Downton Abbey 1. When 'Shut Up' Is Not Enough

**For the tumblr prompt: **revfrog said: Horrible scratch on candelabra and Carson needs calming before there is blood on the stairs. Better- it was a careless maid. Ohhhhhhh.

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><p><strong>When 'Shut Up' Is Not Enough<strong>

"Mr Carson, won't you calm down." She tries again, reaches out for his arm but misses as he spins away, paces back to stand beneath the blasted chandelier.

"I will not." He states, tips his chin up and glares at her. "Mrs Hughes, there is-"

"A scratch, yes you've said." Several times in fact. "It's only a small scratch, barely noticeable." Indeed, she had to stand on a stool beside the dining table and squint to see it herself. If ever anyone has questioned Mr Carson's eyesight with his advancing age, they will be in no doubt now that it is still perfect.

"Barely—…Mrs Hughes!" And of course, if he doesn't lower his voice soon they _will_ all know. "Whether it's tiny or the length and breadth of the Thames River is beside the point, it's a scratch on His Lordship's chandelier."

He turns again, stalks back to her and for a moment she thinks he might poke his pointed finger straight into her chest.

"A scratch, Mrs Hughes, put there by one of your maids."

She closes her eyes, counts to ten (twice) and barely resists rubbing the bridge of her nose. If he doesn't stop soon she is going to do…something. "Now see here Mr Carson…"

"No, no it won't do. I've thought for a while now that this new batch of Housemaids are ill disciplined, careless and now I can see that I'll have to—"

She kisses him. Rises up to her toes, grips the lapels of his jacket and presses her lips against his forcefully.

His hands find her shoulders and after a surprisingly long moment, he pushes her back.

"What on earth are you doing Mrs Hughes?"

"Kissing you." She says, because there isn't much more she can say. She notices that he hasn't let her go.

"Mrs Hughes, you can't, that is we mustn't- it's quite improper, anyone could walk in. I think we should—"

She kisses him again; sometimes the man really does just need to stop talking.


	2. Behold The Wisdom Of Fools

**For the tumblr prompt: **imestizaa: Robert somehow finds out that C&H are looking at property together.

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><p><strong>Behold The Wisdom Of Fools<strong>

"And you have no clue why we've been summoned, Mr Carson?" She asks as they take the stairs up.

"I do not. Perhaps His Lordship wishes to have another party." Mr Carson looks at her, raises an eyebrow.

"I'd have thought we'd run out of occasions by now." She rolls her eyes, slips through the door he holds open for her. "You don't suppose there's been word from Lady Edith?"

"I don't think so." He says, eyebrows pulling together. "I'd think Anna or Miss Baxter would know if there had."

"Poor thing. To go through all that and not have a soul to lean on."

"Now now Mrs Hughes, you mustn't have favourites." She glares at his smug smile, wrinkles her nose at him.

"And if it were Lady Mary?"

"Ah, but it wouldn't be, Mrs Hughes." She rolls her eyes again, stops by the door as he knocks.

"Of course not."

They enter when bid and stand before His Lordship in the library, unconsciously lining themselves up with the edge of the rug.

"You called for us, milord." Mr Carson says after a prolonged pause.

His Lordship coughs, straightens his jacket. "Yes, uh. Thank you Carson, Mrs Hughes." He hesitates again, looks like he wishes to pace. "Um, it seems, something has been brought to my attention, a rumour, and I'd like to hear the truth of it. From the two of you." He adds, leans back with one hand on his desk and watches them.

They wait, but he says no more. Sharing a quick look, which only seems to make His Lordship redden, Mr Carson prompts; "Perhaps if you told us the rumour milord…"

"Of course, I was just getting to that. It seems Mr Wilton saw you and Mrs Hughes looking at property in the village, Thursday afternoon."

"Yes milord." Mr Carson says, and she smiles and nods in agreement.

"Together." His Lordship adds, as though this would be news to them.

"Yes, My Lord. We both had a half day, you see." She says, wondering why their answers do not seem to be calming His Lordship, seem instead to be rather unsettling him. Surely he can't object to them spending their free time in the village?

"So you admit it then."

She shares another look with Mr Carson, confused at where His Lordship is taking this.

"Yes milord. Mrs Hughes and I were looking at a few cottages."

"Well then. And your intentions, Carson?"

"To rent the property, milord until we retire." His Lordship shakes his head, waves a hand.

"Your intentions towards Mrs Hughes, Carson." _Oh. _Oh, that explains it. She hides a smile, fights hard not to laugh.

Reaches out and places a staying hand on Mr Carson's arm. "It's a business venture, My Lord. We've some savings and after Mrs Patmore used her inheritance on her own property, Mr Carson believes we might make a little money before we retire."

"Right, of course." His Lordship looks relieved, she wonders though it if is the idea of them _retiring_ or what retiring to a cottage together would mean that he has found so objectionable to think of. "So you won't be moving into the cottage then?" He checks.

She shakes her head, but Mr Carson answers before she can. "Not until we retire, milord, after we marry."

She's quite sure she doesn't know whether she or His Lordship are more surprised by that. Mr Carson simply looks quite smug.


	3. Viva La Revolution

**For the tumblr prompt: **silhouettedswallow: If you don't mind a more out there character: Really anything with Branson and Mrs. Hughes. Pooling their info on Edith? Or he finds her reading a discarded socialist newspaper.

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><p><strong>Viva La Revolution<strong>

"Mrs Hughes, I wonder have you seen-" he stops, catching sight of the newspaper open on her desk. "Oh you have."

He is surprised, didn't think it would be something she would look at. It's obvious that it's his, no one else in the house would read a socialist paper, at least not now that Miss Bunting is gone. So he might have expected to find it folded beside his bed, or for her to have a Footman pass it back to him after dinner.

{He half expected to never see it again, for Mr Carson to have discovered it and thrown it on the fire.}

"I'm sorry, Mr Branson. I did mean to return it to you before you retired." She stood when he entered, as is her habit since he married Sybil, and she leans over her chair now to fold the paper back up, hands it to him.

He waves her away. "Finish it." He says and she smiles gratefully, places it carefully back on her desk.

"Thank you."

He can't bring himself to leave, not yet, not without learning more. He has come to depend on this woman over the years, for support, to help him fix his mistakes, but he realises now how little of her he knows.

He could not, before he stepped into her sitting room tonight, have imagined her enjoying the words of today's revolutionists and that feels like an oversight now. How can he claim not to have become one of _Them,_ if he hasn't taken the time to know the staff beyond the surface of their day-to-day lives?

He realises he has been standing, staring at Mrs Hughes and he can't be sure what his expression has become but she manages to look both concerned and uncomfortable with his continued presence.

"I didn't know you were a socialist, Mrs Hughes." He says eventually, tries to look casually interested and not like he is as fascinated by this as he is.

She laughs, and he remembers that sound, from the servants' hall at dinner, coming across the gardens to the garages when he would be working on the carriages and cars.

"Not quite, Mr Branson. At least not to your standard I'd imagine." She smiles at him, glances down at the paper, runs a finger across the headline. "But I'm not blind to the changes that are coming." She looks up at him then, her smile changing and he thinks, she might wink at him if this were a conversation years ago, and he just an idealistic Chauffeur. "And you'll remember, I'm not English either, Mr Branson. I'm not always so enamoured of their ideals."

"But Mr Carson—" he stops at the eyebrow she raises.

"Mr Carson and I are different people, Mr Branson. In agreement about a lot of things, but different all the same." She pauses, seems to be thinking if she should say more. He tries to make his expression as open as he can. "Change is coming, I do believe that. And it is fine to want to have others see it too, to want to be a part of it and have others join in your thinking, if they wish to."

He smiles, sees where this is heading. "I gather Miss Bunting was not a favourite here either."

"Daisy liked her sure enough." She says, which both is and is not an answer. "Be yourself, Mr Branson, but remember that all of us change." She pats his arm as she has many times before.

"Thank you again for the paper, I'll see it's returned to you when I'm done." She hesitates, but then continues. "Perhaps, if you've a spare moment we might discuss it, before we lose you to the American revolution."

He stares, surprised again and then smiles, smirks. "Downton's secret keeper." He says and she laughs.

"I'll keep yours, Mr Branson, so long as you keep mine."


	4. Even Butlers Fall In Love Sometimes

**For the tumblr prompt: **monajo7: How about Elsie goes to Scotland for her BIL's funeral. When she returns home she mentions to Beryl how helpful Joe Burns was during the week long stay. How he said he still cares for her. Charles overhears and when a letter comes, begins to worry.

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><p><strong>Even Butlers Fall In Love Sometimes, Quite Unexpectedly<strong>

If he had to lay blame somewhere, and it seems only right that he does, he thinks he would place it on The Letter {with capitals and dark atmospheric music playing in his mind}.

Before that was the absence, the week she spent away. And then _that_ conversation he wasn't meant to overhear.

But mostly, it started with The Letter.

Not the one she got from her sister, asking her to return for her brother-in-law's funeral {_'poor May, and the little ones, their youngest has just had a wee bairne herself, poor thing'll never know his grandfather, isn't that sad Mr Carson?'_} although if he wants to be logical that really _did_ start everything off.

And not the letter he received from her while she was gone, which had come as something of a very pleasant surprise and felt rather odd; he isn't usually the one left at Downton waiting to be written to after all. That one had been filled with the changes that had occurred in her home village, the fields that had now been built on, the ones that hadn't. She wrote that she had forgotten the smell of fresh snow topping the hills {which had caused him a good deal of worry, before he chided himself — of course she was careful, of course she was wrapping up well} and that May's house was just as she remembered it from her childhood, when her Ma and Pa ran the farm. There had been other things too, talk of the children; grown now but still hurting for the loss; of her sister, struggling to stay strong when Mrs Hughes knew she was suffering terribly {a trait inherited it would seem, as he has certainly come up against _that_ before}.

No, The Letter came later, after she returned. Returned with more stories and bright eyes, red cheeks and a glow. Sadness lurked there of course, in the faint shadows beneath her eyelids, the downward quirk of her lip whenever she spoke of her sister. But still, there had been something there, something that made him look at her, follow her as she moved about the servants' hall, made him want to smile when he turned to her to ask for the toast, only to find her already holding a buttered slice out to him.

Something, he found out later, as he hovered about the kitchen door, not meaning to listen, but unable to enter now that he could hear Mrs Hughes and the cook talking, something that had a good deal to do with Mr Joe Burns.

That man, that _name._ He had thought the farmer quite forgotten after the impertinent visit he made all those years ago {to ask a woman such as Mrs Hughes to return to farm life, to have her spend the rest of her days in a labour that she has educated herself above, with no hope of rest, or a happy retirement more than earned, in a cottage somewhere when she was done. He had wanted to find Joe Burns and shake him}. But there Mrs Hughes had been, extolling the virtues of the man on Mrs Patmore, telling her, between bites of cake and sips of tea, that he had looked healthier than when she saw him last {but still red cheeked, no doubt}, that he was happy, the farm running as successfully as ever.

He had peeked around the doorframe and she had been _smiling_, the both of them. She had said he might visit, when he returned to his farm again {having known Mrs Hughes' brother-in-law, but not living in Argyll he had agreed to stay there a few days more, help with the transition of the work to one of the boys - a saint, it would seem, _'a very kind man'_}, that she might meet him in Ripon if Mrs Patmore was free to join her.

He had walked away then, locked himself in his pantry and not come out until he heard her familiar tread pass by, head for the attics; the jangle of keys fading away.

And then The Letter came. The one that arrived this morning at breakfast, that had her smiling and jumping up from the table before he had even poured their tea. The one he could see her talking over with Mrs Patmore in the corridor, all smiles and laughter. The one that he had been thinking of when the delicate china cup in his hand shattered quite unexpectedly.

She had returned to him at that, clasped him by the elbow and all but dragged him to the kitchen sink. Washed the little ceramic pieces out with gentle hands, holding his palm beneath the tap. And he had leant in a little to help and caught the vanilla scent of her hair, the hint of lemon from the polishes she handles day-to-day. And then he had been turning her, free hand at her waist, injured hand forgotten.

Drawn to her lips as they opened in a question, a protest, he kissed her, pressed his mouth to hers and kissed her.

Is still kissing her now, while the water continues to flow from the tap. Waits for her to pull back, to tell him that she is promised again to Joe Burns, that he is an awful man to corner her here, where anyone can see. Where anyone…

He breaks away, flushes as red as the blood still welling in his palm.

"Mrs Hughes, I'm—"

She stops him with a hand on his chest, fingers splayed. "Do not _apologise_ Mr Carson. Not if you ever wish to do that again." Her eyes blaze at him, but he can hardly look away from her lips, swollen and darkened. Glistening.

"But…Mr Burns?" He asks, tries to focus.

She frowns, "What has Mr Burns to do with it?"

"The letter, I thought…" He cannot say it, not now, not with her taste in his mouth.

"Yes, isn't it nice? I think Joe has taken a fancy to Mrs Patmore, I couldn't tell him enough about her once I got started, he wanted to know—"

He kisses her again, cuts her off. At some point they will have to talk about this but not right now.

So yes, if he has to blame something, he would have to say it was The Letter {with capitals and Vivaldi's Spring-flutes playing in his mind}.


	5. Hey Little Girl

**For the tumblr prompt: **verynonspecific: I had that silly idea: Daisy gets a parcel from Miss Bunting, containing lipstick and a tiny block of mascara. The next morning, Mr Carson spots her makeup trial and is furious. Mrs Hughes enters the kitchen, wondering what all the fuss is about...

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><p><strong>Hey Little Girl; Comb Your Hair, Fix Your Make-Up<strong>

It's his voice she hears first, before she's even reached the last step down to the servants' halls, booming as it is from his open pantry door.

Footmen and maids line the hallway and she shoos them away with a glare, a wave of her hands. Says nothing because she suspects she'd be best to observe first, speak later when it comes to whatever it is that has Mr Carson in such a tizzy so early in the day - they haven't even sat down to breakfast yet.

Mr Carson's back is to her when she stops by the doorway, looks in. She can see his shoulders heaving with the deep breaths he's taking and she stretches her neck further to see who the poor soul is that's caught his ire this morning, expecting to see Mr Mosley or one of the new Hallboys. Instead she sees Daisy, her eyes dark in her face, her lips bitten a bright red.

"—sorry, Mr Carson, but Miss Bunting—"

"_Miss Bunting_ sent you those, those _things_? I might have known. _You _should know better than to think that something Miss Bunting deems appropriate is anything but."

Oh, he really is in a fine state if he's saying these things to Daisy instead of saving them all up to let out when they're alone in her sitting room this evening. She wonders what on Earth the poor girl has done, what Miss Bunting can have sent that could reign down this ire on the cook's aid.

"But Mr Carson, the Ladies…"

"The _Ladies_ do not wear anything of the sort! And I'll not have an servant of this house saying so. You'll go and wash it off right now and I don't want to see it on you again. Is that understood?"

"But Mr Carson—"

"Is that _understood?" _

She steps forward then, perhaps later than she should and sees finally what the fuss is about. Bites her lip so as not to give in to the sympathetic smile at the sight of the black lines that have drawn themselves on Daisy's cheeks from her painted eyelashes, the red wax-like coating to her lips. The girl has done the best she could, no doubt, having had neither mother or older sister to show her better.

"Daisy, why don't you do as Mr Carson says and then see me in my sitting room? Bring whatever Miss Bunting has sent you and we'll see what we can do, okay?"

The girl nods quickly, gratefully and bites her lip, leaves more of the red on her teeth. Daisy hurries away and she turns to Mr Carson, braces herself to be his next target. Better her now, than he continue on to another next; Lord knows what he might have to say to Mr Mosley if she doesn't calm him down.

"Mrs Hughes, how dare you undermine-"

"Mr Carson, come here." She says, breaks him off. He stares at her, uncomprehending so she reaches out and tugs him by the lapels, pulls him close enough that if they were of a similar height she imagines she would feel his breath on her forehead.

"Mrs Hughes, I don't—" She shushes him quite impertinently, for which she will likely suffer later when he has time to think on it.

She tilts her head up so that he can look down on her properly.

"Look at my eyes, Mr Carson. What do you see?" She sees a question forming, a fight and shakes her head. "Look at them, Charles." And so he does, out of surprise more than anything, she thinks. She has only used his first name once before and that was in quite a different situation.

"What should I be seeing, Mrs Hughes?" He asks eventually.

"Do you think my eyelashes are this dark naturally, Mr Carson, that they stand out like this by dint of nature itself?"

"Well, I-"

"And my lips." Ah, she doesn't have to ask him to look there, it seems just the mention of them is enough. "Do you think they're this colour without me having tinted them with something?"

"No, I— I mean I hadn't thought—" He pauses, obviously thinks over the earlier scene. His gaze keeps flicking her lips, she notices. "But Daisy, you saw her, Mrs Hughes. You have only enhanced, that is to say, Daisy used too much…"

She takes pity on him then, stops his flustered stuttering with a hand, brushes her fingers down his abused lapels. "Of course she did, Mr Carson. Who has she got to show her? Mrs Patmore would have been too busy this morning and the poor thing still gets up earlier than any of the maids. They'd have been down too late for her to ask them."

"But she hasn't anyone to impress. I mean—" he tries to back-track, likely seeing the change in her face.

"Sometimes a girl just likes to feel pretty, Mr Carson. For themselves." Which she imagines was probably Miss Bunting's original intent with the ill-thought-out gift.

He appears to be thinking, eyes remaining on her mouth. "But her lips, not that I was looking you understand, only I couldn't help but notice they looked waxy." She smiles, anticipates him. "But yours…?"

"You tell me, Charles." She says as he leans in. Perhaps, not so different a situation after all.


	6. Who Knows When You're Old And Grey

**For the tumblr prompt: **imestizaa: If you're up for a challenge, here's another prompt. Carson/Patmore (friendship, or otherwise) where Mrs H has little to no involvement. Yeah, I went there. :P

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><p><strong>Who Knows When You're Old And Grey, Who You're Gonna Grow Up To Be<strong>

**i.**

"Here you are, a little tea." She says while he's still organising his books onto the shelf in the Butler's— _his_ pantry.

He clears the table with hasty movements so she can settle the tray there, brushes a handkerchief over the chairs and gestures for her to sit.

"Thank you Miss Patmore." He says while she pours.

"Oh it's like that is it." She says, unsurprised. "What happened to 'Beryl'?"

"Well, it wouldn't be appropriate now, Miss Patmore." He tells her and she adds two sugars to his cup, a splash of cream for them both.

"Some of the important things in life come from moments of inappropriateness, Mr Carson." She says, sips at the tea and looks at him, takes in the changes already coming over him as he settles into his new position.

"I'll have to disagree with you there, Miss Patmore."

"You'll see, Mr Carson. You'll see."

**ii.**

She finds him outside, standing with his shoulders slumped, his head bowed. She wonders that he can put such weight on inconsequential, fleeting things that when they falter, they have the power to crush him.

"Come now Mr Carson, it was only a little spill." She says sidling up to him, stopping by his left.

He sighs, gravelly and deep. "There shouldn't have been a spill at all Miss Patmore. I knew Jonathon wasn't ready and I let his…his _arrogance_ sway me. What if it had hit the Dowager?"

"The way I heard it, it was your quick reflexes that caught it before a drop of it could spill on any dress, the Dowager's or otherwise."

"But what if—"

She stops him, cuts him off. "You'll work some more on young Johnny, Mr Carson, let him serve when _you're_ sure he can manage. What ifs do no one any good to think on."

"But—"

"No more, Mr Carson. Now come in with you and have a quick cuppa, you'll be no help to anyone if you catch a cold lollygagging out here like this."

She turns away, heads for the house. Hears his tread behind her a few moments later.

**iii.**

"Congratulations, Mrs Patmore. A well-earned promotion."

"Lord, that'll take some getting used to; _Mrs_. And I don't know that it's all that big a promotion, Mr Carson, I've been doing the duties unnoticed for a while now."

