Downton Abbey 1. Chapter 1

With a shaky hand she held the lantern out in front of her. Her bare feet padded softly against the cold stone floor. Heart pounding, she found the staircase and quickly made a silent ascent. At the upper landing, she turned her eyes toward the darkened corridor of the men's dormitory. This was foreign and forbidden territory within the house, yet oddly enough she felt no shame or caution. Quietly she moved, passing door after door, unsure which one would lead her to him. She'd only seen his private quarters once in all her years at Downton-and that had been shortly after her arrival. The hallway seemed to grow longer and longer and she felt the air around her suddenly turn uncomfortably warm._ It's a mistake_, she thought. _Just turn and go back down. No one will ever know..._

It was then she noticed the faint glow of light seeping out under a door at the end of the hall. _That's it...that's his room, _she made a mental declaration. The thought that he was awake-and possibly waiting for her-made her heart race even faster. Her feet followed suit, moving her quickly toward the waiting door. The distant chime of the clocks downstairs played a rhythm with the keys hanging at her waist and in seconds, she found herself at the passageway to his bedroom. Tiny beads of sweat had formed on the back of her neck and the heavy air hung 'round her like a woolen blanket, forcing her to pause and take a breath. She lowered the lantern to her side and wiped a few strays away from her eyes. Elsie Hughes had two options: return to the women's dormitory at once or go to him, risking reputation, position, and her heart. With a second breath, she rested her hand lightly on the doorknob, knowing deep within there was only one real choice.

She turned the knob as noiselessly as possible and peeked inside. A single taper atop a nightstand threw warm golden light around the room, which didn't look at all as she remembered. An enormous four poster bed draped in layers of gauzy white linen filled the center of the space. It was stately and regal and nothing like the beds in the other servants' quarters. The outline of his large frame, while hidden by the drapery, was indeed familiar. She had committed every line and angle of his person to memory in their eighteen years together. His body shifted and a soft and satisfied-sounding sigh escaped him. _Just go to him...it's what you want...it's what you've always wanted..._

She abandoned the lantern at the door and moved toward his bed, no longer conscious of right and wrong as she pulled a collection of pins from her hair with each step. It was still slightly wet from their walk in the mist earlier that evening and fell like damp ribbons down around her shoulders. She longed to feel his hands move through it-those heavy, stern hands that demanded perfection during the daytime hours yet turned soft as he poured glasses of wine during their late night chats. Those hands that caressed the ivory keys of the piano downstairs, producing haunting melodies that stayed with her for days. She imagined the feel of his hands upon her skin, knowing that his touch would elicit a much sweeter song than that which she'd secretly carried inside herself.

She'd become someone else now, her robe falling to floor around her feet. The keys found a quiet spot on the stand beside the candle before her fingers went to work on the buttons of her nightgown. Methodically she unfastened each one, her eyes focused sharply on his back. His face was turned away from her and she wondered what his eyes would convey when he felt the warmth of her body.

"I love you, Charles Carson..." she whispered, pulling back the linen drapery. "I have always loved you."

The passionate feelings inside her instantly turned to ice as she met the cold, jealous eyes of Lady Mary, her beautiful, pale, naked body wrapped protectively within his.

She was still locked inside this bizarre dream when she felt a tiny hand upon her shoulder. It startled her and she turned over to find the curly haired silhouette of a petite frame beside her bed.

"Sybbie?" She sat up with a start. "What on earth-where's Nanny?"

"I want my Daddy." She whispered through tears.

She quickly lit the lamp beside her bed. Squinting, she read the clock on the nightstand. Two fifty-six. The tiny girl was breathing heavy and she could feel the heat radiating from her body. A hand to her forehead confirmed her suspicions.

"Let's get you back upstairs."

She lifted her up into her arms and made the trek to the nursery with hasty, barefoot steps. Carefully she placed her limp body back in her bed, trying hard not to wake sleeping Baby George in the next crib. She reached for a well-loved doll and nestled it lovingly beside her. With a light touch, she brushed wisps of dark hair back away from her sweet face and smiled down at her.

"I'll be right back, okay?"

She slipped into the dressing area of the adjoining room and to the large wash basin. She filled it with water from the porcelain pitcher and returned a minute later with a cold, wet cloth. With a loving hand, she held it against Miss Sybil's brow. She was almost three now-smart, gregarious, and looking more like her father every day. Her lips were dry and she could see her body beginning to shake. She knew her temperature was high and it didn't take long for her fevered body to steal all the coolness from the cloth.

"Nanny!" She called out into the quiet night; her panicked voice echoing loudly off the wood floors.

Within seconds she heard fast footsteps coming down the hall. He entered the nursery, surprised to see Mrs. Hughes hovering above the crib. The light from the dressing room fell across them and he knew immediately that something was wrong.

She looked up at him with eyes full of worry. "She's burning up."

"Keep the cloth cold. I'll ring for Dr. Clarkson." Mr. Carson replied.

His words were direct but not filled with alarm. He disappeared from the doorway and she could hear him taking the stairs two at a time. She dipped the cloth in the basin once more and returned to the crib. Within a few minutes Mr. Carson returned, followed by Anna.

"Mrs. Hughes, what happened?" Anna spoke with concern.

"I don't know. One moment I was sleeping and the next I felt her little hand on my arm."

"She was in your room?" Mr. Carson asked, confused. "But how?"

"I couldn't say. How she managed to navigate the labyrinth of staircases and corridors in her state..." Mrs. Hughes turned her eyes back to the child. "I don't recall her ever setting foot downstairs."

"I've checked on Nanny. She's burning with fever as well and can barely sit up in bed." Anna added. "Mrs. Patmore is in with her now."

"Perhaps we should move Miss Sybil into another room. If Nanny has taken ill, it's obviously very contagious...and we don't want George stricken." He glanced toward Mary's sleeping baby boy.

"Good idea, Mr. Carson." Anna confirmed. "I'll light the fire in the green room and turn down the bed."

"Please bring some fresh water for the basin as well." Mr. Carson said as Anna exited the room.

He moved over to the crib and looked down at the tiny girl. "I'm right here, Miss Sybil. And Mrs. Hughes too. We're going to take good care of you." He moved his fingers tenderly through her sweet brown curls.

Mrs. Hughes felt a place inside her tighten, seeing this softer side of him. She had glimpses of it now and again, especially during the quiet moments they so often shared at the end of hard day.

Anna returned a few minutes later and announced that preparations had been made. Carefully Mr. Carson lifted the young girl from her crib and cradled her protectively in his arms. Mrs. Hughes followed behind him, remembering the doll and her favorite soft blanket. Miss Sybil never moved or uttered a sound as they moved her down the hall and into one of the guest rooms.

It wasn't long before Dr. Clarkson arrived. He was quickly ushered upstairs by Mr. Bates, who shared a summary of the late night events. He checked both patients, deciding after a short time that it was probably nothing too serious. Medications were administered along with orders for several days bed rest. Within an hour, the house settled back into quiet, with only Mr. Carson and Mrs. Hughes still at Miss Sybil's bedside. Her tiny body looked even smaller as it lay in the ornate canopied bed. Thankfully, her chills had subsided and she appeared to be lost in happy childhood dreams.

"I think the medicine is finally working." Mrs. Hughes sat down beside her, exhaling with relief.

"She gave you quite a scare, didn't she?" Mr. Carson sat down on the opposite side of the bed.

"That she did. I honestly don't know how she ever made it to my room." Mrs. Hughes shook her head. "And I honestly don't know how you heard me call out for Nanny when you were asleep on the other side of the house."

"I wasn't asleep." Mr. Carson confessed. "I wake up about this time every night. The curse of my age, I guess."

"But still, even if awake, how you could have heard me-"

"I was polishing riding boots and cuff links in His Lordship's dressing room." He shared another confession.

"Polishing boots and cufflinks?" Mrs. Hughes gave him a sideways glance. "In the middle of the night?"

"If I can't sleep, I might as well get ahead on some of my duties."

"Yes, but those are _Mr. Bates's_ duties."

"Bates and I have a little understanding. When I can't sleep, I help out with _other things_and in return, he picks up extra slack for me when necessary."

"Sounds like an extremely profitable arrangement...for Mr. Bates." She teased.

"It believe it's what one would refer to as a _win-win_." He gave her a knowing wink.

"So that's how you do it?" She grinned. "And all this time I thought there must be two of you running around this house." Her smile widened. "I've always wondered how you were able to accomplish so much in the span of a day."

"And now you know my secret." He smiled back. "Can I trust you to keep it?"

"You can trust me with anything, Mr. Carson." She replied.

They smiled at one another for a second longer than was probably appropriate.

"Mr. Carson, why don't you go on to bed? I will stay the rest of the night here with Miss Sybil."

"I was just about to suggest the same to you." He spoke softly.

"You have a big day tomorrow, with the Crawley's returning from London and-"

"And you as well, Mrs. Hughes."

"Well there's no sense in both of us being tired. You go on up and get a few hours in you. I'll be fine."

"Are you absolutely certain?" He asked, his eyes filled with genuine concern.

"Good night, Mr. Carson." She said firmly.

"Before I go," He stood, adjusting the belt to his robe. "Let me freshen up this cloth once more.

He shuffled over to the basin and the room fell silent. She watched him, noting how much she like the mussed state of his hair. A curl that he normally slicked down into submission was free, falling down upon his forehead. It gave him a youthful quality and her mind wandered for a moment, trying to envision him as a younger man.

"Daddy..." The tiny girl called out into the night.

"There, there, Dear..." Mrs. Hughes repositioned herself in the bed and pulled the young girl's body lovingly to her own. She'd done the same with Lady Sybil during her young years. They'd always been close. And thus, her maternal instinct was strong with this child. Losing Lady Sybil had been one of the most painful moments of her life. She hated the thought of Miss Sybil growing up without a mother, just as she herself had.

Mr. Carson turned back to them, surprised by the picture before him-Mrs. Hughes, cradling the sick child and humming softly, eyes closed. He stood frozen for a moment, watching her and making note of the tenderness she offered. Her body appeared completely relaxed and it was then that he noticed for the time that she was not wearing a robe. Obviously, her concern had been solely that of the child in her arms and not her state of dress. Her thin cotton nightgown highlighted her curves and left little to his imagination. Not that he needed any reminding. He'd seen and loved her body in his mind for years. His eyes traveled down the length of her-her legs bare and exposed below the knee. No other woman had ever been so beautiful to him...and seeing the great care which she gave Miss Sybil sent his mind racing back to the last private conversation they shared inside his pantry, just two night previous...

_"Do you ever wish you'd gone another way? Worked in a shop or a factory? Had a wife and children?" She asked softly, bringing the wine glass to her lips._

_"Do you?" He countered._

_"I don't know. … Maybe. Sometimes". She answered with honest eyes._

Not wanting to wake either of them, he stole up beside the bed as quietly as he could. Gingerly, he placed the cloth upon the girl's forehead. Neither stirred, and he decided now was the time to make his exit. He spied a blanket folded neatly on the chair in the corner. Carefully he draped it across her body, taking one last long look at the peaceful face of the woman he so loved. As he did, she opened her sleepy eyes and looked up at him.

"Thank you." She whispered with a thankful smile.

"If you need anything-anything at all-" He started.

"We'll be fine." She answered reassuringly. "It's probably just a twenty-four hour thing. It happens."

"Where are the bunnies?" Miss Sybil interrupted, whispering in a weak voice.

"What's that, Dear?" Mrs. Hughes leaned over her, unsure what she'd heard.

"Let's read the bunnies." The tiny girl begged.

