A/N: This is the second and last chapter posted tonight. Thank you all so much for your support of this strange fic. I know our favorite pair didn't make an appearance until the end, but I hope you all like the bits of canon thrown in. As well as the little extra parts. :)
I do not own Downton Abbey, or its characters.
If you have a minute, please leave a word or two of review.
Downton Abbey, 1913
He sits on the other side of the table in her sitting room, not quite believing what he's hearing. He tells her to go on when she hesitates. He listens to what she says, his mind churning.
An old beau turning up! Now!? Not after all the upheaval we've been through already, with Mr. Crawley and the entail.
"And he was…horrible and fat and red-faced and you couldn't think what you ever saw in him," he says, hoping she takes his comments jokingly.
Though he's not sure he means them that way.
But she smiles a little, and acknowledges the passage of time on Joe Burns.
"And he proposed again, and you accepted?"
He can barely look at her when he asks her. She is his friend, he realizes. Not just a colleague.
There is no one he trusts more.
Surely there can be no other reason why Mrs. Hughes is bothering to tell him this than to tender her resignation. She is a private person, and has rarely spoken so openly.
He lets out a breath when she tells him she didn't accept the proposal. The emotion in her eyes when she tells him she's changed surprises him. She does not often show her vulnerable side. Not to him, not to anyone.
She trusts you, too.
He gives her the best advice he can think of. About the point of life being change. He marvels at the irony – that it has been she who has been the proponent of change.
I've changed.
She's changed me.
Though he's almost entirely sure she is not leaving, he can't help but ask her openly. Of course they are interrupted. But before she follows Anna out the door, she gives him peace of mind.
"Leaving? When would I ever find the time?"
I hope she never does.
Downton Abbey, 1918
She knows the instant she walks into his pantry before dinner.
I should have known he would never abandon Lady Mary. He would leave everyone else first, but not her.
Of course.
Squeezing her hands together, she keeps her voice as light as possible.
"You've made your mind up, then."
It does not comfort her when he says he has – but with a heavy heart, Mrs. Hughes.
She cannot imagine being at Downton and never hearing him say her name. Turning her face away, she fights to keep her composure. It would do no good to embarrass him.
"And just when we thought we were getting back to normal!"
She can hear the pitch of her voice rising, and so can he.
Miss you?
"I will, Mr. Carson," she says, somehow keeping herself together.
She cannot look him in the eye as she tries to tell him the truth, all the while feeling her resolve slipping away.
"Very much. And it costs me nothing to say it."
Late that night, after the longest, weariest climb she can remember, she reaches her room.
She manages to keep quiet, but tears spill down her cheeks.
He is the dearest friend I have.
With shaking fingers, she takes out Poppa's old handkerchief. Mam is gone, and Becky is in Lytham St. Anne's.
Somehow I will have to go on without Mr. Carson, too.
Downton Abbey, 1920
He feels like such a fool.
So much had been going on – Lady Mary's long-awaited wedding to Mr. Crawley, Mrs. Levinson coming to visit, the disastrous dinner party that turned into a picnic upstairs. And on top of all of that they were understaffed!
What it was that caught his attention, he couldn't say. Something about her seemed off. But he told Mrs. Hughes that despite his crabbiness, he was on her side.
Like you've always been on mine.
He tried to get an answer from Dr. Clarkson, but the man wouldn't tell him anything definite.
Mrs. Patmore, on the other hand, confirmed his worst fears.
Cancer.
If someone had asked him the day before what he was most frightened of, he can no longer think of what he would have said.
He knows now what frightens him most.
She may be very ill.
Or…
Don't even think it!
When he blurts out to her that he doesn't want to see her tired, she confronts him. Demands to know who he's been speaking to. A small part of him is pleased to see her spark, even if it is muted.
He does tell her Ladyship about the housekeeper. He feels it necessary for someone to know. Mrs. Hughes is stubborn enough to carry on as if all is well, but he worries Lady Edith's wedding will sink her.