"Unremarked upon perhaps Mrs Patmore, but not unnoticed."

"Oh."

"Yes, now. Drink up, we've the dinner to prepare and we haven't much time."

"Don't start Mr Carson, I'm enjoying this sherry now, and we've got enough time for me to have a little drop more."

**iv.**

"This isn't the first maid to have left us to marry, Mr Carson and it won't be the last. You can't take on like this at every servant that leaves us."

She says to his hunched form, his hand frantically writing and rewriting the advertisement; usually the Housekeeper's duty of course, but for some reason known only to Mr Carson he had asked to write it himself.

"I don't have time this afternoon, Mrs Patmore." She allows him one grumpy sentence per conversation and that one'll do quite enough for today.

She pulls up his other chair close to the desk, at the side so she can read what he's writing.

"Well, you can't say that." She says, pointing to the paper. "Or that. And don't mention the hours, Mr Carson, that's enough to put off the most dedicated maid if they really think about it."

"Whilst I appreciate the help, Mrs Patmore—"

"Not yet you don't, but you will. Now, shift over a bit, let me."

She ignores the glare he gives her, shuffles her chair closer to him so that she can reach the paper properly. "Now then, what is it you want to say?"

It takes only a minute at most for him to give in, to relinquish his pen and lean back in his chair, fingers laced across his stomach.

"Dedicated." He says, "Hard working. Experienced, well presented." She adds _'approachable'_ and _'understanding'_ because she knows he won't and doesn't think he'll remove them once she leaves the room. "A respectful disciplinarian." He adds, "and able to take orders."

"All good servants can take orders, Mr Carson and you've only a few words left now." She goes over them, counts them up.

"Then let us only attract the good ones, Mrs Patmore. If you're ready?"

She nods with a sigh of her own and then continues to write what he tells her.

**v.**

"The new maid is settling in well then?" She asks, leaning over his shoulder to place the plate of chicken on the table. Careful to keep her voice low so Mrs White will have to strain to hear them.

"Yes, Miss Hughes does seem to be fitting in nicely." He smiles and she catches it, hides a grin of her own. Looks down the table at the Head Housemaid in question.

"So it's like that then."

"Like what, Mrs Patmore?" He asks, glares at her.

Oh, what a telling overreaction, she thinks. "I meant only that you like her, Mr Carson."

He looks flustered as he turns away from her. "Why do you say that?"

She leans forward over his shoulder again. "Because you're showing her respect, Mr Carson, not using her first name like the others. You do that for those of us lucky enough to be deemed friends." She steps back, rethinks and leans back in. "And you've hardly looked away from her this evening." She adds, hurries away and back to the kitchens before she lets herself laugh at the look on his face.

**3**

"It's a lovely piece, Mr Carson." She says, smiles at his nervousness, the vigorous tugging of his jacket, the annoying hovering at her shoulder like he thinks she might take the ring and run off with it and he might have to give chase.

"But do you think she'll like it?" He asks again and she tries to smile, tries not to roll her eyes; this is after all, what she has been gently prodding him towards for the last few years.

"I think any woman would be very pleased to receive such a thing from you, Mr Carson."

"But Mrs Hughes isn't just _any_ woman Mrs Patmore." She does roll her eyes now. "What if—"

"Mr Carson, she has already accepted you; without a ring in sight and only a _business venture_ to read between the lines of, remember that."

"Yes, yes, of course. But—"

"Good grief! Charles Carson just give her the blasted ring!" Honestly, she is _this_ close to wiping her hands of him. He can try the patience of a saint some days, he can.


	7. As Long As Stars Are Above You

**For the tumblr prompt: **samanthastrickler: a drabble about Elsie's little niece having to come to live with her because her sister and BIL both died in a freak accident. The little girl loves Elsie then gets attached to Carson!

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><p><strong>As Long As Stars Are Above You, Longer If I Can<strong>

"Mr Carson." She says, although it still sounds a little garbled, comes out like _'misther Car'ton'_ which he has long given up trying to correct. She waits by his door for him to acknowledge her and he looks up from the ledgers, smiles at her and waves her in.

She beams at him, her aunt's eyes bright in her face and hurries towards him. He is amazed, sometimes, at the similarities he sees in her. Is sure he isn't just imagining them.

"What's this?" She asks, standing beside his desk, her head just about reaching the top of it. She's pointing at the books he's working on, the ones he's already finished with piled up beside him.

"Those are the house accounts." He says, fights a smile as her nose wrinkles up in thought — that too is familiar.

"What's ac—acor. What's that?"

"Accounts?" He asks and she nods. After a beat he pushes back his chair and scoops her up, settles her light form in his lap so she can see the open ledger in front of him.

"These are." He points to the lines of letters and numbers that will mean nothing to her {she can spell her own name, both in full and the short _Lizzie_ she goes by, can count to 10 using her fingers and Mrs Hughes is helping her with her reading from the books Nanny passes down from Master George and Miss Sybbie} and watches the top of her blonde head as she bends over them.

She runs a small finger down one of the columns, smudges the ink as she does and then stares at her blackened finger tip. Turns her face up to him. "Oops."

His books are a mess and he'll have to do this page all over again but her face is crumpled in, blue eyes deep and glittering and he can't find it in him to be upset with her.

Perhaps he'll have it out with her aunt later, after she's been put to bed. Mrs Hughes won't use those eyes against him, intentionally at least.

"Elizabeth May Turner." He booms, which for some reason has only ever made her laugh, and reaches into his pocket for a handkerchief. She holds out her finger to him and lets him wrap it up in the cloth, rubbing carefully to get as much of the stain out as possible without water.

"Did I help, Mr Carson?" She settles her back against his chest once the handkerchief has been bundled up and pushed to the edge of his desk to be washed.

"Not really, Elizabeth." He lets his hand be grasped, his fingers played with between hers.

"I used to help daddy." She says, voice quiet and his heart breaks for her all over again, as it did that first night when Mrs Hughes returned to the Abbey from the funerals, the little girl wrapped up in her arms, a single extra suitcase with her and asked him to watch over her niece while she spoke to His Lordship.

"I'm sure you did, my dear." He drops a kiss to her hair. "Why don't you watch, so you can help me with them next time?"

She nods her head and he is certain that in a few minutes she'll be asleep anyway.

"Daddy left." She says a moment later and he draws a sharp line across the page in surprise. "Aunt Elsie says he's in Heaven with Mummy." It takes a while for him to work out the words through her lisping, less time than it takes for him to be sure his voice will work.

"Your Aunt Elsie is a smart lady, Elizabeth. She's not often wrong." He rather hopes the girl doesn't go back and tell her aunt that.

"Is she going to Heaven too?"

He knows that he resisted at first when Mrs Hughes said she had asked His Lordship for permission to keep the girl with her at the House. That in his fear he had said harsh things about propriety and that it was _'not the way things are done'_. That he hurt her enough that she told him he didn't have to help, that His Lordship had agreed and if he didn't want to be a part of the child's life then he didn't have to be. They would see him around the house, but she wouldn't force either of their presences on him if she could help it.

Now, all these weeks later he is glad she did not hold him to those words, that the very next afternoon she invited him to their little tea party in her sitting room and introduced him as_ 'my very dear friend, Mr Carson.'_

"No, little one. Your Aunt Elsie won't be going to Heaven yet. Not for a long time if I have any say." He adds, soothes his hand through her hair. She hugs his other hand close to her.

"Aunt Elsie says monsters can't get me 'cause you fight them. Will you fight her monsters too?" She pleads, obviously still scared something will happen to her aunt.

He sees Mrs Hughes then, leaning against his doorframe. Wonders how long she has been there, what's caused the soft smile on the face. He meets her eyes, the same deep blue, glittering in the light. "As many as she'll let me." He says and watches a single tear slip down her cheek. "For as long as I can."


	8. As Long As You Want Me Too

**For the tumblr prompt: **From the original tumblr prompt of samanthastrickler.

Here is the return of Lizzie, Aunt Elsie and Uncle-Mr Carson. And introducing Mrs Patmore's Matchmaking Service (now recruiting).

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><p><strong>As Long As You Want Me Too, And Longer By Far<strong>

**i.**

"You realise whose fault this is, of course?" She asks him, wriggles the door handle again even though she knows it won't move far.

"Yes. Mrs Patmore's."

She looks at him in surprise, her hand falling away from the door. He has been frowning for a while, as long as they've been locked in here, but as she watches him, his lip quirks ever so slightly.

"I was thinking Lizzie actually." She takes a seat beside him on the little crate he set up for her, tries not to crease his jacket laid out over it.

"And where do you think she got the idea? She certainly didn't think it up on her own." She knows he honestly believes that her niece is not this devious. But the girl is half Hughes, and Elsie remembers what she and May were like, even as young as Lizzie is.

"No of course, I'm sure Mrs Patmore had a hand in it. As well as—"

"The cakes?" She meets his eyes, grimaces with him.

"The cakes." She agrees with a nod. "Do you think Mrs Patmore is still angry about the store cupboard key?" She asks after a moment, breaking the silence.

He hums, low and grumbly, a surprisingly pleasant sound. "Because of the salt? I suppose she might, I certainly don't think it would have hurt Elizabeth's feelings too much if Mrs Patmore had told her she had the wrong pot."

She stares at him, far more amused than he would probably like. "Well yes, _that_." She says, because yes, Mrs Patmore had seemed to rather enjoy their misery as they forced down the little cakes Lizzie had made them. "But I rather meant choosing the store cupboard to lock us into."

"Oh, I suppose it does emphasise how helpful it would be if she had her own key and hadn't had to use yours."

"Mr Carson—"

"But of course it's quite right that she not have one."

**ii.**

"Mr Carson."

Elsie looks up, expecting to see the Butler in her doorway, but finds it empty. She glances down at the girl playing with dolls at her feet, meets her eyes.

"Mr Carson." Lizzie says again.

"What about him, love?"

The girl bites her lip — Elsie sees her sister in the gesture, her Ma and it makes her ache.

"Is he my uncle?"

The pin in her hand, meant for the ripped seam of Mr Carson's jacket, catches her finger instead. She lays her sewing down, sucks on her finger. "Why?"

"I don't have an uncle."

"You have—"

"He scares the monsters and lets me help with the accounts." Which she pronounces as _'ah-cow-ants'_ to Elsie's delight and Mr Carson's endless frustration, although she notices he _has_ stopped correcting her on it.

"Do you want him to be your uncle?"

The girl thinks, her eyes moving about the room, her lip getting horribly chewed between her teeth. "Yes." She says eventually, turning back to her dolls.

"You'll have to tell him." Elsie says, picking up the jacket and pins, because that is not a conversation she wants to have with Mr Carson. It would no doubt be better coming from her niece anyway; he's less likely to decline the obvious honour this way.

"Okay." The girl jumps up, heads for the door. "You can get married now." She adds, stepping out and disappearing along the corridor. The pin goes straight through Elsie's skin again.

**iii.**

"Uncle Mr Carson."

He ignores the strange look from the man beside him, peers down at the sweet face looking up at him. "Yes, Elizabeth?"

"That one." She points at the light blue scarf, delicately embroidered with white lilies.

"Are you sure?" He thought perhaps the green one to match her coat, or the red one, which he thinks might show up the hues in her hair.

"Yes. S'pretty."

"It is." He agrees and he supposes it will match Mrs Hughes' eyes. "Okay, we'll take that one." He hands it to the woman behind the counter, helps Elizabeth pick out the correct change and lifts her up so she can hand it over.

"Now that we have your aunt's birthday present, how about some ice cream?" Elizabeth eyes him, her gloved hand tucked into his own as they step out of the shop.

"What's your presen_t_?" She says, emphasising the 't' the way her aunt does, the way her mother must have.

"The scarf—"

"No." She cuts him off, another thing she has picked up from her aunt. "That's mine." She pulls on his arm, leads him to the little jewellers on the corner, by the bus stop. "There." She points at a ring, sapphires and diamonds in a gold band.

"That's an engagement ring." She stares at him, blue eyes wide and pleading.

"Ice cream." He says decisively and tugs her carefully away from the window.

**iv.**

"Are they getting married now, Mrs Patmore?"

"Not yet, dearie."

"Why not?"

"Because they're stubborn, Lizzie. Don't know what's good for them, the both of them as bad as each other."

"More cakes?"

"No, I think this will take something more than cakes this time."

"Treats?"

"No, but perhaps a trick will do it. Come along, this is what you need to do…"

**v.**

"But I want Uncle Mr Carson!" Elsie takes a deep breath, holds the girl closer to her chest, cups the back of her head.

"He's asleep, Lizzie. You don't want to wake him up do you?"

"But I _want_ him."

She has been upset since she woke up from the nightmare, calling for Mr Carson and no matter what Elsie tries she cannot calm her.

"Please Lizzie, just try to sleep and we'll see Mr Carson in the morning."

"But the monsters will come. I want Uncle Mr Carson!"

With a sigh she gives in. It's likely Mr Carson has heard the girl already; the walls are not particularly thick in the attics and his room is right beside hers. If she's lucky, he's the only one Lizzie has woken.

"Okay Lizzie, we'll go and see him."

She bundles them both up in robes and slippers, lifts the child into her arms and carries her to the door that separates the two halves of the attic rooms. Mr Carson stands on the other side of the door, his robe wrapped around him, worry on his face.

Lizzie leans out of her arms the moment the door opens and Mr Carson catches her, scoops her up and ushers them both into his room.

She shuts his door carefully, too tired to worry what this will look like. Surely no one could suspect anything improper with Lizzie in the room with them.

"Here now, what's all this noise?" The girl sniffles, hides her face in Mr Carson's neck. "Have you been giving your aunt trouble?"

"Monsters."

Mr Carson looks to her and she covers her mouth to hide a yawn before answering. "She had a nightmare, Mr Carson. I'm sorry to disturb you."

He shakes his head, one of his hands running up and down Lizzie's back, the girl already calming now that she has her Uncle Mr Carson. "It's okay, Mrs Hughes. I could hear her. I might have come to you if I could." He adds sheepishly.

She smiles at him, not able to hide how his kindness affects her in moments like this. He has been so patient with the changes they have wrought on life at Downton, and his life especially. She thinks that if she didn't already love him, she would have fallen for him these last few months.

"Thank you, Mr Carson." She says, leans in and kisses his cheek. She'll blame it on tiredness tomorrow, if he mentions it.

"Not at all, Mrs Hughes." He takes his hand from Lizzie's back, wraps his arm around Elsie's waist. "Not at all." He says again, pulls her closer. Lizzie has fallen asleep in his arms, a small smile on her face.

"She's so darling, like this." She says, reaching up to tuck a strand of hair behind the girl's ear. "Like an angel."

"Like her aunt." Mr Carson says and when she looks up at him, he leans in and kisses her.

They both pretend not to hear the happy little giggle that comes from the girl resting between them.


	9. yours since 1898, CC

**For the tumblr prompt: **exterke11: _Carson has been keeping a ring in his waistcoat pocket for a long time and he touches it to give him strength to carry on and perhaps one day to actually give it to Mrs Hughes._

_*Spoilers for series 5*_

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><p><strong>yours since 1898, C.C.<strong>

It's a simple thing, really. Gold with a silver filigree line woven through the middle.

She wouldn't want anything too complex, doesn't require diamonds and jewels, stones cut in the latest style.

But he could not have picked a plain gold ring either, because for all that she is a woman with simple tastes, there is a mystery to her, an intelligence so fierce she often leaves him trailing behind grasping at the tails of her intuition and insight.

Her ring should reflect that, he thinks.

And it is her ring. From the moment it caught his eye in London; catching the winter sunlight and sparkling, drew him to the window and through the door before he had even given thought himself to how he felt for her, he had known this ring belonged to her.

He came back from His Lordship's visit with it in the pocket of his waistcoat, and besides switching it from garment to garment it has remained there through all these years, just as she has remained at his side.

He had meant to present it to her that Christmas, had speeches and gestures planned, words he thought she might like to hear, others he could hardly contain.

He had dreams of her leaving service, believed His Lordship might permit his First Footman to marry if he in turn believed that Charles's devotion to the family would not wane.

But upon his return, Mr Blakely had pulled him aside and told him of his plans to retire before the next summer, that he had spoken with His Lordship and they both agreed that Charles would make a fine replacement. It was all arranged and he was not to worry, Mr Blakely would have him trained up with plenty of time to spare, after all, hadn't he been working towards this since he returned to service?

{He had sought her out that evening, watched her ferry the other maids off to bed, fetch old Mrs Whitely a pot of tea and take the account books with her back to the servants' hall to work on.

If he was being groomed to be Butler, then she was being trained to become Housekeeper. She would be an outstanding Housekeeper, he thought, already she cared so much for the staff, did everything she could to ensure the house ran smoothly.

She met his eyes across the table as he sat, smiled brightly at him and said; "Welcome home, Mr Carson."

He fiddled with the ring in his pocket, returned her smile. "Thank you, Miss Hughes. It's good to be back."}

They had been right, of course; His Lordship and Mr Blakely. Butler is a high honour, and to be Butler of a great estate such as Downton — there are few things that could surpass it. {He thinks though, that he might know of one.}

Still he wonders, has wondered as the years have passed, as they have remained here, side-by-side, what might have been if he had only pulled her ring from his pocket and slid it across the table to her that night.

Might they have children now? Expect grandchildren in a year or two's time? Would she have excelled as a mother and wife as she has as Housekeeper?

He thinks so, can't imagine her settling for anything less.

It has become a talisman of sorts, her ring. He will, when it feels as though very little in his world makes sense, when the changes seem too large for him to weather, press his hand against the small weight in his pocket, brush his fingers and palm across the lines of it, feel for it and calm. She has not faltered from his side and he draws comfort from knowing that she, at least, remains steady in an ever shifting world.

Sometimes, though, he will pull it out and imagine placing it on her finger.

He held it in his hand long after she had retired to bed, the night she told him of Joe Burns. Heard her voice in his mind; _'do you ever wish you'd gone another way?'_ as his fingers closed in a fist around it.

He took to wearing it himself at night, alone in his bed while phrases like _'so it is cancer then'_ and _'she's sick'_ and _'I might lose her'_ chased him towards restless sleep. {And he thinks, if she had told him herself, told him any if it, he might have been unable to keep her ring with him any longer, might have pressed it into her hand, have held her close and told her that no matter what, she would never have been alone.}

And now it rests again in his waistcoat pocket, only he feels its days there now are numbered. Now that he can take her hand when everything is unsteady —something he imagines might work far better than her ring ever has.

Mrs Patmore is purchasing a property and considering her retirement in a few years. Thomas is as trained as he could ever be, although even Mr Mosley might be a better choice given how few people Mr Barrow has earned the respect of. And she has Anna or Miss Baxter to follow on from her, if she wishes.

Lady Edith has left the House, run away and he will tell her that and then…

He brushes his hand over his waistcoat pocket, feels it resting there.

…and then he will suggest they look at property. That perhaps they could invest together in something before they retire. He has no doubt that she feels some measure of care for him, but that she might _love_ him, he is still unsure. He thinks perhaps her reaction to his propos— ah, _suggestion_ might put him on more even ground.

And one day, if he is as lucky a man as he believes himself to be, she might learn of the inscription written into the underside of her ring.

Might know for just how long he has considered her as dear to him as a beloved wife.


	10. Hers

**For the tumblr prompt: **For kouw who sort of prompted for this many weeks ago when I wrote **'yours since 1898, C.C'** for which this is a sequel. _"What would Mrs Hughes' reaction be to finding out he had the ring and never gave it to her?"_

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><p><strong>Hers<strong>

She had long stopped expecting to receive it, that little ring of silver and gold.

The one Mr Carson returned with all those years ago; before Mr Blakely retired, before the evening walks stopped, the talks over tea in the servant's hall — chairs tucked close, knees touching.