"The bunnies?" Mrs. Hughes looked up at Mr. Carson, confused.

"I think she's referring to some pictures book by Beatrix Potter." He cleared his throat.

"Oh, I see."

"One day last week Nanny was having a time getting George down for a nap. I had a few minutes and offered to entertain Little Sybbie here. We read stories of Peter Rabbit and Benjamin Bunny."

He touched her head tenderly. "But the bunnies are sleeping now, Sweet Girl...and so must you. Well see the bunnies in the morning, I promise."

She held a tiny shaky hand out to him, urging him to stay.

He looked back at Mrs. Hughes, gripped by something in her deep blue eyes. Something that roped his soul and made him temporarily forget propriety.

"Would you mind if I stayed? Just until she's fallen asleep?" He asked.

"Of course not." She shared a soft smile.

He lit a single candle, extinguished the bright lamps and resumed his spot on the opposite side of the bed. Miss Sybil searched for his hand, lacing her little fingers through his when she found it. Mr. Carson's eyes locked on Mrs. Hughes. They stared at each other, Sybil's small body between them, for what seemed like an eternity. Her heart felt as though it might pound through her chest; beating so that she was sure he could hear it. Thoughts moved through her head like a runaway train. It was then she remembered her disturbing dream. And yet strangely it had partially come true. She was here, in a candlelit bedroom, with the man she longed to share her most intimate self with. She fought to hold his gaze, overcome by so many feelings. But he never looked away and with each second that passed, the image of Lady Mary in his bed grew hazier and hazier. She didn't say a word but smiled and closed her eyes...reaching out to cover their hands with her own.


	2. Chapter 2

The room was dark and it took a minute for her eyes to adjust. Little Sybil lay sleeping peacefully; her body no longer feverish. Judging by the sliver of sky she could see through the velvet drapery, it appeared to be early. Carefully she slipped out of bed, determined to shake off the sluggish feeling of just a few hours' sleep. The room was again chilly-the fire in the grate now little more than smoldering ash. She made a mental note to have it relit immediately and turned to make her way back downstairs. It was then she noticed her robe and slippers at the foot of the bed, folded neatly and at the ready. She smiled and silently thanked Anna _– That girl thinks of everything. I honestly don't know what I'd do without her!_

It was Anna that she met first, rounding the corner and heading her direction.

"I was just coming to check on you two." She said. "How's Little Sybil?"

"Resting comfortably. It appears that the fever broke. I'm ashamed to say I slept right through it."

"Well that's certainly good news."

"Have you checked on Nanny yet?" Mrs. Hughes asked.

"I just peeked in. She's still asleep. And poor Mrs. Patmore!"

"Don't tell me she's taken ill as well."

"No, but the poor dear slept in Nanny's room all night—in the chintz chair in the corner."

"Oh, not that awful chair."

"Beautiful to look at, but most uncomfortable." Anna agreed.

Mrs. Hughes shook her head. "She'll have quite the sore neck when she wakes up."

"Probably took her ages to fall asleep. I didn't have the heart to wake her."

"You did the right thing. Daisy and Ivy can handle breakfast. It's just us, after all."

"I've already seen to it. They're in the kitchen now – even Alfred is pitching in. Jimmy's on his way up to re-light the fires for our patients. Oh, and I asked Dr. Clarkson to send 'round a nurse first thing to oversee the nursery—that is, until Nanny is back on her feet. She should be here any moment."

"Well, Anna, once again you've thought of everything." Mrs. Hughes shared a warm, proud smile. "If I'm not careful, your organization and efficiency will soon have me out of a job."

"I seriously doubt that, Mrs. Hughes. There's no finer housekeeper than you." Anna returned her smile.

"I best get washed up and ready for the day." She brushed several unruly strands of hair away from her face. "The three o'clock train will be here before we know it."

"And so our short _holiday_ comes to an end." Anna sighed. "I best pop in and see if Baby George is awake."

"Off you go, then."

Mrs. Hughes turned and moved down the hall with quick steps.

"Oh Anna," she called, turning back. "Thank you so much for bringing up my robe and slippers. I would have been quite a site downstairs this morning in just my nightgown."

"I wish I could take credit for it, Mrs. Hughes, but it wasn't me."

"Well then, remind me to thank Mrs. Patmore when she wakes."

"Yes, ma'am." Anna grinned.

* * *

Their holiday had indeed come to an end—though it truly didn't qualify as such. Lord Grantham and company had been away less a week-estate business and several nights at the theatre. A trip so short by Crawley standards that they relied solely on their small London staff— leaving Carson and his staff back at Downton. The break in the stringency of their regular duties was more than welcome. Mr. Carson had once made the comment that the house seemed to breathe a little sigh of relief when the Crawley's departed…and Mrs. Hughes enthusiastically agreed.

She made it to her room without incident—seeing no one is passing. In truth, she was hoping to catch of glimpse of Mr. Carson. He was typically up and about first each morning, and she decided that he was probably head first into a long list of tasks_. I'll give his pantry door a knock on the way to the kitchen…_

* * *

The Crawley's train arrived promptly at three and it wasn't long before a caravan of cars delivered them safely to the front door. The house was a flurry of activity once more, as the staff sprang into action. She'd hoped to have an opportunity to chat with Mr. Carson—to thank him for his assistance with Little Sybil during the night. In truth, she wanted to look into his eyes—to see that hint of emotion that held her as they lay across from one another with nothing but the fevered body of a child between them. The image of them in the same bed had found its way into the forefront of her mind many times throughout the day—a picture she secretly framed and displayed on the wall of her heart. Sadly, she never met his eyes during the course of the busy day. There were final room preparations to be made. Flowers to be arranged. Trunks to be unpacked and mountains of laundry to be started. And with the commencement of the evening meal, she knew it would be a while until he returned to his pantry. She sat alone at the servants table in the dining area, feeling suddenly achy and tired. _I've pushed myself too hard on too little sleep…but I wouldn't trade last night for the world._

The thought had barely left her mind when Alfred appeared, a look of shock upon his freckled young face; his livery doused and dripping with port wine.

"Mrs. Hughes!" His voice echoed alarm. "Help me!" He pleaded.

"What happened?" Mrs. Hughes rushed to him, ignoring the lightheadedness she was experiencing.

"Mr. Carson asked me to fetch the after dinner port. He decanted it early today and it was on his desk in his pantry. I caught my toe on a loose floor board and jerked to right myself and when I did, well, this happened." He looked down the front of himself in disgust.

"Now, now, everything is going to be all right." She tried her best to reassure him.

"No it's not. I'm sorry Mrs. Hughes, but this is it. Mr. Carson will have me out on my ear at first light."

"Not if I have anything to say about it." She reached for his hand. "Now I want you to go and change quick sticks and meet me back in Mr. Carson's pantry."

"What are you going to do?" He asked; his eyes filled with uncertainty.

"Just leave everything to me, Alfred."

The young man turned and quickly moved out of sight. Mrs. Hughes wasted no time herself, fingering the keys on the ring at her waist as she strode intently toward Mr. Carson's pantry.

_Now then, let's see_… She scanned the shelves of the wine stores. _Why on earth would he have chosen a heavy port? Not with Mrs. Patmore's signature chocolate cake with strawberry glaze for dessert. _

Less than two minutes had passed when Alfred returned; his hair mussed and a wild look still in his eyes.

"Sparkling wine?" He shook his head at the decanter in Mrs. Hughes hands. "But he'd selected port for after dinner."

"Yes, I know. And that would be an incorrect choice." Mrs. Hughes walked passed him. "Follow me please." She commanded.

She led the way into the kitchen, where she confidently plopped a handful of fresh strawberries into the decanter. With a pleased expression, she held it out to Alfred with a grin.

"But Mrs. Hughes," Alfred started to argue.

"Mr. Carson knows a great many things, Alfred…but choosing the perfect aperitif for Mrs. Patmore's famous chocolate cake is not one of them." She shared a knowing wink. "Now off you go."

"But—"He shook his head again.

"Go!" She pointed up the stairs with authority.

* * *

Alfred mustered all the confidence contained inside his lanky frame and strode into the dining room. He had only to glance in Mr. Carson's direction to see the extreme displeasure that hung 'round him like a dense fog. Without a word, his eyes said everything. _Foolish boy! What in heaven's name took you so long to fetch the port?_

"I'm sorry, Mr. Carson." Alfred whispered, placing the decanter on the side board.

"I sent you to fetch _port._" He muttered through gritted teeth; words filled with anger.

"There was a slight…_accident_, sir." Alfred admitted sheepishly.

"Ah Carson, I see Alfred has returned." Lord Grantham spoke jovially. "How long are you going to keep Mrs. Patmore's chocolate layer cake from us?" He teased.

"Serving now, milord." Mr. Carson bowed his head slightly. Alfred caught his eye once more—and knew that it was but a matter of time until his bags were packed.

Dessert was swiftly served on elegant new china plates that Lady Grantham had purchased during their London trip. Mr. Carson poured each family member a glass of sparkling wine, hoping the discussion of the new plates would be enough to draw attention away from what he knew was a true faux-pas in terms of after dinner spirits. _Sparkling wine with fruit, indeed!_

"Why Carson," Lady Edith spoke as he filled her glass. "I had no idea you were so progressive."

"Ma'am?" He replied, unsure of her meaning.

"Sparkling wine with fresh fruit embellishment." She held her glass up for all to see. "Now we know how you've been spending your half days."

"I'm afraid I don't understand, milady." Mr. Carson confessed.

"This is the hottest aperitif in London." Lady Edith declared. "You haven't been sneaking into the big city in your free time, stalking the most acclaimed clubs, have you?"

"Certainly not, milady." Mr. Carson stood up a little straighter—his pride evident.

"And I hope _you_ haven't either." Lord Grantham gave his middle daughter a sly grin.

"I must say," Lady Cora began. "I do find this much more refreshing than that boring old port we normally have."

"I agree." Lady Mary added her two cents. "I think it suits Mrs. Patmore's chocolate cake much better." She held her now empty glass up in Mr. Carson's direction, clearly pleased. "Well done, Carson." She smiled.

"Well…yes…" Mr. Carson stammered a moment. "Uh, thank you, milady."

* * *

Being a young man of impeccable character, Alfred waited at the door of Mr. Carson's pantry—prepared to take his licks for the port incident. Not only had he spilled a very expensive wine, he'd also broken the decanter's crystal stopper in the process. Worst of all, he knew that he'd embarrassed Mr. Carson in front of the family. It didn't matter that they'd raved about sparkling wine. A tongue lashing was still eminent.

"Alfred, it's late." Mrs. Hughes met him in the hall.

"I'm just waiting for Mr. Carson, ma'am."

"Mr. Carson is speaking with Lord Grantham in the drawing room. Evidently we are to have a number of guests in a week or so. They are discussing preparations."

"Oh, I see."

"He might be some time yet. Why don't you go on to bed?" Mrs. Hughes urged.

"I honestly don't think I can sleep until I've sorted everything out with him first. Thank you, Mrs. Hughes, but I think I'll just wait."

"Suit yourself, then." Mrs. Hughes gave his arm a friendly pat.

Mrs. Hughes tried to stifle a yawn, feeling more sluggish and eager to turn in herself. The keys hanging at her side suddenly felt heavy, as did her legs.

"Mrs. Hughes?" Alfred called out.

"Yes?" She turned back to him.

"I want to thank you again…for helping me tonight."

