The draft that swept through the attic bedrooms was well known to all who slept there. It began at one end of the long corridor thanks to the slightest of cracks in a window that was so long overdue for replacing that it had fallen off the bottom of every list of repairs compiled in the last two decades, and from there its irritation grew. The doorway separating the male from the female quarters was not enough to quell its determination, there being like every door on the floor a quarter inch gap at the bottom. By the time the icy wind whipped under hers, Elsie fancied it had taken on a life of its own. She felt it swirl around her ankles as she stood in front of the mirror before it strengthened briefly, the result, she knew, of the bathroom door being open and closed again, before it died down, only to reappear a moment or two later.

Elsie sighed with agitation and grabbed the blanket that was nearly folded across the foot of her bed. Rolling it up into a sausage shape and crossing to her door pressed it into service, cursing under her breath the ridiculousness of having to live in such a manner. The farm her parents had tenanted had known some harsh winters but drafts had not been tolerated. Motivated by the strongest of desires to keep his family if not in anything resembling comfort, at least warm, he was like a banished against the cold. Cracks in the walls were immediately filled with newspaper or rags, and if anyone in the area was ever known to be getting rid of a square of carpet Mr Hughes was known for securing it by any means for his abode. It has been a shock then, to a young Elsie pressed into service after turning her back on the life of a farmers wife, that there were colder places to sleep than a stone farmhouse in the Highlands.

She nudged the makeshift draft excluder with her foot, encouraging it to sit more snuggly against the foot of the door. Frowning at it, almost daring it to move, she was eventually satisfied and moved back to where she'd been standing and took up her hairbrush once more.

"Electric lights and a chair in each room as well. Then it's true what they say. The folk at Downton Abbey don't know they're born."

The recollection of these words spoken by a visiting lady's maid came to her from nowhere, but she could hear them as clearly as when they'd been spoken, the surprise and jealousy in their voice unmistakeable. Elsie could remember feeling an odd sense of pride that she had earned herself such a position, but as she glanced around her room now she could only feel a growing sense of dejection at her surroundings. She had a chance of escape, of her own cottage, decorated according to her own wishes and without any need of blankets anywhere other than the bed. But the dream in her mind had faded, events had seen to that, and now she was left floundering as to what on earth she should do..

Elsie wrapped her arms around her to stave against the chilled evening air as she waited, rocking on the soles of her feet and feeling very much like a wee young thing waiting for her beau. Which of course she was in a way, not so much the young part but the other part and she half giggled at the thought. It was all still so very unlikely. The sound of the latch on the courtyard entrance door had her turning around, ready to greet him with a willing smile, but it seemed Charles was not of the same mind.

He stooped as he exited from the servants quarters, his face angled towards the ground but she could tell straightaway the mood he was in. And when he finally looked up, her heart sank. His expression was set in a dour expression, one he reserved only for his most disappointed of moods. She always found her tempted to tease him out of it, to prod and poke the bear until it growled. But this evening was too important and so she restricted herself to a simple hello before focusing almost entirely on keeping up, his long stride outpacing hers by some margin. Had he taken the time to slow down, he would have noticed the beauty of the sky, the sun having long since dipped away below the horizon to leave milky black with the gentle twinkle of stars whose brightness would only grow. But they weren't lost on Elsie as her disappointment only grew the longer his silence persisted. As they reached the bus stop, it finally broke.

"I don't understand, Elsie," he began, with shoulders slumped as if the world was ending rather than simply progressing, "Studying Ancient Greece and conjunctive adverbs. What's the point? What good can it do?"

"The point," Elsie offered, "Is that no everyone wants a life of service. We've done alright by it but Daisy is not us."

No, she certainly is not," he'd bristled, suddenly looking up directly at her. "And you forget we didn't need bits of paper to work our way up. Hard work, that's all anyone needs."

Elsie rolled her eyes and went to speak, to point out the flaw in his argument, but had been about to speak when the bus appeared around the corner. With an outstretched arm, Charles indicated she should step up into the bus first and then paid both their fares whilst she made her way down the aisle. Finding a seat, she sat down and then, seeing him heading towards her, suddenly realised that of course he'd be expecting to sit beside her. She slid as far towards the window as the bench seat would allow and then tried to hide her blush as she did indeed squeeze his broad frame next to hers.

The journey was agony. His shoulder pressed flush against her own, the scent of his cologne swirling deliciously around her whenever the bus turned a corner and the breeze from the open window blew it towards her. His hands remained resolutely on his thighs, palms pressed flat against the dark grey material of his trousers. It was as if he were holding something down which, in one particularly dangerous moment she'd allowed herself to imagine whether one day those very hands would be pressed flat against her own skin, holding her to his chest. She'd turned her head to focus on the world rushing past for fear he'd see her skin turn as red as beetroot at the idea and suppressed the urge to fan herself. Very few words were exchanged as they travelled through village after village, the odd comment on the number of passengers getting on, the sight of a pretty view over a hedgerow, until at last the outskirts of Ripon approached and both their attentions were taken up with making sure they got off at the right stop.

