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Chapter Text

The Return of the Native

Spring 1920

Carson looked down at the papers before him. They were short a footman and the maids were going wild in the servant’s hall with every passing second, and Mrs. Levinson and her American ways were not making the situation any better—how was he to run Downton properly without a full and adequate staff?

A knock on his pantry door pulled him back to reality. Instead of looking up to see who his guest was, he pulled out his watch to check the time. Where did the time go, he wondered as he stood.

“Might I have a word?” he heard Mrs. Hughes ask him gently.

“Not right at this moment, no,” he told her. His eyes focused down at the notes on his desk. Lord Grantham was hesitant enough to have young Alfred join the house—as was Carson—and he refused to allow any more staff to be hired, but if he could just catch his lordship at the right moment... “I must be ringing the dressing gong—I’m late as it is.”

“I only need a moment...”

“And you will have it, Mrs. Hughes,” he said. He passed her quickly, his eyes focused onward.  “As soon as dinner is over with—you’ll have my full attention.”

“Alfred—your behavior tonight has been most inappropriate,” Carson lectured as they descended the stairs together.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Carson,” said Alfred, “but it was Mrs. Levinson who said it.”

“It is your job to serve Mrs. Levinson and the people at Downton,” he said. “Not to participate in their conversation, no matter how alluring. Anything said to you by any member of this household will be answered in a respectful tone and a blank expression. Is that understood?”

“Yes, Mr. Carson,” said Alfred.

They reached the bottom step where Miss O’Brien stood waiting for them. “What’s this?” she asked.

“Never mind you,” said Carson with a shake of his head. He left Alfred to explain himself and headed onward to escape to his pantry.

The truth was he might have been too harsh on the boy. Mrs. Levinson, though he never dared to admit it out loud, was an unfiltered mad woman—it was not Alfred’s fault he got caught in the crossfire.

“How was dinner?” asked Mrs. Hughes, exiting the kitchen. He stopped and waited for her so they could walk together.

He responded with a slight huff.

He heard her chuckle. “That bad, was it?”

“My hope is everything will go back to normal once Mrs. Levinson and her risqué banter are far away from Downton. On a ship back to America, preferably.”

“Downton won’t ever go back to how it was before, Mr. Carson,” she said. “The war made sure of that.”

He allowed her to enter his pantry first and then he followed suit. He spotted the tea tray on his way to his desk and his eyes brightened.

“I thought some tea might calm our nerves,” she said.

“Our nerves,” he echoed curiously.

He sat down at his chair, feeling a great relief rush over him, and he closed his eyes. He would prefer his favorite bottle of wine over tea, but perhaps his wife knew best.

“If you recall earlier, I wanted a word with you,” she said.

“Yes, yes, I recall,” he said, his eyes still closed. Both his mind and body desired only sleep. “What is it, Mrs. Hughes?” He waited. When she said nothing, his eyes opened. He watched her carefully as she quietly poured tea into a small white cup and he knit his brow. “Elsie?”

She turned to him, tea cup in her slightly shaking hand—and he noticed a glistening in her eyes. “Do you have any regrets, Charlie?”

“I’m not sure what you mean?”

“If you were given the chance to go back twelve years ago, would you have changed anything? Or... would you have let it all remain the same?”

“If you’re asking if I regret marrying you,” he said after clearing his throat, “no, Elsie, I do not. There may be some things I would—if given the chance—do differently... but I do not regret anything.”

Instead of handing him the tea, she placed it on his desk in front of him. “Hughie, you mean,” she said softly.

He sat straight in his chair. “Your putting words in my mouth, Elsie, and I don’t like it.”

“We were quite the scandal back then, weren’t we?” she said, her eyes wandering to the open door. “Butler and Housekeeper... nearly destroying their futures by marrying and bringing a disabled baby into the world.”

He frowned. “What was it you needed to speak to me about?”

She turned to prepare her own tea. “I suppose in another lifetime you’d be married to Alice—and I to Joe,” she continued, ignoring his question; deep down he knew she would get to her point eventually. “And Alice would birth you a nice healthy seeing boy... who would be called Neal, not Hughie.”

“Don’t be like that, Elsie,” he said. He turned to see Alfred and Mrs. Levinson’s maid walk past his door in a fit of giggles—they were getting far too close for his comfort. He looked back at Elsie. “This isn’t a conversation I would like to be having while working,” he added quietly.

She finished prepping her own tea, but made no effort to touch it. She turned back to him, nervously fiddling with her thumbs. “The truth is I know you no longer find me attractive, Charlie...”

He sighed, resisting the urge to roll his eyes. “Elsie, you are beautiful—I love you,” he told her.

Mrs. Patmore’s voice boomed in the distance, ordering Daisy to do one thing or another, so she hurried to shut the open door. “Then why haven’t we made love in over four months,” she asked him gently and he shifted in his seat. Her eyes drifted to the floor.

Carson’s face turned pink and his eyes glanced back at each of his closed doors. Secrets had ways of getting out, and he was not about to fall victim to the whispering walls of Downton. “Can we discuss this later, El—Mrs. Hughes.”

“Charlie... I didn’t come here to make you uncomfortable,” she said. “But you see I’ve—I’ve discovered a lump. And you might have noticed it had you been down there recently.”

His breath caught and it felt as if his heart had sunken to the pit of his stomach. “You’ve discovered... a lump?”

“On my left breast.”

She could no longer hide her fear and she quietly began to cry. He lifted himself out of his chair and had her in his arms in seconds. He could feel her shaking as he guided her down in a chair.

“I want him here...” she said softly.

“I’ll set up an appointment with Dr. Clarkson in the morning.” He grabbed her tea and attempted to hand it to her, thinking it might cure her shakiness, but she refused it; he set it back down and knelt before her.

“I want him here and I want him in my care,” she said, her voice weak but steady. “I don’t care what Lord or Lady Grantham have to say about it. I’ll quit if I have to.”

“Elsie, my dear, what are you going on about?”

“Hughie,” she said, and he straightened. “I don’t want him away from us any longer—not if I’m dying.”

He flinched at the word. “We don’t know... anything yet,” he told her gently.

“He’s not Becky... not like we thought. He doesn’t deserve to spend his days in the care of strangers. Not while his mother is alive and perfectly capable,” she continued. “I don’t want to spend my last days without him. I don’t—Charlie, I can’t.”

“These will not be your last days,” he told her. He kissed her hand gently. “And we’ll be seeing Hughie next Saturday...”

“I can’t wait that long. I’m going tomorrow—I need to see him now.”

“Elsie, you need to see the doctor,” he said. He let go of her hand and found the seat across from her. “I’ll telephone Dr. Clarkson in the morning—and see if he can get you in as early as tomorrow afternoon.”

Standing, she quickly found the telephone on the edge of his desk.

“I don’t think he’ll be in this late,” he told her.

“I’m going to try to telephone the school, not Dr. Clarkson.”

“I don’t think they’ll pick up either.”

“Believe me, there are several stages to go through before there’s any cause for despair,” said Dr. Clarkson. Elsie buttoned her blouse and made her way back to her seat, and Dr. Clarkson too went back behind his desk. “When you come back in a day or two, I will remove some fluid from the cyst. With any luck, it will be clear and that will be that.”

“And... what if it’s not clear, Dr. Clarkson?” asked Carson.

“It will be sent away for analysis,” he said.

“Because... it may be cancer,” said Elsie.

“It may be cancer,” he said, “but I am fairly certain it is not. Have you had any other symptoms? Have you felt ill or tired?”

“I have been tired,” she admitted.

“But is that something so out of the ordinary,” said her husband, “given our profession?” He rested his hand on her knee, and she patted it gently.

“No, I quite agree,” said Dr. Clarkson. “Not out of the ordinary at all.”

“Yes—well, may I speak to him... just for a moment?” she spoke kindly, though her patience was running thin. This was her fourth attempt at contacting the school. “This is Elsie Carson—his mother...” She waited as the faint staticky voice of a woman came through. Finally, she let out an exasperated sigh. “When might be a good time to call, then? Hello? I’m having difficulty hearing you...”

She waited. When it was clear she had lost the connection, again, she hung up the headset with greater force than she intended and leaned against the desk, preparing herself for another round. A knock on the open door got her attention and she turned to see Anna at the doorway.

“I’m sorry to bother you, Mrs. Hughes,” said Anna, “but Daisy says the oven isn’t heating properly... and Mrs. Patmore stepped out for a bit.”

She let out a deep sigh. “Just add that to the list of problems we have in this house,” she said, allowing Anna to lead her into the kitchen.

“I’m afraid it’s not as simple as I thought,” said Dr. Clarkson. “The test, you see, was inconclusive...”

Carson’s hand found hers and she squeezed it gently. “What do you mean?” she said.

“I had hoped that the fluid from the cyst would be clear, but there were traces of blood in it. Not enough to confirm the presence of cancer, but a little too much to exclude it.”

“It’ll be sent away for analysis, then?” asked Elsie.

“Yes,” he said, “but I’m afraid it may take some time to confirm whether or not it is cancer.”

“How long?” asked Carson.

“Anything up to two months,” he said. “In the meantime, try to take it easy, Mrs. Carson. Put your feet up every now and then—let your husband take on some of your more challenging duties for you.”

“I should be happy to,” said Carson gently.

“Do you need me to speak with Lady Grantham,” asked Dr. Clarkson.

She shook her head. “No.”

Her husband turned to her. “No? Elsie... are you certain?”

“Yes, I’m quite certain,” she said, giving him a stern look. “I’ll tell her if I need to, but for now this is my business... and only mine.” She hesitated for a moment, then turned back to the doctor. “Dr. Clarkson, Hughie will be staying with us while we wait for the results.” She ignored the stunned look given to her by her husband and continued on: “I was wondering if we could set up an appointment for him. For a check up, that is.”

“Of course,” said Dr. Clarkson with a nod.

“Do you think it wise, Elsie,” said Carson, “when the doctor just told you to take it easy?”

“If having your son here will help calm your nerves while we wait for the results, Mrs. Carson, I don’t see any issues with it,” said Dr. Clarkson. “As long as you don’t overdo it—and that Mr. Carson is there to take over whenever necessary.”

“Thank you, Dr. Clarkson.”