"Don't thank me just yet…" She heard the unmistakable sound of Mr. Carson's footsteps on the landing above them. "

* * *

"Well, Alfred, you've never given me cause to ever doubt you before. You've always been honest and forthcoming. I understand it was an accident. Let's do be more careful in the future, shall we?" Mr. Carson's tone was firm but not frightening.

"Yes, sir. I thank you for your understanding, sir." Alfred nodded appreciatively.

"I'm understanding about the _accident_." He looked down to survey the loose board near the door. "I've had this repaired a half dozen times in so many years. It's a wonder I've not caught my boot on it myself. However, there is the _cost _of replacing the crystal stopper, and that will be coming—"

"Out of my wages, sir. I understand." Alfred hung his head.

"Out of the _household expenses account_." Mr. Carson's corrected. "This is a large house, Alfred. We serve thousands of bottles to hundreds of guests a year. A stopper's bound to get broken here and there."

"Thank you, Mr. Carson." Relief broke across the young man's face.

"If there's nothing further, I say we consider the matter closed and turn in."

"Agreed." Alfred smiled "Good night, Mr. Carson."

"Good night." He tried to bite back a grin.

He was almost out the door when Mr. Carson called out to him one last time.

"You're going to make a fine chef one day, Alfred. You have a very keen understanding of food and wine pairings. His lordship was very impressed…and so was I."

"I wish I could take credit for it, sir, but it wasn't my doing. It was Mrs. Hughes. She came to my aid while I changed my uniform."

"Mrs. Hughes?" Mr. Carson said her name, his voice barely above a whisper.

"It's not the first time she's rescued me from a jam. I reckon there's nothing that woman can't do, sir." Alfred spoke honestly.

"I _reckon_ you're right." He responded after a lengthy pause; a knowing smile curled around his lips.

Now alone in the pantry, he allowed Alfred's comments to linger in his head. The young man had said aloud the words that he'd secretly carried inside himself for years. Elsie Hughes was not just any woman. And like Alfred, she had rescued him from many a jam over the years. He'd wanted to spend some quiet time with her, to discuss the events of the night that had interrupted their sleep. But with the family's return, there simply hadn't been time. In fact, he hadn't seen her all day. At least, not since he'd tiptoed back into the suite to find her still sleeping peacefully beside Little Sybbie—their fingers intertwined. Selfishly he'd stood in the corner and watched them; her robe and slippers in his arms. There were moments where she'd unknowingly taken his breath away during their tenure at Downton. But seeing her body across from his in the predawn hours now topped the list.


	3. Chapter 3

**My apologies for not posting sooner. While the story is written in my head, I'm having trouble finding time in real life to get it down on paper. I hope the addition of two new chapters tonight will somewhat make up for my tardiness. Thanks to all who have left such supportive reviews. I truly appreciate your feedback!**

_"She's a beauty." She ran a hand along the horse's slick, black mane._

_"Yes, well, looks are most certainly deceiving in her case. She's the devil. A real handful." He stood in the back of the paddock, quietly polishing tack._

_"Oh now, I don't believe that for a minute." She continued to stroke the animal. "She looks so gentle."_

_"It's the gentle-looking ones you have to look out for." He teased, finding it hard to concentrate on the task at hand. "The ones that look innocent and sweet rarely are." _

_"How do you know so much about horses?" She asked, though she already knew the answer-she just enjoyed hearing stories of his youth. And any excuse to be alone with him in the paddock…_

_"From my father." He announced proudly. "He was an accomplished horseman. Worked in a big, fine house during my young years. I worked right along 'side him-taught me everything I know."_

_"So you ride?" She gave him a sideways look. "Somehow I just can't picture you atop a grand steed. A bicycle, perhaps…"_

_"Madame, I was practically born on the back of a horse." He continued to tease. "Not only do I ride, but I have been known to jump and shoot from horseback."_

_"I'd give up a month's wages to see that." She bit her bottom lip, trying to hide a flirtatious smile. "So, are you going to ask me or not?"_

_"Ask you what?"_

_"To go riding? Surely you don't think I'm satisfied by just your talk of riding."_

_"Absolutely out of the question." He shook his head._

_"Oh, I understand." She shook her head and tried not to laugh. "Talk is all it is."_

_"Mrs. Hughes, I don't think you're aware of the advanced skills necessary to ride any of his lordships horses."_

_"What you're saying is that you don't think I possess the necessary skill?"_

_"This is precisely what I'm saying."_

_"Sir, I was practically born on the back of a horse." She couldn't help but smile at him now, stealing his own words._

_"Of course you were." He rolled his eyes playfully._

_"I insist that you take me riding at once." She folded her arms across her chest, resolute to get her way._

_"Well, when you put it that way, milady…how can I refuse?" He continued their playful banter. "Which horse does her ladyship wish to ride?"_

_"I'll take this one here." She said after a moment of brief silence. "The beautiful one that's secretly a devil." She gave the horse a healthy pat on the neck. "What's she called?"_

_"Elsie." He said with a chuckle._

He was deep inside this dream when he felt a hand shaking his shoulder rather violently. Not fully awake, he struggled to identify the figure hovering over his bed.

"Mr. Carson, it's me." Thomas Barrow's voice broke the silence.

"What is it?" Mr. Carson sat up in bed, alarmed. "What's happened?"

"It's Mrs. Hughes, sir. I'm afraid she's taken ill."

"Mrs. Hughes?" He repeated. "But how did you-"

"I couldn't sleep. I was on my way outside to have a smoke. Mrs. Patmore was in the kitchen-scared me half to death. She was fetching a pitcher of water. Evidently, Mrs. Hughes has come down with the fever as well."

"I see. Has anyone thought to summon Dr. Clarkson?" Mr. Carson asked, pulling his robe around his broad shoulders.

"He's on the way. I made the call personally. I asked him to enter 'round back-so as not to wake the family. I hated to wake you, but felt you should know."

"Thank you, Thomas. You did the right thing by waking me."

"Is there anything else that I can do?"

"Just keep an eye out for Dr. Clarkson and bring him to Mrs. Hughes' room as soon as he arrives."

"Yes, Mr. Carson."

The two men parted ways and Mr. Carson headed straight for the women's dormitories. He was just steps from the door of her bedroom when Mrs. Patmore's frame came into view.

"Oh, Mr. Carson." She closed the door quietly, shaking her head in disbelief. "I'm afraid we're in for another long night."

"Thomas has rung for Dr. Clarkson. He should be here any moment." His gaze dropped to the floor for a moment. With a heavy sigh, he brought his eyes back up to Mrs. Patmore. "How is she?"

"I've never seen her this ill. She's so cold, but I've covered her with every blanket I can find. Her fever must be really high."

"This is all my fault. I should never have let her spend the night with Little Sybil." Mr. Carson confessed with a heavy heart.

"There's not a soul in this house that could put a stop to Mrs. Hughes. You know how she is when she sets her mind to something. She was going to stay with Sybbie with or without your blessing. I just hope that you haven't been exposed as well."

"I'm fine, Mrs. Patmore, and shall remain as such."

"Well, I pray that you do. I shudder to think how we'll fare with both of you bedridden." She sighed. "I'm going back to the linen closet and fetch another quilt."

"I'll sit with her until you return."

Mrs. Patmore disappeared down the dark corridor. He stood alone in the hallway for a moment; his hand resting lightly on the doorknob of her bedroom. He hadn't set foot inside her private space in several years-not since she'd come down with a mild case of pox. It had been a conscious decision on his part-one guided predominately by fear. Staff members fell ill and recovered time and again. In a house the size of Downton, it was a frequent occurrence and one of the reasons they employed such a large staff. No, he stayed away simply because he couldn't stand the thought of Mrs. Hughes- _his_ _Elsie_-stricken with illness.

The cancer scare had done something to him in regard to her health. Every sneeze, every cough…he automatically assumed the worst. He was constantly inquiring about her health. She'd even made a quip about it once and it had embarrassed him greatly. He tried to be more discreet in his inquiries-thankful that Mrs. Patmore often confided in him about wellbeing of the staff in general.

Quietly he tuned the knob and entered her room; his feet treading as lightly as a cat's paws. A single candle burned atop a bureau in the corner, throwing faint light around the room. There was a chill in the air, and he wondered why the fire hadn't been lit. The room smelled of lavender and lemon, her signature scents, which lifted his spirits somewhat. Without a sound, he moved a chair up to her bed and sat down. It took him a minute to work up the courage to look at her. His heart was beating rapidly as his eyes met her face. Her cheeks appeared red and flushed. Her hair fell in dark ribbons across her pillow. Her brow was furrowed and wrinkled-as though concentrating on a difficult task. He'd seen the same expression when she tried to make sense of Mrs. Patmore's loose, handwritten scrawl on the monthly grocery order. Her breathing was labored and heavy, and he worried that despite her chills, the weight of the blankets was too much. With a light hand, he folded the top layer back. Her body jumped, causing him to jump slightly.

"Beryl…" She whispered, eyes closed.

"It's me, Mrs. Hughes." He leaned in close. "Mrs. Patmore's gone to fetch another blanket, but I fear you can't breathe."

"Charles…" Her small, shaky hand appeared from under the edge of the bedding. "Oh Charles, I'm so cold."

Her voice was weak and small, like a child's. In twenty years, she'd never addressed him by anything other than _Mr. Carson_. Even in sickness, the sound of his name on her parched lips touched a place inside him that he'd kept hidden from the world. He reached and held her hand between both of his, surprised by the heat radiating from it.

"Dr. Clarkson will be here very soon." He whispered reassuringly.

"Please don't leave." She gave his hand the tightest squeeze her body could muster.

"I'm right here, Elsie…I'm right here." He squeezed back, lovingly.

The room fell silently for a several minutes. The simple act of speaking her name calmed him, and his heartbeat returned to a more normal rhythm. He continued to hold her hand, allowing his thumb to draw tiny circles on her palm. For all her years of manual labor, her hands were soft and elegant. The hands of a lady. In fact, her hands were one of the first things he truly noticed about her upon her arrival at Downton. The way she held her knife. The way she brushed her hair back off her forehead. The way she tapped her fingers on the table, lost in deep thought. Yes, he knew these hands well…and had longed to hold them this way for years.

Another fifteen minutes passed before footsteps and voices in the hall forced him to relinquish his grip. Carefully he tucked her hand back under the layers of bed linens and moved toward the door.

"How is she?" Dr. Clarkson asked as he entered the room.

"Her fever is high and her skin is quite hot to the touch."

"I can fetch a fresh basin of cool water if you like." Mrs. Patmore announced.

"Thank you, Mrs. Patmore. I'd like you to stay and assist me, if you're willing." Dr. Clarkson sat down on the edge of the bed—stethoscope in hand.

"Of course." She moved to the opposite side her bed and placed a loving hand upon her forehead.

"Is there anything I should do?" Mr. Carson inquired. "I could re-light the fire?"

"No, no, that would be counterproductive." He responded after listening to her heartbeat. "I'm afraid that with her fever this high, we'll need to get her into a bath." He began pulling the blankets back.

When the cool air of the room met her exposed body, she winced. Mr. Carson couldn't stand to watch her in pain and turned away.

"Mrs. Hughes, your fever is high and rising, I fear. We need to get you into a bath as soon as possible. Do you think you can sit up?" Dr. Clarkson asked, his words loud and firm.

"Don't go...to Mary…" She uttered, her words barely discernable. "She doesn't…love you…and I..."

"She's starting to become incoherent. We need to get her into a bath-now." Dr. Clarkson commanded. "Mr. Carson, we'll have to carry her."

"I'll go wake Daisy and Ivy—they can help." Mrs. Patmore moved quickly toward the door.