He is very glad when Mrs. Hughes tells him how touched she was from what her Ladyship said. Coming from her, that is a compliment indeed.
For the first time in years, he wakes from a nightmare on the morning of the wedding. He sits up, shaking, his hand on his mouth.
Mrs. Hughes, lying cold and still…
As soon as he suggests to her that she could stay and rest, rather than attend the wedding, he knows it is a mistake. She practically growls at him and Mrs. Patmore.
Boxing her up! No, that would be impossible!
He practically flees out the door.
The next day he sees her getting ready to go out. By her expression, it looks like she has an appointment with the executioner. Her face is stoic. Strong.
He asks if he can help but she puts him off. When Mrs. Patmore appears, he knows they're going to see the doctor.
Please, God, let her be all right.
He can't settle on anything, not even the tea tray. He keeps checking his watch. Wondering what's taking them so long.
And if it is a bad sign.
Polishing the silver does nothing to ease his mind.
When he hears the cook's voice in the hallway, he nearly drops the tray he's holding.
Mrs. Patmore tells him it's not cancer. He breathes for what feels like the first time in days.
After getting a promise that she won't tell Mrs. Hughes he knows, he goes back to the silver. Everything seems much brighter, somehow. An old song comes to mind.
"Dashing away with a smoothing iron, she stole my heart away…"
When and how she stole his heart, he hardly knows. Or cares. But his heart is no longer his own. He knows that now.
Not that he can tell her.
He does not see the housekeeper biting back a laugh in the hallway with tears in her eyes, as she hears him singing.
Brighton, 1923
The sun is very bright, blinking off the rippling water. She watches some revelers swimming. Her feet feel blessedly cool after she tiptoes through the hot sand.
She wonders if Mr. Carson will join her. She hopes he will.
Honestly, how can he stay on the beach in this heat, without enjoying what's in front of him?
The sigh he makes when he steps into the water warms her heart.
She can't help daring him to come further in. They have come a long way from him being appalled at her for sitting beside him at breakfast.
Trousers wet?
If he really cared about that, he wouldn't have come within a mile of the beach!
"If you get them wet, we'll dry them."
He blusters more.
Dear man…he likes me teasing him.
She makes sure to phrase herself just right. She knows him well.
"You can always hold my hand if you need to feel steady."
His rumbling about being risqué makes her laugh. After all they've been through together, surely they can begin to admit what they feel for each other.
Slowly.
She cares for him more than anyone else, and she knows he feels the same.
He sang for me.
She holds out her hand, and he takes it.
"We're getting on, Mr. Carson, you and I. We can afford to live a little."
As they paddle in the sea, her heart feels lighter than it has ever been. His hand in hers feels like it belongs there.
He has her heart. And just for today, it is enough to hold his hand.
Downton Abbey, 1925
The party goes on, the gramophone echoing down the hall. Daisy leaves the room, quite glad that she has survived for another day. Part of him thinks that if the assistant cook had said the same things in front of the family five years ago, never mind ten, that she would have been sacked immediately.
But her Ladyship wants the errant young woman to stay, so he must respect her wishes.
He suggests joining the others, but his fiancée (oh, how he loves thinking of her that way) asks to have a word.
She looks nervous. Diminished, almost. Of course bringing up his conversation with Mrs. Patmore is awkward for her.
He has to concentrate to hear what she says. He loves Mrs. Hu-Elsie, dearly. He has not called her by her Christian name yet, but he wants to. He feels it would be more appropriate after their marriage.
Her slumped shoulders, though, and her downcast expression tell him the truth. He feels as though a cloud has descended and cut off light, happiness, and air.
She thinks she's made a mistake. She doesn't want a 'full' marriage.
Or any marriage at all.
He tries to collect the shattered pieces of his heart.
I wanted to be stuck with you. Forever. But if it isn't what you want…
"Right," he says quietly, unable to look at her. "Well, if you've had second thoughts…I think we should let the staff know in the morning. I won't make a big announcement."
Let me do everything. The last thing I want is to cause you more pain.