She had hoped for it then, before she even knew he had it. Hoped and dreamed and for a while she was sure.

There had been no formal courtship, no whispered promises or hurried kisses. He had never taken her hand or tucked her arm in his as they walked back from church. They wrote neither love letters nor St Valentine's cards and yet she had hoped.

But Mr Blakely had retired, and Mr Carson had replaced her Charles.

{She had wondered, in bed one night after he had scolded her for her laughter in the corridor that afternoon, his words harsh, his tone cold and severe, if perhaps she had imagined it all. Imagined the smiles, the laughter, the little juggling act he would perform just for her, late at night when she was so tired with this life. Had she imagined the way he looked at her, the hovering of his hand at her back when they met in a doorway?

Tears falling silently on her cheeks she lay awake and said goodbye; to him, to that future she dreamed of — little girls and boys with dark heads of curls, blue eyes and dimpled chins — to any life outside of service.}

Mrs Whitely had told her she too would retire soon, handed more duties across to her, more keys and books. Within the year she donned the black dresses of Housekeeper and knew a door had closed quite firmly behind her.

The teas began again, in her sitting room or his parlour, walks to church and around the grounds, but they spoke of linen rotations, of maids in the scullery and footman smoking in the kitchens. He did not call her Elsie and he was never Charles.

She found the ring when Lady Mary was presented, took his waistcoat to mend while he stood in his shirt sleeves and apron and polished the silver just one more time.

It fell out in her hand as she settled into her chair, caught the light of the gas lamps and shone up from her palm.

Such a little thing, simple but for the silver filigree, the little twist that made it different, something more. It reminded her of him, the man who had met her at the backdoor her first day, took her coat and bag and led her to the kitchens, settled her nerves with tea and conversation, made her laugh in this strange new place. He should have been just another man, just another servant in a House of many, but there had been the curl that would not behave, the eyebrows that rose and fell with his surprise, the gentle heart beneath the livery.

She had known, the metal warming against her skin, that he meant it for her, knew too when he must have bought it; saw him in her mind now, touching his pocket, a quirk she had noticed only after he began his training for Butler.

She looked at it, considered the inscription she could feel with her thumb. Would it be her name, his? Would it quote a phrase or endearment, say the words he had never said to her?

She slipped it back into his pocket without looking, could not bear to, not now.

With white thread she fixed his loose button, tightened the others to be certain. Kept her tears away from the garment and wished hearts could be so easily mended. That they could break only once and not over again.

{She would have said _yes_, would have said it to Charles the Under-Butler, to Mr Carson the Butler. Would have said it had he been demoted to Footman or run from the House in disgrace. If he had only asked.}

She has never spoken of it, tries not to notice when he feels for it at his waist, doesn't look for the line of it in his pocket.

She found a family in the servants, a daughter and son, another, another with each maid and footman; even Miss O'Brien, even Mr Barrow.

The anger faded, the pain lessened, she remembers what they had with fondness, what they almost had wistfully, she mends his clothes and mops his brow. She loves him as a wife would, acts at the very edges of how a Housekeeper should.

When he spoke of leaving she brought the ring to mind, reminded herself that their friendship survived that, it could surely survive the distance to Haxby.

She fell ill and she did not tell him, could not tell him, was glad for it when she saw him reach for the ring more often after Mrs Patmore's slip; he would have asked her, she knows, if she had said anything to him. She still wants him, will always want that life with him, but not because she is dying. Not because the consequences would not matter for long. {He was her Charles again for a moment, a song, the day her results come back. He sang for her, bounced his silver tray on his hand and sang and she thought; _ask me now_, but of course he did not.}

He told her of Alice, the girl he wished to marry so much he could taste it and she wondered, as he looked at her, if he meant Alice at all.

They are getting older now, the days seem longer, the world not so very much theirs to grasp as theirs to hand over and still she fixes his shirts, darns his socks. They sit together for tea, talk of the house and the servants, gossip once again. He raises his eyebrows, makes her laugh and she wonders sometimes, if she asked, if he might just juggle for her again.

They are buying a property together, an investment for when _they_ retire.

He has held her hand, at the beach, in the quiet dark of his parlour; the sherry glasses catching the last of the fire's light.

One day he will reach for her hand and she will reach for his face, will cup his chin and stroke his cheek will press her lips to his and feel him press back.

He will give her the ring and she will pretend to be shocked, will listen as he tells her when he bought it, how long he has carried it with him.

One day, when they sit in their bed, his arms around her waist, her head on his chest, she will tell him she forgives him, that it might not have been the life they had once imagined, but they have spent it together and it has been good.

{She will finally learn the secret of the words written on the band.}

If she is lucky, if she can still read him as well as she believes; she thinks that day might be very soon.


	11. An Honest Man Here Lies At Rest

**Prompt: **Write something you said you never would for your current fandom/pairing. _The title is from **37. Epitaph on William Muir** by Robert_ _Burns._

_**Warning: major character deaths**_ (sorry)

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><p><strong>An Honest Man Here Lies At Rest<strong>

They bury him on a Tuesday.

It rains, as the weather in February is wont to do and they stand beneath black umbrellas in the downpour.

Mr Travis is long gone and his replacement is young and well-enough liked. He didn't know Mr Carson, only shook his hand on a Sunday, smiled at his wife and offered greetings when they met outside the grocer's. He didn't know him; Downton's favoured former Butler. He who taught so many, kept the great House running through war and Spanish Flu. Through a Labour government. Who argued with his Housekeeper and his Cook.

Who loved a daughter of the House like his own, made grandchildren of the young Master and Misses.

The man who is not Mr Travis asks them to remember Mr Carson kindly, to think of him as he was; with his booming voice and unbreakable rules, his distaste of change and the modern world, his love of tradition and propriety.

They wear black beside his open grave; black and white, shoes polished to a reflective shine, gloves spotless, shirts pressed. They made an effort he would have appreciated, have expected. No one wants to disappoint him, from dear old Mr Molesley to Mr Branson back from America for the week, Miss Sybbie sad and solemn clutching her father's hand. They could not disrespect him so terribly by turning out anything less than perfect.

Mrs Mason _née _Patmore wears a brooch he bought her three Christmases ago, clings to Daisy Mason and remembers her own husband's funeral only last year. Remembers another this Wednesday last.

Lady Mary cries into her son's shoulder, clutches her daughter tight to her waist; dear little Charlotte who will not remember the man who was her mother's staunchest supporter.

Puddles fill beneath their feet, above his coffin, tears collect in eyes and on cheeks.

His service goes on and behind vacant faces they hear his voice in their memory, telling them to get in from the rain before they spoil their coats, to hurry up with that wood before the whole lot is drowned and unusable, that a little rain never hurt anyone so why are they dallying about in doorways when they should be collecting Her Ladyship's bags from the car.

The farmers predicted sun for the day. A cold bitter wind, dry as bone. He told Mr Barrow that he would visit the churchyard regardless, that it could snow and he would make the trek. He promised nothing would keep him away. He was always very good at keeping his promises.

His Lordship, cane to the side, joints creaking as they bend, throws the first dirt, Lady Mary lays the first rose.

The stone has been carved already, names and dates and a line requested for him, kept a secret among his wife's trusted few.

He told them all in time that he would not have retired, would never have left the Abbey if she had not agreed to be his wife.

He told her on their wedding day that he could no longer picture his life without her in it.

She always said, with a smile, a kiss to his reddening cheek that he wouldn't last a week without her.

The rain doesn't stop when the service does, keeps on pouring as they bend to place their flowers on the raised mound, on mud so recently disturbed. Flowers only six days fresher than those that lay on the churned ground beside them.

His stone reads;

**_He Learned To Live A Little_**

Hers;

**_She Kept Me Steady_**

They bury him on a Tuesday.

It rains all day.


	12. Deep And Crisp And Even

**Prompt: **I had a mad idea; feeling in a festive writing mood, I thought it was time I asked for prompts again ad submitted the following ask on tumblr:

_Give me a character or pairing (friendship, enemyship etc.) and _**the title of a Christmas song**_ and I will try to write something inspired by it. Not a songfic, but just whatever scene comes to mind when listening to the song._

I then wrote an example.

This Chelsie & Corbert piece was inspired by _Good King Wencelas_

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><p><strong>Deep And Crisp And Even<strong>

His breath left a white cloud against the window as he exhaled, making it even harder to see out, the snow and frost outside doing their own job to keep the view from his eyes.

Still, he could pick out the figure on the grounds, a speck of black against the colourless landscape.

The moon was bright, seemed to shine down on the Butler specifically as he made his way from the woodshed to the House and back. In daylight, Robert believed he would be able to pick out Carson's footprints left in the snow, but it was too dark now to see more than his Butler and the wood he carried.

"What has you so fascinated tonight?" Cora stepped up beside him and he looped an arm around her waist, nodded towards the garden where Carson had just stepped back into sight, arms empty once again as he made his way out from the House.

"Goodness, is that Carson?" He nodded, pulled her closer to his side, the warmth of her body fighting off the chill the view had given him. "He must be frozen. Surely he could leave that for the morning?"

He smiled down at her for a moment, pressed a kiss to the top of her head. All these years and she never had become as cold and dismissive of the servants as the others of their ilk.

"That's the wood for the morning fires, Cora. If he doesn't bring it in now, the maids will have nothing to light." He pointed to the fire in their grate, where the last bits of log were turning quickly to cinder as they burned themselves down for the night.

"Well, surely there's someone else who can do it. One of the Hallboys, or Barrow even?"

With a huff, Robert returned to watching their Butler as he stepped towards the House again. "Perhaps."

"Oh, is that Mrs Hughes? Good, surely she'll talk some sense into him."

_Maybe_, he thought as the Housekeeper approached Carson, holding something in her hands out to him. But he rather thought Mr Carson would be stubborn enough, Mrs Hughes aware enough, that the wood would continue to be collected tonight, it was after all, their job.

—

_Meanwhile, outside;_

"If you won't stay inside, at least wrap this around you, Mr Carson." She held out the scarf, huffing and taking it back when his shaking hands could barely unfold it. "Oh, here take this, Mrs Patmore made it especially." His fingers gripped the warm cup, brought it straight to his mouth for a sip. "Scotch," she said at his raised brow, "from my own stores, it'll warm you twice as much as the tea. Now, bend down a little."

She wrapped the scarf around his neck, tried not to worry too much at the chill of his skin when her fingers brushed his cheek. "Stubborn man." She whispered, hoped a second later that the wind swallowed it before he heard it.

She doubted it from the way his breath puffed sharply out against her face, the scent oaky with the spirit.

"I know for a fact Jimmy offered to do this." She said as she stepped away from him, scarf tucked neatly into his coat.

"Because you told him to." Mr Carson continued to drink the spiced tea and she was happy to see his shivering was lessening. Silly stubborn man.

"What does that matter? He still offered and _you_ should have accepted."

He tilted his head, either in dismissal of her argument or in agreement, she couldn't tell. She supposed he did that on purpose; it was always hard to chide him further when she wasn't sure if he had already conceded to her point.

"If you get ill again, Mr Carson I shall—"

"You shall nurse me back to health as you always do, Mrs Hughes. I have no doubt of that."

She blinked, felt her own cheeks flush and chose to blame the cold. She narrowed her eyes at his smile. "Perhaps you should doubt it, maybe you wouldn't be so quick to go about these things as though you were still a footman if you thought no one would bring you soup and medicine when the inevitable happens."

"Ah, but you could never be so cruel, Mrs Hughes." He winked at her, drained the last of his tea and handed her the cup. His gloved fingers slipping along hers as he pulled back.

"You don't know me nearly so well as you think, Mr Carson. Carry on out here then, catch a cold. See what happens."

Turning on her heel she made her way carefully back to the house.

"I'll make this the last lot, Mrs Hughes. Have Jimmy bring more in, in the morning." He called out. She smiled, pulled the backdoor closed behind her. Silly stubborn man.

She'd make sure Mrs Patmore had ingredients for chicken soup anyway, just in case.


	13. Maybe Just Half A Drink More

**For the festive prompt: **monajo7: who wanted Chelsie to the sound of **_Baby It's Cold Outside_**.

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><p><strong>Maybe Just Half A Drink More<strong>

He has made it a point to visit her as often as he is able since her retirement. He claims to Beryl Mason that it is to keep her company; after all, she is all alone in their cottage, no maids interrupting her every hour or so {no Butler to bring her tea while she works}, but he knows in truth it is _he_ that needs the company, her company.

He misses her, you see. It's as simple as that {as complicated, painful, impossible as that}.

She had surprised him, pulling him into her sitting room. With tired eyes, worn out smiles she told him she wished to retire, that the time had come and Mrs Molesley was as suitable a replacement as any and it should really happen now, before the woman moved away to another house, took her new husband with her. {They had just lost Thomas to London, he remembers and Mrs Patmore had retired the year before, moved to the farm with Mr Mason and Daisy.}

And so he had wished her well, turned away from the tears in her eyes, tried not to shake apart at the thought of not seeing her every day, of no more evenings sipping sherry by firelight, her hand beside his on the table, close enough to feel the heat of her skin, to stretch his little finger and brush hers.

And she had left {while he pretended she wasn't, while he helped Lady Mary adjust to the changes the way he had promised he would at Lady Rose's wedding, while he fought against the crumbling of the world around him}. She had smiled at him by the door, after the Family and servants had said their goodbyes and good wishes, had reached up for his cheek, there in the empty foyer and brushed his lip with her thumb.

"Visit me, Charles." She had said, eyes smiling. She rose up and he leaned down and she kissed him on the cheek, there in the House before she disappeared out the door. {He watched her leave, leaning against the wall, watched until he couldn't see her, then stayed and watched the empty path a little more.}

And so he visited her, through Summer and Spring, {he takes all the half days and full days allowed him now, he has something to do with them after all} and through Autumn and into Winter he brings her cake and pies, goes from the Mason's farm to her door carrying a pot of her favourite stew when he learns she has succumbed to a November chill {frets so much about her that Lady Mary orders him to visit her a week before he should, and he does, just to check on her, to heat up soup and make tea, to read to her when the fever keeps her half-awake all day}.

And then it is Christmas Eve and he has forgotten her gift back in his parlour.

She takes his coat and scarf with a laugh and shake of her head, sends him into the sitting room to warm his hands by the fire while she gets some tea {his gloves too are on his desk, resting atop her wrapped box} and he takes a moment to breathe deep.

Her scent surrounds him, the vanilla and lemon that has been a part of her for as long as he has known her. But now there is ginger and spice, fresh fir from the tree in the corner and the welcome smell of their dinner roasting in her oven.

His shoulders loosen, his pulse settles and as he folds himself into his usual chair he feels steady once again.

She returns with the tea, tells him the snow has started up again, that there's no doubt now they'll have a white Christmas. She smiles, her eyes sparkle and he has missed her. So much more this last week than the ones before. {There is no reason to it, she has been gone almost a year now, it no longer hurts so much to think of her. But this week he has missed her without realising it, has looked for her in the evenings and found Mrs Molesley instead.}

They eat dinner in her kitchen, she has decorated the table with a full service and he cannot find a single fault in the presentation. The beef is a little dry and the potatoes a little more crispy than they should be, but he eats a second helping of everything and asks to take some more back with him for tomorrow.

He makes moves to leave after the dishes are washed, the table tidied away, a plate of food wrapped in paper and placed on the little table by the door. Looks out of the window and cannot say that it is only the sight of the building snow that has him tell her he must go so reluctantly.

She offers him a glass of sherry, points to his present beneath the tree and tells him she won't have him leave before he opens his gift.

So he stays a little longer, sips at the drink {a retirement gift from His Lordship, Her Ladyship had given the picture that hangs over the fire, the one that he had told them she had always admired} and they talk of Mr and Mrs Bates, how she plans to visit them in the New Year, perhaps stay for a month or so and help with the baby; says that Mr Bates has asked her especially for that, that he thinks Anna would like it, that the baby should meet the closest thing to a grandmother it will have as soon as possible. He smiles, imagines her holding the newest member of the Bates family and feels a tug in his chest. He gulps the sherry and looks at the fire {she will be gone for the month, he knows, she has always regretted that she could not be there when little Elizabeth Bates was born. He will not see her and then a few months later it will be the Season and he will be away}.

She pulls him from his thoughts with a tap at his elbow, slides a box into his lap and smiles. "Merry Christmas, Mr Carson."

He opens the gift with tentative fingers, sees from the corner of his eye how she bites her lip. He has bought her a pair of gloves this year, that will match the coat she bought last month in Ripon. He wonders now if he ought to have got something different.

The paper unfolds and he feels his eyes widen as he opens the padded velvet box.

The watch is silver, the front engraved with swirls and lines that come together to form his initials in the centre. He turns it over in his hands and finds himself disappointed to find no words on the back. He looks up to thank her and she places a hand over his arm.

"Open it." She says, nods and her smile now is soft, tender.

"I really should go." He says instead, scared suddenly, made unsteady by her touch and her warmth, by the knowledge that he does not _want_ to leave, more even than he did not want _her_ to leave all those months ago.

"It's snowing and you won't be able to get back in this. I've made up the the guest room for you." Her fingers squeeze his arm, slip down to cover his, curl them around the watch. "Open the watch Charles."

He has denied her few things over the years, fewer still since she retired and so he presses the little button, watches the lid flip open and takes a deep breath before looking at the words written there, inside the top.

_time passes but my hand will always be yours to take. E.H._

"There'll be talk." He says eventually, fights the lump in his throat, the glaze to his eyes.

"There's always been talk. And it really is far too cold outside."

He brushes his thumb over the words one more time before snapping the watch closed, slips it inside his pocket, up near his heart. Turns his hand over in hers and lets their fingers fall together like puzzle pieces. {Mr Blake is back in the country, has been to the House more often of late, there is a sparkle in Lady Mary's eyes he has not seen the like of since Mister Matthew returned from the trenches. He thinks it would not matter anyway, the Abbey is no longer his home and he wants only to be _home_.}

Her eyes are so very blue in the low light, her smile careful but happy nonetheless.

"I suppose since you _have_ already made up the room, it would be poor manners to see your hard work go to waste."

Her eyes roll and he fights a laugh; giddy, excited.

"And we couldn't have that."

He looks down at their hands, trails his thumb along her fingers, stops where a ring should sit. "You meant the words." He doesn't really ask but she nods all the same. "And if I were to ask you?"

"Then you would already know my answer but I would say it anyway."

"Right."

He rubs just there beneath her knuckle, thinks of what it will mean when there is a band there. She squeezes his hand, tips his chin up with a finger at his jaw.

"But you'd best ask me quick if you want to come to the Bates' with me."

And so he does and seals her _yes_ with a kiss, to her lips this time and then much later as they part at her bedroom door, to her cheek.

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><p><em>Thank you all!<br>_


	14. I'm Getting Sick Of Christmas

**For the tumblr prompt: **For imestizaa who asked for: Thomas and Miss O'Brien. **_It's Christmas (And I Hate You)_**.

This was _hard_ and lacking a little in Thomas but…if I brought his side in, it would have made this so heartbreaking I couldn't do it, not at Christmas (his future heartbreak is inferred though).

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><p><strong>I'm Getting Sick Of Christmas, I'm Already Sick Of You<strong>

She'd forgotten what it felt like; to hate someone like this, to want to ruin everything, to tear them apart. Not since the soap, _that_ bathtub, a little with Bates, {that _murderer_}.

She's felt smothered, stifled. Tried to keep to herself, has worked and slept and kept an ear open but nothing has come up, nothing to get her teeth into and rip apart.

Until Thomas turned on her, showed Alfred up; her nephew who should be off limits, family is always off limits.

And now she hates him, knows him so well that bringing him down will be a pleasure, will scratch that itch she's been having and then some.

How dare he make Alfred look so bad, then think they're still friends, still partners in this godforsaken house.

Him with his twisted morals, his better-than-you sneer, his scar of bravery that she knows, she _knows_ he gave himself.

