"I won't pretend it's not taking some getting used to, Carson, but I am pleased for you. And Mrs Hughes, of course."

Charles bowed his head in a show of thanks as he handed his Lordship his hat. The two men would admit that moments such as these were both awkward and necessary. It didn't do for an Englishman to gush, but then it would be ungentlemanly to ignore the situation entirely. This, however, was the third time such a sentiment had been expressed since their engagement and whilst grateful, Charles was beginning to think something was amiss.

"I'm grateful for your understanding, my Lord. I do appreciate that these things can be disruptive."

The Earl brushed his words aside with a gesture of his hand, the other simultaneously settling the hat on his head. He made to head out, the wide doorway to the driveway already open where her Ladyship and Lady Mary sat waiting in the car. A day at the races lay ahead and he'd made it especially clear they were not to be late. This seemed entirely natural to Charles who knew his Lordship had an interest in the favourite running in the first race. It was odd then that he took two paces, stopped, and came back.

"My Lord?"

"Look, Carson, this is all well and good, but we're both men of the world so I'm just going to come out and say it. And if you're offended, just tell me and I'll never broach the subject again. But if you feel I can be of help then you must say."

Rendered mute by such a declaration, Charles merely nodded and waited with curiosity.

"The thing is, her Ladyship wondered if Mrs Hughes was expecting something more from the engagement."

"More, m'Lord?" Charles asked, somewhat baffled. "Do you mean the question of when? I admit we are dragging our heels somewhat on that front.

"No, not the date. A ring. Lady Grantham tells me they are quite the rage these days for all of, er... society. Though quite why is beyond me."

Charles hesitated in his reply, floundering first as to his opinion on the matter and then what might be deemed an appropriate response. But the conversation could go no further as Lady Mary re-entered the Great Hall from the outside, her dress billowing behind her such was her haste and gave her father a look that had him hurrying away. Scurrying might have been a better word, Charles mused to himself, if an Earl could ever be described in such a manner.

He didn't dwell on what had been hinted at, instead began his rounds of the ground floor, starting with the Dining Room. As he entered, he almost collided with Andy, a wide silver tray laden with the last of the breakfast things, broadening the young man's presence considerably. Charles moved graciously aside to let him past and cast his eye over the room. The smell of kippers hung lightly in the air and a window had been opened slightly to help clear it. The resulting breeze was a welcome contrast against the suppressive heat emanating from the fireplace, the temperature kept in balance for those who had so recently been seated at the table. To his experienced eye, all seemed well enough and so he moved on, crossing in front of the grand staircase to the Drawing Room and then the Music Room beyond. It was rare that the first of these rooms was anything other than pristine. Although used in the evening the presence of the ladies seemed to encourage positive behaviour by all. However, the room adjoining it was a different matter entirely. You never knew when a half drunk whisky glass was to be discovered having been left behind a curtain, or an ashtray left abandoned in a closed desk drawer. It was true that what the footmen missed (and frequently did) the maids would likely tidy come the morning. And he'd admit they were rather good at spotting these hidden treasures as they went about their daily business. But he also knew of Elsie's barely concealed glee when it was one of her girls that uncovered the family's misdemeanours in this manner and so he went to particular lengths to not let this be the case. However, all seemed well today and so, once more, he moved on.

The Library was quiet and still and half cloaked in darkness. It was fitting testament to the Dowager Countesses continued influence that at her insistence the shutters remained closed well past breakfast so as to safeguard it from the brunt of the morning light, a diktat that Charles was wholly in support of. But as he looked around the room now it spoke to him. The books that lined the shelves were dulled, their titles without the means required for their titles to shine, but then not were there the shafts of light in which the dust would inevitably dance. The scattered brass and silverware was similarly affected, as were the highly polished wooden surfaces. Their sheen was missing as was their tarnish, and perhaps this applied to him too

His gaze landed on the clock sitting on the mantelpiece, its ticking and tocking consuming him for a moment before other, more worrying thoughts tumbled through his mind.

A ring? Is that what was expected these days? Is that why she seemed less keen than she had at the beginning? Did she need a symbol of his commitment in addition ot a proposal? Or was it simply the rapidity of things? The absence of a courtship, of wooing of any kind? The world had shifted, that much he knew, but surely Elsie didn't need any of that, and if she did he was proud enough not to ask his Lordship for help, however well meaning the offer.

His musings continued in this vein and kept him occupied to such an extent that he didn't notice his betrothed entering the room at the far end, her light tread on the rug not giving her away until she appeared at his side. He jolted at her sudden proximity, her arm barely half an inch from his. He wanted to greet her, to check she was well, as he has striven to do ever since she'd accepted him, but he couldn't quite manage it, not now, not with his thoughts so twisted up in knots. And so instead he simple stood there, silent and brooding.

"I take it they got away alright," Elsie said at last and almost to herself, "I heard the car's departing."

"Yes, as expected," Charles confirmed, his tongue sufficiently loosened with the arrival of firmer, more familiar ground, "The weather looks as if it will hold which is good, though I can't imagine they'll be outside much given the chill in the air."