"We'll just tell one or two people, and we'll let it come out naturally. There'll be a bit of a nine days wonder of course, but…we'll get over it."
He never will.
She will. She is a strong woman. She got over it easily enough with that fellow years ago.
And then she speaks. She is nervous, yes, that is plain, but her words knit his heart back together.
A disappointment? Her? How could she ever think she couldn't please me?
"But if you're sure…" she says, a step closer to him.
He absolutely must assure her of his love.
"I have never been so sure. Of anything."
Her big eyes are wide, and she's quoting Cromwell, of all people.
Warts are the last thing on his mind. Only her, his beautiful bride-to-be, the woman who is giving herself to him, the woman that he wants above anyone else on the earth.
He touches her face, marveling at the softness of her skin. Then their lips touch.
And he forgets everything around him.
There is only her.
Elsie.
She hums into his mouth. The sound makes him want to keep kissing her forever, but he is too much of a gentleman to continue. And he does not want to frighten her.
He pulls back from her lips, feeling contentment at the blissful smile on her face. He kisses her forehead gently and envelops her in his arms.
Holding her feels almost as good as being held by her. Her arms wrapped around his torso, her small hands on his back.
He cannot wait for their wedding.
Scarborough, 1925
His silver hair is soft under her fingers. She smiles at how curly it is, without the pomade.
"I didn't know you were so enamored with my hair." He sighs, and kisses the hollow of her throat. He hugs her closer, resting his head on her chest.
"Of course I am. It's part of you." Clearing her throat, she kisses the top of his head. Her voice is a bit raspy. His fault, there. "The rain made it curlier. Well, more curly than usual."
"Mmmm." His voice vibrates over her heart. "It's always been like that. I think you enjoy mussing it further."
"I do indeed." She lifts her head when he rises above her, her mouth meeting his. She can't help giggling a little once she can draw breath.
"What?" He touches his forehead to hers before turning more onto his side, resting on his elbow. She smooths down one of his eyebrows, blushing as his eyes travel down, taking in the sight of her nude form to where it disappears beneath the tangled sheets.
"It…it's the middle of the afternoon," she says, unable to say fully what she means. Though she feels sure he knows.
"Ye-es," he draws out the word. From his pleased expression, she is certain he knows what his voice does to her. He picks up her left hand and tastes her fingers, lingering on each one. "And we…toured the castle this morning…and walked about after lunch…until the rain chased us…indoors."
It still tap-tap-taps against the windows.
"Which…pleased you, I'm sure." Her breath is ragged under his touch. She had no idea her fingers in his mouth would feel like…that.
"You were kind enough to agree to my suggestion to explore another part of Scarborough." His lips find her palm, then her wrist. A laugh bubbles out of her mouth.
"'Another part of Scarborough?' You meant this room!"
"As I said, you were very obliging, coming back here with me." He wags his eyebrows at her.
She lets out a gasp when he suddenly sits up, pulling her with him. She isn't prepared for the movement, and she bumps her head against his shoulder.
"Oh, I'm so sorry – I didn't mean to hit you – "
He wraps an arm around her, drawing her into an embrace. Their bodies are pressed together. "You didn't," he murmurs. "But I didn't hurt you…did I?" He scans her face anxiously.
He has been nothing but gentle with her.
"No." She rubs her thumb on his dimpled chin. "You just surprised me, is all."
He traces her face, moving some of the loose strands of hair out of her eyes. She looks away, not used to the heat of his gaze. But he means no harm by it. She knows that now.
He tilts her chin up with his finger. "Do you know how beautiful you are?"
A memory stirs in her mind. "When you talk like that, you make me want to check the looking-glass to see that my hair's tidy."
Her hair is not tidy in the slightest at the moment.
"You are, you know," he persists. "I love the color of your eyes."
"You're quite handsome yourself, Charlie." She says shyly, liking the smile that lights up his face. They kiss again, then again, until their movements flow together into ones that were once strange, but are now more familiar.