“I’m only thinking of what’s best for you... and for him, Elsie,” he said quietly. They were walking the path back to Downton, and despite having no one near them to hear his words, he still felt the need to talk in a soft whisper. “He needs care that we simply cannot give him.”

“We’ll cross that bridge when we get there, Mr. Carson,” she told him simply, her eyes facing forward and avoiding his stare, fearing she might burst into tears if she looked into his eyes at that moment.

“I just don’t want you to get overtired... Mrs. Carson,” he retorted. “You know how he is—fine one moment, then in an explosive rampage the next.”

Her eyes drifted. Hughie, at times, could be difficult... but nothing she, his possibly sickly old mother, wasn’t prepared to handle.

She felt his gentle hand touch her shoulder and they stopped, and she finally found the courage to look up at him. “At least allow me to speak with Lady Grantham...”

“No. I will not be seen as the sickly woman of Downton—or the dying one in the months to come.”

She felt the tears rush over her again, and her husband pulled her into a tight embrace and kissed the top of her head.

“Elsie, I’m on your side—as is her ladyship. Please, allow me to speak with her.”

Carson entered the library quietly—her ladyship was seated at the desk, and Lord Grantham stood beside her with his hand on her shoulder. They both looked up to see who had entered, after realizing it was only Carson, they turned back to each other.

“I promise I’m not angry with you,” said her ladyship softly. “I just wish you would have told me sooner, that’s all.”

“I’m sorry, my dear—Jarvis and I will only be a few hours,” he said with a gentle kiss to his wife’s lips. “And the truth is, I think I might need to get away from it all for a bit. I should be back before lunchtime.”

“Oh, all right,” she said, “but don’t be too long. I don’t think I can manage my mother on my own.”

He kissed her again. “Goodbye, my dear.”

Both Carson and her ladyship watched as Lord Grantham left the room. And Carson moved forward.

“Might I have a word, milady?”

“Yes, Carson, what is it?”

He cleared his throat. “I have been given permission by Mrs. Hughes to relay this information to you,” he started. “You see, milady, Mrs. Hughes, may be ill... she may be very ill, in fact.”

“Oh, that’s terrible,” she said. “I’m so sorry to hear that.”

“If she would let me have it my way, I would inform Lord Grantham and the entire staff of her condition,” he continued, “but she wishes to keep quiet until it is confirmed she is ill.”

“She has every right to keep such news private, Carson,” agreed Lady Grantham.

“I was wondering might I have permission to take on some of her more rigorous duties around the house. Just until we get confirmation.”

“If you believe you can handle it,” she said, “but I don’t want you overworking yourself like you did during the war. These are stressful times, for the both of you.”

He bowed his head, then with a defeated sigh, continued: “There is... one more thing, milady.”

“Yes?”

“Mrs. Hughes is... well, she is insisting we have—Hughie here with us while we wait for the results,” he said.

“Of course,” said Lady Grantham—and he looked up at her in surprise. “What mother wants to be away from their child during such a frightful time? Tell Mrs. Hughes that Hughie is welcome here at Downton for as long as she wants him. I’ll speak with Lady Sybil about hiring a caretaker for him.”

The door opened and Barrow entered the library. Carson straightened himself and turned to him with a frightful glare. “I’m sorry to interrupt, your ladyship,” he told Lady Grantham, “but Mrs. Patmore is requesting a word with Mr. Carson. I’ve been sent up here to retrieve him.”

She looked up at Carson, a gentle smile springing to her lips. “Better go where you’re needed,” she told him. “If you or Mrs. Hughes need anything at all, please come and tell me.”

“Thank you, milady,” said Carson.

He exited the room with his eyes glaring at Barrow. The young man simply smiled at him and with a courteous nod he followed him out.

Anna sat with the maids at the table, looking on as Mrs. Patmore went on a loud rampage with Mrs. Hughes and Daisy attempting to calm her.

“What’s going on in there?” asked Thomas Barrow as he swaggered his way into the servants hall. He pulled out a package of cigarettes from his pocket and lit one with a small match.

“The oven isn’t heating properly and Mrs. Patmore is going ballistic,” said one of the maids.

”Is there going to be a dinner?” he asked.

”I’m sure there is,” she said. “It’s just going to take a while longer.”

He huffed, letting smoke fill the air around him. Quietly, Miss O’Brien entered the room—she and Barrow’s eyes met for a quick moment before she sat down at the table next to Alfred.

“Where’ve you been?” Barrow asked her curiously.

“Never mind you,” she said stiffly. Anna saw a gentle smirk spring to her face for a quick second before she went back to her natural stone face.

They heard Mr. Carson’s voice boom as he entered the kitchen to have a turn at calming the frantic Mrs. Patmore.

Barrow smiled. “I’ve got some news,” he said. He seemed to always have news, thought Anna. And it was never his news to share.

Daisy entered the room with a tray of tea and a look of worry on her face.

“Hughie is apparently coming to stay with Mr. Carson and Mrs. Hughes for a while,” said Barrow. He flicked the ashes on his cigarette into the ashtray on the mantle shelf.

Both Anna and O’Brien’s heads shot up—the rest looked at them for answers.

“Who’s Hughie?” asked Alfred.

“Mr. Carson and Mrs. Hughes’s disabled son,” answered Miss O’Brien quietly.

“Quite the scandal it was when they announced they would be getting married—even the bigger scandal when they announced there was to be a baby,” continued Barrow with a smirk. “Mr. Carson was fifty-two and Mrs. Hughes, forty-six. Far too old for such a life, if you ask me.”

“They moved him into a facility—or a school, I think—not too long after I started working here,” said Anna. It was not her story to tell, she knew. “But how do you know he’s coming back?”

“I overheard Mr. Carson speak to her ladyship about it.”

“I didn’t even know Mr. Carson and Mrs. Hughes were married,” said Alfred.

“Because unlike you and Miss Reed, Alfred, Mrs. Hughes and I keep our private lives just that—private,” Mr. Carson said, entering the servants hall with his hands behind his back and a stern expression on his face.

Everyone stood.

“But why is she Mrs. Hughes and not Mrs. Carson,” asked Alfred.

Carson waved his hand to command them all to sit again. “She remained Mrs. Hughes at Downton after we married to avoid confusion.”

“And what about the... your son? Is it true that he’s coming back to Downton?”

“For a little bit, yes,” answered Carson after a  slight hesitation. “Mrs. Hughes and I were going to announce it over dinner, but I see the news has already made its way to you.” His eyes found Barrow’s.

“Why’s he not been living here with you and Mrs. Hughes?” asked one of the maids.

Carson tugged at his collar and let out an uncomfortable cough. “He was born blind and he needed special care—care that Mrs. Hughes and I were not able to give him,” he explained in slightly shaky voice.

“And he doesn’t need it now?”

“Well, Mrs. Hughes wants him here with us for the time being,” he said, his eyes wandering away from them all. He cleared his throat. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I must go ring the dressing gong,” he said quickly and rushed out of the room.

“Blind and dumb,” muttered Barrow. “Probably disfigured too.”

“I can’t handle disfigured people,” said Daisy nervously as she poured the tea. “I know it’s not their fault but... I couldn’t even finish reading The Hunchback of Notre-Dame because I started getting lightheaded.”

“I’m sure Mr. Barrow here is just exaggerating,” Anna assured her. She recalled the young blind boy all those years ago—he looked like any regular child, except his eyes were emotionless and hazy. He would be about twelve now, she suspected. A part of her did always wonder how he turned out.

“DAISY!” called Mrs. Patmore. She jumped and then ran back into the kitchen.

The dressing gong sounded and Anna stood. Barrow put out his cigarette. “Don’t be so cruel,” Anna said as they exited.

”I’m not being cruel,” he told her. “I’m just stating the facts.”

“Well, that was quite a spellbound evening,” Mrs. Hughes said, and Carson huffed.

“I hate to admit it, but Mrs. Levinson’s modern thinking saved the whole night.”

“It was quite the success, wasn’t it?” she agreed.

“But I don’t want to make a habit of it,” he said. “I’ll be calling someone in the morning to have the chimney repaired... or replaced, if need be.” She nodded, her eyes drifting to the floor. He grabbed her hand and squeezed it. “I really wish you would have taken it more easy tonight—remember what Dr. Clarkson said.”

“Yes, I know,” she agreed, “but I can’t stop living my life—I’ve still got a job to do.”

He reached for the sherry and poured his wife’s glass full again, and then his own. She chuckled slightly.

“We should probably be stopping at two glasses, Mr. Carson,” she said, “unless you want me walking up the stairs wobbly and lightheaded.”

“I say we’ve earned it,” he said, “considering the last few days we’ve had.”

She sipped her sherry thoughtfully. “I’ll be getting Hughie on Monday—I know, it’s an inconvenience, but that’s the only time they’re letting me come get him. You can come if you like, but I’m perfectly capable of managing on my own.”

“No, I’ll go along. You’ll need help gathering his things,” he said.

“If you’re sure.”

“I just wish you would allow Lady Grantham to hire a caretaker for him.”

“It was very nice of her—but I really don’t think we’ll need it,” she said. “Mrs. Shelton says he’s become quite independent these last few years.”

“He has improved greatly,” he agreed. “But that is at Lloyd Andrews. What if he comes back to Downton and we have to go through it all again? The crying. The smashing of plates and glasses. Staying up at odd hours of the night... Him refusing to communicate with us properly...”

“That was when he was four, Charlie,” she said. “I think he’s learned a bit since then.”

“And if he hasn’t?”

“Like I said, we’ll cross that bridge when we get there.”

He shifted in his seat. “I’m afraid the staff already know about his arrival.”

“How did they learn so quickly?”

“I do not know for sure, but I think it was Thomas Barrow,” he said. “He may have eavesdropped on my conversation with her ladyship this morning. But how much he heard, I cannot say.”

She frowned. “Oh, let them talk. I don’t care anymore,” she said. “Let me be known as the dying woman of Downton—Hughie will help me get through it.”

He downed the rest of his sherry and set his glass aside. “I thought we might sleep at the cottage tonight.”

“Oh, did you now?” she said. “Then we definitely should not be on our third glass of sherry.”

“We’ll have a late start in the morning, but given the stress we’ve been under these last few days, I think we’ve earned it,” he said. He brushed the top of her hand with his thumb. “It has been brought to my attention that I have shamefully neglected my husbandly duties, and I wish to correct that tonight—if my beautiful wife will allow it.”