"I did wonder at them going," she replied, "But then it's not for us to pass judgement."

"Indeed not, Mrs Hughes," he began tersely but stopped and cleared his throat. "But I'm sure you've that in hand."

"If you mean to suggest that I may have advised Miss Baxter and Anna to guide the ladies towards layers and thicker fabric then you'd be entirely correct, Mr Carson."

He looked down to see the tiny smirk on her lips as she spoke and felt the tug of his own. These were the moments he cherished, the easy teases that she subjected him to. Perhaps she thought he didn't notice, but he wasn't as blind as all that. Well, not always.

"With the family away for the duration, we have the chance of a quieter day," he started, "I wonder if..."

She looked up, her eyes questioning, bringing him up short for a second.

"What Charlie," she said softly, "What do you wonder?"

It was a question that went unanswered, the clatter of something being dropped out in the hall enough to have both their heads whipping around towards it, frowns etched with equal depth upon both their faces. They moved as if one towards the door, Charles half step ahead as his long legs allowed, his hand pulling open the door to reveal the sight of Moseley bent away from them, crawling on his hands and knees collecting up what pieces were left of the vase that has smashed on the floor.

They both listened to his stuttered apology, his rushed explanation of how he'd been simply removing a dead bloom or two that he'd spied on passing, only for a door to slam somewhere upstairs, shocking him to the extent that his hand had jumped and the whole display had come crashing down.

Elsie encouraged the man to his feet and offered her usual dose of firm condolence; the one that left the guilty feeling both suitably told off and reassured. Charles watched as they disappeared around a pillar, Moseley continuing with his grovelling apology as she merely reiterated the need to fetch a dustpan and brush. For his part, Charles remained at the scene. To others it would seem as if he were there to keep an eye on the shards of broken porcelain that were strewn across the floor. Yet, that action belonged to an easier time, one where his sole happiness was not dependent on another.

"I wonder if you'd grant me the pleasure of your company later," he muttered under his breath, "Perhaps a walk to the lake, or into the village."

No, that wasn't enough. They'd done that enough times over the years. He tried again.

"I wonder if you'd like to go to the pictures one evening."

He shook his head. No, not that.

"Elsie, I wonder if you might consider..."

"Consider what?" came an amused voice from behind him. He spun round, face red with embarrassment as he realised he'd forgotten to whisper.

"I, err, um...well, that is..."

"Yes?" Elsie encouraged, her eyes sparking at what he imagined was his discomfort.

"Nothing," he concluded, "I was talking to myself."

"You were talking to me," she corrected, followed by a look of curiosity that nearly had him confessing. But he couldn't do it, not here, not the Great Hall when anyone could discover them.

He held her gaze, and she his, just for a moment and he went to speak again but the words stuck, like dry toast to the roof of his mouth, and he couldn't make them come. Then before he could do anything to let on that there was something he wanted to ask, so many things his heart wanted to whisper to hers, events rather took over. Moseley reappears, the requested dustpan and brush in hand, followed by a concerned Miss Baxter who immediately sized up the situation and took control of the clean up as well as the need for a replacement flower arrangement.

With eyebrow raised, he looked on and then, satisfied his presence was no longer required, headed towards the servant's staircase. He could pretend that returning to the downstairs to check all was well was his prime motivation, that he must ensure luncheon was underway, that shoes were being shined and trousers pressed. He could delude himself that tomorrow's visit from Mrs Crawley was yet to be confirmed and needed his attention, that the wine cellar required an audit, or that he was simply due a short respite. But it would all be a lie, to himself and the world, because his focus was only on one thing and that was the rapidly departing figure of the housekeeper.

Moving swiftly but with the calmness that was second nature by now, he caught her up just as she began her descent. Where her shoes echoed on the stone steps, his were quieter and it gave him the chance he needed. As he drew almost alongside, he let his fingers brush against hers where they held the gathered material of her skirts. She started but kept moving, clearly not wishing to let on that she felt his touch whilst not wanting to pull away either. Emboldened he continued to keep pace as they continued downward, almost shoulder to shoulder in the narrow space, the soft swish of material brushing against the wall soothing his nerves until, all too quickly, they reached the bottom and the moment they should go their separate ways, but neither did.

"I wonder, Elsie," he murmured, "Would you do me the honour of being my guest at dinner one evening?"

Through thick lashes she looked up and smiled, more shyly than he might have imagined and with cheeks perhaps pinker than they were a minute before.

"I'd like that," she replied simply, her words accompanied with a gentle nod.

His astonishment was hard to disguise."You would?"

"Of course," she confirmed, "I'll admit to not knowing much about marriage, but I'll venture we're going to need a bit more than tea and cake on which to build it."

And with that she was gone. He thought he'd seen her smile, smirk even, but it could have been the light and suddenly he let out a deep breath, one he didn't know he'd been holding. It was going to be alright, he thought. Everything was going to be fine.

Well, this turned out slightly more meandering than anticipation, but then Charles is more meandering than he'd like to think so perhaps it's appropriate after all...