Set back from the main road, the restaurant was protected from the worst of the traffic by a smart patch of green which at its centre sat an elegant memorial to those lost in the Great War. Elsie could see the names etched on its white limestone base despite the darkness and could sense Charles looking at it as they passed and imagined him to be busy comparing it to their own in the village. She was tempted to ask him his thoughts but the evening's precarious start had her erring on the side of caution and silence once again ruled large.

A loud knock brought Elsie round from her remembrance of the evening, her hand jumping to her chest to calm the frantic beating of heart. She glanced at herself in the mirror and frowned. With hair unpinned and not yet braided and her thick winter dressing gown long overdue for renewal she was barely fit to be seen, but knowing who it would be, disturbing her at such an hour, she simply resigned herself to any judgement that might follow.

"I thought you might need this," Beryl offered as Elsie opened the door to find her closest friend and long-time adversary standing there with a small tray. "The draft up here tonight calls for a cup of cocoa."

Elsie stood back as Beryl bustled in, fussing about where best to put the tray and where they should both sit, providing the welcome distraction of activity before they'd both be required to face what was to come - an inquisition that one couldn't help but lead, and the other could hardly refuse.

The restaurant was as elegant a place as she could remember being in. Not that it compared to anything that the Crawley's would consider suitable for an evening out, but the Downton Arms it was not but that the tablecloths were starched white linen and the cutlery polished silver marked her presence there as remarkable. But if the surroundings were extraordinary, the progress of the meal was not. Menus were presented, the food choices mulled over and discussed, and the wine order given the consideration it deserved. The waiters were attentive and deferential, their polite enquiries as to their requests listened to and responded to efficiently. The gentle hum of their fellow patrons merged with a clink of metal on porcelain, the softly played tunes of the musicians enhancing the atmosphere. It made conversation between them easy and before their starters had even arrived, they were themselves and all thoughts of others were far from their minds.

The evening ventured on and in such a happy manner that, as the end of the meal beckoned, Elsie dared to revel in its success. With Charles was momentarily taken up with a severe but friendly debate with the sommelier as to the best accompaniment to their dessert, she allowed herself a small amount of pride at how far they'd come. From the sweetest of proposals to the discomfort of making the announcement, from the trials of disbelieving looks from the family, staff and even the village to the difficulties of arranging a night out together, it seemed as if they were going to make it after all.

"So he didn't...you know..." Beryl stuttered, "Not even at the end, when you got back?"

Elsie shook her head in confirmation.

"Did he even try?"

"Well, if he did then it wasn't obvious to me," Elsie replied. "He just said goodnight and that he wished me sweet dreams."

"Well!"

"Well indeed!"

The two women sat for a minute, alternating sips of their hot drinks with puzzled frowns and incoherent murmurings of surprise.

"I wasn't exactly expecting to be wined and dined and swept off my feet exactly, but...well, I presumed perhaps..."

"Of course, you did," Beryl agreed, keen to agree and show her support. "So did I. I mean, I've not had much experience in this line, but one has, um, expectations. Modest and respective ones, I'm sure, but expectations nevertheless. A kiss would hardly be out of the way of things, after all."

Elsie reddened at the implication and stared at the smear of chocolate powder at the bottom of her cup. A stinging feeling behind her eyes seemed to spring up from nowhere, the feeling of moisture pooling in the corners. She moved hurriedly to tidy away her cup, hoping to create a distraction behind which to hide, just for a bit longer, but she should have known better.

"What is it you're not saying?" Beryl asked suddenly, "There's something, Mrs Hughes."

She turned to face her friend, her face staring up at her from where she remained seated with curious concern. Elsie considered for a fleeting moment denying anything was amiss, forming instead a pretence that it was everyday tiredness that was causing the strain etched under her eyes and in the crows feet she tried hard to ignore at every glance in the mirror. But it was no good and so she nodded.

"To coin a phrase, Mrs Patmore, I've blown it. At least, I think I have. Or at least am about to. Oh, I don't know!"

She gave an uncharacteristic groan of frustration and sat down hard on the bed which let out such a loud creak of protest that it had both their eyebrows shooting upwards.

"I don't understand," Beryl tried after a minute, "What have you done? Or not done?"

"Well, that's the question, isn't it? Or at least the answer," Elsie answered cryptically, "Both, I suppose."

"Eh?"

Elsie steadied her breath and took a large lungful of air just for good measure.

"I've said yes now, haven't I? We've been on a, what do the young ones call it, a date. And it was lovely, certainly, And he was a gentleman as you'd expect, but…"

Beryl leant forward. "But what?"

"I wanted him to kiss me," she confessed, her voice dropping to a whisper, "To do something, anything. But when he didn't, well, it was such a relief."

She paused, the room suddenly airless as the two women contemplated each other, both waiting with baited breath for the words that had to be said but neither particularly wanted to hear, the implications of which were as yet unknown.

"So, maybe it was only ever about the house. For both of us, I mean. A way of having some kind of life after this place. Oh, heavens, what if it was never about the two of us at all?"