She smiled gently. “I didn’t bring it up to shame you, Charles Carson. I understand you’ve been busy. We have all been as of late.”

“It is still no excuse,” he said. “I am sorry if I have given you the impression that I do not find you attractive or beautiful, because that is far from the truth.” He lifted her hand and gave it gentle kisses. “Oh, Elsie, I love you so much.”

Her other hand found its way to his face and she stroked his cheek softly. “There’s no need to get all sentimental just yet, Mr. Carson,” she said—she smiled gently, but he saw the fear in her eyes. “It has yet to be confirmed that I am dying.”

Chapter Text

The Return of the Native

Spring 1920

She vowed to love John for better or for worse—this was his worst, there was no doubt about it. She hoped it was... and she prayed to God, and to whoever else listening, that he would never have to see her at her own worst. Because seeing him unjustly locked away in prison was torture for her. Part of her was thankful they were dealing with his worst and not her own. He was so passionate when it came to his love for her—he could be capable of anything in the wrong moment, in his worst moment.

“So, Lady Edith is getting married,” he said, a gentle smile forming on his face. He did his best to hide his worry, his exhaustion, but the dark bags under his eyes gave him away.

Nevertheless, he would never admit to her he had worries, and he needed a distraction from it all, so she retorted: “Lord Grantham isn’t too pleased about it, neither is the Dowager Countess, but Lady Edith seems very much in love with Sir Anthony.”

His hand slid over to find hers. “No touching,” ordered the guard watching over them. Reluctantly, he pulled away.

“And that’s all that matters,” he said.

“Yes,” she agreed, wanting only to kiss him, “that is all that matters.” She sighed, looking up at the officer, who stood dutiful and tall near the door. “Of course everyone downstairs aren’t too thrilled about it, either—Mrs. Patmore, especially. We’ve only got a couple months to organize the perfect wedding. Everyone’s running around trying to do things last minute. And with Hughie coming Monday—”

“Hughie?”

“Oh, it slipped my mind. Mr. Carson and Mrs. Hughes’s son will be staying at Downton for a bit.”

“Their son?” he said. “He’s still just a boy, isn’t he?”

“I think he must be about twelve now,” she said.

“It will be nice having a child’s presence at Downton,” he said.

“I hope so,” she said. “No one’s quite sure why he’s coming, but Mr. Barrow has Daisy and the maids all in a frenzy about it.” Earlier that morning, before Mr. Carson and Mrs. Hughes arrived, he was going on about how people like Hughie were caged up and treated like animals, and he suspected the poor boy was beginning to think and act like one too, so the school had no choice but to “release him back into the wild,” as Mr. Barrow put it. “He can be so cruel sometimes.”

John’s smile faded. “I’m afraid some people do not know how to live any other way.”

“Isn’t it all exciting, mama,” said Edith. “It feels like our lives are changing so quickly. Sybil’s pregnant—Mary quite possibly is too. And I’m getting married.” She looked around the room, a look of wonder on her face. “Soon this room will be filled with all of our children, laughing and playing, and performing little puppet shows in the corner like we did when we were little.”

All Cora could do was smile at her dear Edith as Robert turned from them, hiding his expression of doubt from his middle child’s eyes.

Sybil and Tom entered the room with Mary following close behind.

“Has tea not yet arrived?” asked Mary as the three of them took their seats across from Cora and Edith.

“Carson’s bringing it up now,” said Robert. He turned back to them. “Is Mathew not joining us?”

“He’s having tea with cousin Isobel...” she said, then flinched slightly. “I suppose since we are married now, I should be calling her something else—but mother and mama don’t feel quite right to me.”

The door opened and Carson entered the room with Alfred behind him holding the tea tray.

“I’m sure you’ll both come to an agreement on something,” said Cora sweetly. She turned to Carson and watched as he and Alfred prepared their tea. “Carson, have you settled a date on when you’ll be getting Hughie?”

“We have, milady,” he said, dutifully handing her a prepared cup of tea. “We’ll be retrieving him on Monday. I do apologize for the inconvenience—it was the only available time.”

“That’s quite all right.”

“Is Hughie coming for a visit?” asked Sybil.

“That’s wonderful,” said Tom politely. “I should be glad to meet him.”

“Hughie?” questioned Robert, giving Cora a quizzical look. Alfred handed him his tea and he sipped it.

There was a quick beat of silence before Mary said, “Surely you remember Hughie, papa. Carson and Mrs. Hughes’s little boy.”

Cora watched as recollection sprung on her husband’s face, then discern, before finally settling on a neutral look. “Oh, yes of course,” he said. “The b... Hughie.” He coughed. “Why’s he coming to Downton?”

Cora and Carson shared a quick look—to respect Mrs. Hughes’s privacy, she kept silent about her possible illness to Robert. And the dinner the other night distracted her from telling him about Hughie’s visit. She gave her husband an apologetic look.

“This is Hughie’s home, papa. Why should there be a reason?” said Sybil.

“Will you and Mrs. Hughes be gone the whole day?” asked Cora.

“We should be back after luncheon, milady,” he told her. His eyes went to Robert. “I am sorry, milord—I thought surely her ladyship would have told you.“

“No, of course she did,” said Robert. “It just... slipped my mind for a moment.” He waved to the door. “That will be all, Carson—we can manage ourselves now.”

“Yes, milord,” he said with a bow.

“You could have been a little less rude about it, papa,” said Mary with a roll of her eyes after Carson and Alfred had gone.

“The one true reminder that my butler is not as loyal as other butlers in other great houses is about to make an appearance at Downton,” he said. “I think I have the right to be as rude as I please.”

“I would think, if anything, Hughie is the one reminder that your butler is as loyal as all the other butlers,” said Edith. “He was sent away so he would no longer interfere with their work here, wasn’t he?”

“I am sorry for not telling you, dear,” said Cora to Robert. “With everything going on, it slipped my mind.”

“I’m not sure I know the full story,” said Tom. “I only know they have a son and that he’s blind.”

“Blind and dumb,” said Mary.

“Oh, how I hate that terminology,” said Sybil.

“Carson and Mrs. Hughes married some years ago,” explained Mary. “My stubbornness allowed Carson to stay—and eventually Mrs. Hughes.”

“And no one expected there to be a baby. They were quite old, you see,” Cora continued on. “Mrs. Hughes resigned shortly after finding out. The baby was born and she stayed home to care for the poor thing while Carson remained butler here. Eventually, I suppose, it became too much for her to handle. She was fifty with a blind four year old in her care—she must have been exhausted. They sent him away to a school for special children near Sheffield.”

“And after much persuasion from Carson, we rehired her as Housekeeper,” said Robert. “It also helped that her replacement was a complete maniac—what was that woman’s name? Mrs. Digby?”

“Horrid woman,” agreed Mary with a shiver.

“How long will he be staying?” asked Robert to Cora.

“For as long as they want him to,” she said firmly.

He sipped his tea. “I hope it isn’t too long. I suppose you offered to hire someone to take care of him.”

“I offered, but Mrs. Hughes declined.”

“Good,” he said. “I doubt we could afford it, anyway.”

“I can look after him,” offered Sybil.

“That is very kind of you, Sybil darling,” said Cora.

“I should think Mrs. Hughes would want to care for him herself,” said Edith. “She is his mother, after all.”

“But if Mrs. Hughes is busy taking care of Hughie,” said Mary, “who will plan your wedding, Edith?” She sipped her tea thoughtfully.

“I will, of course,” said Edith with a pained expression.

Robert sighed and placed his now empty tea cup back onto the tray. “This whole world has gone mad,” he muttered. “I’m just thankful my grandfather is long dead—and not here to see Downton as it is now.”

“If he’s not able to speak properly, how will we know what he needs,” asked Alfred.

Mrs. Patmore sat reclined in her desk chair with a tea cup in her hands. Daisy stood scrubbing a dirty pan at the sink, her face as pale as a ghost.

“He had no trouble voicing his dislikes when he were little,” said Mrs. Patmore, remembering all too well the young boy’s terrible tantrums. “I’m sure if he needs something, he’ll let everyone know in his own... special way.”

“What if he has to use the toilet, but he isn’t able to speak up about it,” said Daisy, “and he just wets himself?” Alfred began to snicker. “It isn’t funny, Alfred—I’ll be the one having to clean it up probably.”

Alfred laughed even harder. Mrs. Patmore was tempted to join him when she saw the large figure of Mr. Carson enter the kitchen.

“And what, may I ask, is so amusing, Alfred?”

Alfred’s face went neutral and he stood tall with his eyes facing forward, like a soldier waiting on orders from his commanding officer, and Daisy started scrubbing the pan in her hands even harder, avoiding Mr. Carson’s frightful eyes.

“Nothing, Mr. Carson,” said Alfred with a slight shakiness in his voice.

Mr. Carson’s eyes looked curiously at Daisy, then back at Alfred. “Not spreading tasteless gossip, I hope,” he said.

“No, Mr. Carson,” said Alfred with a slight cough.

“Right.” He pulled at his vest, making sure it still looked tidy. “If you’re looking for something to do,” said Mr. Carson, “might I suggest giving the silver a good polish.”

“Right away, Mr. Carson,” said Alfred with a nod.

“You’re a hard worker, Alfred. I see butler material in you and I would hate to see that potential go to waste.”

“Thank you, Mr. Carson.”

Daisy glanced their way, then her eyes immediately retreated back to the pan in her hands.

“Are you quite well, Daisy?” asked Mr. Carson, raising one of his thick eyebrows.

“Yes, Mr. Carson,” she said, refusing to look at him.

He turned to Mrs. Patmore for answers. “She’s just a bit distracted at the moment,” she said, placing her tea cup on her desk and standing.

“As we all are, Mrs. Patmore,” said Mr. Carson. “As we all are.” He led Mrs. Patmore out of the kitchen. “Might Mrs. Hughes and I have a quick word with you in my pantry?”

“Of course,” she said, feeling an uneasiness settle in her stomach. Perhaps she should have put an end to Daisy and Alfred’s gossip.

“A lump?”

“Yes—but I’d prefer it if you kept your voice down, Mrs. Patmore,” said Mrs. Hughes. “This isn’t exactly something I want to have shouted in the great hall... or anywhere else, for that matter.”

“Well, what do you want me to do about it? I’m not Dr. Clarkson,” said Mrs. Patmore. “You should be telling him all this. Not me.”