Five days they have been married. Five days of momentary awkwardness mixed with genuine joy.
It is all still so new, to both of them.
Not just the "aspects" of marriage which had confounded them during their engagement. They have worked together for years, and lived under the same roof.
But they've never known what it's like to wake up next to each other. Seeing the other person in slumber.
She adores watching him sleep. To see his features soften, seeing the boy inside the man. And she has woken up more than once to find him smiling at her.
He loves knowing that having her beside him is not a dream.
She is my wife!
He can't stop smiling, even when they are out and about. He truly is the happiest of men. After a lifetime of keeping his feelings buttoned up (sometimes literally), it is a relief to let his guard down.
Of course, she has seen the man beneath the butler for a long time. He feels like he is just beginning to know the woman. For all her openness, she has kept a firm grip on her own emotions.
"I don't understand you."
"No. You wouldn't."
He loves her. But the depths of her love for him scared her, and her reaction on their wedding night frightened him.
She weeps, turning her head aside. He is still giddy from their first time, but even he knows his wife crying beneath him is not a good thing. He moves off of her as quickly as he can, his heart sinking as she rolls over, scrambling across the bed. Away from him.
Oh God. I've hurt her.
"Elsie?" He asks tentatively. He wonders what he should do. She sits up, pulling the sheet with her. Covering herself. She reaches for her handkerchief beside the electric lamp on the bedside table and holds it to her face, sobbing.
He is at a complete loss as to what to do. He thought the most difficult part of their wedding night would be what happened only a minute or two ago. If he had thought at all of what happened after, it would be kisses, cuddles, soft murmurs of love.
Not her weeping on one side of the bed, and him with a sick feeling on the other.
She shakes her head, trying to speak.
"I'm sorry…"
I'm sorry, he wants to say. For what I've done.
"I've frightened you. I didn't meant to," she sounds more like her usual self, though her face is blotchy and tears still shimmer in her eyes.
He lets out breath. "I've frightened you. You've done nothing wrong. I-"
"Charlie." Both the soft sound of his name on her lips and her movement across the bed closer to him calms him somewhat. "I…" She leans her head against his shoulder. Very slowly, he puts an arm around her and is relieved when she doesn't flinch. "I can't…" She huffs out a sigh. To his surprise, she laughs at little. "I don't know why this is difficult."
He breathes a sigh of relief that she is a bit calmer.
"But I didn't hurt you?" He asks. He leaves a soft kiss on her temple. She shakes her head.
"No. You were lovely." Tender, kind, and gentle, she thinks. She brushes her fingers against his cheek. She doesn't want him to worry, and she knows he is. Biting her lip, she closes her eyes when he holds her hand against his face.
And to think I thought HE would find it difficult to talk about such things.
It is overwhelming.
"What is it?"
"I love you," she whispers, her voice breaking. "I am so happy to be your wife. To be yours, and for you to be mine, for good…it means everything." Tears start in her eyes again. "You must think I'm terribly silly."
"Never." If anyone understands what it feels like to let go of one's feelings after a lifetime of stopping them, he does.
"I should stop flannelling on, so." She chokes back another sob. "But I can't seem to stop. I am happy - truly I am!"
He hugs her close, smiling. "I know. So am I. And…you're sure I didn't hurt you?"
He wants to be sure.
Running her hand through his hair, she pulls his head down to hers. "I have never been so sure."
The rain falls in a steady stream outside their window. He slides his hands down her back, feeling the curve of her body. Shuddering, she takes a breath and releases him from their kiss.
"Och, you're tickling me," she murmurs, before leaning down to kiss him again. To be safe, he moves his hands up.
"Sorry. It wasn't on purpose." The words come out in a garble, mostly in her mouth. He feels her laugh.
"I think it was, Mr. Carson."
He beams up at her, unable to keep his mirth to himself. "Maybe it was, Mrs. Carson."
Grinning, she wraps a finger through one of his curls, color blooming on her face. "Then maybe you should make it up to me."
