
His mind is in a complete muddle.
What is going on here!?
It does not help that he can see glints of red hair woven in with her darker strands. He says the only thing he can think of.
"Good morning, Mrs. Hughes."
"Good morning, Mr. Carson," she says, as though everything is normal. She sets the toast in front of him. He stares at it blankly, then back at her. "Don't you like strawberry jam?" She asks, her eyebrows raised.
He blinks. "Yes, I do. I – thank you." He takes a bite of it, wondering how she knew.
Did Mrs. Allen tell her? Not likely…I'm not sure she knew.
There is a lot Mrs. Hughes knows. Some of it he knows himself, or guessed at. During meals they begin to trade concerns about the staff, about ongoing problems with the running of the house.
He feels as though he's lost a bit of his control, what with her having so brazenly changing her seat, but the transition is so seamless he doesn't mind. Much.
Oh, very well, he thinks a week later. As long as she doesn't try to push me too far.
Mrs. Allen was a fine housekeeper, but he had often felt he was the one keeping standards high. Mrs. Hughes keeps them without him having to give her a nudge.
He finds himself getting impatient with the short conversations they have as the weeks and months pass. There is much more to say about various matters, but the proximity of staff in the servant's hall and constant interruptions keep them from being able to communicate further.
And writing notes back and forth is rather tiresome, he thinks.
One evening before dinner, he catches her coming out of the kitchen.
"Would it be possible to have a word later?" He sucks in a breath. Her expression is stormy. From the way Mrs. Patmore shouts at the kitchen maids, the two women have just had another tussle over the store cupboard key.
"Of course, Mr. Carson," she says, frowning a little. Martha walks past them to the hall, and Shaw rushes by, in a hurry to dress his Lordship. "Though we always have a word or two during dinner."
"Yes, but that isn't what I meant, exactly," he stumbles, hoping he's not overstepping the mark. "You see, there are a number of things we need to discuss, and dinner does not afford us the opportunity to do so in a reasonable way…I do not mean to sound improper, but would you mind if I came to your sitting room later, after dinner?"
She blinks several times. Her expression is inscrutable. Finally, she shakes her head. "All right, if you think it best."
"I do." He feels lighter knowing she does not think it is a terrible idea.
"Well then. We will speak later, then. And no, I do not find it improper." She gives him a small smile and moves on, heading to the laundry. The keys on her chatelaine jingle as she walks away.
He does not see her satisfied smile.
Well, thank goodness he got there in the end!
That first evening their conversation is a short one, with her door open to the hallway. Just in case anyone should wonder.
As the months roll along into years the evening talks get longer. They vary from simply talking about their jobs, and the day-to-day workings of the Abbey, to their personal views about the goings-on in the world. About life.
After he deems an appropriate time has passed, Charles begins bringing glasses with him. A sherry with their conversation is a good way to relax them further.
The staff finds it routine to knock on the door of his pantry or her sitting room and find both there. Not just in the evenings, but at various times of the day.
It becomes so routine, everyone forgets that it was not how things had always been done.
A/N: And...on to canon. And beyond.