“We already have,” said Mr. Carson. “And we’re waiting for the results.”

“So, it hasn’t been confirmed whether it is... cancer,” said Mrs. Patmore. “Not yet?”

“No, not yet,” said Mrs. Hughes, her eyes drifting to the floor.

“Is this why you’re wanting Hughie here with you?”

“It is,” confirmed Mr. Carson.

“Well, to tell you the truth, we’ve been wanting him back home for quite a while now,” said Mrs. Hughes.

“We had only been discussing it,” said Mr. Carson firmly.

“But—why are you telling me all this?” asked Mrs. Patmore. “Do you need me to take a peak down there—get a second opinion on it?”

Mr. Carson looked horrified. “We most certainly do not.” His hand found hers and she gently stroked the top of his hand with her thumb to calm him. He let out a deep sigh and started again: “With Lady Edith’s wedding drawing near...”

Mrs. Patmore nodded in understanding. “You want me to take on some of Mrs. Hughes’s duties for her, is that it?”

“That’s not quite what Mr. Carson is wanting from you, no,” said Mrs. Hughes.

“I just want you to keep an eye on her, Mrs. Patmore—only when I’m not available to do so myself,” he said. “In case she should start feeling tired... or worn down.”

“I’m not dead yet,” reminded Mrs. Hughes gently.

“I’m so happy Hughie’s returning to Downton,” said Sybil as she climbed into bed and into her husband’s loving arms. “I was beginning to lose hope I’d ever see him again.”

“You were fond of him, were you?”

“I liked him very much,” said Sybil. “Mrs. Patmore called me the Hughie whisperer because he would always quiet down once I held him in my arms.”

“I’ve heard stories—gossip, really,” said Tom. “He was blind and... and mute, and he caused a lot of chaos while he was here at Downton.”

“I think he once bit Dr. Clarkson,” she said with a slight chuckle. “No one quite understood him while he was here. Not even me. He was something new, something different. He did things his own way—ignoring all of society’s rules and values.”

Tom smiled. “Then I suspect we’ll get along famously.”

Charlie and Elsie stood side by side on the nearly empty platform—only a few other people occupied the area: a young woman in an extravagant red dress, looking much too fanciful for catching an early train; two men in suits, perhaps on their way to a business meeting of some sort; and a young couple with their small children.

Charlie let out a deep sigh as he reached for his watch. “The train’s late,” he commented with a hint of irritation, placing it securely back into his vest pocket.

“We’re in no rush, Charlie,” said Elsie.

“Were you able to speak with him? To prepare him beforehand?” he asked. “You know how he is with sudden change.”

“I know how you are with sudden change,” she said with a gentle smile. She shook her head. “Mrs. Shelton wouldn’t allow it—but she made sure he knew we were coming.”

“I don’t wish to shock him, Elsie, that’s all,” he said.

“I don’t believe this will shock him,” she said. “Confuse him maybe, but not shock.”

He cleared his throat. “And... are you certain you wish to remain silent about the real reason he’s leaving Lloyd Andrews?”

“The real reason is we miss him dearly and we want him home with us,” she said. “Besides, I don’t want to worry him—not when there might not be anything for him to worry about.”

Anna entered the kitchen with the intent to have a cup of tea and perhaps a conversation with Mrs. Patmore and Daisy, but the crowd of servants all bundled together stopped that idea in its tracks. “What’s this?” she asked one of the maids.

“They should be here any moment,” said the maid, “Mr. Carson and Mrs. Hughes, and their... boy.”

Alfred and Miss O’Brien entered the room after her, looking as curious as all the others.

“I heard he’s awful to look at,” said Daisy.

“Perhaps when the fair comes ‘round, Mr. Carson and Mrs. Hughes will put him up on display,” said Mr. Barrow. “Five pounds to look at him. Ten to poke him with a stick.”

“They’re coming up the path now,” Mrs. Patmore called out as she rushed back into the kitchen.

Daisy looked almost sickly as she paced the kitchen floor. “Maybe I shouldn’t be here... I haven’t got strongest stomach.”

“If he’s as disfigured as everyone says he is, I reckon you’ll be dead the moment you lay eyes on him, Daisy,” said Mr. Barrow. He eyed Miss O’Brien. “Perhaps he’ll do the opposite for you and bring you back to life.”

Daisy let out a nervous breath.

“Don’t listen to him, Daisy,” said Anna softly. “I’m sure it’s all an exaggeration.”

The room fell silent as the servant’s door creaked open in the distance and footsteps drew nearer.

Mr. Carson was the first to enter the kitchen, his coat open and his bowler hat pressed against his stomach. He looked surprised to see them all standing there, and his hand fidgeted slightly as he greeted them with a gentle wave of his hat: “Hello all,” he said.

Everyone mostly retorted various forms of greetings back to him, all except Daisy, who remained silent. Mr. Carson took notice.

“Daisy, are you quite well?” asked Mr. Carson.

“Yes, Mr. Carson,” she managed to utter out. “Only... I think I might have caught something. Might I go and rest for a bit?”

“Yes, of course,” he said.

“But before you go up, Daisy,” said Mrs. Hughes’s voice. Mr. Carson stepped aside. She entered the kitchen holding the hand of neither beast or demon but rather a small boy. “Come meet Hughie,” she said, a gentle smile springing to her face.

He was short, standing just below his mother’s shoulders, and skinny. Around him he wore a faded red coat too big for his stature. He had Carson’s hooked nose and Mrs. Hughes’s pale skin, and his eyes were all his own—Anna knew that much. But in that moment they were shut tight and facing the direction of the floor.

Atop his head he wore a grey cap—and when his father, with an uneasy cough, removed it from his head, it revealed untidy dark brown hair instead of demon horns.

Anna looked at everyone around her—Daisy looked greatly relieved; Mr. Barrow looked disappointed; and everyone else seemed a mixture of both. She turned back to the young boy.

“Hello Hughie,” Anna greeted kindly.

They all waited, but the boy did not respond—and his head did not lift, or even twitch, to indicate he had heard her.

Mrs. Patmore placed her hand onto the freshly clean table before her. The gentle tap on the hard surface was what got Hughie’s attention, for he moved his head towards her instead.

“Have you had anything to eat?” said Mrs. Patmore after a moment of awkward silence.

“We ate on the train,” said Mr. Carson.

“How about some tea, then?” she said.

“That would be lovely,” said Mrs. Hughes. “Thank you.”

Mrs. Patmore gestured towards Daisy to retrieve the kettle, pulling them all out of the frozen trance they all suddenly realized they had been under.

“Shouldn’t you be heading upstairs, Daisy,” asked Mrs. Hughes, a concerned look on her face.

“I’m actually feeling a lot better now, Mrs. Hughes.”

“I think Mr. Barrow might have scared Daisy into thinking her symptoms were a lot worse than they actually were,” said Anna. She looked at Mr. Barrow and he tilted his head, avoiding her gaze.

“Might Hughie want a biscuit or two with his tea?” asked Mrs. Patmore.

“Why don’t you ask him,” said Mrs. Hughes. She herself looked at the boy, giving his arm an encouraging shake.

Mrs. Patmore nodded nervously before turning to Hughie. “MIGHT... YOU... WANT... A... B—”

“I’m blind not deaf,” said Hughie softly—a voice of a sweet child, not a demon. He pulled away from his mother and made to exit the kitchen alone, nearly bumping into his father in the process.

“A biscuit with tea sounds lovely,” said Mrs. Hughes, breaking the uncomfortable beat of silence. “Thank you, Mrs. Patmore.”

She grabbed Hughie by his shoulders and gently led him to the servant’s hall, leaving Mr. Carson to face the others alone.

He cleared his throat and adjusted his coat. “Shouldn’t you all be working?” he said sternly, and the servants disbanded quickly until only Mr. Carson, Mrs. Patmore, Daisy and Anna stood in the kitchen.

With a gentle nod aimed at the three women, Mr. Carson followed his wife out.

“That were a relief,” muttered Mrs. Patmore to Daisy. “He didn’t come in screaming, I’m satisfied.”

Chapter Text

The Return of the Native

Winter 1913

Charles Carson sat patiently as the finger of his blind five-year-old son carefully began tracing the wrinkles on his face. He saw far too many lines on his face each time he looked at himself in the mirror—and he was sure Hughie could feel his age too, with his hands. Hughie sat in his lap, his cloudy eyes looking up at him as if they had the answers to all of the world’s burning questions.

The visitor’s room at Lloyd Andrews—a room he and his wife had become quite familiar with in the last several months—was nearly empty. It was a small room with a collection of books and toys on one wall with tables and chairs all scattered throughout the area. Carson once overheard a staff member refer to the school as “The School for Unwanted Children”—he purposely avoided sharing the information with his wife, however; she was already so fragile. By now, they had learned the empty room was not unusual at Lloyd Andrews, but it saddened them, Elsie especially, to see that not even the holiday season could bring family about.

And on the week before Christmas, the room and the people remained relatively the same as it was before, they quickly noticed:

An old woman stood with Mrs. Shelton, and together they watched a small child play with a wooden train; a man in a suit and a nurse sat with an older boy bound to a wheelchair in the corner; and a middle aged woman sat near the window with her teenage daughter—and the sight of the young girl, and all young girls like her, brought disgust and shame to Carson. What was the world coming to? The first time he saw her, he wondered what could such a normal-looking girl do to get sent to Lloyd Andrews. Six or so months later, her bulging stomach made what she had done abundantly clear.

He cleared his throat and reached for the book on the table—though blind, Hughie was always allowed the pleasure to choose the books Carson would read to him. And he seemed to enjoy the book he had chosen, for he would be hearing it for the fourth time in a row.

“Shall we get started?” he asked Hughie formally, almost as if he were talking to a maid or a footman, not his young child. Elsie always scolded him for the serious tone he always used with him, but Carson knew his words, and the tone that came with it, hardly mattered to the boy.

Hughie’s finger left Carson’s face and his arm fell to his side. “‘Old Mother West Wind by Thornton Burgess,’” Carson read aloud.

He felt Hughie attempt to wiggle out of his firm grasp as the book opened and the pages turned. There was a slight dread deep inside Carson’s core, fearing the terrible tantrum that would inevitably come.

“If you’re wondering where your mother is,” he said as calmly as his irritation would allow, “she just stepped out to use the washroom. She’ll be back in a moment.”