"What did you have in mind?" He puts his hands behind his head. She moves up further.
"I think you already know the answer to that."
He does.
They miss teatime entirely.
Near Downton, New Year's Day, 1926
They get back to the cottage at half-past one. They-no, she he reminds himself, do not have to be back at the Abbey until later in the morning. He can go, of course, but Mr. Barrow is in charge now.
Both of them are quiet as they prepare for bed. He should be exhausted.
But he isn't.
The events of the evening, and the previous weeks keep spilling through his mind.
His hands shake as he grabs a towel to dry off his face.
She is in their bedroom plaiting her hair when she hears him. Leaving her hair half done, she runs into the bathroom.
And wraps her arms around her crying husband.
There is nothing she can say. It will be a different life, and no doubt they will both be up to the challenge of facing it, but at the moment reality is hitting him hard.
"Fifty years…" he whispers, tears dripping into the sink. "Fifty bloody years, and this is how it ends."
For how long he is bent over, struggling with his grief, neither of them are aware.
She weeps with him. Selfish, she tells herself. But she can't help it.
There has never been a day that she has been at Downton Abbey when he was not the butler.
He has been by her side for all this time. Even during the Season, she felt his presence.
What will it be like now?
She grieves with him, too. For his dignity. For his pride. Of course there are so many things to be thankful for – his Lordship's gratitude not the least.
But in the wee hours of New Year's Day, they grieve together. For the end of a chapter in their lives.
He finally does pull himself together and finishes preparing for bed. When she turns off the lamp, he gathers her into his arms and they hold each other. In the darkness, in the silence.
He almost is ashamed of his need for her at such a moment. She is tired, as is he, and she will have to get up and go back to the house before the morning is done.
And yet as he presses a soft kiss to the back of her neck, beneath her ear, his heart leaps when she whispers his name.
"Charlie," she breathes, turning over. Their lips meet, and their hands do the same.
Whether his hands shake because of the palsy or because of his own desire, he hardly knows. But he loves her, and she cherishes him, their sighs and wordless whispers echoing in the room.
Only once do they speak.
"Stay with me," he pleads, his breath on her neck. She gasps. It is impossible for them to be any closer together.
"Always, love. Always."
Near Downton, 1926
"Hello?" She calls. She goes into their kitchen, and sees lunch laid out, but no sign of her husband. She drinks some water. The summer day is hot outside.
"In here, Elsie."
He's in their sitting room, with various items scattered on the loveseat, on the floor, on the ottoman. Books, papers, other assorted things.
"Still sorting?" She asks. "My, my. I didn't know we had so many things." She moves aside a wooden box, and sits next to him on the loveseat.
He kisses her, then gestures around them. "It isn't that we have an Abbey full of memories," he grins at her, "But the ones we do have are quite precious, and I find it very difficult to decide to…get rid of anything."
"I knew it," she shakes her head, her eyes sparkling. "You're a romantic, Charlie Carson, and I love you, but we can't keep every picture Miss Sybbie gives us."
"No, indeed," he laughs. "I've arranged those in piles over there-" he gestures to the floor, "-according to which ones are the most special to us. But I wanted to show you something in particular. I'm not sure what to make of it, to be honest."
She picks up Poppa's old handkerchief and the ribbon from the ottoman.
"What of them?" She asks. "You've seen them before. Miss Baxter sewed both very carefully into the inside of the coat Lady Grantham gave to me for our wedding, remember? They were my 'something old' and 'something blue'."
"Of course I remember! She did well to sew them so delicately without destroying them. But that's not what I wanted to show you." He leans across her, to the box she'd moved. He takes out a small embroidered cap. "My great-grandmother sewed this before her first child was born. All of their children wore it at their christenings, as far as I know. I know my father wore it at his, too. And I know I did. My mother left a little note with it, saying as much. That's why I ended up with it. But I'd forgotten about it until today."
Charles puts it in Elsie's hand. She marvels at how small it is, how small her big man was once. Then she frowns, holding it closer.