"And call Mr. Barrow as well." Mr. Carson added.

"I'm already here, Mr. Carson." Thomas stepped inside the bedroom.

Together the three men carried Mrs. Hughes down to the communal bath in the ladies dormitory. They placed her limp body in the tub, covered her with a large towel and began filling the tub with water. Tears rolled down her cheeks but she didn't make a sound. Her body shivered under the towel and he had to look away again—unable to watch her suffer. Daisy and Ivy arrived to assist the doctor, and Thomas and Mr. Carson excused themselves.

"Once we get her fever down, we'll get her dried and changed, We'll probably need your help getting her back into bed." Dr. Clarkson called out to them.

"We'll be right outside should you need us." Thomas answered for both of them.

* * *

A half hour passed before the door opened and Dr. Clarkson called for them. They entered the bath to find Mrs. Hughes sitting up on a chair beside the tub. She was dressed in a fresh gown and a dark blue robe hung around her shoulders. Tiny drops of water clung to the ends of her long brown hair. Her coloring was somewhat normal—her cheeks no longer as flushed. But her eyes told the real story, and Mr. Carson knew that she was not out of the woods yet. She looked up at him with a wounded sort of expression. He went to her, without a word to anyone, and slipped his arms around her waist. Carefully he helped her to her feet.

"Let's get you back into your bed." He whispered softly in her ear.

Thomas quickly lent a hand and together they guided Mrs. Hughes back to her room. Dr. Clarkson dispensed several medications and bid them good night. Thomas walked him down, with Daisy and Ivy in tow. Alone in the hall, Mr. Carson argued quietly with Mrs. Patmore.

"You were up with a sick child last night." She declared.

"And you spent the night in the most uncomfortable chair we own." He countered.

"Mr. Carson, go to bed. I can look after her."

"I'm sorry, Mrs. Patmore, but I cannot allow you to spend another night sleeping upright. I will stay with Mrs. Hughes until I am sure she's good and asleep." He raised an eyebrow.

"Very well then. I can see there's no point in arguing with you."

"I've always said you are a wise woman." He gave her a knowing look.

He watched Mrs. Patmore's shadow dance down the hall. With a deep breath, he stepped back into Mrs. Hughes' bedroom, closing the door softly behind him. Dr. Clarkson had given permission for the fire to be re-lit and thus he went straight to work. Working as quietly as he could, he stacked several logs in the grate and within a minute or two, he felt the warmth of the flames on his cheeks.

"Will you…read me…the bunnies?" Her voice broke over the sound of the crackling logs. It startled him and he quickly jumped to his feet.

"Shh, Mrs. Hughes, you're supposed to be asleep." He could feel himself smiling at the mention of what had been Sybbie's request the night before. _Even when gravely ill, she knows how to get to me._

"I have the book…" Her words were slow and heavy, and he knew the medicine was beginning to take effect. "it's right there…on the…shelf." She pointed a weak, shaky hand in the direction of her bookcase.

"All in good time." He resumed his spot in the chair beside the bed, once again taking her hand. "You rest now and we'll see about the book in the morning."

Her face relaxed and the room resumed its quiet. The only sounds came from the fireplace, as the logs shifted and turned to embers. Shadows moved along the walls and he thought back to her first day at Downton. There was nothing especially grand about their initial meeting. They were formally introduced by his lordship. They shook hands. It was all very professional. He thought she was attractive, but not in any real romantic sort of way. She was intelligent. Witty. And pleasant in conversation. Her style of dress was modest and somewhat surprising to him. She dressed like a woman much older than her true age. She had class, of that he was sure. They developed a friendship rather quickly—there was no competition between them, as there had been with the previous housekeeper. Mrs. Hughes was a team player from the start. She was firm when the situation called for firmness and soft when she felt she needed to be. And it was this softness that he'd observed over the years that kept him in a perpetual state of falling in love. _I will not lose you, Elsie Hughes. I will not be this close and let you slip away from me. _

"Charles…" She softly spoke his name once more.

"I'm right here." He reassured her, his hand wrapped securely around hers.

"Stay with me?" She asked.

"Forever." He promised, forgetting propriety as he pressed the back of her hand to his lips.


	4. Chapter 4

**This is it for a week or so. Hope you've enjoyed the new additions! Thanks to all who've left reviews. I certainly appreciate your kind words and continued readership!**

Her eyes fell upon a tall glass vase filled with beautiful cut flowers. The arrangement was simple yet elegant and she wondered when it had taken up residence on her bedside table. Her room was silent and judging by the shadows cast upon the walls by the fire, she guessed it late evening. Her head was beginning to feel clearer; the throbbing pain that robbed her of peaceful rest had subsided greatly. Tiny beads of sweat shined along her forehead and above her lip. Her legs felt restless, confined by layers of heavy bedding. She had one singular thought-_I must get out of this bed. _

A sudden rustling of sheets drew Mrs. Patmore's attention. She'd quietly sequestered herself in the corner chair, content to sit with her patient and catch up on a little apron mending.

"And just where do you think you're going?" Mrs. Patmore dropped her handwork into a wicker basket and quickly moved to her dear friend's bed.

"Oh, Beryl…" Mrs. Hughes tried to sit up. "I didn't know you were here."

"Welcome back to the land of the living." Mrs. Patmore placed a fresh, cool cloth on her forehead. "How're feeling, Love?"

"Like I'm on fire." She tried to push free of the bedding. "Where on earth…did all these…blankets come from?"

"We rounded up every blanket and quilt we could find, you were shivering so."

"What time is it?" Mrs. Hughes asked, still trying to get her bearings.

"Almost eight." Mrs. Patmore answered. "And it's Tuesday, just in case you've lost track of the days."

"Tuesday?" Mrs. Hughes looked confused. "But how can it—"

"Whatever illness grazed Little Sybil and Nanny grabbed hold of you for some reason and held on for dear life. We've all been worried sick. You've run high fevers off and on for three days. His Lordship and Lady Grantham have checked in on you several times. Even Doctor Clarkson was starting to doubt…"

"I'm so sorry, Beryl…I know you must be exhausted…tending to the kitchen…and to me." Though fever free, her body was still extremely weak, reflected now in her speech.

"Nonsense." Mrs. Patmore continued to mop her brow. "To be honest, I haven't had much an opportunity to look after you. You can thank _Mr._ Florence Nightingale for that."

Mrs. Hughes looked up at her, wearing a confused expression once more.

"He's barely left your bedside. I have to admit, though, it's turned him into a bear. He's snapping orders left and right. I've had my head bitten off more times than I can count."

"You're speaking of…Mr. Carson?"

"Well I'm not speaking of King George, if that's what you think."

"Mr. Carson…has been here…in my bedroom?"

"You don't remember a thing, do you, Dearie?"

Mrs. Hughes shook her head. She could see faint bit and pieces of him in her memory—but they were small, cloudy bits at that. She shuddered, recalling the painful tub treatment and the feel of his strong arms around her as he moved her back to bed. Beyond that, the days and nights were hazy, as if covered by a veil.

"You called out to me that first night. You were burning up, you poor thing. Don't you remember?"

"Vaguely…" Mrs. Hughes struggled to recall specific details.

"I went down to the kitchen for fresh water and that's when I ran into Thomas. He called Dr. Clarkson and woke Mr. Carson."

"Thomas called the doctor?" Mrs. Hughes inquired, somewhat surprised.

"I've been very proud of Thomas these last few days. He's been genuinely concerned for you. And a real godsend for Mr. Carson."

"What do you mean…a _godsend_?"

"He's taken over run of the house. Of course, he still has to answer to Mr. Carson, but—"

"I don't understand." Mrs. Hughes interrupted, more confused than ever.

"It was Mr. Carson's idea. He asked permission from Lord Grantham himself. Said he felt Thomas could use the experience and that it would free him up to administer to you."

"Why would he…do that?"

"Only one reason I can think why a man of his position would voluntarily give it up to personally care for a colleague." She smiled sweetly down at her friend.

Mrs. Hughes said nothing. Her heartbeat increased as she considered the events that had taken place downstairs. Mr. Carson, while not a cold man, was most definitely _reserved_ when it came to matters of health within the staff. He wished everyone well and didn't rush anyone out of bed and back to work until he was sure they were feeling up to the task. But never had he passed off his own duties to care of anyone in his charge. At least, never in her twenty years at Downton.

"That nightgown you're wearing? He washed it himself. And those sheets you're sleeping on? He pressed every wrinkle out of them. Not even her ladyship sleeps on sheets so well-tended. Every time your fever broke he gave the order for fresh linens. I doubt Mary of Teck gets such attention."

Mrs. Patmore placed the cloth back in the basin and sat down on the bed. She reached for Mrs. Hughes' hand and held it tightly.

"He's lit and relit your fires. He hasn't touched his own bed since Sunday. He's read aloud to you—poems mostly, by an Elizabeth woman, I think. He sent Jimmy to town to purchase it from the book shop. And you don't think these flowers just magically appeared, do you?"

"Browning." Mrs. Hughes smiled softly, her first in days, as she recalled a brief conversation about literature that occurred several months earlier in his pantry. She'd mentioned the title just the one time, casually indicating her desire to own a copy_. He was listening…and he remembered. _

"He's down in my kitchen right now, preparing a soup for you from his mother's secret recipe."

"He is not." Mrs. Hughes tried not to blush.

"You don't think he'd let Daisy or I near his secret family recipe, do you? I've been banished from my own kitchen." She gave her friend's hand a playful squeeze.

"Beryl, I can never tell if you're teasing…or telling the truth."

"I've never lied to you, Elsie Hughes, and I don't intend to start now. All I know is that Mr. Carson has become someone else these last few days. The fear on his face says it all. It's the same look he carried while we waited to get your cancer results." She lowered her tone and her face took on a serious expression. "Mr. Carson is scared, Elsie. He's deathly afraid of losing you."

"He's a dear, kind friend." Mrs. Hughes whispered, feeling a warmth cover her from inside.

"His actions go well beyond those of mere friendship, my dear." Mrs. Patmore smiled again. "Mr. Carson loves you…and loves you deeply."

* * *

Mrs. Patmore had only been gone a handful of minutes when the door to her bedroom slowly opened. He poked his head warily inside, and immediately a smile bloomed on his face when he saw her sitting up.

"Come in, Mr. Carson." She encouraged, though her voice was still weak.

He entered, tray in hand, and crossed the room with noiseless steps. He placed it carefully on her bedside table turned back to her. Her color had returned to normal and though he wasn't absolutely certain, he thought he detected the old Elsie glimmer in her eyes. Her dark hair lay in a loose plait across her left shoulder. Several wisps curled around her face and it took great restraint not to reach out and brush them back. He noticed the book of poems resting on her lap and instantly his heartbeat increased.

"I can't begin to tell you how pleased I am to see you sitting up." His eyes shined.

"I'm feeling much better, thank you." She smiled.

"Perhaps well enough to eat something?" He asked, hopeful. "I have a bowl of soup that I think you'll enjoy."

"That sounds lovely, but you needn't go to so much trouble."

"It's no trouble at all."

Silence wrapped around them and they held a quiet conversation with their just their eyes. They communicated without words daily, speaking a language all their own. They could read each other's thoughts and often times finished each other's sentences. His smile widened, as did hers and he privately thanked the lord above for bringing her safely out of illness.

"I want to thank you for the flowers… and for book of poems." She glanced down at its cover, tracing the title with a slender finger. "It's a beautiful copy and must have set you back a pretty pence."

"What is money for but to spend?" He felt his heart swell with pride.