To his relief the squeals coming from his son were happy ones. And as Hughie’s voice began to get louder, Carson knew to continue on.

“‘Chapter one,’” he continued mechanically. He could read the story in his sleep, at this point; in fact, some of the characters in the book had begun to be incorporated in his dreams. “‘Mrs. Red Wing’s Speckled egg. Old Mother West Wind came down from the...’”

“‘...purple hill...’” said Hughie softly.

“Yes, ‘the purple hills,’” said Carson, “‘in the golden light of the early morning...’” He stopped and looked at his son.

Hughie had found his tie and was tugging at it, attempting to free it from the prison that was Carson’s vest.

Carson looked up, wondering if anyone else had witnessed his son’s words. Mrs. Shelton was still preoccupied with the old woman; the man in the suit was wheeling the boy out of the room with the nurse close behind them; and the girl and her mother were too busy with their own conversation to notice. And Elsie had yet to arrive back from the washroom.

“Yes... that’s right. Good,” said Carson softly. He cleared his throat and began again. “‘Old Mother West Wind came down from the...’” He waited, when Hughie said nothing he continued, “‘The purple hills... in the golden light of the early morning.’”

Again, he stopped and he waited. His tie was now free from his vest and hitting his stomach as excited squeals came roaring out of his son. In the distance, he saw Elsie enter. She stopped to exchange a few words with Mrs. Shelton before finding her way back to them. Instead of acknowledging her, Carson chose to continue reading:

“‘Over her shoulders was slung a great big bag and in the bag were all of Old Mother West Wind’s children...’”

Spring 1920

Anna watched as Mr. Carson made his way around the table, handing out the morning post. Passing Anna, he handed a letter to Mr. Barrow, then reached over to Miss O’Brien, then to Alfred. There was one letter left and she thought—hoped—it might be from John, but Mr. Carson took the letter back with him to his seat.

She was not worried, truly, but it did seem odd that she had not received a letter from him these last few days, especially when he used to write to her daily.

“Nothing from Mr. Bates?” she still felt the need to ask.

“No, I’m afraid not, Anna,” said Mr. Carson. His eyes found Hughie’s napkin, which was laying disregarded on top of the table. Mindlessly, he grabbed it and placed it back onto Hughie’s lap.

Mrs. Hughes offered Anna a gentle smile before she turned to her husband. “What’s this?” she asked, gesturing to the letter in his hand. She took a sip of her coffee.

“A letter to Hughie, it seems,” said Mr. Carson with a curious expression.

“How nice.” Mrs. Hughes smiled as Hughie reached for it.

“Now, hold on,” said Mr. Carson firmly. “I’ll read it to you.” He opened the letter and unfolded the thick paper inside. He took a moment to observe the letter before coughing uncomfortably.

“What is it? What’s the matter?” asked Mrs. Hughes, leaning in to examine it.

“I can’t seem to—there aren’t any words,” he said, looking flustered, “just these... bumps.”

At that, Hughie quietly took the letter out of his hands, placed it on the table and began feeling it with his fingers.

Miss O’Brien, who sat beside him, took a peak down at the letter. Daisy entered the kitchen with a plate of bread in her hands. Her eyes drifted to the letter as she placed the bread onto the table. “What’s that?” she asked, looking at Mrs. Hughes.

“It’s a letter,” Mrs. Hughes said simply, “written in Braille.”

“That’s how blind people read, isn’t it?” asked Alfred, who looked at the letter with hesitant eyes. Mr. Carson tugged at his collar.

“Yes, it is.” said Mrs. Hughes, and she turned back to her son. “Who’s it from, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“Herby...” Hughie answered softly.

Miss O’Brien turned to Alfred and began quietly speaking with him while Daisy went back to the kitchen. Anna watched Hughie’s fingers touch the paper carefully, tracing the bumps on the page. “Is... Herby your friend from Lloyd Andrews,” she asked him gently.

She was not expecting an answer—he did not feel comfortable speaking to anyone other than his parents, and he never acknowledged Anna whenever she tried speaking to him—but she was the only one willing to try, Mrs. Hughes told her the other day; she greatly appreciated Anna’s efforts. Mrs. Hughes was already offering her an apologetic look when Hughie softly answered, “Yes.”

“It must be hard being away from your friends for so long,” she said.

Mr. Carson glanced nervously at Mrs. Hughes. But before anyone could notice or respond, the bells above them began ringing. Anna and Miss O’Brien both stood and together they walked towards the stairs without saying a word to each other.

“He’s been here almost three weeks,” said Alfred in a low voice as he and Miss O’Brien entered the kitchen. “I thought he’d be gone by now.”

“I wish he was,” said his aunt bitterly. “He’s taken my seat at the table and neither Mrs. Hughes or Mr. Carson see any issue with it.”

“There are better things to get worked up about, Miss O’Brien,” said Mrs. Patmore with a huff.

“I’m glad he’s not dumb,” said Daisy, “but I wish he’d say more than a few words. It freaks me out when he just sits there with his eyes closed... doing nothing.”

“I wonder if he has another condition Mrs. Hughes and Mr. Carson aren’t telling us about,” said Alfred.

“Maybe he’s only got a few weeks to live,” said Miss O’Brien. “That’s why he hasn’t gone back to Lloyd Andrews.” She turned to Mrs. Patmore. “You’re closest to them out of all of us, why don’t you ask Mrs. Hughes why he isn’t leaving?”

“That’s... not any of our business,” she told them with a slight twitch. She attempted to sound as stern as possible, but she was afraid the shakiness in her voice might have given her away. “He’s just a boy visiting his parents for a bit. That’s all there is to it.” She sighed. “You could make more of an effort to get to know him; he has enough problems as is.”

In that same moment, she spotted Mrs. Hughes and Mr. Carson walking past the kitchen. She smoothed her apron and quickly walked to them, avoiding the eyes of the others.

She met them outside of Mr. Carson’s pantry door. Inside, Hughie sat in one of Mr. Carson’s chairs—his back facing them.

“Have you... heard from Dr. Clarkson yet?” Mrs. Patmore asked them in a loud whisper.

Mrs. Hughes looked into the pantry cautiously—only Mrs. Patmore seemed to notice the slight jerk of Hughie’s head—then she reached for the door to close it. “We would have told you if we had,” she said.

“By heck, they don’t mind stringing it out,” said Mrs. Patmore. “Should you go and see him?”

“My thoughts exactly,” said Mr. Carson with a firm look directed at Mrs. Hughes.

“Why? I’m sure if he knew anything, he would have said,” said Mrs. Hughes. After a moment of silence, she gestured to the stairs that lead up to the servants bedrooms and said, “If you’ll both excuse me, the button came off my cuff. I’m going to mend it while I’m not busy.”

“Are you sure you don’t want my help,” said Mr. Carson.

“I think I can handle mending a button or two, Mr. Carson,” said Mrs. Hughes sharply—a little too sharply than she had intended, Mrs. Patmore took notice, for her eyes softened. “No, you stay down here. Read with Hughie. I can manage.”

“If you’re sure,” he said.

She stroked his arm gently then left to mend her button.

In Mr. Carson’s hand he held a book with a horrifying figure on the front cover, looking more beast than man in Mrs. Patmore’s eyes. She squinted to get a better look. “What book is that?” she asked, frowning.

He glanced down, and upon seeing the horrible face, he pressed the book tightly to his stomach so the cover was hidden away from the world. “Oh,” he said. He quickly glanced around to make sure no one else had seen it. “Just a book Hughie wants me to read for him.”

“You’re still reading books to him, are you?” she said.

He opened his pantry door, taking a quick glance at his son before entering. “Yes,” he confirmed, and Mrs. Patmore noticed the slight sparkle in his eyes. “I am still reading books to him.”

Carson entered his pantry with the book tightly pressed to his stomach. Hughie’s head jerked up at the sound of the door closing. His father cleared his throat to make his presence known , a habit he started when Hughie was very small.

“Is... mam okay?” said Hughie as Carson made himself comfortable in the chair across from him.

Carson raised a brow. “Of... course she is,” he said in a slightly shaky voice. “Whatever would give you the impression she was not?”

Hughie shrugged.

Carson waited for his son to say more or give evidence of his mother being unwell—when he remained silent, Carson assumed he was in the clear. “Shall we get started?”

“All right.”

He opened the book. The whiff of the new pages flew up at him and he rubbed his nose to block the smell. “‘Frankenstein by Mary Shelley,’” Carson read aloud. He cleared his throat and began reading the epigraph below the title. “‘Did I request thee, Maker, from my clay... to mould me man... Did I solicit thee’...” he trailed off, a sour grimace springing to his face. He flipped through the pages. “Hughie,” he said, “are you certain this is the book you wish for me to read?”

“Herby told me I’d like it,” said Hughie.

“But this is... Are you sure you don’t want to read something else? Something more... adventurous?”

“Like what?”

“Well, what about Treasure Island? Most boys  your age seem to enjoy reading that.”

“Most boys my age can see,” he said softly. His father coughed.

“If you’re sure—but don’t be afraid to stop me if it becomes too much for you. The last thing your mother needs is to be awakened by you because of night terrors...” After a quick huff, he adjusted himself in his seat again, moistened his lips with his tongue and began reading again:

“‘The event on which this fiction is founded has been supposed, by Dr. Darwin, and some of the physiological writers of Germany, as not of impossible occurrence...’”

Remembering the last time he examined young Hughie, Dr. Clarkson made sure to keep his hands at a safe distance from the boy’s mouth. At twelve, Hughie was much more compliant than his younger self ever was. He no longer screamed at the slightest touch or refuse to leave his mother’s arms. But sometimes, in the right light, Dr. Clarkson could see the bite mark left by young Hughie Carson all those years ago and the horrible memories came rushing back.

Dr. Clarkson grabbed his stethoscope and  placed the end of it on Hughie’s bare chest. “Can you breathe in for me, Hughie?” he asked—and Hughie sucked in fiercely, his rib cage becoming more prominent. Dr. Clarkson smiled at the boy’s exaggerated action. “And release it.” Hughie released his breath and the wind came blowing right in Dr. Clarkson’s face, and he resisted the urge to laugh. After a moment, he removed the stethoscope and placed it back on the metal tray beside him. “I would like to examine your eyes too, Hughie... that is, if you’re comfortable with me doing so,” he continued.