He struts the corridors like he's something great, like he isn't a coward, a sinner, a thief. As though he is so confident that she will hold her tongue he thinks he can do as he pleases.

And now it's Christmas, and she has a black leather glove she does not want to give him, but then who else would have need of it; one single glove alone?

He doesn't deserve it. No matter that they were once friends, there's no going back from where they are now. Only forward, and she has a plan, has seen the interest he gives Jimmy, and why not bring him down with that, bring them both down perhaps and then Alfred will be top with no one left to best him? Who will stop her after all? He's as ill-liked as she is.

Still, she has the glove and she'll be damned if she lets her hard-earned money go completely to waste, even if that means he gets it, even if it means she does something _nice_ for him.

She wraps it quickly in brown paper and string, leaves it beneath the tree is Mrs Hughes' sitting room where all the other servants' gifts will wait until Christmas morning. Nothing special, not this year. This year they won't sit outside with cigarettes and wine, toast to each other, to a future that has to be better than the present.

No, he will receive it with the others and perhaps, _maybe_ he will think himself forgiven, that she is content again to resume their friendship, after all her plan is far more likely to succeed if he trusts her as much as he ever has.

—-

She finds on Christmas day a gift on her seat at the breakfast table, carefully wrapped in green paper, her name in his hand on the tag.

{A silver lighter, engraved with her initials.}

She is, in that moment, a little sorry; that it has come to this, that it could end so quickly. And she misses him, thinks for a second, not even that, that he can be forgiven.

But family is off limits and he knows there are no second chances. Not even at Christmas.


	15. Faithful Friends Who Are Dear To Us

**For the prompt:**For LadyFairMy who asked for: **_Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas_** with Mrs Hughes and Thomas. Which I was very happy to do because that's my favourite Christmas song (and where my url comes from).

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><p><strong>Faithful Friends Who Are Dear To Us<strong>

He has barely lit his cigarette when the backdoor opens and she steps out, bundled up in coat and scarf. He can see her gloves sticking out from her pocket but she makes no move to put them on.

She smiles as she steps up beside him, her breath whisping out as white clouds around her mouth.

She says nothing and he digs into his pocket, pulls out his case and offers her a cigarette, isn't surprised anymore when she takes one after only the briefest hesitation.

He lights it for her, cupping his hand around the end, fingers close enough to pick up the heat of her cheek, almost as hot as the flame against his palm.

She inhales deeply, drags it in so hard he can hear it. Holds it for a second, two, throws the quickest glance at the door before blowing it all back out in one exhale.

{Sometimes, when she is happy, when something has made her smile during the day, she will blow smoke rings out, will quirk her lip after and never tell him where she learnt that.}

He takes his own drags, lets the drug settle into him, smooth the rough edges of the day.

"You're looking better, Mr Barrow." She says and when he looks at her, he finds her eyes on him, studying him. "I'm glad of it."

"Are you Mrs Hughes? I wonder if you can be."

He cannot keep looking at her, can't see the worry in her eyes, the concern. It's easier when he thinks of her as the old Housekeeper, the Dragon. As just another person under Downton's roof who dislikes him. Someone who would turn him away if they ever knew the truth of him, if they were confronted with it.

{Only she didn't, did she? Not Mrs Hughes. Good, kind Mrs Hughes who couldn't kick him when he was down, even when he told her how different he is, how not-normal his tastes are, his desires. Mrs Hughes who instead gave him tea laced with scotch. Who held his hand and patted his knee and promised him everything would be alright. That she would make sure that at worst he would be given a good reference.

And she did it, somehow; between her and His Lordship he got to stay and Mr Carson doesn't glare at him in the corridor any more than he always did, doesn't avoid him or ignore him. And he has that reference, written by the Butler and Housekeeper, both of their names there to endorse him if he ever wishes to move on, one day. She gave him that option; slipped the letter beneath his bedroom door the night after the cricket match.}

He doesn't like to think of her as being on his side, of being someone who respects him, likes him, perhaps even cares for him as she does the others. Because then he has to think about how he might like her too, a little. How he admires the way she has made herself irreplaceable to the Family, to Mr Carson and the maids. {How one day she won't be here, like his father, like his mother, like Jimmy.} Has to consider her into his plans; how they might hurt her, make things harder for her {how one day if he isn't careful she might turn away from him, like Miss O'Brien, like the Family}.

Her fingers curl around his arm, squeeze him through his coat. He looks at them, flushed pink with the cold. "Why shouldn't I be, Mr Barrow?"

He laughs, doesn't fight the bitterness, flicks at the ash on his cigarette. "I'm sure Mr Carson could give you a list, Mrs Hughes. Or Mr Bates." _Because you know me, Mrs Hughes. Because you know who I am, _what_ I am._

She huffs beside him, flicks away her own ash. He can feel her eyes on him. "And I'm sure you could give me a list against Mr Bates, or Miss Baxter." She says pointedly. "Lord knows the police would like for us to believe that Anna is not someone to care for."

And he remembers then with the break in her voice, how she had asked him not to cause trouble, how she had pleaded with him, her eyes weary, not to get involved, to make a bad situation worse. He wishes he had listened now, chosen differently.

"What's your point, Mrs Hughes?" He is tired tonight, it is Christmas Eve and he is already finished with Christmas. He has no one to buy for, no one to write to or wish a Merry day except these people he works with, most of who tolerate him at best. She squeezes his arm again, then pulls back her hand, tucks it into her coat pocket.

"My point, Mr Barrow, is that I am glad you're doing better than a few months ago. You had us worried for a time."

He shakes his head, drops the last of the cigarette to the floor and grinds it beneath his heel. Looks at her finally and almost changes his mind at her honest smile, wonders what it would be like to confess everything to her; Jimmy, the injections, Phyllis Baxter's words that he just can't seem to get out of his head. "Now that I really can't believe." He scoffs instead, watches her smile tighten, just a little.

"No, Mr Barrow. I don't suppose you can."

She grinds her own cigarette into the floor, kicks it aside as though she won't come back out here later with dustpan and brush and sweep it all away {she won't have the Hallboys clear up after her, not when she'll have already sent them home early tonight, and she won't want her maids out here tonight in this chill}.

"Merry Christmas, Mr Barrow." She says, pulls her hand from her pocket, fingers curled around a red papered box. "Don't stay out too long, you'll catch a chill." She nudges the gift into his hand with another soft smile, then turns and slips back into the House.

She will retire soon, a year or two and then she will be gone with Mr Carson and while he cannot wait to be Butler as he deserves, as is his due, while we will not allow _his_ Housekeeper so much leeway in decisions, so much control in the running of the house, he cannot help but fear the space she will leave behind. Cannot deny that it would be easier to take over with her there {on his side}, than without her.

But he has seen the looks between the Heads of Staff, knows they have purchased a property they rent out together, thinks there is more there than there should be between colleagues and friends. He knows how this will play out and he could stop it, has done much worse before, and they always disagree about something, it would be so easy to push that further, to make them argue, to fight, but…

He turns the gift over in his hands, the edges crisply folded, tied with a matching bow of ribbon, his name written carefully in one corner.

He shakes his head with a sigh, lights up another cigarette.

He thinks he might actually miss her when she goes.


	16. I Don't Think Santa Claus Will Mind

**Prompt: **For deeedeee who (among other prompts that I am working my way through) asked for **_I Want A Hippopotamus For Christmas_** with Mary and Cora.

I hope you like it! (I snuck in some Carson and Hughes)

* * *

><p><strong>I Don't Think Santa Claus Will Mind, Do You?<strong>

"Please Mama!" Mary says, eyes wide in her face, a face crumpled into a pleading, begging smile, her hands folded in prayer in front of her.

Cora looks at her; the eldest of her girls. With her dark ringlets bouncing as she rocks between her heels and toes, Mary looks just like the little China doll Aunt Esme gave her when she was eight. And she resembles Cora, no doubt in that, her Edith is only five and Sybil just a baby, but already Cora can see that Mary is going to be the only true likeness. But her temperament, her focus and drive; that is all her father.

Mary is going to grow up beautiful and lithe, will turn heads and break hearts and Cora worries she will do both with a smile.

Robert talks to her in the evenings about duty and entitlement, how she will be a Lady one day, perhaps even a Countess and she should already think that way, behave that way. And Mary has taken that in — Cora has seen how she is pulling back from the servants, from Carson most of all, who she adores so much and who most definitely feels the same.

Just last week she heard her little girl exclaim that Miss Hughes had no right to be in the sitting room when she was in there. {Miss Hughes who is new to Downton but who Cora has heard quietly singing Edith and Sybil back to sleep in the nursery while Nanny sleeps on oblivious. Who is the most familiar to Cora in the entire house; another woman away from her homeland, mired in tradition, yes, but still progressive, excepting of the future and the inevitability of change.} She had been so disappointed in her girl that day, but unable to say anything about it.

Mary is starting to plan for her future, the one her Father has been planning for now for years. If there was a son it would be much simpler, but they have tried and been blessed with darling daughters instead. Perhaps one day it will happen, but Cora does not truly feel the lack of one, not the way Robert does.

And she loves her girls, all three of them. Loves them so much that it is hard to do this the way Robert and Mama insist. She understands that having a Nanny is how it has always been done. She knows that she cannot look after the girls all day and night of she is to be hostess and Countess.

But she would like to pick Sybil up and hold her in her arms for hours. She wants to sit with Edith and teach her how to read, how to write her name.

She wants to take Mary by the hand, walk with her into town and show her the shop windows, all lit up with candles and Christmas toys.

Wants to buy her a cake from the tea shop and wipe her fingers when they get sticky. She wants to lift her onto her hip, when she gets tired and carry her back home {even if she is too big for that now anyway}.

She wants to have been the one to have lit this fire beneath her she is showing today, to be the person who experiences that passion in the moment and not second-hand like this, doesn't want to know she is only finding out because Mary wants something from her.

"Please, mama. Please."

If it were anything else, she would say yes today. Anything to receive that smile that shows the gaps in her teeth, to get the tight hug and kiss Mary only gives when she's at her happiest.

But this is one thing she simply cannot say yes to. Not at all. No matter how sweet her little girl is trying to be. She will not see her disappointed on Christmas day when does not receive what she has asked for.

"I'm sorry Mary, but you can't ask Father Christmas for a hippopotamus"

The smile disappears, her little hands land on her hips and she stomps her foot.

"But you said Edith could ask for a stupid doll!" Another stomp and she spins, curls flying out around her as she leaves the room. "Papa said I could have anything I want." She calls back and then is gone.

Cora sighs, leans back into the settee cushions. She blames Mama for this, for talking of India and the exotic creatures that exist in the world. {Mary had wanted her own horse before the Dowager's last visit, Robert already has one picked out for her.}

She hears Edith's voice scream out her sister's name a few minutes later, Nanny's quick footsteps on the stairs. Perhaps she will lose interest by Christmas, maybe there's still a chance that the horse will do.

-x-x-x-

On Christmas morning, Mary carries a small stuffed hippopotamus in patched fabric squares into the sitting room.

She holds it out with a smug smile, curls into Cora's side and drops it onto her lap.

"See, Mama. Father Christmas did bring me a hippopotamus."

Cora never does figure out where the colourful thing came from, never sees the glint in Mr Carson's eye, or the little cut-offs of material Mrs Hughes throws out after New Year's.


	17. My True Love Sent To Me

**Prompt: **For deeedeee who asked for **_The Twelve Days Of Christmas_** with a Violet and her Prince twist.

I hope you enjoy this one. I think I'll get back into some Chelsie soon. ;)

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><p><strong>My True Love Sent To Me<strong>

It starts with little things. Small things he sends her after they meet. A fan, a brooch. He sends a young man with a jewel that she has encrusted into her favourite comb, wears it often in the beginning. {When she sees it in the mirror, she thinks of him and smiles.} It is innocent, she thinks, as much as this sort of thing can ever really be.

One day she finds a new horse in her stable. It has been months since she has seen him, she was sure by now that he had forgotten her; just another Lady, charmed by the handsome, exotic Prince. And yet, the horse is a stallion, smooth legged, calm and gentle, but when she rides him across the back fields, when she kicks her heels and really lets go, he flies across the ground.

{The wind whips her hair beneath her hat, pulls apart all the careful style and poise. When she finally slows she is a state, but laughing, her cheeks red with her blood pounding beneath the skin.}

For years he sends her gifts. Never by name, but there they will be {a tortoiseshell brush, a necklace, a painting she spoke of admiring} and she knows who they have come from. She knows him, knows his tastes, the way he thinks. She shouldn't know — she met him only a few times after all — but she understands him better than she does her husband, better than the Princess ever will.

{That is the real secret; not the gifts, not the nights tucked away in the corner together when they should have been circulating, should have stood with their partners and not danced, bodies close, for _just one more song_. The betrayal was not the whispers and smiles, was not the hands clasped together in the dark or even that night, that one night when he held her after, kissed away her tears and asked her to run away with him, to become his wife in a country that he was sure would love her as he did. No, the betrayal was the feelings, the openness they allowed to grow between them, the things she told him that she has never told another before or after, the words he spoke into her stomach while she wrapped his hair around her fingers.}

She keeps the gifts, scatters them about the Abbey, when people ask she tells some truth, that a Russian Prince sends them to be remembered by the Great Earl and Countess of Grantham he once met.

The gifts stop eventually, as these things always do. When Robert is old enough for a wife and young child and Rosamund is already a widow. He remembered her longer than she could ever have imagined, longer than she would have allowed herself without his reminders.

It is only later, when Rose brings the Russian refugees into their dinner talk, that she turns her thoughts to him again, wonders how he faired, if he still lives; as old as she. {Sometimes, when she sees maids serving, notices that Carson has only Molesley as Footman, hears the damn vacuum contraption as the maids work, she hopes Igor died long before his world fell down around him.}

She finds herself imagining how he will have aged, how his hair will have lightened, grown course now, not the soft strands she played with. His waist will have widened, his chest softened. Age is not kind to many and she knows how her skin has crumpled like tissue paper, her hair lost its shine. She is no longer the lithe thing she was when they met. She thinks she will not know him now, will not recognise his face, his voice. Will not see his hand and remember how it held hers. And he would pass her in the street, she thinks, walk on by without turning his head.

{She is wrong of course. Fingertips stroking the fan, she recognises his voice like he has been whispering in her ear all these years. She meets his eyes and she _knows_ him.}

Later, weeks and months later when she visits him for tea and he hands her a glass cup, sits across from her in the dim light. Later still when he says things he has said to her before, when he asks her again to run away with him, to let him love her as she would not in their younger days.

Later, when he is penniless and without true title or home, his Princess no longer _his_, she finds a gift beneath her Christmas tree with her name and his on the card.

She goes to Robert and Cora's party that night, stands with Isobel as the young ones dance. Wears the burgundy silk and her favourite comb.

{And the ring her Prince offered her a lifetime ago.}


	18. So Tender And Mild

**Festive Prompt:** For samanthastrickler (on tumblr) who asked for **_Silent Night_** with Lizzie, Aunt Elsie and Uncle-Mister Carson.  
>I hope it was worth the wait!<p>

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><p><strong>So Tender And Mild<strong>

**i.**

"You're in danger of spoiling the girl rotten, Mrs Hughes."

Her pen makes a loud click as she lays it down sharply and turns from her desk to face him.

Mr Carson points towards the toys and clothes, the boxes of tiny shoes spread out across her sitting room. "No child needs this many presents."

He looks smug, superior. _How can he? How—it— that, that_ man.

She crosses her arms over her chest and tries to give the appearance of looking down at him from her seated position.

"My gifts for Lizzie are already wrapped, Mr Carson and hidden in the blue room as agreed." Here she frees a hand to gesture around the the room. "These gifts — that you are pointing at so imperiously — are the things left to be wrapped that _you_ have bought her."

She turns back to continue scribbling out the gift labels, bites down furiously on her cheek to keep a smile hidden.

"Well, I— that is, I wasn't sure what— I couldn't be certain what she would like, you see and I wanted to be sure I could give her at least one gift she would want."

The smile she hides now is softer, fond and she turns back to him, rises and takes a step to bring him into reach. Laying a hand on his arm she meets his embrassed eyes. "It's a lovely thought, Mr Carson, but perhaps you could have saved time had you remembered that she adores anything her 'Uncle-Mister Carson' gives her."

"It would have saved my pocket book at least." He agrees.

She takes another look at the piles of unwrapped presents scattered about. "You really shouldn't have gone to such expense, Mr Carson. I would be happy to pay for—"

"Nonsense, Mrs Hughes. I would be a miserly man indeed if I minded the cost of bringing some happiness to the girl, after the sadness she has experienced this year."

His smile is so sincere that she finds herself blinking back tears. She pats his arm, fingers stroking down the length of it until they reach his hand, curl around his palm and squeeze once. "Thank you Mr Carson."

It takes a moment, but eventually he looks away from her and she lets his hand go, knots her own together at her stomach.

"Well then, Mrs Hughes, where have you put the paper? We can't have much time to spare before Elizabeth bores of Mrs Patmore's company."

She shakes her head at him and points to the roll of brown paper partially buried beneath a rag doll and a small green cotton dress.

She settles herself back at her desk, smiles as he begins to hum beneath his breath. _That man_.

—

**ii.**

"How many is that?"

The little girl on his lap points a tiny finger at each empty paper circle on the table, counting quietly as she goes.

"Four." She announces eventually with a little bounce. He clasps her by the waist with a grimace and shifts her a little further down towards his knees.

"Right. And how many are we going to tell your aunt that we ate?"

She holds up three fingers and with exaggerated consideration he reaches out and folds one of her fingers back down. "That many, I think."

"Two." She agrees with a giggle. She has little crumbs on her bottom lip and down the front of her dress but he thinks it might arouse Mrs Hughes' suspicion more if he attempts to clean up all evidence of their little indulgencies. After all, she knows of his weakness for gingerbread — one shared with her niece it seems — but she doesn't need to know just how great that weakness can be if left alone with a tin of them.

"That's right."

She slips off from his lap then, runs to the door with an excited call of "Aunt Elsie!" and he takes a deep breath before looking over at the doorway, tries to look innocent as he quickly gathers the papers together and crumples them in his hand.

"Uncle-Mister Carson said we only had two bis…biskits." The girl says as her aunt lifts her up onto her hip.

"Yes, I heard." Her tone is pleasant enough and Elizabeth is too young to pick up on the disapproval in the raised eyebrow he finds directed at himself. "Why don't you go and find Mrs Patmore and thank her while I have a talk with Mr Carson?"

She pops her back onto the ground and Elizabeth trots off to find the Cook.

Mrs Hughes watches her go before turning back to him.

"Mrs Hughes, it was only—"

"Four, Mr Carson." She finishes, taking slow steps towards him. "You're teaching my niece to lie to me."

"Well, I wouldn't say…it was just a harmless—"

She stops with not two feet of space between them. "Thankfully, she's as lousy at it as you are."

He isn't sure what to say to that, and as she reaches out, touches her fingers to his chest, he finds himself unable to speak at all.

"You had better have saved some for me, Mr Carson." She takes her hand away, heads back out of the kitchen. "And you might want to change before the gong."

When she has gone he brings a hand up to where her fingers touched and then promptly jerks it away when he feels something wet.

Looking down he scowls at the soggy remains of gingerbread, pressed into his waistcoat in a perfect little girl sized handprint.

He straightens, raises his head up high. Change, yes. He's getting better at that.

—

**iii.**

"Berry!"

"Goodness Lizzie, there's no need to shout like that, I'm not deaf. Now come over here, what's that you have behind your back?"

"Mis-mmm…misty-toe!"

"Mistletoe? Now I'm sure it's not— Lord it is! Where did you get that?"

"Thomas gave it to me."

"Did he? And what did Mr Barrow intend for you to do with it? I mean, why did he give it to you Lizzie?"

"For Aunt Elsie's room so Uncle-Mister Carson can kiss her."