"This C embroidered on it…"
"It's almost exactly like the one on your great-grandfather's handkerchief. I know. Like I said, I don't know what to make of it."
Elsie holds the handkerchief in one hand, the cap in the other. She is completely baffled. "Well, as far as I know my great-grandfather Hughes never left Scotland. His sister Kit certainly didn't." She turns to her husband. "Maybe you have Scottish blood!"
He takes the cap from her, rubbing his thumb over the C. "Not likely. Everyone in my family as far back as I know, including my great-grandparents, were born and died in Yorkshire, not far from here."
They sit, pondering the mystery. Finally, Elsie sighs. "Well. I doubt we'll ever know for sure how this happened." She kisses him on the cheek. "Let's have something to eat. I know you're hungry-" They both smile when his belly rumbles. "-and maybe after lunch we can take a walk to the lake? It's a fine day as long as we stay in the shade."
"It's your half day. We can do whatever you like." He squeezes her shoulder, and they set the old items carefully into the box before going into the kitchen.
Narbonne, France, 1927
"Well? What do you think?"
Elsie turns to her husband rather reluctantly. The balcony of their hotel room overlooks the canal. "I…think it's quite pretty."
He puffs out his chest proudly. "It's quieter than Marseille. There are a number of vineyards to visit, and we can go see the Roman tunnels and part of the Via Domitia tomorrow. If you like."
She rolls her eyes, not wanting to give in. "Yes, there is quite a lot to see here. But if you think this changes my opinion of the blessed Lady Mary-"
"She thought we would enjoy it." He raises his eyebrows. "Are you actually saying you agree with her?"
"Maybe…I did think coming to France was a bit much, though!"
Charles tosses his hat onto the bed and goes to stand next to Elsie. He wraps his arms around her waist. "I thought the same. You know my opinion of the French, and anyplace foreign for that matter-"
She laughs, her eyes dancing.
Yes, I DO know your opinion of anything or anyone foreign.
"-But this was a gift from the family for your retirement. And mine, really," he admits. He kisses her hair. "You had your way with our wedding. We could hardly say no to this."
"Fair enough," she leans against him. "Let me freshen up, then we'll go down to dinner." Her eyes twinkle. "We can find out how you like their cooking."
Charles wakes suddenly in the darkness. As he moves, he hears the bed squeak.
Mmmm. I should have known.
Fortunately, his wife still is deep in slumber, her back against his chest. He lays there listening to her breathing.
He wonders what time it is. As he cannot seem to fall asleep, there seems to be no other alternative than to get up.
The bed complains when he does so, but Elsie remains asleep. He turns on a small lamp, smiling at how peaceful she looks.
Now that she is retired, she can sleep as long as she wants.
Peeking outside, the first faint hint of light is in the east. He shivers a little on the balcony.
She wakes slowly. It is so very nice to wake to one's own tune, and not to someone knocking on the door. Sitting up, she rubs her face.
Where is he?
There is some light peeking through the balcony door, but otherwise it is still dark. She pulls on her dressing gown.
He startles a little when she slips her hand into his.
"Are you cold?"
"Not now that you're here," he gives her a hug, then lingers on her lips for a while. "Did I wake you?" He smooths his thumb along her hairline, moving her braid over her shoulder.
"No." She links her fingers through his once more. "But I wondered where you'd gone."
"I couldn't sleep, so I thought I'd watch the sunrise."
They stand silently, almost holding their breaths, as the sky brightens from grey, then blushes pink. Both of them blink when the sun breaks the horizon.
"Beautiful," she whispers, her hand up to shield her eyes from the glare.
"Yes. I can't remember the last time I watched a sunrise," he says softly. "Both of us have stayed up through the night before." He squeezes her hand. "This was exquisite. But the best part of it is being here with you."
"I quite agree, Charlie."
They kiss softly as the sun climbs further into the sky.
The End.
A/N: I'm not totally satisfied with how this ended up going, especially the canon bits, but I hope you all liked it anyway.