Hughie’s eyes opened and the familiar blue haze looked vacantly forward. Dr. Clarkson shone a bright light at both eyes and he carefully examined the reaction, looking for any hints of life. But unsurprisingly, he found nothing—and Hughie’s eyes closed again.

Dr. Clarkson turned to Hughie’s mother, who sat watching them in the corner. Carson stood next to her with his hands behind his back, looking more butler than father. “Did the doctors at Lloyd Andrews treat their patients well, do you know?”

“Why? Is something the matter?” asked Mrs. Carson, fear suddenly springing to her face. Her eyes quickly went to Hughie.

“No, nothing is wrong. He is a perfectly healthy boy, Mrs. Carson,” said Dr. Clarkson quickly. “I only ask because... well, I have heard stories about facilities like Lloyd Andrews and...” He stopped; it felt awkward to bring such a matter up—especially if the boy would inevitably be going back to the facility—but the stories he heard were just too terrible to ignore.

“I’ve heard no complaints about the doctors at Lloyd Andrews,” said Carson. “The one we’ve been in communication with seems competent enough. What sort of things have you heard?”

“Well, some doctors mistreat their more... unstable patients,” explained Dr. Clarkson delicately.

“My doctor was kind to me,” said Hughie gently.

Dr. Clarkson looked back at the boy in near shock. Mrs. Carson had informed him Hughie was now communicating verbally, but the boy was so quiet during the examination, it had slipped Dr. Clarkson’s mind completely. He desired to ask him more questions, but fearing he might upset Mrs. Carson, he instead said, “I am relieved to hear you say that.”

Carson’s eyes went to his wife as she stood to help Hughie back into his garments. He coughed to get her attention. She looked at him and he lifted his eyebrows. She rolled her eyes at him.

“Dr. Clarkson,” Carson began, “might my wife and I have a private word with you in your office—that is, if you have the time?”

“Yes, of course,” he said.

“I am perfectly capable of speaking with him on my own, Charlie,” she snapped. But her eyes softened when they found Hughie. “Help Hughie get dressed. I’ll meet you out in the hall.” And quietly Dr. Clarkson left with Mrs. Carson at his side.

“But I thought I was supposed to keep my hat on at all times,” said Hughie as is father handed him back his grey cap.

“That is when you’re outdoors,” said his father. “When you’re indoors, you keep your hat off.”

“Why?”

“To be courteous to others.”

“But how does that show we’re being courteous?”

His father let out a gentle sigh. “It’s... just the way things are done, Hughie. We don’t question it...”

“Carson,” said a voice behind him. He turned to see Mrs. Crawley with a wooden brown clipboard in her hands. “I thought that was you.”

“Mrs. Crawley, ma’am,” he greeted politely.

“I hope you’re well,” she said.

“Yes, quite,” he said with a nod—he then realized the comment was brought up because they were in the hospital. He quickly added, “We’re here for Hughie. He’s had a check up with Dr. Clarkson.” She blinked, and he elaborated: “Er, Hughie is my son...”

“Oh, yes, of course,” she said, finally recalling. She turned to the boy. “How wonderful it is to meet you. I understand that you are blind.”

“He is, ma’am,” said Carson with a nod.

“I’m Mrs. Crawley,” she said, and Carson felt ashamed he had yet to introduce her to him. “My son, Mathew Crawley, is married to Lady Mary. They’ve told me all about you.”

Carson smiled at the mention of Lady Mary. She had been so kind to young Hughie the past couple of weeks.

“Has Dr. Clarkson told you about the girl in Edinburgh?” Mrs. Crawley asked him. “A very similar story to Hughie. Blind at birth and the mother forty-five or so when the baby was born. The only difference between the two is Hughie learned how to communicate properly in his later years and the young girl did not. She still remains mute to this day.”

“I... don’t see that as a bad thing,” said Hughie gently.

“Oh no, dear boy,” she said. “Not bad, just different.”

“Hello, Mrs. Crawley,” his wife greeted her formally. Carson noticed the slight look of worry on her face as she entered their circle of conversation.

“Mrs. Hughes,” she acknowledged. “Well, I mustn’t keep you. I should be getting ready for today’s luncheon anyway. I’m late getting back as it is.” She made to leave, but something compelled her to turn back to them. “I was planning to ask you this later, but since I have you now...”

“Of course,” said Elsie.

“You had a maid at Downton, Ethel Parks.” She glanced at Hughie before continuing. “I was there when she brought her son into the dining room.”

Elsie’s brow lifted slightly. “Who could forget that?”

“Do you have an address for her?”

Elsie nodded. “I do, if she’s still there.”

“You see...” Again, she turned to Hughie. She gestured for her to step off to the side where Hughie’s ears might not hear.

Understanding, Carson took Hughie by the hand. “We’ll meet you outside,” he told his wife. He quickly turned to his son. “Come along now, Hughie.”

Mrs. Crawley waited until they were out of earshot before she continued. “You see, I saw her earlier this morning,” she said in a whisper. “And I’m afraid she’s fallen in a bad way, a very bad way.”

“Oh, dear. I am sorry to hear that,” she said. “I’ll find it for you.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Hughes,” she said. “I’ll come find you after we’ve arrived back from our luncheon to retrieve it.”

“Who’s Mr. Bates?” Hughie asked unprovoked over dinner. He meant it for only his parents’ ears but the room fell silent as all eyes went to Anna. “I only ask because... I hear his name come up a lot,” continued Hughie. The silence must have become too overwhelming for the boy, for he quickly added, “I was only curious. I didn’t mean to offend.”

“And you haven’t,” Anna assured quickly. “Mr. Bates is my husband. He used to work here as Lord Grantham’s valet.”

“Where is he now?”

Anna turned to Mrs. Hughes. “It’s your business to tell, not mine,” said Mrs. Hughes firmly. “You can tell him, if you’d like.”

“He’s in prison,” she said softly.

“Serving time for a crime he was was wrongly prosecuted for, mind you,” added Mr. Carson. Again, he found Hughie’s napkin scrunched up on the table and he placed it back onto the boy’s lap.

They all waited for Hughie’s response, but he seemed satisfied enough, and he instead continued eating. The entire table quickly followed suit.

Mr. Molesley turned to Anna. “I expect you’re tired. It’s a long day up to London and back again.”

“Was it worth the journey?” asked Mrs. Hughes.

She shook her head. “Not really.”

Daisy entered the servant’s hall as quietly as she could, but the single teacup shaking in her hands made herself known to the blind boy at the table. He was dressed nicely with his hair neatly combed to one side and a tie around his neck. She said nothing as she placed the teacup down onto the table.

He lifted his head—his eyes closed tightly, like they always were. “Mrs. Hughes asked me to bring you this,” she said.

She realized she had placed it a bit too far for his reach and she watched him search for the cup. When he finally found it, he pulled it close to him and began feeling it with his hands.

As she turned to leave to go back into the kitchen, she noticed Mrs. Patmore and Mr. Carson enter Mrs. Hughes’s office—and she remembered Mrs. Patmore’s words of making more of an effort with the boy. She turned back to Hughie. “I’m... ever so thankful to see that you’re a boy and not a monster.” And she regretted her words the moment they came flowing out of her mouth.

Hughie said nothing, just sipped his tea.

“Now, the moment you feel tired you’re to tell me,” said Charlie, “and I’ll take over whatever it is you’re doing.”

“Oh, will you, now?”

“Are you sure you want to come to the church? You and Hughie could stay here and have a lie down.”

Elsie huffed. “It would be so nice if people would wait to learn if I really am ill before boxing me up.”

“I’m only thinking of what’s best for you, Elsie,” he said.

She shooed him away. “Go on. Make sure Hughie’s ready.”

“He’s a good man,” said Mrs. Patmore when he left.

“I know he is. And he deserves far better.” Elsie sighed. “I fear it’s my nerves getting the better of me.” She turned to the door, making sure no one was lurking. “I spoke with Dr. Clarkson yesterday and he’ll have the results tomorrow. I’m to call in the afternoon.”

“Try not to worry.”

“I’ll try, but I won’t succeed.”

Chapter Text

The Return of the Native

Spring 1920

Elsie settled herself into the seat beside her husband, guiding Hughie carefully down with her. Lady Edith Crawley was soon to be married—she never quite thought she would live to see the day. “They’re running a bit behind, aren’t they?” she whispered to Charlie, watching the groom as he nervously tugged at his collar up front.

Charlie was distracted, cautiously looking at the people around them. He had a look of worry on his face. Dr. Clarkson gave the Carson family a respectful nod while walking the aisle to his seat up front. Elsie kindly smiled in return. “I’m sure they’re well on their way—Elsie, do you think we ought to be sitting up so close,” he said back to her, his eyes still wandering. “I see a perfectly good spot over in the back...”

“I don’t see why you feel the need to complain,” she said. “These seats are far better than the ones we had when Lady Mary married...”

“This is not Lady Mary’s wedding. It is Lady Edith’s,” he said firmly. He cleared his throat, his eyes glancing briefly at Hughie. “I don’t want to cause a disturbance, Elsie, that’s all.”

“We’re not going to cause a disturbance, Charlie,” she said.  Her hand found his thigh a she gave it a gentle pat.

Their quiet moment quickly became interrupted by a couple of older women, who Elsie recognized as friends of the Dowager Countess, passed them by.

“I can’t believe she’s marrying the old cripple,” one of them spoke in a loud whisper.

Elsie studied them carefully. With their canes and wobbling down the aisle, she wondered just how different they were from Sir Anthony. She agreed, of course; Lady Edith was far too young to be with such a man like Sir Anthony. But it was not her business, nor was it theirs, to judge.

Her eyes then found Hughie, who sat quietly beside her with his grey cap sitting on his lap. She found his hand and squeezed it gently. He responded by moving his head in her direction.

“Are you doing all right?” she whispered to him.

“I’m fine,” he said simply.

As Hughie’s head turned back forward, Mrs. Hughes felt a shadow loom over them. She looked up to see Lady Grantham smiling down at her.

“Hello, Mrs. Hughes,” she greeted. Her eyes then went to Charlie. “Carson.”

“Milady,” said Elsie with a nod, her hand letting go of Hughie. “Is there something you need?”