"I know I've said it before, but you have an incredible memory, Mr. Carson. I mentioned Elizabeth Browning only once…and that was months ago."

"I make it a priority to remember details, Mrs. Hughes. It's just my nature I guess."

"And the reason you are such a fine butler." She added.

"You may wish to reserve judgment of my skills until after you've tasted my soup."

"_Your_ soup?" She feigned surprise. "Don't tell me you've taken up cooking in my absence? I would very much like to see you flitting around the kitchen in one of Mrs. Patmore's aprons."

"First of all, Mrs. Hughes, I have not nor will I ever _flit_. Secondly, I doubt there's an apron in all of Downton large enough to fit around this frame." He gave his midsection a pat; a playful expression on his face.

_God, how I've missed you, Charles Carson…_

"May I?" He gave a freshly pressed linen napkin a dramatic shake, causing it to pop loudly.

"Of course." She smiled. "Though I do wish you would have brought a bowl for yourself. We could enjoy the fruits of your labor together."

"I thought perhaps I might read to you while you eat…if that's all right?" He draped the napkin gently across her chest.

"That sounds lovely, Mr. Carson…it's just that…" She hesitated.

"What is it?" He questioned.

"Well, I feel as though I've been away for ages. I'd really like to just chat with you. You know, like we do in the evenings down in your pantry." She dropped her eyes from view. "I've missed our evenings together very much."

"As have I. And I know just the topic I wish to broach first." He placed the tray in front of her and quickly retrieved the corner chair.

"Based on your tone, I'm wondering if I should brace myself for lecture." She locked on his eyes, searching for that discreet touch of mischief only she could discern.

"I wish to speak to you regarding the port wine incident." He continued with a serious tone.

"Port wine incident?" She repeatedly slowly.

"It seems young Alfred enlisted your assistance at dinner after spilling what was to be the aperitif."

"He did." She drew a deep breath, afraid of what was coming next.

"And according to young Alfred, it seems that _you_ made the decision to send him back to the dining room with a decanter of sparkling wine with _fresh fruit embellishment_." He stared directly into her blue eyes as he emphasized the last three words he spoke.

"I did." She nodded assuredly.

"So you don't deny it then?" He asked, his words stern.

"Certainly not. Poor Alfred was in a state and I…I made the decision on my own—consequences be damned."

He paused, trying desperately to fight back a grin. _She's definitely feeling better!_ He loved when she revealed her feisty Scottish side. They'd had their share of rows over the years—everything from the proper length of candle wicks to the correct application of polish on his lordship's riding boots. But nothing of true importance…and nothing that had ever made him doubt his true feelings for her. If anything, it had brought them closer. He'd shared more of himself with Elsie Hughes than he had with any other human. His parents long deceased, she was his only family—and he longed to be so much more. He bit down on his tongue, wanting to swim in the suspense and her confident blue eyes a few seconds longer.

"Then I have only one thing to say to you..." He leaned in close and reached for her hand. "Thank you."

Under normal circumstances, she might have pulled her hand away. After all, sitting alone with a man in her bedroom was cause enough for scandal. Add a gesture of a physical nature and the incident, though friendly and innocent, would have the downstairs rumor mill swirling out of control. But the words she'd just spoken reverberated in her head, and she squeezed his hand tightly. _Consequences be damned. _

They continued talking, two old and dear friends, for the better part of an hour. She would have held his hand for the entirety of their conversation, but the task of eating, coupled with the stream of visitors that had come and gone, made it virtually impossible.

Lord Grantham was the last visitor to make an appearance, catching both of them off guard. He produced a box of expensive chocolates along with a note from Lady Grantham. They chatted briefly about Little Sybbie and Nanny and their health.

"Call it a matter of being in the wrong place at the wrong time." Lord Grantham commented.

"Oh, I'm afraid I must disagree, your lordship. Ensuring that Little Sybil was safe was my first priority. I might have taken ill regardless."

"Well, let me assure you that your dedicated service doesn't go unnoticed. I'm so sorry that you were stricken, but hope that you'll return to your post as soon as you feel strong enough to do so."

"Well, I think that tomorrow is—" She started.

"Much too early for you to even be thinking about returning to your duties." Mr. Carson cut her off.

"I quite agree. Mrs. Hughes, I leave it to Carson's discretion to decide when you are to return. In the meantime, Barrow has everything under control. I think you should look after Mrs. Hughes for a few more days."

"Absolutely, milord." Carson agreed instantly.

"Should you require anything special in terms of meals or medications—or should you have anything to post, please let Mrs. Patmore and Barrow know. Jimmy can be summoned to run any errand you feel necessary."

"You are quite generous, sir. I appreciate your kindness."

"Just concentrate on getting better." He rested a hand lightly on her shoulder.

Lord Grantham exited and they found themselves alone once more. A slight pain wedged itself above her right eye and she grimaced, bringing her hand to her forehead.

"You're hurting?" Carson moved the tray off the bed.

"I do have a slight headache coming on."

"It's my fault, Mrs. Hughes. I've pushed you too hard this evening. Too many visitors. Too much conversation."

"No!" She reached and touched his elbow. "I mean, I've enjoyed our time together…very much."

"So have I, but the last thing you need is a relapse. I'm going to take your tray back down and ask Mrs. Patmore to bring you a headache powder. Then, it's lights out for you. You heard his lordship—I have sole authority over your confinement." He teased.

"Well why should today be any different?" She teased back.

"Is there anything else I can do before I go down?" He inquired.

"I can't think of anything." She sighed, not ready to bid him goodnight.

"Then I will be 'round to light the fire first thing in the morning."

"We have maids to take care of that sort of thing. Or perhaps _Mr. Barrow_ would like to take care of that task." She gave him a knowing look.

"I've disappointed you…" He looked down at her, finding her more beautiful than ever.

"On the contrary, Mr. Carson…" She reached for his arm once more, forcing him to sit down on the edge of her bed. "You've flattered and impressed me more than I deserve."

Again they held each other's gaze. Deportment and decorum suddenly didn't exist as he wrapped both of his hands around one of hers. He studied her hand for several moments; his heart pounding inside his chest. He'd never been so forward—so completely bold with a woman in his entire life. He wanted to tell her everything. Every thought and feeling inside him. Things he'd never shared with another living soul. Images flashed through his mind in rapid succession—a pictorial history of their Downton days. Walking to church together. Singing carols 'round the tree on Christmas Eve. Finding comfort in each other's arms after Sybil's death. Each memory was clear as glass, with her face reflected in every single one.

"Charles…" She softly broke the silence, pulling him back from the past.

He looked up, finding safety in her blue eyes. _My god, how I do love you, Elsie…_

"You give me a courage that no one else can." He whispered with a confidence that surprised even him; his grip on her hand growing tighter.

"Only because I find my strength in you."

It was her turn. She lifted his strong hand to her mouth, pressing her lips against his warm skin.


	5. Chapter 5

**Disclaimer: I am beginning to steer this "ship" into uncharted AU territory. Please buckle up and keep an open mind! ;) Thanks for your continued readership!**

* * *

"You'll walk a hole clean through the floor, you keep that up." Mrs. Patmore teased the butler, aware of his constant pacing.

"He should have returned a quarter hour ago." Mr. Carson snapped his pocket watch shut, tucking it back into the safety of his vest.

"Now just try and relax, Mr. Carson. This is Jimmy we're talking 'bout—you and me both know he's unable to run to town without taking a Sunday stroll 'round the square."

"Mr. Higgins agreed to keep his shop open late as a kindness to me. I will not have him cavorting in the streets and keeping Mr. Higgins from his wife and dinner."

These words had barely left his mouth when the young man in question burst into the kitchen, panting heavily.

"I'm so sorry, Mr. Carson." He tried to catch his breath, leaning against the doorframe; a small paper bag in his outstretched hand. "Mr. Higgins rooted around his store room for well on ten minutes looking for this."

"He assured me he had it in stock when I placed the call." Mr. Carson took the bag and carefully inspected its contents.

"Higgins? That daft old man!" Mrs. Patmore laughed. "He samples more than he sells. He don't know whether he's washing or hanging out to dry."

"Here's the change, sir." Jimmy plopped several coins down on the table before turning to leave.

"James," Mr. Carson addressed him formally, eyeing the change. "Aren't you forgetting something?"

Jimmy stopped and turned back, fear evident in his wide eyes. "It's all there, Mr. Carson. You can count it if you like."

"I believe you've forgotten your tip." He flipped a shiny coin into the air toward the young footman.

* * *

She fought hard against sleep, willing her eyes to stay open. It was now almost nine—and according to the note he'd sent with Anna, he would be coming to bid her good night soon. She'd ignored his orders to stay in bed, eager to return to her post after her confinement. She'd dressed and made several rounds during the day, her will much stronger than her body. Now she was paying the price…beyond exhausted and feeling quite weak.

With a yawn, she reached for the book of poems that sat quietly beside her bed. In her lap, the book fell open naturally to a page of verses that she'd read and re-read countless times. Words that describe everything she felt for him. Words that she would one day speak to him without reservation. Her eyes moved across two telling lines in particular, and she paused to etch them into her mind…

_ I love thee to the level of every day's _

_Most quiet need, by sun and candle-light._

A soft rap sounded on her door. Instinctively she snapped the book shut; her heart beating faster. She smoothed the folds of the sheets, adjusted the collar of her robe, and ran her hand lightly through her hair.

"Come in, Mr. Carson." She called out.

"Mr. Carson, indeed." Mrs. Patmore shuffled into her bedroom with a chuckle. "I'm only here to return these." She placed Mrs. Hughes's coveted key ring back upon her dresser.

"Oh, Beryl…" She tried to hide her embarrassment. "I'm so sorry. I thought you were—"

"Oh, you don't have to tell me what you _thought_." Mrs. Patmore snickered again. "It's as plain as the nose on your face."

"Were you able to complete the inventory?" Mrs. Hughes asked, quickly changing the subject.

"With Daisy and Ivy's help." She nodded affirmatively. "Everything's organized, present, and accounted for. We'll take receipt of the wine and grocery order day after tomorrow. Lord Grantham's guests will want for nothing in the way of food and drink during their stay."

"I can't thank you enough, Beryl." She reached for her friend's hand. "For everything."

"Nonsense." Mrs. Patmore smiled. "I know you'd do the same for me." She gave her hand a friendly pat.

"You know I would." Mrs. Hughes confirmed.

"Now I best make myself scarce. Don't want to ruin the surprise." Mrs. Patmore winked.

"Surprise?" Mrs. Hughes bit back a grin. "What are you talking about?"

Mrs. Patmore didn't have a chance to respond. Another knock sounded, ending their conversation.

"Come in, _Mr. Carson_." Mrs. Patmore called with a cheeky grin.

The butler entered, a tray complete with full silver service in his hands. He was but two steps inside Mrs. Hughes' bedroom when his icy glare zeroed in on Mrs. Patmore. He opened his mouth to speak, but she cut him clean off.

"Save your sermon. I'm going." The cook grinned, giving Mrs. Hughes's foot a playful tug as she made her way toward the door.

"Goodnight, Beryl." Mrs. Hughes called, working hard to stifle a laugh.

"'Night all." The cook quietly closed the door behind her.

Mr. Carson waited several seconds until he was sure that Mrs. Patmore was out of earshot. He turned and faced her, realizing how much he'd missed her that day. With preparations for a houseful of guests, he simply hadn't been able to check in on her. A fact that had pained him all day.

"How's my patient?" He asked with a smile.

"Fine, fine." She answered, sitting up a little straighter. His emphasis on the word _my_ was not lost on her.