"I see. Quite the secret romantic our Thomas is."

"Berry?"

"Yes dear?"

"Why is Uncle-Mister Carson a goat?"

"I beg your pardon? Who said Mr Carson was a goat?"

"Thomas. He said if I took this then Uncle-Mister Carson might not be a grumpy old goat anymore."

"Git."

"What?"

"Nothing! Well, I don't think Mr Carson's a goat, and I don't think your aunt does either, at least not all the time. Why don't I take that and we'll see where we can hang it while your Aunt is up with Her Ladyship?"

"Yes, please."

"Come along then."

"Berry, what does frij-it mean?"

"It means that Mr Barrow is well on his way to a clip 'round the ear for Christmas."

—

**iv.**

"I can take her if you'd like, Mr Carson." She says, her voice tipped low so as not to disturb the sleeping girl in his arms.

"Don't be silly. I'm perfectly alright." He bounces her accidently and Lizzie snuggles her head into his shoulder with a small whine.

Elsie bites her lip and looks away before he can read anything in her eyes. How could anyone be expected to resist this sight; her flesh and blood cuddled up in his arms?

"The Mass was good." She says, a pathetic attempt to direct her attention away from thoughts that have no place in their lives. They shared that kiss, yes and another last week beneath the mistletoe. But he has not spoken to her of any further intentions and she has Lizzie to think of now. Forgetting her reputation; she cannot afford the consequences of anything illicit, cannot be thrown from the house for being caught in a sinful relationship. Should he want that, of course; he hasn't said anything to suggest he desires her in any way but as a friend. She is likely letting her heart run away with her.

"It was, although Mr Travis is starting to ramble, I'm finding it harder than I should to keep my attention from wandering."

She laughs; "I noticed, for a moment there I thought you might begin snoring, thank goodness he paused for the psalm!"

Mr Carson frowns down at her as they turn the corner towards the Abbey (they have straggled a little, the others already disappeared inside).

"I do not snore, Mrs Hughes!"

"Oh you do, Mr Carson, I assure you. You forget, the walls between our rooms are not so thick as you might like." And she has heard many things from behind them over the years.

His thoughts have perhaps strayed in the same direction, as she could swear that his cheeks are redder now than they were before.

"Then I must apologise Mrs Hughes, for keeping you awake with it."

"There's no need." She hesitates and looks across at him just as he adjusts his hold on Lizzie, encourages her head to fit into the bend of his neck. "It's a comfort, Mr Carson, to know that you're close."

There is silence, a long pause that her mind fills with harsh words at herself; for pushing him, for ruining a nice moment with such boldness.

"I wonder," he says unexpectedly at the door and she stalls in opening it, tips her head up to him.

"Yes?"

"I wonder if you might allow me to put Elizabeth to bed tonight, the others can't have gone up yet and it seems silly to disturb her now by handing her over to you." He takes a breath while she nods her agreement. "And then if you would meet me in my pantry with tea, Mrs Hughes?"

Her heart pounds but she nods again, pushes open the door and holds it wide for him to step through after her. "Of course, Mr Carson. I'll see if Mrs Patmore can spare a mince pie or two while I'm about it."

The softness of his own smile does nothing to slow her heart rate as they part in the corridor.

—

**v.**

She has the tea laid out on his table when he returns downstairs, the careful way that she has angled the handles of the teacups to line them up perfectly with the table edge does nothing to soothe his nerves, or the tight ball that seems to take root in his chest whenever he sees her these last few months.

He fiddles with the box in his hand, twirls it between his fingers.

He had meant to wait until tomorrow, as is customary when gifting a Christmas present, however there had been something in her eyes tonight as they left the church, a — dare he be sentimental — _magical_ quality to their conversation.

He has known for some time that he loves her. For longer still that he desires her as any man would a woman like Elsie Hughes. But it has only been since little Elizabeth came into his life that he has found that his feelings for her, these ones he has successfully pushed aside for years, will no longer be ignored.

(He gave up on the idea of a family of his own years ago, when he returned to Downton from the stage, when the second woman that he could perhaps picture such a life with turned out to be as dedicated to her career as he was. But she has Elizabeth to raise now and he finds that he already loves the girl as much as he imagines any father might a child of their own.)

She jumps on seeing him as she turns from the little cork board on his wall where, amongst the outstanding invoices and supply orders there now rests pencil drawings of cats and dogs, himself and Mrs Hughes, Mrs Patmore and even Thomas. Elizabeth will certainly draw anything that takes her fancy.

"My goodness, Mr Carson! You gave me a scare. Whatever are you doing loitering about in the doorway?"

He steps through into his pantry, closes the door behind him, turns the key in the lock as quietly as possible.

He takes his seat, lifts up his cup to sip at the hot drink, milk and sugar added in just the right amounts.

"Please tell me that isn't another present for Lizzie, Mr Carson? She really does have enough; I'm afraid you and I will be up the rest of the night tonight moving them from the blue room to the tree."

She tilts her head towards the little blue-wrapped box he has dropped onto the table beside his hand, smiles at him from behind her teacup.

"No Mrs Hughes, although I do have one or two things for her stocking." He delights a little, in the roll of her eyes. "No," he repeats, and pushes the box across the table towards her; "this one is for you "

"I thought we were doing this tomorrow, Mr Carson?" She begins to rise. "Just let me get yours—"

"No, please don't get up. You are quite right, Mrs Hughes and Father Christmas will bring my gift for you tomorrow just like all the others." He hesitates (he has been doing that a lot of late, in conversation with her) but he cannot take it back now, does not want to and so he presses on. "This is something I think I should have given to you some time ago."

She looks surprised, settling back into her chair and picking up the box. "Well now I _am_ intrigued."

She pulls the paper aside with careful movements and he wonders if it is his anxiety or if her every motion really is occurring at half the usual speed. Finally, the box falls free and he sees her hesitate to open it, taking in the worn black suede, her fingers trembling slightly when she begins to prise the lid open. _Does she suspect what it is?_

Her breath whistles out of her and back in on a gasp, and he should fold himself onto one knee before she looks up, but she catches his arm before he can.

"Is this…?" She asks, her blue eyes glittering in the firelight.

"Yes, Mrs Hughes." He curses himself as the name slips out quite without intent.

She smiles, the corners of her mouth rising higher than he has ever seen, a laugh that rather resembles one of Elizabeth's giggles escapes her.

"Then I think you'd best start calling me Elsie, Charles." The sound of his name in her voice, the roll of the 'r' as it leaves her tongue distracts him for moment, before he comes back to himself.

"Is that…?"

"Yes, Charles. That was a yes."

She slips the ring onto her finger and he lifts her hand up to his lips, kisses just beneath the band. "The ring was your mother's?" She asks and he nods against her skin.

She turns her hand in his, curls her palm around his chin, tilts his head up. He thinks for moment that she might kiss him if the table were not between them.

"Drink up, Charles. We have a long night ahead of us."

She flushes as red as he suspects he has and pulls her hand away, points at him as she drains her cup.

"The presents, Mr Carson. I was talking about the presents."

Perhaps she was, but he is assured now that she won't be forever.


	19. After 'The End' - NSFW

This is for deeedeee who asked for a smutty conclusion to the Lady Elizabeth saga following the couple from the last chapter of that fic and taking a look at them in France.

This is very very NSFW.

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><p><strong>After 'The End'<strong>

Rain beats against the window panes, wind howls through the villa and she should care that there is a window open somewhere, that Charles's first experience of France is weather more suited to England, that they have little food left and no staff at all, but she cannot.

She curls her fingers around his, raised above her head, leans back into the mattress as he moves over her.

She has been Mrs Carson for only a few days and of all her names, all her titles she savours this one the most. Feels she has earned it, as much as anyone can earn the love of a man like Charles Carson.

He had thought to sign the licence as Lord Milton but she stopped him; Charles Carson has always been enough for her to love, his title simply makes that love acceptable to the world around them; and to her husband of course.

He pulls a hand from hers and cups her cheek. She blinks open her eyes, smiles and his thumb slips along the line of her bottom lip.

"I never imagined." He says, his voice the low growl she has come to learn is as close as he can get to a whisper. It is familiar to her now, as familiar as the strong tones that reverberate through every one of her Downton memories.

"What?"

He bends, lips brushing against her cheek, the corner of her mouth, the hollow of her neck. "You, like this."

And for anyone else she would know it is a line, a lie; they would have imagined, perhaps not quite this but something like it. Of her beneath them amongst sheets and blankets. But she believes him when he says he has not imagined it. For every fantasy she allowed herself, he kept them locked tightly away. She was outside of his reach and he left her there.

"I hope I don't disappoint."

He moves further down, lips and tongue following the valley between her breasts. Such a quick learner, her husband. Such a talented lover.

His turns his head, rests his left ear against her breast, his breath puffing out against the other. Hot air that tightens her nipple as well as the coldest of Januarys can.

"You're beautiful." He says and it is answer enough.

She brings a hand down to card through his hair, wild and curling at the ends where it has dried without any pomade.

His head rises and falls with every breath she takes and with each of his she can feel her body exciting.

"Are you asleep?" She asks when the room has been filled for minutes with nothing but the rain at the window an the wind in the hall.

"I might be dreaming." He says. "Don't wake me."

She had never thought she could love him more than she has all these years. Oh she knew that with time and knowledge she might cherish him, might love other parts of him, but he has had hold of her heart for such a long time that she could not imagine a change there.

But she does love him more, with every day spent by his side, with every argument and loud debate, with each brush of his hand to hers, every time he meets her eyes over a tea cup and asks if she would like another.

With every word that leaves his mouth that is not 'yes milady', with each honest opinion and rare sentimental folly; he is dearer to her than she could ever have thought anyone could be.

And she fears she lacks the words to ever tell him so.

"You're not dreaming." She says and tugs at his hair, tilts his head back so that he might meet her eyes. "Wake up."

He smiles and his eyebrow tickles her skin as it moves with the expression.

A hand settles at her waist, curves around her hip and over her stomach. "This is for every touch we never had."

It is a game, she supposes, one started when his lips left hers in those first minutes of 1925 and he told her the next kiss would be for every kiss they never had.

She reaches for his hand, tugs it up and over her breast, presses his palm down onto the hard bud of her nipple.

"Every touch." She agrees and moans as she slides his hand across her, rubs his thumb in tight circles.

He shifts and is above her once more, knees tucked into the 'v' of her thighs.

His hands cup her shoulders, slide outwards down her arms to her elbow, to her wrists. His palms meet hers, fingers tangling together as he holds her splayed against the bed. He curls their arms up, along the sheets until he has their hands above her head again, his face so close she can feel the thrum of the pulse in his jaw.

He nips at her ear, her hair a tangled mess beneath her head, the ends trailing up just enough of the bed to tickle against her wrists.

"Mrs Carson." He presses the words into her mouth, follows them with his tongue.

"Elsie." She says, because he has yet to say it and it has become like him joining her for tea now, like his mind; something she longs to know the reality of.

"Lady Milton." He dips to her collar, runs lips and teeth along the bone. Gently; the rasp of his skin — unshaved now for hours — the sharpest part of him.

His fingers leave hers and stroke back down her arms, along her sides as he shuffles down the bed, mouth never stopping, a wet trail to her stomach, a tongue lapping at her navel.

He noses at the curls between her legs and she bends, back bowing as she tries to hold back, to not let her body rush them both to what she is remembering.

She never thought it would be like this; she would have been content, happy with his mind and his attention, with his love. But to have his passion laid to other things, to be the sole focus of a man who maintained a house of such standards she has heard it mentioned in talk here in France, is so much more than merely contentment, happiness.

This is, she thinks as his mouth touches her _there_, what all those poems were written about.

She gasps, her breath drawing in in stutters, billowing out of her as his tongue dips in.

She knows this dance now, how he will open her, how his mouth and fingers will spin her high and take her to the edge, hold her there until she cannot care about the world and only needs him inside her, with her; feeling the ground drop away beneath them.

He was as innocent of this as she was before, but together it feels like art, like she is the canvas beneath the Mona Lisa and he is painting a masterpiece.

Her fingers scrabble at the bed, clutch at handfuls of sheet and hair.

"Enough " She whispers and he stops, fingers stilling, head rising and she feels so cold without his breath but she needs more, _him_ and has neither the patience nor the will to wait.

"I love you."

His eyes darken as they have each time she has said the words; that early morning in her house, tucked away in the wine cellar at Downton, as he slid the ring on her finger in Paris.

Tonight in this bed. "I love you."

His fingers are gone only a second, two before he is against her, but she feels each moment like an ache.

His hands find hers again and she cannot look away from his eyes as her body opens for him, as he fills her.

And she _is_ filled, her heart, her mind, _her body_. Filled with him and she will be no good to anyone if it does not lessen, but not now, not here in this villa with its open window and empty halls.

Her body moves with his, lifts as he lowers, falls when he pulls back. Feels that climb again, faster, clearer; the throb of him echoing through her.

His hands tighten, fingers gripping hers tight enough to leave marks with his nails that she will find later and he will kiss in apology. He is close and she is ahead of him, the coil low in her stomach pulling taut until it snaps, pleasure shatters through her and she might say his name, might take the Lord's in vain. Her eyes close and she feels him quicken, feels the stillness in his body as he reaches his own end, fills her again, another way and softens.

The window rattles beneath the rain as it batters the glass and he falls to the bed beside her, gathers her close with his arms.

"I love you." He says into her ear as he holds her, curls around her back; covers her more completely than the sheets that have long since fallen to the floor. "Elsie."

If she cries, they are happy tears and she slips her fingers between his on her stomach, locks them together.

Her ring is warm against her skin and he is hot against her back and through the villa the wind howls as they sleep.

**End.**


	20. Sugar And Spice And All Things Nice

For mrsdickens713 on tumblr who asked for "little Lizzie interrupting Mr and Mrs Carson during a private moment."

I hope this is close to what you were hoping for! For the rest of this 'Verse please see Chapters 7, 8 & 18.

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><p><strong>Sugar And Spice And All Things Nice<strong>

**i.**

"Is that the last of them?" Charles looks over at his wife {_his wife_}, waits for her nod as she checks the guest book before he locks the doors. "Well then, that's another day over."

Elsie smiles, holds her hand out for the key.

"Mmm. Busy." She clips the key to her waist and he reaches out to rattle its chain, watches it settle against her skirts.

When he looks up she has an eyebrow raised, a light flush on her cheeks.

"I suppose you're tired, Mrs Carson?" He reaches out again, this time for her waist, his fingers splayed against her back, thumbs stroking circles at her hips.

He pulls her closer, still amazed each time that she lets him.

"Not _so_ tired, Mr Carson."

He leans down as her arms slide up his chest, hands curling over his shoulders.

His lips press against hers for just a moment, two; before he feels something tugging at the hem of his jacket. "Aunt Elsie, Uncle Carson."

He pulls back, lets Elsie step back too. "You should be asleep."

Elizabeth blinks up at him, one curled fist rubbing at her eye. "Can't sleep."

With a quick look to his wife, he bends and lifts the girl into his arms. "Have you tried counting?"

She nods against his chest, tucking her head in beneath his chin. "Sheep and dogs and forks."

Elsie laughs beside him, leaning her head into his arm as she peers at her niece. "Forks?"

"Uncle Carson taught me."

He grins sheepishly. "She came by while I was counting the silver."

Elsie's hand grips his at his side, squeezes. "And it didn't work?"

Elizabeth shakes her head. "Want to sleep with you."

Their eyes meet again over the girl's head and he gives Elsie a little nod. "Okay, Lizzie. Just for tonight."

It will not be just the one night of course, tonight already the third since they moved into the property that the girl has come to ask to sleep with them.

Elizabeth yawns, mirrored by her aunt and he gives a small resigned sigh. Perhaps tomorrow night he'll get to hold the other one of his girls this close.

— **x** —

**ii.**

"Your tea." Elsie looks up as Charles holds out the small china cup.

"You didn't have to do that." She would have made him a cup if he had asked. The accounts are not so interesting that she would have minded the interruption.

"I know." He sits down on the settee beside her, close enough that their sides touch, shoulder to knee.

With the tea in hand she closes the notebook, drops both pen and book to the small table beside her.

The tea is perfect, just cool enough to drink and carefully she allows herself to lean into him as she sips.

He switches his cup from one hand to the other and wraps his arm around her shoulder.

They can hear Elizabeth in her room, talking to her dolls and bears. "She's playing guest house again." He says.

"I'm surprised she hasn't roped you into helping the guests settle again." She smirks behind her cup. "Making their beds, taking their laundry away."

He sniffs, and from the corner of her eye she sees the way he raises his chin. "I was a fine maid, I'll have you know."

She giggles, hardly avoids snorting into her tea. "I'll remember that." She says when she has calmed down. "Next time I need a little extra help with the beds, I'll know where to find you."

He grumbles and she is distracted, doesn't notice at first how his hand moves along her shoulder, curls around her neck. He presses gently, turns her head to face him.

"You've changed your hair." He says, apropos to nothing, leans in and nips at her bottom lip. "It suits you, Mrs Carson."

She smiles against his mouth, steadies her cup in her lap and presses up towards him, a gentle pressure to bring her lips and his firmly together.

"I'm bored." She jerks back, tea spilling over her hand as Lizzie crawls up onto the settee to squeeze between them. Elsie finds herself shifting over without giving it any thought, Charles's hand falling from her shoulder.

"Can you tell me a story Uncle Carson?"

Lizzie smiles up at her uncle and Elsie sees the moment he gives in; his shoulders slumping and a dreadfully fond look settling into his eyes. "Of course I can, Elizabeth." He pauses and takes a deep breath, his voice deeper when he continues. "In a big house in a little village lived a wealthy family with three daughters. But downstairs, where the servants lived, was a very special little girl."

"Called 'Lizbeth!"

Charles nods, reaches over to stroke Lizzie's hair away from her forehead. "Called Elizabeth."

Elsie picks up her notebook, swaps her cup for her pen. Lizzie leans into her side as Charles continues his tale and even with the guests arriving tomorrow and the deliveries she'll have to be up early for. Even with her evening disturbed once again; she feels content, happy. She looks up and catches Charles's eye. Yes, she thinks, very definitely happy.

— **x** —

**iii.**

He finds her bent over the laundry, the hot iron in her hand.

A pile of already smoothed sheets is stacked up by the door and he leans against the frame to watch her, the old song coming to mind again.

He waits until she has placed the iron down, started folding the sheet, before beginning to sing.

_"Dashing away with the smoothing iron, she stole my heart away."_

His wife jumps, one hand going to her chest as she turns. Pointing a finger at him, she waggles it threateningly. "You just scared five years off me, Mr Carson."

He laughs, pushing away from the door frame and moving towards her. "I hope not, Mrs Carson." He says when he is within reach. "I have plans for those five years."

"Oh, you do? And I have no say, I suppose?"

He reaches out and clasps her by the waist, tugs her close. "No, I'm afraid you do not. You see, all your years belong to me now, you promised them to me in front of God and our friends and family."

She laughs, brings her soft hands up to his face and lays her palms against his cheeks. "I don't think that's quite what was meant."

His own hands rise to her neck, up higher to cup the back of her head, his fingers tangling into the strands that have fallen loose from the pins while she worked. He scrunches up his face in thought, kisses the thumb that brushes across his bottom lip. "No, no. I'm sure that it was."

Tilting her head, he smiles at her. "The rest of your life and mine, Mrs Carson; they belong to me."

"I suppose there are worse fates I could have fallen to, Mr Carson." She says, breath whisking across his cheek and he closes the little space between them, brings their lips together.

She tastes of lemon and butter and he knows that she has been at the tarts again; her own weakness.

Her hands slip into his hair, tug a little as her fingers curl. It has been too long since he held her like this, tasted her. They are so busy now with the guest house, and poor Elizabeth has been taking time adjusting to the change; it has been a while since they have found themselves alone.

"Charles if you don't stop soon, I'm afraid I won't let you."