“Oh, no,” she said. “I just wanted to stop by and say hello before I get too busy to do so later.” Her eyes went to Hughie and her smile broadened. “I’m happy Hughie could be here celebrating with us,” she said. “He’s grown so much since I last saw him.”

Elsie smiled as Lady Mary and Sybil both passed them with quick glances directed at Hughie.

“Yes... he has,” agreed Charlie. He shifted in his seat uncomfortably.

And Elsie suddenly recalled the last time the Crawleys, and most of the people in the village, had seen Hughie—during church; Hughie’s kicking and screaming forced her and Charlie out of the chapel. And he was sent to Lloyd Andrews a week or so after that.

“If there’s anything you need, anything at all, Mrs. Hughes,” said Lady Grantham, “please don’t be afraid to tell me.”

Hughie’s head jerked up towards Lady Grantham with his cloudy eyes open and alert, and fully aware of her presence. Her smile faltered a little as she gazed into his lifeless eyes, and she looked back at Mrs. Hughes. “I... really should be finding my seat now,” she told her politely before hurrying away.

“Hughie,” Charlie practically hissed at him, and Hughie’s head turned towards him. “Remember to keep your eyes shut.”

Elsie rolled her eyes. “He can keep his eyes open if he wants, Charlie.”

The journey back to Downton was long and quite tiring. Lord Grantham ordered Carson to stay at the church and help sort out the guests, while he and Lady Grantham rushed to Lady Edith’s side. And despite Carson’s objection, Elsie, with Hughie at her heals, stayed behind to help him manage the fiasco. Within the hour, the matter was finally settled and they were headed back to the house.

“So, Lady Edith isn’t getting married?” said Hughie. He walked in between his parents—and Carson was impressed with how well he was doing walking the path alone without the guiding hand of one of his parents.

Carson nodded. “That is correct.”

“I don’t understand it,” he said. “Why would you promise to marry someone, just to leave them last minute? It doesn’t seem fair.”

“Sometimes life isn’t quite fair, Hughie,” said Carson

“I of all people should know that, right, dad?” said Hughie. And Elsie made sure to give Carson a frightful glare.

“That poor girl,” Elsie said softly with a shake of her head.

“I wish we had a Braille writer,” commented Hughie. “The guys would be interested in hearing about this.”

“You will not spread such tasteless gossip about this incident or any incident, for that matter, regarding the Crawley family to your friends,” said Carson sternly.

“Yes... because I don’t have a Braille writer to do so.”

Elsie let out a slight laugh.

Carson coughed. “I’m surprised your friends know Braille,” he commented , and Elsie gave him another disapproving look.

“Why?” asked Hughie

“They all see perfectly fine, if I recall correctly. They have no use for it.”

“Except for communicating with Hughie,” said Elsie sharply.

“Mr. Davies included it in his lesson plan a couple years back,” explained Hughie. “The assignment was everyone had to learn the alphabet in Braille and then write a letter to me. I was to write a letter back to the whole class.”

“That does sound quite... fun,” said Carson after a short moment of silence.

“I can teach you how to read it, you know,” said Hughie, “if you want.”

“Yes, well... we’ll see,” he said with a cough. Elsie raised her brow at him.

“Herby wrote saying some of the older boys snuck a dog in their bedroom,” he said. “They managed to keep it hidden for a few days—but then he started chewing up one of the beds. Mrs. Shelton found out and she took him away.”

“That sounds quite thrilling,” said Elsie with a gentle smile. “There never seems to be a dull moment at Lloyd Andrews.”

“Now, is Herby the boy with the stutter?” asked Carson.

“No, that’s Kenneth,” corrected Elsie. “Herby’s the tall boy.”

“Oh, yes, him,” said Carson. “Why do you suspect a boy like him is at Lloyd Andrews? He seemed normal enough when we met him—and he seemed well behaved, so I find it unlikely he’s one of those rebellious boys at the school.”

Elsie, who knew full well why such a flamboyant boy like Herby was sent away to a school like Lloyd Andrews, merely shook her head. “Oh, who knows—I’m starting to wonder why any of them are at that school.”

“Their mothers aren’t sick, that’s why,” Hughie said.

Carson and Elsie both stopped while Hughie continued along the trail.

“I certainly didn’t tell him,” said Carson defensively, his eyes wide in shock, when Elsie turned to him.

She nudged him and they both continued forward. “Well, we won’t be able to deal with it now,” she said with a hard sigh. “What awaits for us at Downton, I can only imagine.”

“This all we’re getting? Just these picketty bits?” said Alfred, looking down at the food in disgust.

“Hardly,” said Barrow. “These are canapés, Alfred. For your first course, some truffled egg on toast, perhaps? Some oysters a la Russe?”

“Then what?”

“There’s some lobster rissoles in Mousseline sauce,” said Mrs. Patmore, “or Calvados-glazed duckling, or do you fancy a little asparagus salad with Champagne-saffron vinaigrette?”

“When I think how you’ve gone to such pains...” started Mrs. Hughes.

“Never mind me,” said Mrs. Patmore. “What about the pain of that poor girl upstairs?”

“Jilted at the altar,” said Miss O’Brien. “I don’t think I could stand the shame.”

“Then it’s lucky no one’s ever asked you, isn’t it?” said Barrow.

“How do you know that?” Hughie asked him softly. He sat in between Mrs. Hughes and Barrow, and Barrow seemed the only one to hear him speak up. Nevertheless, he did what he had been doing for the last month or so and ignored the young boy.

“Poor thing,” said Anna. “How will she find the strength to hold up her head?”

“I swear I’d have to run away and hide in a place where no one knew me,” said Daisy.

“I thought... no one really liked the man she was marrying,” whispered Hughie, turning to his mother. “I don’t understand why everyone is so upset by it all. Isn’t it a good thing that she didn’t marry him?”

Her mother smiled gently. “Maybe in the long run,” she said, “but for right now she’s just a poor girl with a broken heart.”

The servants were not used to eating the glorious food that now sat on their plates. Even Elsie herself could hardly stand to look at, much less eat, the lobster claw on her plate. But she put on a brave face for Mrs. Patmore, who sat across from her, and she began eating the food politely.

She looked at her husband. Was he excited that the members of the downstairs would have one night of eating like Lords and Ladies or was he like everyone else and simply putting on a show? She could not read his face at the moment.

Feeling her stare, he looked up. His eyes rolled and he gestured towards Hughie’s napkin, which was again tossed carelessly onto the table. Gently, she grabbed the napkin and she placed it back onto Hughie’s lap. There would certainly be another lecture about manners later that night during bedtime.

“May I have more oysters, please,” said Hughie, lifting his plate.

“Careful now,” said Charlie in a quick panic as his own hand reached for the plate.

“Are you sure,” said Elsie. “You don’t have to eat anything you don’t want...”

“No, I like it,” he said.

“Well, I’m glad someone’s happy with it,” said Mrs. Patmore gently. “I just make the food—it were never expected of me to eat it too.”

“I don’t imagine the poor will have much appetite for it either,” commented Anna.

“The Dowager Countess offered to take it... That is, if the poor didn’t want it,” said Charlie. He held Hughie’s plate in one hand and he was dishing up oysters in the other.

“Of course she did,” muttered Elsie.

“You seem to have an appetite for this sort of food, Hughie,” said Anna. “Do they feed you lobsters and oysters at Lloyd Andrews?”

“No,” he said with a gentle smile springing to his face.

There was a long awkward pause before Elsie noticed Mrs. Patmore nudge Miss O’Brien under the table. And Miss O’Brien, less than enthused about it all, said to Hughie: “What do you miss most about the school?”

Again, another awkward pause plagued the room. “I miss my friends, mostly,” said Hughie after a moment. “And... the stories my friend Herby always told us.”

“What kind of stories did he like to tell?” asked Anna

He shrugged. “Simple stories.”

After another awkward pause, Miss O’Brien nudged her nephew. Mrs. Patmore did mention everyone was trying to make more of an effort to interact with Hughie; she was surprisingly pleased to see it. “Er, let’s hear one,” said Alfred.

Hughie shook his head. “No, I’m not good at telling them—I’d just mess it up.”

“I’m sure you’ll do fine,” said Charlie gently, encouraging him to continue.

“I won’t,” Hughie said, “but if you’re all insisting...

“A thousand or so years ago, the first monster was born—I can’t tell you what he looked like, because that’s all meaningless to me. But his skin was... as rough as the back of a snake, and his teeth  were as sharp as knives. And when he cried—because he was only a baby, so he cried a lot—it sounded like... like the screams of sinful men burning... burning underground. He was the first monster—and no one really knew anything about being a monster back then, so the whole village was terrified of the wrath he might bring upon their village—”

The room went silent. Elsie looked over at Daisy, whose face went pure white. The others beside her looked about the same.

“Well, what they do with it? The monster?” asked Mrs. Patmore.

“His mother weeped when seeing him for the first time, so his father wrapped him up in a sheet and they left him outside for the faeries to take him.”

“So, the faeries got him, then?”

“No,” said Hughie, “the wolves did... because faeries don’t exist and the monster was never really a monster.”

Daisy stood abruptly, letting out a slight squeal along the way, and she quickly ran to the kitchen. “Daisy,” Mrs. Patmore called after her as she fled. Everyone else remained frozen in their seats. Elsie shared a worried glance with Charlie before he quietly placed the plate full of oysters in front of his son.

“That were rude of you, Daisy,” Mrs. Patmore scolded later that night. “Getting up and leaving like that... I know you don’t like horror stories, but you could have at least had the decency to excuse yourself from the table...”

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Patmore,” she said in a shaky voice. “But... it wasn’t the horror story that made me leave—I’m afraid I’ve done something bad. I’m afraid I’ve done something really bad. And I don’t know what to do about it.”

“What is it that you’ve done?”

“If there’s anything you need from me, tell me now before we head up for the cottage tonight,” said Mrs. Hughes, entering the kitchen.

Mrs. Patmore gulped and turned to face Mrs. Hughes. “You’re sleeping at the cottage tonight?” she questioned.

Mrs. Hughes nodded. “With everything going on, I think it best.”

“Daisy here would like to apologize for how she behaved during dinner,” said Mrs. Patmore. “Right, Daisy?”

Daisy gulped. “Yes... I’m ever so remorseful for what I’ve done, Mrs. Hughes. I swear to you I didn’t mean it.”