"Now Mrs. Hughes, it does not do to tell lies to the butler," He deposited the tray on the bedside table before sitting down gingerly on the edge of her bed. "Because the butler knows all."

"Really, Mr. Carson, I'm fine." She repeated, both nervous and excited at his nearness.

"I have only to look into your eyes and see that you have overdone it today." He gave her a stern look. "And don't try to deny it. Anna told me that you've been up to your old tricks."

"Well remind me to dismiss Anna first thing tomorrow morning." She teased.

"I assured you that we had everything under control." He placed his hand lovingly on her forehead, feeling for signs of fever. "You should have stayed in bed again today."

"I only popped down a few times, just to make sure my girls were doing their level best."

"And now you're paying the piper." He locked sympathetically on her tired eyes.

She pulled his hand down and held it in her own. "Like the time you stayed in bed after Dr. Clarkson expressly forbid you from returning to your duties? Following your bout with the Spanish flu?"

"That was different." He cleared his throat.

"How?" She asked, noting a mischievous twinkle in his eye.

"Because I am the king of _do as I say, not as I do_." He gave her hand a squeeze.

"And I guess your reign as king entitles you to use the master's silver service for your own personal needs?"

"This is the last of the silver to be polished before our guests arrive. I offer it to you with my apologies."

"Apologies? For what?" She asked.

"For not finding time to check in on you properly today...and for leaving Mrs. Patmore and the girls to take care of your needs. I thought we might enjoy a drop of hot chocolate together." He stood and went about the task of preparing their nightcaps.

"Hot chocolate?" She smiled, touched that he remembered one of her favorite indulgences.

"And not just any chocolate…" He poured steaming milk into their cups. "This happens to be your favorite Scottish brand of couverture."

"How did you ever get your hands on couverture?" She looked at him, amazed.

"Now, now, Mrs. Hughes, you don't expect me to give away all my secrets, do you?"

_Yes, I do. I want to know them all. Every thought. Every feeling. I want to wrap myself up in you and hide away from the world…_

"Only your most precious ones." She answered softly.

He didn't respond, but continued to focus on the task at hand. She listened as the tiny spoon in his hand beat a steady rhythm against the sides of the cup as he stirred. He hummed as he worked, the same song that he'd caught her singing in the stairwell a few days before she fell ill. She studied his face for a moment. He appeared contented and relaxed. That one unruly curl of hair had freed itself and now lay against his forehead.

"The Spanish explorer Francisco Hernandez de Cordoba wrote in his journals that chocolate has great medicinal powers with the ability to cure everything from extreme stomach pain to acute fever." He placed a cup in her hands with care. "But evidently he did not have the luck of the Irish, which may have saved his expedition from a terrible fate."

With a sly grin, he pulled a slim bottle from the pocket of his coat-the brand he knew to be her favorite Irish whisky.

"You are quite the magician, Mr. Carson." She giggled.

"I'm thinking only of your health, Mrs. Hughes." He poured a shot into each of their cups. "And perhaps a little of my own."

He tapped his cup lightly against hers. Together they sat in silence for several moments, heads turned toward the fire.

"I could put another log on if you like." He offered.

"Perhaps before you retire. I'm quite warm at the moment."

Again more silence as they sipped their drinks. He'd rehearsed something of a speech-words and feelings he wished to express. But the mood in her room was perfect, and he didn't want to spoil it by saying anything that might put her off. Something was definitely happening between them. They hadn't discussed it or defined it, but it was there and growing stronger with each minute they spent together. Being with her-talking, holding hands, or just sitting in silence in front of a fire-it was as natural as waking up or falling asleep.

"Mrs. Hughes, I have a confession to make." He began, shifting nervously; his posture now very erect.

"Oh?" She turned her eyes to see him. The change in his carriage was evident and she braced herself for something serious.

"I took something from you without permission. I would like to return it with my sincerest apologies."

Again his large hand disappeared inside his coat pocket. Seconds later he removed a small book and placed it on the bed between them.

"I removed this from your book case a few nights ago. You were sleeping and I'd finished the newspaper I'd brought with me. I became so engrossed in it-then you woke with another fever spell and well, I quickly put it into my pocket without thinking and..."

"They say the thief returns to the scene of the crime eventually." She picked up the book and observed the spine, now loose and beginning to fall apart. She'd read it no less than a dozen times in the course of her life and she wondered what made him select it over all the other choices on her shelves.

"I never meant to take it-and certainly without asking first."

"Oh, Mr. Carson, you may borrow any book you like. You needn't bother to ask. My library is your library." She reassured him. "You are more than welcome to keep it and finish it, if you like."

He paused, dropping his eyes from view. "I have finished it." He admitted rather sheepishly.

At this she had to laugh. In a moment, he met her eyes again. With anyone else he might have been deeply embarrassed. But he found that powerful Elsie courage once again...and now he found himself laughing along with her.

"You're not going to _tell_ anyone, are you Mrs. Hughes?"

"Of your thievery...or your sudden love for Jane Austen?" She couldn't resist ribbing him further. "Well that all depends..."

He sighed loudly, enjoying every minute of this flirtatious banter. "Why do I feel as though I'm about to receive a laundry list of conditions?"

"Only one...that you read _Persuasion_ next." She smiled and pointed across the room. "Would you fetch it for me? It's on the top shelf. The one on the end with the blue and gold cover."

He sprang to his feet and retrieved the book. In his eagerness, he accidentally knocked another book to the floor and when he stooped to pick it up, several pages contained within it fell free, littering the floor around his feet.

"Oh my goodness." He bent down, sweeping them up and silently cursing himself. "How completely clumsy of me."

She quickly slipped out of bed and joined in the cleanup, gathering pages she wasn't ready for his eyes to see.

"Mrs. Hughes..." He stopped, now aware of what he held in his hands. "Why, these are absolutely magnificent."

He moved back to the bed and spread the handful of pages out on top of her quilt. There he surveyed a dozen or so stunning charcoal sketches of various subjects-flora, horses, Isis, and several members of the staff.

"Elsie," He used her first name for the first time that evening. "These are simply brilliant."

"Oh, I wouldn't say that." She blushed, unsure what to say.

"Why on earth have you kept this talent hidden?"

_Oh, if you only knew everything that I've kept hidden...from my family...from Lord Grantham...and especially from you..._she thought.

"It's just something I enjoy doing in my spare time." She responded humbly.

"You're an artist." He was genuinely taken with the quality of her work. "And a very impressive one at that."

She stood there, nervous butterflies bouncing inside her. Her mind raced to find something intelligent to offer in response to his praise, but she remained silent, almost frozen.

"Is this...Daisy?" He held up one of the drawings for closer inspection. He focused on the young girl's face, noting how completely she'd captured her innocent expression. "And look at our Sybil." His voice cracked a little as he uttered his Lordship's youngest daughter's name. The passage of time had helped closed that wound, but there would always be a scar.

"All of Lord and Lady Grantham's daughters are beautiful in their own way, but there was something about Sybil..." Mrs. Hughes scanned the sketch in his hand, feeling an emptiness in the pit of her stomach.

"Sybil had the beauty of an angel that shined from pure goodness, God rest her soul." He sighed and placed the drawing back on the bed.

He reached for one more sketch and studied it for several moments. The paper was yellow and somewhat brittle, with a large smudge on the corner. The image was of another young girl-younger than either Daisy or Sybil. Perhaps twelve or thirteen. While the artwork was more rudimentary, it didn't hinder the distinct beauty of the subject. Full lips. Haunting eyes. Long dark hair falling in curls down around her shoulders. Below the face he read the initials _EFS, 1875._

"I don't believe I've made the acquaintance of this young lady." Mr. Carson remarked.

"Oh that…" She said, suddenly nervous. "That is a girl I knew growing up."

"In Argyll?" He asked.

"A little further north. My family worked for her family."

"EFS?" He read aloud.

"Elisabeth Fiona Sinclair." She clarified.

"She's lovely."

"In appearance perhaps, but she was a very unhappy child."

"You were close?"

"Very close at one time."

"You favor. Greatly." He observed.

Mrs. Hughes took the drawing from him, feeling a painful tug on her insides. It had been almost a year since she'd opened the sketch book—even longer since she'd gazed upon the face of the lonely girl she once knew. A girl who was now a woman…off living a very different life. _Oh Elisabeth, I know I have forsaken you…_

She leaned against the bedframe, needing extra support for a sudden dizzy spell she felt coming on. Her face now ashen, Mr. Carson jumped swiftly into action.

"I think we've had enough excitement for one night." He slipped a supportive arm around her and steered her back into bed.

Quietly he collected all of her drawings and returned them to their rightful resting place on the top shelf of her book case. He exhaled loudly and turned back to her; the book she'd originally instructed him to retrieve now firmly in his grasp. This time, however, he deposited himself in the chair—a greater and safer distance from her. He wanted to look into her eyes, but needed a moment to deal with his shame. _Obviously, she's kept this talent to herself for a reason…and now I've not only revealed it, I've upset her in the process._

"Elsie…" He loved the feel of her name on his lips. "I am so very sorry."

"You needn't apologize."

"Yes I do." He nodded. "I've disrupted your private property, forced you to reveal a part of yourself you obviously had no intention of sharing and I've upset you...to the point of near fainting."

She gave the empty spot on the bed a pat, encouraging him to resume his previous place beside her. He hesitated, but only for a second, wanting nothing more than to be nearer to her. She didn't ask but reached for his hand. Instinctively he offered both. They had a calming effect—those great hands that poured methodically over the household ledgers and measured place settings within fractions of an inch. With hers placed securely in his, she knew that he would never let an ounce of harm come to her.

"I did not faint. I am not upset." Her eyes found his and immediately he could see that they held nothing but honesty. "If there was anyone in this world that I would want to share my secrets with, it would most definitely be you, Charles Carson."

Though the words fell from her mouth as a whisper, they screamed every feeling that had silently passed between them. Her eyes continued to pull him in, the distance between them melting away. His arms encircled her waist and he pulled her close. He was surprised by the utter lack of apprehension he felt. It was as though everything in his life had spiraled toward this moment—he was finally home. As her body relaxed completely against his, head tucked beneath his chin, he knew she felt the same.

"You would tell me if this was wrong, wouldn't you?" He asked, though he knew her answer.

"This could never be wrong." She answered softly. "Not when it's what we've both wanted for so long."

Her honesty both excited and calmed him. Yes, there had been girls in his youth…but only a select few and nothing beyond the occasional twirl on a dance floor. Now he held a woman in his arms—the only one who'd ever truly captivated him. He breathed deeply, drinking in her scent and committing it to memory.

"I was so afraid, Elsie. Afraid to let this happen." He whispered, his fingers gently smoothing her hair.

"And how do you feel now?" She pulled back, wanting to look into his eyes.

"Afraid to go on without you."


	6. Chapter 6

**More Chelsie on this Downton Sunday…heavy on the feels. Enjoy, fellow shippers!**

Standing in front of the mirror, he inspected himself from every angle. He was perfectly polished, save one tiny speck on lint on his left sleeve—which he quickly brushed away. The only difference in his appearance could be find in his eyes. They were brighter. Happier. The look of a truly contented man. The quiet moments spent behind her bedroom door had awakened something behind those deep brown eyes. All because of an embrace, lasting only a minute—but it had given him the confidence to share himself in ways he never had.