He groans at the words, whispered into his ear as she turns her face away, he nuzzles into her neck and lets a hand slide down to the small of her back, push her closer so that he can feel the full length of her pressed up against him.

"Then don't." He manages, searches out her mouth again and crashes his lips to hers, swallows her gasp.

"Uncle Carson? Uncle Carson? Have you seen Molly?"

He groans again, this time not at all from pleasure as Elsie pushes him away seconds before their girl steps into the room.

"She's probably where you left her, Lizzie, come along, let's go see if we can find her."

Elsie holds out her hand for Elizabeth and Charles is careful to keep his body angled away, most of him hidden by the table.

"But Uncle Carson…"

"Uncle Carson is busy, darling, now come on, I'm sure we can find your dolly ourselves. Unless she's climbed up to the top of the cupboards, then we might need your Uncle's assistance."

He leans against the table as his girls leave the room, tries to steady his breathing.

"Molly can't climb cupboards." He hears Elizabeth insist.

"She can't?"

"No, she's scared of high places."

Elsie's laugh is the last he hears before the door upstairs closes and cuts him off from them.

Elbows against the table he drops his head into his hands. He loves the girl, he does, but Elizabeth has truly terrible timing.

— **x** —

**iv.**

"Berry."

"Yes, love?"

"Are Aunt Elsie and Uncle Carson kissing?"

"Oh, um, well I'm sure, I mean they might— Why d'you ask Lizzie?"

"Because they keep sitting close together."

"Right."

"And they hold hands like Aunt Elsie makes me when we cross the road, but they're inside."

"I see."

"And Uncle Carson hugs her like he does me but Aunt Elsie's bigger than me so she has to stand up."

"I'll bet she does."

"And they _keep kissing_!"

…

"Why're you laughing Berry?"

"Oh I'm sorry love, it's nothing. Don't worry. Just something I'll talk to your Uncle about. Don't you like when they kiss? I thought you wanted them to be together?"

"Sybbie said that's how babies are made. She said Lady Mary kissed a boy and then George came. I don't want Aunt Elsie and Uncle Carson to get a George."

"Oh, you sweet thing. I don't think you have to worry about that."

"But they kiss."

"Er, ahem, _yes_ but well, they don't want; yes, that's it! They have you Lizzie, they don't want a George."

"Oh."

"There that's cheered you right up. So you'll stop interrupting them now, will you?"

"Mmm yes. I keep missing so many tea parties!"

"Oh, love. I'm sure you do."

— **x** —

**v.**

"It was good of Mrs Patmore to take Lizzie."

"Elsie Carson, do not _ever_ mention Mrs Patmore in this bed again."

She laughs at his grumble, turns her face into his chest to smother it. "Sorry."

His fingers curl at her side, tickle gently so that she cannot help but to wiggle a little. Usually, through dress, shift and corset she cannot feel it, but bare like this and her skin still more sensitive to his touch, she feels everything so much stronger. "You're not sorry at all, Mrs Carson. But yes, I am glad _that woman_ took her for the night."

Sliding a leg over his, she settles closer to him, her arm across his chest, fingers carding through the short hairs at his temple. Even now, the black and grey strands wild where her fingers have done away with much of the pomade, he still looks so distinguished.

Some days she cannot believe she gets to see him this way.

"I do feel bad, shipping her off just so that we can…well." She feels her cheeks heat with a blush, wonders if he can too, where the left is pressed against him.

His hand rubs along her hip, up and down soothingly. "You know she loves spending time with Mrs— _that woman_, although Lord knows why."

She smacks him, a light tap against his shoulder. "Don't be mean, she's doing us a great favour tonight. Perhaps she'll get to the bottom of it. We've been here three months now, Lizzie can't still be adjusting. There has to be something more to it."

He stiffens beneath her and she braces herself; she is not going to like this, she can tell. "Perhaps, perhaps she was not as happy about us, about _me_ as we thought."

Pushing up from the bed, she leans on one hand and looks at him. "Don't be absurd. She adores you. You're her Uncle-Mister Carson. That hasn't changed, no matter that she might have dropped the mister now. No, she was fine at first, remember? Something must have happened. Or someone said something to her."

She reaches out and cups his cheek. "She loves you, Charles and she was so happy when we told her. And she told _me_, before we left for the church that she could say you were her real Uncle now. She _thanked_ me for marrying you."

Charles smiles, his eyes soft and glistening in the candle light. "Oh."

"Yes, 'oh'. So no more of this nonsense." She settles back down on his chest and he holds her close, squeezes her to him.

"Yes, of course. No more."

She smiles against his skin. Beryl will find out the truth, she has no doubt. Whether the cook will pass the information on to them without a good deal of teasing, well, that is another matter entirely.

She feels Charles tense again beneath her and almost sighs. What can he be working himself up about now? But his hand slips around to her stomach, the other pushing at her shoulder to tip her onto her back. She looks up as he looms over her, eyes pitch black as he stares down at her. "Something you wanted, Mr Carson?"

"Well, we are alone, Mrs Carson. I think we'd best make the most of it while we can."

She laughs, pulls him down to her.

The kiss, once, twice, so many more times as the candle burns down and they move together in the dim light; uninterrupted.


	21. Unmentionable

For kouw (one tumblr) who begged for "a humorous 'drabble' with Mrs Hughes finding Anna's 'contraceptive device'." This is what my mind came up with.

It's as much a drabble as any of my drabbles ever are. ;)

* * *

><p><strong>Unmentionable<strong>

Mrs Hughes asks to see her before she leaves for the cottage. She sends John off with a smile and the little bundle of Lady Mary's clothes that need mending. She hopes he doesn't get held up along the way; he might insist on helping her out, but he won't like having to explain the armful of lady's clothes.

Mrs Hughes is already in her sitting room when Anna goes to find her, a tray on the table with two crystal glasses and the sherry she saw Mr Carson decanting a few days ago.

"Mrs Hughes?"

The Housekeeper jumps, spins around to face her. "Oh Anna! Come in, come in."

She seems flustered; something Anna hasn't seen from her since the morning Mr Carson made the announcement and Mrs Hughes had sat red-faced beside him while he spoke of their engagement.

She shuts the door behind her; Mrs Hughes doesn't often ask for her company in the evenings, even less so now that John is back and the police have gone away, so she suspects this is something important. Likely something she doesn't want others to overhear if it couldn't be said during the day when they kept crossing paths.

"Have a seat." Mrs Hughes waves a hand at the chairs and reaches for a glass. "A drop of sherry?"

Something in the turn-up of her lip, makes Anna wonder if the sherry was not the Housekeeper's idea. She knows, from conversations when she first came to Downton and would visit Mrs Hughes for company during the worst of her homesickness, that she prefers a good whisky if it's available; scotch of course.

She nods a yes and takes a seat while Mrs Hughes pours.

Waiting, she looks around the room. It hasn't changed much in all her years at Downton. Mrs Hughes was already Housekeeper when she arrived as a maid and she's always found her to be quite frugal with her money; not miserly, but careful. It's not a surprise that very little in the room is different. A few new books, there's a new chair in the corner she recognises, that must have been brought down from the attics. The picture frame is still the same, with the same pictures in it as always; she wonders if perhaps that might change soon with the wedding.

The flowers by the desk are fresh; Mrs Hughes has always had wildflowers, a new bunch collected by the Gardner's boy each week. Now, once a month Anna has noticed that the vase is filled with lilies and lavender, sometimes a single white rose. Certainly not taken from the gardens and beautifully arranged. She thinks it's so sweet and although John laughs at her for it, she knows he's just as happy for the Butler and Housekeeper as she is.

Mrs Hughes hands her a glass and settles into the other seat, the table between them with nothing but a single box on it.

Mrs Hughes takes a sip before speaking. "I'm sorry to keep you tonight Anna, but I've been meaning to speak to you and there's never been a good time."

"Is everything alright, Mrs Hughes? Is her Ladyship unhappy with something I've done?" She can't think what, but Mrs Hughes has already finished half her glass and perhaps it's a sort of false courage she's trying to build, to tell Anna something she knows she won't like.

"Pardon? Oh no, no, sorry Anna. No your work is exemplary, as always." Mrs Hughes reaches out slowly and taps at the sleeve of Anna's dress. "No this is, this is something else. A…personal matter I suppose."

Oh. She takes a sip of her own drink. "Is something wrong with Mr Carson?" She hasn't noticed if there is, he's seemed quite cheerful since Christmas, but then perhaps his smile has been hiding something.

"Mr Carson? Why on earth would you think that?"

Not Mr Carson then. "Sorry Mrs Hughes, you said it was personal, so I—"

She stops when Mrs Hughes raises a hand, her cheeks pinking. "I see. No, no mister, uh, Mr Carson is just fine, thank you." The other woman pauses, drains her glass and places it on the table beside the box. "No, this, ah, this is personal to _you_, Anna."

Resting her own glass on the table, Anna tangles her fingers together in her lap, leans forward slightly. "I'm sorry, Mrs Hughes, I don't follow."

Mrs Hughes's lips twist. "No, I dare say you don't." She seems to take a moment to think before resting her hand on the box and clearing her throat.

"You know of course that after Mr Bates left, Mr Molesley asked permission to search your cottage?" Anna nods, of course she does. She'll never know how to repay Mr Molesley and Miss Baxter for what they did. "He hoped to find some indication of Mr Bates's destination. Eventually, he found the pictures, and of course His Lordship knew how to contact Mr Bates in the end." Anna finds it surprisingly easy to not get distracted by memories; she has never heard Mrs Hughes ramble, hadn't thought the woman capable of it and yet that is exactly what she's witnessing. It is fascinating to see. "However, his search took longer than you may think and there were certain places he didn't feel comfortable looking in, at least not before I had assured him there was nothing there you would be ashamed for him to see."

Anna can feel her cheeks blushing now and she takes a sip of her drink. She has a horrible suspicion she knows what this is about. She'd noticed a particular item missing from the cottage; she thought Lady Mary had collected it.

"He brought me a box, he said that he had found it in one of the dressers, that he hadn't looked at it as soon as he realised it was yours and not Mr Bates's." The Housekeeper pushes the box across to her. "I removed…_that_ and gave the original box back to him; goodness knows what he was hoping to find, but I didn't think you would want…well, I kept it here. I should have returned it as soon as you were released, but there didn't seem to be a good time to bring it up, and then Mr Bates returned and there was Miss Thompson's confession."

Mrs Hughes stops, swallows and seems almost to need to catch her breath. Anna picks the box up and opens the lid, shuts it as soon as she sees the familiar case inside.

"Mrs Hughes I'm—"

Mrs Hughes holds up her hand again. "Anna, I don't require an explanation, it was taken from your home and you've nothing to defend there."

This is quite possibly the most uncomfortable talk she has had with Mrs Hughes, and that includes the one where she was told by the Housekeeper that should she and the other maids ever break the rules and do more than step-out with a footman, they'd best be sure the timing was right to avoid any greater consequences than a ruined virtue.

"Mrs Hughes—" she tries again, but Mrs Hughes stands, heads back to the sherry and refills her glass. "No please, I'd prefer that we simply forget I've ever seen it." She swirls the alcohol around her glass, unable to meet Anna's eyes. "Now, I'm sure Mr Bates is missing you, and I wouldn't like to keep you any later. Andy's waiting to walk you home."

She isn't sure she could have broken Lady Mary's confidence anyway. "Mrs Hughes, that really isn't necessary." She stands herself and tucks the box into her pocket, glad for their deepness in this dress.

Mrs Hughes looks at her properly then, her smile soft even if her cheeks are still redder than usual. "Andy is waiting for you." She repeats and Anna knows better than to argue with Mrs Hughes a second time.

"Goodnight, Mrs Hughes. And thank you."

"Goodnight, Anna."

She passes Mr Carson on her way to the servant's hall, smiles at the way his concerned expression eases when she nods at him. She has no doubt that he knows nothing about what she and Mrs Hughes have discussed, but he must have known something was weighing on his fiancée's mind. She's even more sure now that it was Mr Carson that suggested the sherry.

"Goodnight, Mr Carson."

"Good evening, Mrs Bates."

He walks on and she looks back to see him knock once before entering Mrs Hughes's sitting room.

The box in her pocket catches her leg as she walks. John is going to laugh so hard when she tells him about this.

**End.**


	22. Something Old, Something New

Hello! A little something for kouw. She asked for a little more from the world of Anna and Mrs Hughes, seen last when Mrs Hughes was returning Lady Mary's…device (Chapter 21).

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><p><strong>Something Old, Something New<strong>

She has asked herself no less than three times this morning if perhaps she should simply forget about it. When she rose and dressed, John sitting on the side of the bed and watching her; again when they arrived for breakfast, the Butler and Housekeeper both expectedly absent and again now, outside Mrs Hughes's door, her hand raised to knock.

Once, she would not have hesitated at all, but so many things have happened now that even though she tried not to let them, caused so much distance to grow between herself and the Housekeeper. For too long she could not even look at Mrs Hughes without remembering _that night_.

Through everything that followed, she fears she and John were perhaps not as kind as they could have been to the Housekeeper.

After that evening in Mrs Hughes's sitting room when the older woman returned Lady Mary's…_device_ to her, she has realised that she misses the closeness they once shared.

She has noticed, now that the danger of the police has passed and her mind is free _to_ notice, that it is Mrs Hughes that now pulls away, just slightly, whenever Anna draws near, who is more careful with her smiles and her words when she and John are about.

There was a time when Mrs Hughes would have shared the news of her engagement with her personally, would have spoken to her of the arrangements being made. But she has learnt of it all as the others have; through that first announcement and Mrs Patmore's excited gossiping.

She takes a full breath and raps her knuckles against the door carefully. Does it again when the sound hardly travels at all.

"For goodness sake, Mrs Patmore, I do wish you'd save the worrying to me. We have plenty of time, I won't be late to my own wedding."

Anna smiles through her nerves. She passed the cook at the bottom of the stairs, her eyes twitching between the rooms above and the clock in the hallway. Mrs Patmore has been quite nervous, like a bride herself, about this wedding.

Turning the handle carefully, she pushes the door open. "It's me, Mrs Hughes."

The Housekeeper turns around on the stool, her hands falling from her hair — hardly any strands at all already pinned and a few more coming loose as she moves.

"Oh, Anna! I am sorry, Mrs Patmore has knocked on that door every three minutes since I woke this morning, I'm afraid I may have to lock her on the men's side if she does it again."

Mrs Hughes stands, her new skirt falling into place as she does and waves a hand for Anna to come in further.

It is far from the first time Anna has been in the Housekeeper's bedroom. Though it is rare, the older woman has been known to succumb to illness just like everyone else on occasion and Anna has always been the one to bring her food and fresh linens, to help her wash and change her nightclothes during the worst of it.

Like her sitting room, the Housekeeper's bedroom has changed little over the years, although today it is quite empty, only a few boxes and a single left to be taken to Mrs Hughes's new home. Mr Carson too still has to move the last of his things; it seems he had not wanted to move there without his wife. John had teased her for tearing up when she learnt of that.

"I think Daisy is keeping her occupied now, Mrs Hughes. I mentioned to Mrs Patmore that she might like to check her progress with the family's sweet puddings."

"Thank you, Anna. She's very kind, but she's driven me half mad already this morning." Mrs Hughes laughs and reaches for her arm, but catches herself before she can actually touch Anna.

The last of her hesitation leaves her then; it seems it will be Anna who must bridge this space between them and she cannot bear for it to last a moment longer than it must. Especially when the Housekeeper will soon be gone from the House.

"Now, enough about that, tell me why you're here. Is something the matter downstairs?"

Anna shakes her head at the question; "No, no everything's fine. I wondered if I might help _you_."

Mrs Hughes's hand flutters a little at her waist. "Oh Anna, it's a lovely thought but you don't want—"

"I've been looking at the new hair fashions, for Lady Mary and I saw something I think would suit you." She interrupts quickly. She hadn't expected that Mrs Hughes would agree right away. In all of the discussions and arrangements for today, the Housekeeper has insisted time and again that there is no need for any fuss. It was Mr Carson who implored them all to give her the very best.

Taking another step closer, Anna lays her hand on the other woman's shoulder. "Please Mrs Hughes, you've been so kind to me and Mr Bates and it would mean so much to me to do this for you."

She stays still and relaxed as Mrs Hughes reaches for her, pulls her close so hesitantly.

It takes only a moment before she buries her face in Mrs Hughes's shoulder, draws strength she didn't realise she needed, the way she hasn't since she was a very young maid, the way she wishes she could have _that_ night and several times since when something like a mother's hold could have been welcomed.

They jump at the rapid knocking at the door, Mrs Patmore's loud; "Hurry up!"

As she pulls back, she notices the tears that have caught on Mrs Hughes's cheeks, brushes her own away with a laugh.

"She'll be done in a moment, Mrs Patmore." Looking back to the Housekeeper, she smiles. "Let's get started."

"Yes, we should before I really _am_ late."

Mrs Hughes settles back onto the stool before her dresser and Anna comes up behind her, pulls the pins and clips put from her pockets and lays them out beside Mrs Hughes's own.

"I'm sure Mr Carson would wait for you."

She cannot help but echo the smile she sees spread across Mrs Hughes's face in the mirror. "Perhaps, but I'd rather he not have to."

Anna suspects, given Mr Carson's usual habit of always running early, that he is likely already waiting at the church but she understands what Mrs Hughes hasn't said; they've both waited long enough.

"I won't take long." She says and sets to work undoing the little style Mrs Hughes had achieved before. The Housekeeper pats her arm as she leans over to choose a pin and Anna feels tears rising again.

The time for waiting - _for hesitating _- really is over.

_**End. **_


	23. Magic

Okay, there was a discussion on tumblr following an interview with several of the actors on the show, where they revealed three things about their characters and three things about themselves; one of Phyllis's/Mrs Hughes's was that while Phyllis dyes her hair, Mrs Hughes does not. But of course, we'll all have noticed changes in colour of Mrs Hughes's hair over the seasons, changes that couldn't be attributed to sun-bleaching or aging, which kicked off a little discussion that perhaps Mrs Hughes has magic hair. Several people wanted a story and as deeedeee is still on a writing hiatus, she nominated me. _I_ had not been part of this discussion, had been coming down from a bad day and had consumed more than a little white wine; which of course meant I agreed immediately and typed out the following in reply to the nomination. It doesn't seem any less odd to me this morning, but is not actually the weirdest thing I've ever written.

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><p><strong>Magic<strong>

It takes her some time, after they marry, to show him.

It would have happened sooner if she had just told him, but she couldn't.

It isn't that she thought he would be scared of her; she simply didn't think he would believe her.

Not without proof. She has always worried that if they knew, if anyone knew, they would call her mad, lock her up and throw away the key; all the things she has lived her life terrified they could do to Becky.

Or worse, keep her near, watch her, study her, trap her somewhere dark and cold.

Magic isn't meant to be confined.

And it is magic, she knows that; the way she learnt to open her hand, blow warm air across her palm with silent words in her head and bless the birds, the flowers, the people in her heart.

She has blessed him so many times she has almost lost count; while others might have prayed during his illness, she blessed, spoke the words aloud to give them more power.

Perhaps he would have strengthened without her, but she had to be sure.

There have been spells and chants that have followed her from childhood, that she has kept alive when their casters have long gone from the Earth.

Gifts, given to her by those who knew better how small comforts can raise a smile when life has caused a frown.

And her hair; such a simple thing. But a complicated spell, gifted so innocently by her sister. Becky hadn't known, hadn't realised how important the words were, the order, _the intent._

_'Be as you were always'_ she had whispered, one night when Elsie's hair had changed from dark red to brown; a natural change her sister had not liked.

But she had not been careful; for something to be as it was, it must change to something new.

And Becky had not finished the spell. Had not given a limit or a time. Had woven a charm to change her sister's hair that repeats each fifth year of her life.

"Charles, come here." Elsie smiles now at her husband, pats the space beside her, _his_ half of their settee.

He sits, takes her hand. Kisses her palm with a smile of his own.

"Do you believe in magic?" She says as the clock chimes and the sun dips low outside the window. As she feels the tingle in her hair and the itch across her skin.

"Is it that time already?" He asks, reaches for the pins that hold her hair in tight curls and lets them out. "I'd wondered if it might be soon."

The sun sets and her hair darkens, from the light wisps of grey, to brown to dark red.

"You knew." She whispers, leans into the hand that cups her cheek, kisses the thumb that brushes her lips.

"I knew you didn't dye it." He says, leans in close, his breath at her ear. "A woman of mystery if ever there was."

**End.**


	24. As Easy As

For imestizaa on tumblr (mestizaa here) who wanted a _'being an accountant isn't as boring as the media portrays, I DO know how to fun and fyi you fucked up your taxes'_ AU. This is what my mind came up with. Something else is percolating, so we'll see, I might have a second response to this one at some point. But for now, this is much longer than I ever expected it to be. Please be aware that Mr Carson's grumpy thoughts do not reflect the views on accountants held by the author!

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><p><strong>As Easy As<strong>

When Robert Crawley – attorney at law – looks across the oversized desk at him, fingers pressed together like a priest in prayer and says; "I'm sorry Carson, but I think you'll need an accountant for this", Charles lets his mood slip from moderately frustrated to really annoyed. He'd hoped Beryl had been completely overreacting when he'd had her pass an eye over the forms.

And then he thinks about not only making the appointment with an accountant but actually keeping it and spending what's likely to be several hours of his life in the company of some pedantic number cruncher and he slides straight into completely hacked off.

He blames the Inland Revenue, frankly. His tax return is flawless.

—–

"This is a mess."

Charles digs his fingers into his eyes and counts to twenty. Then to forty and eventually gives it up as a lost cause and looks up anyway.

His accountant, a weedy young man who'd introduced himself as Andrew and then taken a large gulp of tea from a mug branded with fading red letters spelling _Andy_, blinks back at him, the pages of Charles's tax return clenched in one hand with a white knuckled grip.

They've been at it for hours now, the shoebox holding Charles's receipts emptied, neatly refilled and emptied again twice while they account for every single penny that Charles has claimed in work expenses. The ring binder holding his invoices and related pay-slips have all been re-filed in three different orders - in fact Charles is fairly certain that the last time _Andy_ just threw them in there with no legitimate order at all - and they've drunk what feels like an entire barrel of poorly brewed tea between them, empty mugs scattered about the cramped little office.

And still the (deputy) accountant looks no closer to sorting out whatever apparent issue the HMRC will have with Charles's tax return this year.

"I've filled it in the same as every year, Mr–_Andrew_. I even have it ready to file ahead of time this year."

Andy eyes him, said eyes bloodshot and wide with disbelief and then he's picking up the phone and calling his superior and Charles doesn't bother holding in his sigh.

He agrees to an appointment the next day with Andy's direct superior, who at least sounds a little older on the phone, if not just as lacking in charisma as his subordinate and leaves the offices with neither box not binder; Andy more than eager to pass them along for him and save him lugging them back tomorrow on the train.

—–

"-part of the problem," Molesley continues, tapping his pencil against his lip, seemingly oblivious to the fact that Charles stopped being any sort of audience – captive or otherwise – around about the time he opened up his own notebook and began working on his next article, "is that here you've called yourself an Historian – fascinating, by the way, I always loved my history lessons at school – but that's not a recognised profession by itself, I'm afraid and a few pages later you've logged a lot of expenses under the classification of 'Journalist'."

Charles frowns, closing his notebook and tucking his pen into the coiled spine. "I am an Historian, Mr Molesley, however I write a weekly piece for the Yorkshire Times, which according to the HMRC website, classifies me as a freelance journalist."

Which he hates, truly, but they hadn't a category for 'broke historian with a PhD in the Victorian and Edwardian eras who can string enough words together to be deemed acceptable for the average intelligence of the local newspaper readership, but who cannot stand students long enough to teach them and only receives around £3.90 in royalties for his published texts each year'. So, journalist it had been.

"I see." Molesley says in such a way that Charles doubts that he in fact _does_ see. "And this; £13,000 in 'miscellaneous expenses' can you explain what makes them miscellaneous?"

Charles pulls his eyes away from staring at the rather off-putting poster of a grinning cat above the words _'smile - it's not a complete CATastrophe'_ to glance at Joseph Molesley, MAAT.

"There was a fire." He explains, trying to keep the frustration out of his voice; but surely Andy had written his answer to this question down yesterday? The boy had certainly been scribbling enough notes between moments of pulling at his hair and stabbing at his calculator. "In December someone in my building left their toast in the toaster when they left for work, the complex went up and when I returned from a week away in London, I'll admit that recovering my receipts was not a high priority."

"I see." Molesley jots down his own notes at this. "And you can't remember what any of these payments might have been for?"

"I could guess." Charles offers and honestly isn't surprised when the accountant's pencil breaks with a snap or when he suggests that perhaps Charles's case might benefit from a more experienced eye.

He doesn't speak to the next guy, leaving it to Molesley to arrange for another meeting; the man must be in demand however, because his next free appointment isn't until two days later and even then Charles gets the impression that it's not so much a 'free' appointment as it is that Charles's circumstances are deemed extenuating enough to warrant another appointment get moved around to make room for him.

A matter that's cleared up a little when he leaves the building of Hughes & Co with an eight-am appointment on Friday with one E. Hughes.

It's at this point that Charles's annoyance at facing another boring day with another boring accountant starts to give way to genuine concern.

Perhaps he should have taken Crawley's advice and paid out for an accountant to file the return for him after all. He'd have certainly spent less time with them if he had.

—–

Friday arrives with what's likely to be a very brief early summer heat wave and as Charles waits in the lobby to be called up to Mr Hughes's office, he's already beginning to regret layering his usual undershirt, shirt and suede elbowed jacket.

Thankfully, accountants can be - ahem - _counted_ on to dress even more stuffily than historians, so if there's no air conditioning to be had, there'll be a window or two cracked open within the first hour, no doubt.

"You can go up now, just press for the top floor."

Charles can feel his eyebrows climbing as he stands and heads for the lift, his hands clamming. This really must be serious; he'd had his suspicions at the name, but after all a company like this might hire family, but top floor offices are for usually for Directors.

The doors close as he presses for the third floor and his increasingly pale face stares back at him.

—–

"I hear you've been giving my staff quite the challenge, Mr Carson."

Charles is aware that it's impolite to stare. As a matter of fact, his mother drummed quite an impressive set of manners into him before he outgrew the odd slap to the knuckles with her wooden spoon. However even Maggie Carson's voice in his ear has deserted him as he sits, blatantly staring at possibly the most attractive accountant he has - and is ever to have likely - seen.

"I, uh, that is–I mean…I'm sorry?" Stuttering; that's another thing he outgrew before he was out of short trousers. He needs to snap out of it. The woman's an accountant for goodness sake, likely married and probably just as boring as the rest of them. Isn't that the common joke, rife in modern media? It must have more than an ounce of truth in it. (He is aware of the highly erroneous stereotype of the historian and sees no reason why that should in any way affect his impressions of individuals in other professions.)

"So you should be. I had to talk poor Andy down from resigning this week; he was so turned around by your case."

Aha, Charles knew the boy was an Andy not an Andrew.

Bolstered by that knowledge and finally regaining that stern voice in his head, Charles pulls his eyes away from Mrs Hughes's legs and brings his thoughts back in order.

She probably owns a lot of cats and records Countdown so she can watch it of an evening with paper and pen in hand.

"Perhaps it might be for the best, if he finds himself so completely overwhelmed by a few missing receipts."

He expects his words to rile the woman, honestly. Except she simply raises an eyebrow, arms crossing beneath her chest as she leans back a little further in her chair. Charles gets the distinct impression that she's looking down on him even though, both sitting, she comes up at least half a foot shorter than him.

"And the matter of your occupation?" She's Scottish and the accent is distinctly stronger now than when she first greeted him. She also hasn't opened a window, having removed her own jacket as the room began to warm.

Charles is feeling more than a little overheated, not that he intends to let on. "Surely I can't be the first client you've had that doesn't adhere to the Revenue's limited categories?" He inclines an eyebrow of his own because frankly he's too hot to cross his arms and completely mirror her pose.

Again he's expecting a fight, or for her to wilt away in agreement and get back to fixing what surely cannot be a big enough mess that it needs all this fuss. He's an intelligent man, he's passed a good number of maths exams in his time and every other tax return he has filed has been absolutely fine; just how badly can he have stuffed it up?

What he's not expecting is for E. Hughes – _"you may call me Elsie if you'll allow me to call you Charlie"_ – to laugh and hand him over a sealed envelope from her top drawer.

"Your tax return Mr Carson, which I'm sure you'll find has been completed above and beyond the expectations of the most pedantic of Her Majesty's Revenue officers, despite the missing receipts and your refusal to submit to their classifications."

Charles takes hold of the envelope but finds it held tight by his accountant.

"If I might offer a suggestion for the future, Mr Carson?" She doesn't wait for his answer. "If you insist on completing this yourself without so much as allowing a qualified accountant to look it over, then perhaps you might at least double check that you've written the correct date of birth and National Insurance number before sending it off. Had your friend not stopped you from filing it, I'm afraid you would have been seen as not filing one at all."

She releases the envelope with a smile and Charles lets it flop under its own weight, his cheeks heating from more than the high temperature.

He stands to leave with a poorly stuttered thank you, stuffing the tax return into his satchel, the leather creaking as it accommodates the size.

As he leaves, he catches sight of the bookcase beside the door, the bright red spines of two books he'll never _not_ notice – rare occurrence as it is to see them outside of a University library or piled up in boxes in his own loft – catching his eye, bookended with several others by a photograph of Mrs Hughes in what appears to be period clothes – late Edwardian and if he's not mistaken, a Housekeeper's dress – and an unpolished trophy in the shape of a microphone.

"A karaoke contest." Her voice offers behind him. "I gave the worst rendition of Dancing Queen they'd ever heared apparently."

It's the pride and amusement in her voice that has him turning back, dropping his bag back to the floor and holding out his hand to her again. This beautiful woman who has saved him thousands of pounds and whom he suspects has the ability to change every conception he has about the members of her profession. And who is looking at him with bright - bemused - eyes he can't look away from.

"It's wonderful to meet you, Elsie Hughes." He says as she wraps her fingers around his own, chancing a quick look down at her left hand, her _ringless_ left hand. "Please call me Charles. May I take you to lunch?"

They'll start there, he thinks. That seems like a good place to start.

—-

Accountants, Charles learns that afternoon, can be very far from boring.

—-

He never does get better at filling in his tax return.

It's a good thing he marries an accountant really.

**End.**


	25. Best Laid Plans (Series 6 spoilers)

I want to thank EVERYONE who has reviewed the last piece (and all the ones before that), I do hope to find time to reply to all your kind words individually, but should I fail in that please know that they mean the world to me!

This long one is for _lsgrimm91_ and_ itssoinevitable_ on tumblr who amongst their prompts both wanted something based on the spoilers from series 6**. ** The length ran away with me. That's all I can say.

_**SPOILER WARNINGS FOR SERIES 6 **although if you don't know what they are, you'll probably not figure them out from this fic. ;)_

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><p><strong>Best Laid Plans<strong>

"Well, they've not turned out too terribly." Mrs Patmore says – somewhat over-enthusiastically to Elsie's mind – as she reaches out to snap one of the too dark biscuits in half. It takes a moment and when it finally breaks, pieces fly out all over the kitchen, a dull ring echoing where one particularly large chunk has landed in a saucepan by the sink.

Elsie raises an eyebrow and quickly stops the cook when she makes to pop what's left of the biscuit in her mouth. "Really Beryl, there's no need to be kind."

She can't imagine that the confection can taste any better than it looks and though she _is_ thankful for her friend's support, she doesn't want to inadvertently poison the poor woman. Especially not when Elsie obviously needs far more help if she's to survive cooking for herself, and her husband.

As things stand, Mr Carson will surely become a much leaner man during their retirement or else they will be regular patrons of every public house in the village.

After a moment's hesitation, Beryl drops the biscuit back onto the plate, the near black lump landing with a clunk amongst its charred brothers. "No, they are a bit of a disaster aren't they?" Elsie grimaces a kind of smile in response, relieved and anxious in equal measure as the cook turns to throw the lot out.

She suspects that even had his Lordship already replaced Isis, the results of her first foray into biscuit making would still not have made it to the dog's bowl.

"Never mind that, we've plenty of time to get you cooking with the best of them, Mrs Hughes." The cook reaches out a hand to squeeze Elsie's elbow and Elsie is only glad that there is no one else present to see just how poorly these lessons are going.

She tries, really she does. She listens avidly to the other woman's instructions, follows them to the letter and still the best she has managed during the few weeks Mrs Patmore has been teaching her, is a half baked loaf of bread and a perfectly poached egg.

Even if she does improve by producing a loaf that's cooked all the way through, it won't add up to much of a menu. They can't survive on egg and toast for the rest of their years!

She turns a small smile on her friend, who is already pulling out more flour and milk to try again. "Thank you Mrs Patmore, but I'm not sure all the time in the world would be enough for that."

Mrs Patmore stills, glancing her up and down. "Well not with that sort of attitude, no. But I've worked with less, so buck up and wash out that bowl and this time, don't roll them out so thin."

With a sheepish nod, Elsie sets about doing just that, scrubbing at the drying batter stuck to her arms as well as the bowl.

"He can't expect you to have much knowledge of the kitchen." Comes Mrs Patmore's voice a moment later, lowered from her previous brusque tone. Elsie doesn't doubt who the cook means, though they've never explicitly spoken of why she wants to learn to cook.

"I'm sure he hasn't given it much thought. But it is the very least expected in a wife."

"Surely he must realise you've not needed to make more than a cup of tea and a headache powder in years?" Her friend persists and Elsie is sure the other woman means well, but the topic is doing nothing to alleviate her worries.

"As I've said, I'm sure Mr Carson hasn't thought on it at all. But no doubt he believes it a skill all women have instinctively, even housekeepers." After all, she herself never thought it would be this hard to make a few basic staples.

"What absolute rot! It's a learned skill, is what it is and one that needs maintaining."

"Well, I certainly hope so, Mrs Patmore because I think I've proven that I'm not a natural." She jokes, hoping to bring the mood back up and the conversation to a close.

"No, you're certainly not that. But you are trying and Mr Carson best appreciate that or he'll feel the back of my biggest spoon."

Elsie laughs at the image even though she has no intention at all of letting her fiancée know about these little lessons; Mrs Patmore has already been sworn to absolute secrecy.

"Thank you Mrs Patmore. But I don't think that'll be necessary. With you as my teacher, I'm sure I'll master enough dishes not to let Mr Carson down too terribly." What kind of wife will she be, if she cannot ensure that her husband is satisfactorily fed?

Turned away as she is, Elsie doesn't see the narrowing of Mrs Patmore's eyes, or the concerned look that slips across her face as she considers her friend.

-x-x-x-x-

To say that Beryl was pleased to learn of her friends' engagement would be like saying the crown jewels are just nice trinkets.

After all the years of watching the two fools circle each other, worrying about each other and tying themselves up in tight balls of anxiety each time the other had so much as a sniffle, Beryl is downright ecstatic that it hasn't all been for nothing.

She hadn't thought the old grump had it in him to make the first move. In fact, when there'd been no sign, nothing at all after their little hand holding at the beach, she'd almost given up hope.

What absolute luck her aunt's death had been in the end, to give the old man a much needed shove.

So yes, Beryl is over the moon for her friends and until very recently was quite proud of the old butler for opening himself up enough to show Mrs Hughes his feelings.

Following her chat with Mrs Hughes last night however, Beryl isn't so sure he did that at all.

She doesn't know the circumstances of the proposal; they've both been quite tight lipped about it all told, but she had hoped, knowing where both their hearts lay as she does, that there might have been some moment of romance to the event, if only in Mr Carson revealing just why he was proposing at all.

But the anxiety that had swum around Mrs Hughes as she ruined another batch of lemon biscuits, the _'some wife I'll make'_ mumbled under the housekeeper's breath as they'd called it a night, well, that rather spoke to the contrary.

She sees them now as she brings in the last of the breakfast to the servants hall, the nervous fluttering of Mrs Hughes' hands as she butters Mr Carson's toast, the gentle smile Mr Carson gives the top of her head, smoothed out again by the time the woman looks up.

Damn and blast the man. Beryl has no doubt at all that Mr Carson proposed from a place of love, that despite Mrs Hughes' words the night before, he does know very well the limitations of his future wife and doesn't care a whit. If he were simply looking for a woman to cook and keep a house for him during his dotage, then he'd just as easily have tipped his cap at Beryl herself as the woman next to him.

No, Beryl knows Mr Carson wants Mrs Hughes, not just 'a wife'. She is also sure, she thinks with a wicked smirk as she heads back to the kitchens, that he isn't looking for her to be just a friendly companion either, not with the way his eyes have always settled at her hips whenever the housekeeper walks away from him.

But it won't do if Mrs Hughes runs herself ragged thinking the old goat simply wants a familiar presence, just a maid and cook for a wife.

No, that won't do at all.

-x-x-x-x-

It has, by Charles's reckoning, been thirty days and a handful of hours now since Mrs Hughes accepted his stumbling proposal and thus made him a happy man. A very happy man indeed.

He had not thought that one day he would have the promise of such a woman, had long resigned himself to a lonesome retirement when the time eventually came that he could no longer fulfil his duties to a standard befitting his position.

There had never been any thought at all of finding himself a companion for his retirement; though he understood the practicalities of such marriages, to his private shame he is an old romantic at heart and has always believed one should marry for love, or not at all.

He had contented himself over time with the thought of never marrying, because he believed that after the wounds of his youth he would never find a woman to love, never mind one who might return the sentiment in kind.

And then Mrs Hughes had come along and with her characteristic efficiency, she had set his wounds to mending and opened his eyes to what had been right in front of them for some time.

To his surprise, he discovered that he had in fact found such a woman many years ago, when his fiery Scottish Dragon had taken her first steps into the Abbey and installed herself as his dearest friend.

That she is beautiful both inside and out certainly doesn't hurt, he thinks with the same smile that has been coming to his face since that Christmas Eve night, does not hurt at all.

They have hardly touched since their engagement – he is not a cad and Mrs Hughes deserves to be treated with the utmost respect – but he cannot deny that each brush of their fingers as they walk the corridors together, the sometimes accidental nudge of his knee to hers beneath the table during mealtimes, has his heart beating hopefully in his chest, the very nerves in his fingertips aching for a time when he might reach for more and be granted it.

He is a very happy, very fortunate man.

He takes a deep breath and tries once more to focus on the wine ledger before him on the desk.

He has had word from a merchant of a large shipment of his Lordship's favourite Bordeaux, expected at shore in the next few weeks and he needs to be sure of how many to purchase whilst they're at a good rate. And perhaps an extra bottle as a treat for himself and his wife, as she will be by then.

On the nights that they stray away from their usual sherry, he has noticed that Mrs Hughes rather favours this particular wine herself.

Charles has no strong opinions on it, however he has long appreciated the stain it gives to Mrs Hughes' lips after her first few sips.

Tapping his pen idly against the desk, he wonders if it might taste at all different from her lips than from his glass.

"I've no need to ask what's got you so distracted, Mr Carson."

Charles jumps at the voice from his door and drops his pen as he looks up. "Or perhaps I should say 'who', hmm?"

Mrs Patmore steps more fully into his pantry, making herself at home in one of his chairs without waiting for him to invite her in.

"It's customary to knock before entering a room, Mrs Patmore."

The cook raises an eyebrow at him. "And it's customary to answer when someone's been knocking at your door for five minutes straight. I looked a right wally standing out there, Mr Carson, while you shared a moment with your Scottish fairies."