They'd talked, alone in the fire lit room, until the clock in the downstairs hall struck midnight. They'd discussed everything from silly to serious, with that same comfortable ease that had brought them closer over the years. The only difference being that instead of sitting in his pantry or her parlor, they curled up together, side by side on her bed; her head resting comfortably against his shoulder. Rubbing his thumb and forefinger together, he could still feel the softness of her hand in his. He smiled at his reflection as he remember their final conversation before he begrudgingly said goodnight—words that hopefully left little doubt in her mind as to his true feelings…

_"Warm enough?" He asked, replacing the poker after giving the fire one final stoke._

_"Quite." She answered softly._

_He moved back to her, fluffing pillows and fussing over the bed linens until he was satisfied she was comfortable. She rolled her eyes playfully at him before settling back on the bed. Looking down on her, he was overcome with dozens of emotions. In an effort to maintain composure, he cautiously pulled his pocket watch from his vest, turning it toward the fireplace to gain better light._

_"I am the world's worst nursemaid. I've scolded Mrs. Patmore for sneaking in for late night chats and here I've gone and kept you up passed midnight. I should have said goodnight hours ago." _

_"I won't tell Dr. Clarkson if you won't." She smiled, not ready to see him go._

_"If you have a relapse, you won't have to." He said teasingly. "Then it's off with my head."_

_They stared at each other in silence for a moment; her eyes now serious and locked firmly on his. The room was suddenly very warm and he reached and tugged nervously at his collar. _

_"I think tonight was worth the risk, don't you?" She broke the silence first. _

_Again she held her hand out to him—a move that rendered him quite powerless. He sat down on the edge of her bed, his fingers laced securely through hers. She was more beautiful to him now than ever before. They had nothing to hide from one another. They had crossed the line they'd balanced perilously upon for years. Never was he so determined to step forward and become the man he'd always longed to be-a man in love and not afraid to show the world._

_He looked into her eyes—which gave him the answer he needed. She wanted it too. Slowly leaning forward he found her lips and kissed them delicately. Like everything else between them, it felt completely right. He pulled back slightly and smiled, losing himself in that same familiar feeling that had secretly gripped him for close to two decades. Though he hadn't kissed her deeply, he realized he'd done something far more dangerous. He'd kissed other women in his young life—sweet Alice and one or two others during his traveling days, but never like this. This kiss was gentle. This kiss was tender. This kiss was…love. _

_"There's not a thing in this world I wouldn't risk for you." He whispered, resting his forehead against hers._

A commotion in the hall outside his bedroom brought him sharply back into the present. He glanced at the clock on his dressing table. _I'm not the only one running behind schedule_, he thought, hearing several young men racing down in the corridor in an effort to be on time for breakfast. His eyes back on the mirror, he gave his thin black tie one final adjustment with thoughts of her. _I hope she's sleeping late…and dreaming of me. _

He turned on his heel and strode toward the door. There, he found a heavy, cream colored envelope bearing his initials, CEC, written in her fluid, stately hand waiting for his discovery. The curly flourish she'd added to the tail of his middle initial made him smile. He debated several seconds, trying to answer a Shakespearean inspired question: _to read or not to read._ His eyes found the clock once more and he shifted his weight nervously.

_Consequences be damned. Besides, I'm already late. _

He quickly retrieved a letter opener from his desk. His hands were the tiniest bit shaky as he carefully opened the envelope. Gently he pulled the contents free, his smile widening.

_Charles,_

_Enclosed you will find a collection that I have been working on for many years. I have chosen to include those that I feel best represent my subject. Should you care to see more, you need only to ask. I have dedicated years of daydreaming and an entire sketchbook to this subject…and I want to share them with you._

_I want to share everything with you._

_Always, _

_Elsie_

Just as he'd done the night before, he spread the handful of images out on the bed. His heartbeat pounded as he quietly observed the striking images of himself—some in charcoal and others in watercolor. Sitting at the desk in his pantry, looking down at a ledger. Standing proudly by the front door, surrounded by luggage. Decanting wine, his face half obscured by the bottle in his hand. A profile view, stroking the neck of His Lordship's favorite steed. A distant shot, sitting alone on the bench on the east side of the estate. _I had no idea…absolutely no idea…_

While the beauty of her artwork both moved and honored him, it was the handwritten note that touched him the most. Again he read it, devouring every line, but choosing to let his eyes linger on one particular sentiment…

_I want to share everything with you._

* * *

As was customary before a house full of guests arrived, the downstairs staff observed a strict curfew so that all would be rested and in top form for the coming day. She returned to her room, exhausted from her first full day back at duty, coupled with the remaining preparations. Thankfully, all rooms were ready for presentation, making her morning to-do list very short.

She had only seen him during meal times. He'd caught her eye knowingly several times, forcing her to bite back a number of grins. She allowed her fingers to brush against his a little more forcefully when she'd passed him the bread basket. His hand, likewise, had lingered on her hers a little longer when he'd passed the soup tureen. She tried to be as discreet as possible, but every few seconds she found herself looking at him…and hoping the look of total admiration in her eyes was not obvious to everyone at the table.

With her nightly rituals complete, hair combed and face washed, she straightened the linens just as he had done the night before, taking special care to fluff the pillows. It made her smile, thinking of how gentle he was with her. Every look. Every touch. He wasn't Carson the Butler behind her bedroom door. Alone together, he was just Charles Carson—a man who made her feel truly beautiful for the very first time in her life.

He'd made no mention of the envelope she'd slipped under his door at dawn. Of course, it wouldn't have been appropriate to discuss in mixed company. Still, she waited for him to make some sort of coded reference during one of their shared meals. But chatter was great, as extra staff had been retained to serve during the coming days. Downstairs was full of black and white uniforms constantly moving in and out of view. _I know him_, she nodded to herself, _and he wouldn't risk something this private and personal to be overhead by the staff. _

Exhaling loudly, she reached for the book of poems, eager to read her favorite—the one that reminded her of him. Her room was still and she looked up, letting her eyes rest on the chair in the corner for several moments. She could see him there, that large frame that appeared intimidating to most but quietly protective to her. In his hands he held her favorite novel, silently engrossed while she lay fighting illness.

_He hasn't touched his own bed since Sunday…_

Mrs. Patmore's words echoed inside her head. Had she not fallen ill, they would still be operating as before—butler and housekeeper—colleagues and friends. And while that close-knit friendship had sustained her for near on twenty years, it was nothing like the joy he'd brought her in the last few days. She always knew their time would come. She only wished it had been sooner.

The verses on the page grew hazy and shifted out of focus as she allowed her mind to wander into forbidden places. Thoughts she knew she wasn't supposed to have but was helpless to repress. He'd left her with a kiss and the gentle brush of his hand against her cheek before quietly slipping out of her room. Where would the coming days and weeks lead them? Sneaking around was strictly against house rules and her own personal code of conduct. However, the thought of being so close to him only to have him slip away into the darkness frightened her more.

An over-sized envelope inched its way under her door, and she felt herself jump. In seconds it was firmly in her grasp. She returned to her bed, a wide smile on her lips. With a deep breath she slid her fingernail underneath the seal. Inside she found a note from him…and something completely unexpected.

_My darling Elsie,_

_Enclosed you will find a collection that I have been working on for many years. I have chosen to include those that I feel best represent my devotion to my subject. Should you care to see more, you need only to ask. I have dedicated years of daydreaming and entire journals to this subject…and I want to share them with you._

_I do not claim to be Dickens or Tolstoy…and only wish that Austen hadn't stolen my words…_

_Elsie Hughes, you have bewitched me…body and soul._

_Always, _

_Charles _

_PS: Yes, I am taking liberties with being so familiar. That's the effect you have on me. _

There, in her lap, sat several pages of short stories. She fanned them out, perusing each one momentarily, unable to decide upon one to read first. Her heart was pounding and she couldn't stop this thought from repeating—actually shouting—inside her head.

_Charles Carson is a writer…Charles Carson is a writer…And he's writing stories about me…About us._

He'd made small notations in the top corner of each page, giving a brief summary of when and why it was written. She caught sight of one word in particular and felt her breath leave her body. Warily, she lifted the page and began reading…

_Dr. Clarkson walked hastily through the doors of the operating wing. Twenty six years of surgical experience, yet he was never prepared for this part of his job. Twenty six years filled with many medical successes, quickly forgotten in a moment such as this. He found the butler in the common area, reading quietly._

_Taking a deep breath, he reached and pulled the surgical gown from his body. At the same moment, Mr. Carson looked up, surprised by his presence. He knew immediately that something was wrong. Why was he here? Wasn't he supposed to be called into the doctor's private office after surgery? He checked his pocket watch. Surely the surgery wasn't over. The guarded look Dr. Clarkson normally held had been replaced with one of defeat. Then, he felt it. Like an uncontrollable wave slamming his body against sharp rocks. Something was terribly wrong._

_"Oh my God…Oh my God…" The words resonated loudly, over and over in his mind. His chest was tight, with the air inside his lungs escaping at a rapid rate. The floor beneath his feet began to shift and fall away. He stood up on a tangle of weakened legs. He wasn't sure how far they'd take him, but he had to get away—far away. Away from Dr. Clarkson, away from the hospital, away from reality. The butler stood and quickly turned away from him, violently shaking his head in denial._

_"Mr. Carson, you've got to listen to me…" Dr. Clarkson chased after him. _

_"No I don't." He walked briskly away, his long strides increasing the distance between them._

_"Carson, stop! Would someone please stop that man?" Dr. Clarkson hollered and pointed, but the man just increased his pace._

_He stopped at the corner and signaled for a cab. His head was pounding and the ground beneath his feet was beginning to disappear. He searched the faces of those around him, some standing, some walking—all scattered around the town square. Their faces were blank and they stared back at him through hollow eyes. He placed his hands against the cold steel of a gas street lamp, bracing himself._

_"Mr. Carson, I'm so sorry. But you have to know the truth. That's the way things are."_

_"No!" He felt his throat closing up as the air around him stopped._

_Dr. Clarkson reached and grabbed his large shoulder, turning him around._

_"Listen to me. There's nothing we can do. The cancer has spread everywhere. I didn't know until I got in there. I am so sorry."_

_The butler studied his eyes. He honed in on them like a microscope, noting every speck of color. Were these the eyes of a highly skilled surgeon or the eyes of a liar? He'd allowed himself to trust the doctor. He'd put every ounce of faith in his hands._

_"No you are not! You lied to me about the whole thing! You knew. You knew all along, and that's why you didn't tell me!"_

_The horse drawn cab drew to a stop and Mr. Carson stepped inside. He quickly gave the directive to drive, without offering a destination._

_"Mr. Carson, please! You can't leave like this." The doctor begged._

_He looked down at the floor of the cab, refusing to let his eyes meet Dr. Clarkson's. The driver snapped his whip and the cab lurched forward. Alone, he felt sick as he imagined millions of tiny black insects—cancers, swarming and crawling on her chest as she lay alone in the cold, isolated surgical theatre. The cab carried him to the church on the edge of the estate. He paid the fare and disappeared inside the walls of God's house._

_"Please, Almighty God…please…" He fell to his knees, praying, harder and louder than he ever had in his life. The doors behind him blew open with great force. Mr. Carson slowly raised his head and looked out. No one was there. The sanctuary was silent and empty. Reaching out, he pressed his hand against the alter and prayed yet another desperate prayer._

_"Please don't take her from me, Lord..." Tears left salty trails along his reddened cheeks. "Please don't take my beautiful Elsie from me."_

She pulled the sheet up to her eyes, wiping away the tears. The other stories would have to wait until the morning. She gathered and placed them back into the envelope, which she tucked safely inside her bottom bureau drawer. Her heart continued to beat a rapid rhythm and she felt another headache coming on. She extinguished the light and sat in what she now called his chair, watching the shadows on the walls. She'd wanted to tell him about the cancer scare. She'd come so close—even knocking on his pantry door late one night. But her nerve fell away and she'd made up some ridiculous excuse for bothering him. Oh, she'd been so upset with Beryl for letting it slip to him…

_He loved me…even then, he knew he loved me._

**Thanks again for all your kind comments thus far. I hope you enjoyed this chapter. More soon…**


	7. Chapter 7

**Hope everyone has had a good week and is recovering from the disappointment of the DA season finale. Thanks so much for all the wonderfully supportive comments and for your continued readership. **

While the Crawleys and their guests planned to spend much of the day outdoors, shooting and riding, he knew there was much to be done. The Dowager and Cousin Isobel would be joining them for a farewell dinner, thus bringing the total number of place settings to fifteen. He tucked his trusty measuring stick inside an inner coat pocket with a heavy sigh. He wanted nothing more than to get his duties behind him…and to spend every free minute with her.

He'd woken much earlier than usual, eager to get a jump start on what he knew would be another long day. Thankfully, it was the last, as the visiting party would depart the next morning at dawn. The days that had passed since their arrival had painfully kept him from her—and he fought back feelings of resentment toward Lord Grantham for encouraging his guests to extend their stay by two additional days. He'd had to settle for a knowing look in the servants dining hall, or a quiet word while passing on the stair. His only true solace had come in the form of their secret correspondence. The envelopes that he found, covertly slipped underneath his door, which greeted him each morning.

It was a game of sorts. Each evening, as he made final rounds, he would quietly slide an envelope under her bedroom door—usually something silly like a short story of a staff blunder or a funny little poem. Each morning he found her response; a drawing to accompany the words he'd written the night before. It was as though together they were writing their own private book of love. He as author, and she, the illustrator.

He eyed the thick envelope that now awaited him, sitting on his bed. His heart began to race, as he anticipated her response to the most intimate story he'd penned to date. He debated whether or not to reveal so much of himself to her—but the words poured out of him like a midsummer rain and he was powerless to stop them. He'd sat down with the intention of writing about the night of Little Sybil's fever, and the beauty he witnessed as she lay curled up with the sleeping child. But his pen had a mind of its own, and without reservation, he described a scene in which they lay face to face, wrapped in each other's arms with only the sounds of a crackling fire between them. He narrated every contour of her face. The scent of her skin. The feel of her lips against his own. He never used their given names, nor did the characters in his story speak. It was simply the tale of a man, holding the woman he loved, and how every part of her touched every part of him.

He nervously opened the envelope, taking a deep breath before removing its contents. He found just one sheet of heavy sketch paper, bearing their profiles; their foreheads touching with her hand lovingly upon his cheek. He stood immobile, complete lost in the drawing. She'd capture them perfectly—the strokes of her charcoal pencil bringing his story to life. The caption she'd written beneath the image—words she'd taken from him—brought tears to his eyes.

_And though we will never share youth or children, we will go forward from this moment sharing all that we have with one another._

* * *

Dinner was served precisely at eight. Mr. Carson had personally tended every piece of silver and crystal and everyone offered their compliments as to the beauty of the table. James and Alfred assisted, along with three other young men. All courses were served without incident and judging by Lord Grantham's expression, he seemed pleased with the evening in general. Mr. Carson stood stoically near the sideboard, awaiting the signal for the dessert service.

The night seemed to drag on. He was tired of listening to the idle chatter. All he could think about was her most recent drawing, locked safely inside a compartment in his desk. In his mind he was already composing dozens of new lines—the story of the moment he truly fell. They were younger then, by fifteen or so years, and had been caught in a storm walking home from church. He could still see the tiny droplets in her hair and on her eyelashes. Only now, instead of quickly ushering her inside as he had then, he visualized them lingering in the rain, hand in hand. He could see himself brushing away a single drop from her lips with his thumb just before tasting her kiss. He willed himself to remember the words that swirled frantically inside him, wishing he could stop time and put pen immediately to paper. It was this engrossing thought that caused him to miss His Lordship's request.

"Carson?" Lord Grantham called his name.

"Yes, milord?" Mr. Carson stepped forward, ready for direction.

"I said we are ready for the final course." He repeated for the second time; a slight look of concern on his face.

"Certainly, milord."

With a stern eye, he motioned silently to James and Alfred, who quickly disappeared to fetch the final trays. The remaining dishes were cleared and Mr. Carson resumed his usual place, silently scolding himself for his extremely unprofessional bout of daydreaming.

One minute turned to two…then to three. Lord Grantham caught his eye; his expression now showing an anxious displeasure. The two men shared a short, silent conversation with just their eyes across the dining room…

_Where in bloody hell is the dessert?_

_I don't know, milord. Perhaps there's a problem in the kitchen._

_Well don't just stand there, go and find out what's keeping them._

With a deep breath, Mr. Carson stepped forward, feeling suddenly like a small child who had just received a hand slap. He turned to exit the dining room at the exact moment that Anna and Mrs. Hughes entered, each with dessert trays in hand.

He met the ladies at the side board with equal looks frustration and relief. Mrs. Hughes whispered in his ear; her voice instantly calming him.

"We've had a bit of a…_situation_, but I assure you that everything is under control. Dr. Clarkson is on the way."

"Dr. Clarkson?" Mr. Carson whispered, completely taken aback.

Mrs. Hughes did not offer any further details. "Once they go through, Anna and I will come back and help clear. Just proceed as if nothing is out of the ordinary."

She turned noiselessly on her heel and was gone in a matter of seconds, Anna following closely behind. Mr. Carson had not a moment to even process what had just occurred. The other young men jumped into action, serving the Crawley family and their guests the final course of the night.

The room settled back into quiet conversation. Her presence had given him the confidence he needed to stay focused until he served brandy and cigars to the menfolk in the library. _Perhaps they're too tired, _he considered. _Perhaps they'll call for an early night._ These hopeful thoughts danced inside him as he anticipated putting pen to paper as soon as Lord Grantham dismissed him for the night.

"Cora, who was that woman?" Lady Graves, seated to her left, asked.

"That was Anna Bates. She's Mary's maid. Her husband is Robert's valet."

"Yes, I recognize the blond. She's been most kind during our stay." The lady gently corrected. "But I was speaking of the dark-haired woman."

"That's our housekeeper, Mrs. Hughes." Edith confirmed proudly.

"Mrs. Hughes?" Lady Graves repeated suspiciously.

Mr. Carson's ears immediately perked up at the mention of Elsie's name. The staff, as a rule, was never mentioned during dinner—unless, of course, it was to highlight a problem.

"She's wonderful." Cora gushed. "Downton would be quite lost without her. I hope you haven't found issue with her."

"Oh certainly not. It's just that she looks very familiar." Lady Graves replied coolly. "Has she been in your employ long?"

"Quite a while. My goodness, let's see…" Lady Cora locked eyes with her butler, trying to calculate the years. "Carson, how long has Mrs. Hughes been with us?"

"Close to twenty years now, milady."

"Twenty years?" The lady nodded. "She's married?"

"Heavens no, Mrs. Hughes is not married." Lady Cora answered with a chuckle. "Except to her work."

"I must compliment you on your choice of housekeeper, Cora. She's been ever so kind to my Adele." Lady McVey added. "She so hungry to converse with someone in her native tongue."

"I'm sorry?" Cora looked across the table at Lady McVey, confused.

"Adele misses France so much. It's nice that Mrs. Hughes has indulged her with a bit of conversation in French during our stay."

"Wait." Lord Grantham placed his wine glass on the table. "_Our_ Mrs. Hughes speaks _French_?"

"Not to my knowledge." Cora answered her husband.

"Twenty years in your employ and you didn't know that she speaks French?" Lady McVey smiled. "Now that is something."

"Carson, has Mrs. Hughes ever spoken to _you_ in French?" Mary spoke up.

"No, milady, she has not." He answered.

"Well, if _Carson_ doesn't know, then I don't see how any of the rest of us could be expected to know either." Mary quickly drained her wine glass with a grin.

"You say her last name is Hughes?" Lady Graves began again.

"Yes. Elsie Hughes." Cora confirmed.

"Elsie." Lady Graves repeated. "Is that her given name? Or perhaps it's a nickname?"

"That's the only name she's ever called herself." Cora was starting to grow frustrated with the elder woman's line of questioning. "You seem quite taken with her. You're certain she's done nothing to displease you?"

"Definitely not. It's just that she looks very much like someone I used to know…years ago when I was a young girl." Lady Graves spoke, a faraway look in her eyes. "In fact, the resemblance is absolutely remarkable."

* * *

The hour was late—much too late, in fact, to go poking around the women's dormitory with paper secrets in hand. Lord Grantham and his male guests had taken advantage of their final night together; playing cards and telling tales until the wee hours. In truth, as much as he longed to sit down and write to her, he simply did not have the energy. Morning light would find its way through Downton's windows shortly, and he knew he must retire and get a few hours rest. He would write his next story to her as soon as their guests had departed.

He quickly undressed and washed his face, considering the skill at which she'd handled the _situation _during dinner. He'd wanted to thank her personally, but she'd already gone to bed by the time he returned below stairs. Had he not met Mr. Barrow in the kitchen enjoying a late night cup of tea, he would have had to wait until morning to find out why Dr. Clarkson had been summoned.

_"I guess this means we'll all have extra duties." Mr. Barrow snarled, after filling Mr. Carson in on the particulars. _

_"I think Alfred should be fine to resume his daily tasks in a day or two. As for James, however, yes, we will all have to pull our collective weight to manage his chore list."_

_"The stupid git. I've told him a thousand times to stop skipping down that bloody staircase. He's always trying to prove something." Mr. Barrow pulled a cigarette from his case and tapped it lightly on the table._

_"Yes, well, now he's proven that he can break his ankle and give poor Alfred a slight concussion in the process." Mr. Carson's voice was unexpectedly gruff._

He had only rested in the comfort of his sheets for a minute when he remembered her drawing. Quietly he slipped out of bed and moved to his desk. He relit the lamp and reached for his keys. In seconds the compartment that held her sketches was unlocked. He held her latest work of art in his hands, again marveling at the detail. _From a distance, it could be mistaken for an actual photograph_, he considered proudly.

He glanced up at the painting hanging above his bureau. The pastoral scene had caught his eye in a shop in London during the Season ten years previous. It reminded him of the estate where he grew up, working beside his father as a groom. He held her drawing up in front of the framed piece, curious if the dimensions were similar. While he knew she'd created it for his eyes only, he longed to place it in a frame and display it on his wall. _It can never be_, he thought with a disheartening sigh. He returned the drawing to the safety of his desk and crawled back in bed.

In the dark, his mind considered all that might have been. He cursed himself for so many wasted years. Time that fell away and could never be regained. Had he but swallowed his pride and stepped forward courageously, they might have married soon after her arrival at Downton. Perhaps there would have been children, had they started straight away. _You've been a fool, Charles Carson. She could be sleeping beside you at this very moment. _

It was this thought that took him back to the dining room. She'd entered with such confidence, ensuring two things: he would not suffer embarrassment, and dinner would continue without interruption. He couldn't count the number of times she's come to his aid over the years. She was his true constant—in every sense of the word.

He drifted off with a smile on his face, more intrigued and fascinated by her than ever before. _Alfred was indeed right_, he considered again. _There's nothing that woman can't do. In fact, she may even speak a little French. _


End file.

Downton Abbey, Angst, Romance