If he were a different man, Charles might flush at Mrs Patmore's insinuation, accurate as it is. Instead he coughs and tugs at his shirt collar.

"I apologise Mrs Patmore, I'm afraid I must have lost myself in these ledgers."

The cook lifts up from her chair to peer over his desk. "Must be quite the wine, Mr Carson to bring such a look on your face."

She settles back into her seat with a smug smile and Charles tugs at his waistcoat.

"Yes, quite." _Silly fool_, he should have told her he'd no idea what she meant. Too late now for that, he presses on quickly. "How can I be of assistance, Mrs Patmore?"

"Right, well, this is a delicate matter," she starts and his eyes widen in slight panic, "so don't you start getting your dander up before I've finished."

Leaning forward in his chair he frowns.

"Mrs Patmore, I can assure you, whatever you wish to discuss, I have no intention of raising my 'dander' at all."

The cook nods but doesn't seem entirely assured. "Good, good. Just you remember that, mind."

He waits while she pauses, expecting that she needs a moment to gather her thoughts, however he is a busy man and his own distractions before her arrival have already set him several minutes back. It won't do to miss his time with Mrs Hughes this evening because he has too much work still to do.

He waves a hand to his door and the rooms beyond. "Perhaps you'd prefer to speak to Mrs Hughes first, if it's as delicate a matter as you say?"

He cannot help – though he has been trying – the smile that appears on his lips as he says Mrs Hughes' name.

He jumps again as Mrs Patmore's hand slams down hard on his desk.

"There! That right there, that's what I want to discuss and I can't very well do it with the woman in question, can I, where's the sense in that?"

The cook looks quite lively, engaged in whatever madness has taken hold of her now. Perhaps he should call for Mrs Hughes himself.

"What woman, Mrs Patmore?" He asks, trying to work out if he's missed something in their brief but confusing conversation that might shed some light on what's riled her up. What had he done that made her jump about?

"Mrs Hughes of course, who else would I be talking about?"

Frankly at this stage, he hasn't a clue. "I haven't a clue, Mrs Patmore."

The cook peers at him – he believes 'beadily' would be an apt description – and sighs. "That's about the truth of it."

With a sigh of his own, Charles brings a hand to his brow and rubs furiously. "Mrs Patmore, please calm down and explain what it is that you wish to discuss with me, that I take it has something to do with Mrs Hughes?"

Mrs Hughes, whom he saw not two hours ago at lunch and who he believes is currently meeting with her Ladyship about new linens for the Blue Room. It seems unlikely that anything can have befallen her in that time and even less likely that he wouldn't already have been fetched for if it had.

"Of course it has to do with Mrs Hughes; I've already said as much. And I warned you about that dander, Mr Carson. It's no wonder the pair of you are so out of sorts, too buttoned up to talk about what's important. Not a good start to any endeavour, a lot of misunderstandings and–"

He'll admit it; he loses his patience then.

"Mrs Patmore!" He cuts her off. "Will you please just speak plainly." Or not at all, he thinks.

The woman takes what Charles hopes is a steadying breath and smiles. He does not trust that smile, having so many teeth behind it. "Very well, Mr Carson. Plainly put, I wish to know why you have asked Mrs Hughes to marry you. Plainer still," she continues before he can interrupt, "I want to know what it is you expect from her as your wife."

-x-x-x-x-

Beryl relaxes as the last of her words leave her mouth. There, she's asked him now. Not quite how she'd planned it, but subtlety hadn't been working for either of them.

She watches with some concern as his complexion darkens. She hopes she hasn't pushed the man into a conniption!

She'd had rather another attack of the heart in mind for him.

After another moment he opens his mouth, beginning to stand and oh, she'd best nip that in the bud right quick before he thinks to throw her out without an answer.

"Mrs Patmore, I–"

"Only there's been some confusion, you see, over whether you're in want of a wife for just the company."

Standing fully now, Mr Carson frowns at her angrily, but at least some of the wind seems to have seeped from his sails.

"I expect better of you Mrs Patmore, as Mrs Hughes' friend and as a senior member of staff, than to engage in this kind of vulgar gossip mongering. Whatever the agreement between Mrs Hughes and myself, I'll thank you, no I'll command you, to leave it between us and us alone."

Beryl frowns. "So there _is_ an agreement between you then?" She presses.

"Of course there is; we're engaged to be married." The fool sounds confused; she'd hoped we would have figured it out by now.

Right, time to be plain again then. If she were in her kitchen, she'd be rolling up her sleeves about now.

"And would this marriage be of the convenient kind, Mr Carson or of the other."

"The other?" In other circumstances, the bemused look on the butler's face might be amusing. Now it just exasperates Beryl to the point of blurting out;

"Passion, Mr Carson. Passion."

She's never seen the man blush so red. She considers pushing him down to his chair, the speed at which his blood must have shifted about him surely a shock to his system, but he makes the move himself before she can.

Hands against his desk, she watches as his knuckles whiten. "Mrs Patmore, I think you should leave now, before anything more is said."

"Mr Carson–"

"Leave Mrs Patmore and kindly keep your imprudent nose out of my business!"

Far from being frightened by the volume and tone of the Butler's voice, Mrs Patmore feels her own ire rising.

"I'll keep out of it, Charles Carson, when 'your business' isn't fretting about my kitchen almost in tears, because she's so concerned she'll make a terrible wife trying to live up to your expectations!"

"My…She's…What?"

Taking a deep breath to calm herself, Beryl faces the unsettled man with a gentler eye.

"Mrs Hughes, Mr Carson, are you aware that she cannot cook?"

The butler's great eyebrows pull together in confusion, though his tone is certainly more even than before. "I think we'd best start again Mrs Patmore, from the beginning."

-x-x-x-x-

It has been a good if long day, by the time Elsie makes her way to her parlour after the last of the maids have gone up.

For the last hour or so it's been the thought of spending time with Mr Carson alone in his pantry that has seen her through; if she didn't treasure those moments so much she might have been tempted to retire to bed early tonight. She'd hardly slept a wink the night before, after the disastrous lesson with Mrs Patmore.

Stifling a yawn with her hand, Elsie steps in front of her mirror and sets about tucking away the hairs that have strayed from her pins throughout the day. Since their brief flirtation, she hasn't been able to face a looking glass without thinking of her words to Mr Carson, and his response.

She turns at a quiet knock to her door, smiling as the man in question hovers in the doorway.

"You hardly look like you've done a day's work, Mrs Hughes."

"It certainly doesn't feel that way, Mr Carson." Ducking her head to hide her blush at having been caught and her heart giving a little lift to hear such a compliment from the man, Elsie waves him to come in, startled to feel her fingers brush against his jacket as she does so.

Looking up, she finds him already through the door and close enough that nary a foot of space stands between them.

"Mrs Hughes, I must apologise, my words implied that I didn't know quite well how hard you've worked today. Not just today of course," to her amazement, Mr Carson stumbles over the words toppling from his lips, "I've never known you to give anything but the upmost to your work, not that you don't deserve to take some time to yourself should you need it; desi–ahem, _want_ it. I don't mean to imply that you would need time to rest, or that–"

Amusement settling over her, Elsie allows the back of her hand to press more firmly against Mr Carson's chest. "Mr Carson, I took your words in the manner I believed they were intended. Goodness knows I've complained about my work enough over our glasses of sherry to be assured that you know I keep myself busy." Besides which, since Christmas he has seemed even less inclined to find himself on her 'bad side' than ever before.

"Oh." He deflates, bringing a hand up to cover her own. "Good."

They haven't done this; touched like this. There has been the odd brush against each other in the corridors, small touches of their legs beneath the table. But since she accepted his proposal, no, they haven't been like this.

She had never believed that he would ask her to marry him, not after all the years where he gave no indication but for the odd rarest of occasions, that he held her to any degree of affection, and never then any higher than that of a close friend. But she had allowed herself the odd flight of fancy that he _might_ and then what that might be like. She feels her cheeks heat even thinking it; but she had thought there might be more intimacy involved. Perhaps a brief kiss, to her cheek or forehead if anything more might seem too improper to him, even between an engaged couple.

However she is a patient woman when need be and she has no doubt that with his ring on her finger and behind their own private closed doors, she will have no cause to doubt Mr Carson's affections, nor he hers. She would not have agreed to marry him if she did not truly believe that he loves her. It might have taken him a while to catch up with her, but she has been certain since his laboured words to her on Christmas Eve that he finally has.

Now if only she could manage a good pie crust and she'd have nothing at all to fear in the prospect of their eventual retirement.

The brush of his thumb across her palm pulls her from her wandering thoughts.

She blinks up at the smile on his face as he looks at her. No she has no doubts about this man.

"Did you have something you needed, Mr Carson; only I was just heading for your pantry?"

His smile dims as his eyes flick nervously to her chairs. Bringing their hands down from his chest, he nods towards her small table. "I'd like to speak to you a moment Mrs Hughes, if you'll allow."

Her heart flutters again as she allows him to lead her to a chair, as she remembers another occasion that he asked for a moment of her time quite as formally.

"Of course, Mr Carson." She notices as she watches him sit, that he must have closed her parlour door when he entered.

"Mrs Hughes, it has been brought to my… that is to say I have been made to realise..." She raises an eyebrow as he breaks off again. Before today she would have said that she had never heard the Butler so uncertain with his words, and yet twice tonight he has struggled.

"Are you quite well, Mr Carson?" She reaches out without thought to press her hand to his brow, the action halted as he gathers it close in both of his own and holds it above the table.

"I'm fine, Mrs Hughes. Only you see," he takes a breath, "I cannot paint, Mrs Hughes." He says, like it is a terrible weight off his shoulders.

If he did not have hold of her hand she likely would have sat back at the absurdity of the words.

"You cannot…"

"Paint." He repeats. "I cannot paint, I have no idea where one starts when considering fitting a shelf to a wall, except that there must be some measuring involved I would imagine and when I was a boy, the Dowager had me promise never to set foot in her gardens because she was afraid of my black thumb ruining her prize roses."

By the time he reaches the last of his confessions, Elsie has her free hand up against her mouth to hide her smile, although if Mr Carson were to look up from his study of the carpet he'd likely see the laughter in her eyes.

When she has calmed and no more is forthcoming from the man opposite her, she tugs at their joined hands to pull his attention back to her.

"While I do enjoy learning new things about you, Mr Carson, what on earth brought on such a moment of confession?"

He holds her gaze as he answers, his voice quiet enough that she finds herself drawn forward in her chair to hear him better.

"I know that you are taking lessons from Mrs Patmore and that you worry that I expect, or that I might _not_ expect…" He trails off and she feels her cheeks heating again. So he knows her secret and she'll bet she knows just the little birdy that told it too.

Although both of them seem to have got the wrong end of the stick.

"Mr Carson, let me stop you there." Before he does himself an injury! She can guess at what he is trying to say and Good Lord, she might have hoped for a little conversation or implication in this vein, but she hadn't wanted him to burst a vessel attempting it.

"It's true that I'm taking lessons from Mrs Patmore, Mr Carson. I haven't cooked a meal since I was a lass in Argyll and unless we intend to eat only cold meats and salad on our retirement, I thought it might benefit us both if I take instruction whilst it is freely and conveniently offered."

Feeling bold, she rests the fingertips of her free hand against his cheek, allows them to slip into his hair as he turns ever so slightly into her palm and she feels the tension in him begin to relax.

Her daft man.

"As to what I may or may not believe you expect; Mr Carson I agreed to marry the man who told me he could not think of marrying anyone else. Who offered me as much time as I needed to consider and then could not wait five minutes for my answer."

He smiles sheepishly at her and she longs to kiss him, longs for the time when she won't hesitate to.

"Rest assured, Mr Carson. I have no doubts of the sort of marriage we shall have." The heat in her cheeks likely gives away the direction of her thoughts as she says this and she doesn't miss the way that his eyes drop down to her lips for a brief moment, before he swallows and brings them back up.

"And you'll be happy, Mrs Hughes?" His voice is a low rumble, almost a growl and he brings her hand to his mouth, lips tickling lightly against her skin.

"If I don't kill us both with a poisoned stew? Yes Mr Carson, I'll be very happy indeed."

And she'll be needing a word with a certain well meaning cook in the morning; Mrs Patmore might have interfered and been completely mistaken in her concern, but as Mr Carson turns her hand to press a kiss to her wrist, Elsie can't really be angry at the old meddler.

**End.**


	26. Unravelling

For chelsiesouloftheabbey (on here and tumblr) who wanted a chelsie wardrobe malfunction.

I have no idea where this style of prose came from, or if it makes any sense at all, but it's finished. Set inbetween Series 5 and 6.

* * *

><p><strong>Unravelling<strong>

It's not often that Mrs Hughes has to take such a hands-on approach to any of the housework these days; there might not be room in the budget for a fleet of footman of a Mr Carson approved size, and perhaps there are more options out there today for young ladies than when she was a lass, but a house like Downton still attracts a steady stream of housemaids; and with a few noticeable exceptions, they've held on to most of their girls the last few years.

So while Mr Carson might bemoan having only two or three footman with any regularity, Mrs Hughes finds that for the most part, she still has enough maids about the place to suit. Certainly with the war long over, the work load is nowhere near that of those trying times.

So it is rare that a mid-February morning might find her dragging a carpet down from the attics on Her Ladyship's request.

Rarer still that she'd be attempting such a feat by herself.

Yet, with an unexpectedly late flu season upon them and most of the staff laid up in their attic rooms beneath layered blankets and cold compresses, there's little else to be done but for Mrs Hughes to dig her elbows in on a less supervisory basis. The house must carry on, after all, even if this endeavour is revealed to be another of Her Ladyship's fevered desires.

Like the blue silk lampshade she'd insisted she must have at her bedside last night.

Despite the weight in her arms as she attempts to manoeuvre the bulky rug along the corridor towards the next set of stairs - each awkward unsteady step taking her slowly closer to the library - Mrs Hughes offers the thought of Lady Grantham's increasingly bizarre requests a smile. It's only that such commands are _so_ uncharacteristic of the woman, that Mrs Hughes has been so placid at the inconvenience of them all.

Or perhaps, she thinks with another smile; this one somewhat softer, she might feel almost as generous were it the blessed Lady Mary making such outrageous demands on her rather limited time.

She has been in unnaturally good spirits herself these past two months and just a thing might be possible.

Thankfully, the young Lady's took themselves and the children to the Dower House at the first hint of a sneeze. Mrs Hughes will admit to having shared more than a few private chuckles with Mr Carson whilst they attempted to imagine Mr Spratt's reaction to this turn of events.

That was a week ago now and with the weather turning, Mrs Hughes is hopeful that they are beginning to see themselves emerging on the other side of the sickness. She is more thankful than she can express that Mr Carson and herself managed somehow to avoid any symptoms of their own.

Coming up beside an open window she takes a moment to rest and gather herself, leaning the carpet up against her front to free a hand to wipe at the slightly damp hair sticking to her forehead.

Her arm protests the action, even as she is forced to make a stumbling step back as the rolled rug makes to slide down her front completely. Half pinned beneath the thing she admits with a wry curl of her lip that she is perhaps getting too old for this.

Not that she'll let on as such, not when she can already hear Mr Carson's voice in her head, chiding her for not asking for help.

In fact, twisting slightly to the side, the carpet catching at her for a moment before something pulls free, she believes she actually _can_ hear the man coming up the stairs now.

She has a brief, fleeting thought to dash into a bedroom to hide before good sense returns and she straightens up beneath the carpet, turning to face his approach with her chin tipped high and her arm clasping the carpet to her side.

* * *

><p>There are few things that Mr Carson finds more pleasing than a household that runs well even amidst a minor crisis.<p>

Lately, he has found this list of alternates to be expanding in a rather biased direction. That is to say, biased towards the features and actions of a particularly fiery housekeeper who has agreed to become his wife, at some future date they have not as yet, reached an agreement on.

As he has had many occasion in the weeks since the Christmas Eve party to not only look upon and acknowledge some of Mrs Hughes' finest qualities - the new twist of her hair, the brightness of her eyes, the curves and contours of her silhouette as she stood looking out across the moonlit lake and he stood looking across at her, for example - but to his surprise also to witness that rarest of occurrences; a helpful Mr Barrow, Mr Carson finds himself in quite the liveliest of moods as he heads towards the housekeeper's parlour in the hope of inducing her to share a brief rest between meals and a cup of tea.

Finding her missing from the room dampens his spirits but it's the news from Andy, coughing and spluttering the last of his cold into an overused handkerchief, that she'd been last seen heading into the attics alone to find the old Russian rug, that has him thrusting a clean white square of cloth at the footman and storming his way up the back stairs and through the house, his cheerful mood most definitely broken.

Footsteps heavy on each step he wonders if there is any other woman in existence who could drive him quite as mad as she does on a daily basis. He is absolutely certain there is none to be found with as much bloody-minded stubbornness in their bones as in those of one Elsie Hughes.

Turning sharply on the second landing, he enters the corridor and finds himself pulling to an abrupt and complete stop at the sight of her.

It is not, though were matters different it surely would be, the way that the air from the open window plays with the loose strands of hair that have fallen from her pins, that stops him so dead. Nor is it the light of the almost-midday sun glowing about her frame in such a way that he finds himself at once both desperate to never look away from her and equally so to move himself towards her and clasp her tight.

His stillness has also nothing to do with the way her chin is tipped up as though in challenge, whilst her teeth nibble at her bottom lip. Nor with the absurd sight of her lithe figure dwarfed by a perilously leaning roll of carpet.

No, a better man might have been arrested by any one of these occurrences alone but Mr Carson to his shame, finds his attention caught and held far lower than her lips or the raised hand that clasps the rug.

Caught at the rise and fall of plump pale skin, lightly flushed and dusted with a delightful scattering of freckles, and framed by both the fine satin and lace of what can only be her corset and the fallen neckline of her familiar black dress.

"Mr Carson, are you quite well?"

Even her voice does not grab his instant attention as it always has before.

He finds he cannot look away, even when he himself can no longer deny that the moment and his silence have dragged too long.

They have been good, his fiancée and himself; they are not young people in the first spring of affection without control or propriety. They have been good to content themselves with the brush of fingers as they move about her parlour and his pantry of an evening, a kiss to his cheek before they returned to the Christmas party and a kiss to her forehead when she fell asleep waiting for him to complete his rounds last Thursday night. Content to wait until their agreement, their promise, is made formal, whenever that might eventually be.

He has, he realises now with her skin on display to him, heaving slightly as she moves to lean the carpet against the wall and step closer to him, been a damned fool to think himself content to wait more than the three weeks it would take to read the banns, when this, she, _Mrs Hughes_ could be available to him far more fully than he has allowed himself to imagine.

"Mr Carson, have you caught the fever?"

Her voice comes as her fingers settle on his brow and though he still cannot tear his eyes away from her, he is shaken from his stupor enough to bring a hand up to the edge of her dress where it lies folded, utterly failing at its job of covering her from prying eyes.

Eyes such as his own.

Her breath catches at his touch and he can both feel and see how her chest stills with it, her flush deepening as she looks down to where his fingers are.

"That's what caught." She says, some great revelation lost to him. "I must have torn a button or two on that damn rug."

She slips her fingers between his to take hold of the fabric of her dress and with a jerk steps away again from his reach.

"Thank heavens it was you who found me, Mr Carson." She says and as her skin is covered once more by her hand holding the dress in place, he finds he can finally move.

Half a step brings her back into the reach of his arms, her body pressed to his as he takes her bitten lip against his own.

Thank heavens indeed, he thinks as she first stiffens in surprise and then wraps a hand about his neck, the carpet forgotten and his mood improving once again.

He shall speak to His Lordship about taking an afternoon to visit the church. She is right, he is now able and very willing to concede; they have waited long enough.

**End.**


End file.

Downton Abbey, Friendship, Romance