Mrs. Hughes gave Daisy a gentle smile. “It’s quite all right, Daisy,” she said to the young girl. “Hughie can be a bit... unpredictable at times. I’m sorry he made you feel uncomfortable with that little story of his.”

All Daisy could do was bite her lip and nod as Mrs. Hughes said her last farewells and exited the kitchen.

“The truth is... your mother may be very ill—she didn’t want to tell you because... well, we don’t know anything yet.”

“When will you know?”

“She’ll have the results tomorrow,” he said. “Who—who told you?”

“You did,” said Hughie. “Just now.”

“Not... any of the servants?”

“No, they all think I’m the sickly one,” he said. “You treat mam like a ticking bomb about to explode, that’s how I caught on.”

Carson lifted his brows. “A boy your age should know nothing about the horrors of ticking bombs.”

“We all lived through the war,” he reminded. “Just because I couldn’t see it, doesn’t mean it didn’t affect me.”

Carson said nothing. He only lifted the sheet up to Hughie’s chest and tucked him in quietly.

“So, what happens if she is dying?” continued Hughie, and Carson twitched.

“If I am dying, then you’ll eventually have to bury me, I suppose,” said Elsie’s voice behind them. Carson turned to see her standing by the door. “Unless they come up with something new beforehand...”

Carson coughed uncomfortably.

“No. What happens to me?” he said.

“Well,” she said softly, “we’ll figure that all out when we get there.”

Carson stood, and he hesitated for a moment before his rough hand gently cupped Hughie’s face, his thumb brushing against the boy’s cheek

“Goodnight, dad,” Hughie said.

Carson had the sudden urge to kiss the boy’s forehead, which had loose strands of hair residing on it. Instead, he just brushed the hairs back into place and allowed for his hand to fall back to his side. “Goodnight, Hughie,” said Carson.

Quietly, he made his way to his wife. She told Hughie one final time that they loved him so very much and then she shut the door and together they stood alone in the hallway.

Carson embraced his wife. He placed a gentle kiss on her forehead and she snuggled in close to him.

He hated to pull away and ruin the moment, but he was eager to continue their conversation from earlier. His hand slid down her arm and their fingers intertwined.

“What’s... the plan for tomorrow?” he asked her nervously.

She glanced at the closed door, and then guided him to their room, away from their son’s ears.

“I’ll go see Dr. Clarkson in the morning,” she said.

“Are you sure you want to do it alone,” he asked. “I can speak with Lady—”

“No. I am perfectly capable...”

“I know you’re perfectly capable of doing anything, my love, but if you need me there...”

She squeezed his hand. “No. You do your duties... and I’ll do mine.”

The next morning, Carson could hardly contain his nerves. He didn’t touch his breakfast. And when he passed a couple of giggling maids on his way back to his pantry, he did not give them the proper scolding they deserved. The worst part was watching Elsie as she buttoned her coat and put on her hat, prepping herself to leave for the doctors. And when she turned to him, he kissed her lips gently, not caring who might come in and see.

That was half an hour ago, and now he sat at his desk with his work spread out in front of him, but his mind only on her. He was nervously tapping on his desk when a knock on his door brought his attention back.

He stood as Mrs. Patmore entered with a cup of water in her hands. She waved for him to sit again, and he did do so reluctantly.

“I was just bringing Hughie some water,” she said, looking around the room. “Only—he doesn’t seem to be here either.”

“He’s in the servant’s hall, as he always is at this hour,” Carson explained to her. His focus then went to the papers before him—mostly bills and other tedious tasks he did not want to think about at the moment.

“I can assure you, Mr. Carson, he is not. I thought you might have brought him in here with you...”

He stood again, his heart sinking to his stomach. Hughie disappearing was the last thing Elsie needed. “I certainly have not,” he said. “I thought you were keeping a close eye on him.”

“He... must have slipped passed me when Daisy and I were prepping for lunch.”

“Oh good heavens,” muttered Carson as he rushed out of the room.

He entered the servant’s hall where Alfred, Anna and Barrow all lounged. Upon seeing Carson, they stood abruptly. Carson waved them down.

“Have you seen Hughie?” he asked, attempting to hide the panic in his voice.

“No, Mr. Carson,” said Alfred with the shake of his head.

“Is he missing?” asked Anna, a look of worry springing to her face.

“My hope is he hasn’t gone far,” said Carson.

He made to leave, to start his search, when Barrow said, hiding behind a newspaper: “And he hasn’t. He went upstairs just a few minutes ago.”

“And you allowed him?” said Carson, horrified.

“With all do respect, Mr. Carson, he’s the son of the butler—not the son of his lordship’s valet.”

Carson had no time to scold him, so he simply waved Barrow off and then he sprinted towards the stairs with Anna following close behind.

Their arrival upstairs was met with silence. Lord and Lady Grantham had gone out for a walk around the estate; Lady Mary and Mr. Crawley were still in bed; and so was Edith, from what Anna had informed him earlier that morning.

Quietly, they began checking the rooms. His eyes briefly found the staircase leading up to the bedrooms and the thought of Hughie barging in on Lady Mary or Edith horrified Carson to no end. His stomach churned as he opened the door to the library.

There Hughie sat in between Mr. Branson and Lady Sybil on one of the red sofas. Carson caught Lady Sybil in a fit of giggles when he entered, and both she and Branson looked up when he made his presence known with the clearing of his throat.

“I am terribly sorry, milady,” said Carson in a panic.

“It’s really quite fine, Carson,” said Lady Sybil.

“Hughie here was just sharing a few of his stories with us,” said Branson with a gentle smile.

“I’m... sure he was,” said Carson, wondering if the stories he was sharing were anything like the one he had shared the night before. “But that is still no excuse, sir...”

“He was trying to find his way to the bathroom and he ended up in the library instead,” explained Branson. “I hope you don’t mind, but I allowed for him to use the one up here.”

“That is very kind of you, Mr. Branson,” said Carson with a slight bow of his head. He cleared his throat again and he made his way towards Hughie, grabbing him by the hand and guiding him up. “I shouldn’t let him disturb you any longer.”

“Where have you two been?” asked Elsie curiously as she watched Carson and Hughie descend the steps, Carson with a firm grip on Hughie’s forearm. She still had her hat and coat on, and Carson was nearly too busy with Hughie to notice the slight sparkle in her eyes.

“I haven’t been anywhere,” said Carson angrily, “but Hughie here...”

“I didn’t mean to go upstairs,” said Hughie. “I was only trying to find the washroom. Truly.”

Elsie replaced Carson’s grip on Hughie with a much more gentler one as they quietly walked to his pantry. There was no point in causing a scene.

When he made sure his doors were shut securely, Carson burst. “I have had it with your behavior... Your rude manners. That story—and now this!”

Hughie’s face went red. “I didn’t mean to do it,” he said. “I’m trying to be better. I really am. I can’t seem to get it right, that’s all.”

Carson opened his mouth to speak but his wife raised her hand to silence him. “Hughie, before I say what I need to say,” she said gently, “I want you to know that in my eyes you are perfect. To me and to God, you are the most beautiful thing in this world. And I’m sorry if I, or anyone else for that matter,”—she glanced quickly at Carson—“have made you feel or think otherwise.”

Hughie’s eyes opened, the haziness pulling Carson into a slight trance. He sighed deeply. “So... you are dying.”

It felt as if all the life Carson had in his body left him as he turned to his wife.

“I will die... eventually,” she said, “but hopefully not for a very, very long time.”

“It’s not cancer, then,” said her husband.

“No, it’s not cancer,” she confirmed with the shake of her head.

He kissed her cheek softly and he pulled her into a tight embrace as relief filled him. “Oh, my darling Elsie.”

“We’ll be back in time for dinner,” explained Charlie. “Be sure to keep a careful eye on Hughie this time.”

“Don’t worry,” said Mrs. Patmore with a gentle sigh. “I won’t be making that mistake again any time soon.”

They turned to Daisy, who stood cowardly in the corner.

“I wish you would tell me what’s troubling you, Daisy,” said Elsie. “You’ve been like this all day.”

“Never mind her,” said Mrs. Patmore quickly, bringing the attention back onto her. “It was nice of her ladyship to give you a bit of time off. Which pub did you say you’ll be eating at?”

“White Hart,” Charlie said confidently—just as Elsie told her, “Red Lion.”

They both looked at each other for a quick moment. Elsie felt her face flush. “Er, well, we’ll figure it out on the way,” Charlie told her.

Mrs. Patmore blinked. “Oh... All right,” she said with a nod. “Off with you two, then. And no sense in worrying about Hughie or anything else here... I’ve got everything under control.”

“I don’t know what to do, Mrs. Patmore,” said Daisy as she prepared the sauce for that night’s dinner, “If he tells Mr. Carson what I said, I’ll surely be fired.”

“I won’t let that happen,” said Mrs. Patmore. She looked up from her own dish she was preparing just as Alfred entered the kitchen. “Alfred, will you please fetch Hughie for me,” she ordered. Alfred nodded and he quickly went to the servant’s hall. “We’re going to get this whole thing sorted out while Mr. Carson and Mrs. Hughes are away.”

“What do you mean—I can’t talk to him,” said Daisy with a shake of her head. “He’ll never want to speak to me again. Not the way I’ve treated him.”

She retracted slowly as Alfred reentered the kitchen alone.

“Er, where is he exactly?” he asked dumbly.

Mrs. Patmore felt her heart sink. “In the servant’s hall, isn’t he?”

He shook his head. “I’ve looked,” he said. “He isn’t there.”

“I blink and he vanishes... is that what happens now?”

“Are you sure you can’t stay for just one more night?” asked Cora sweetly.

“No, we really should be getting back,” said Branson—and Robert thought good riddance. Not for Sybil, of course. But he was growing tired of all the scandal surrounding Downton lately. With Bates and Branson, and Hughie, and now Edith, he was beginning to see his downfall.

“Are you staying for dinner, mama?” asked Cora, turning to Robert’s mother.

“I haven’t got the right clothes,” answered his mother.

“Nor do I,” said cousin Isobel, “but I’m staying.”

“Yes, well, some of us like to stick with tradition.”

At that jab, cousin Isobel turned Mathew, who simply gave her an apologetic smile.

“Oh please do stay, granny,” said Sybil. “This might be the last time we’re all together before the baby’s born.”

Robert noticed Edith, who sat away from the others, make a face—and all he wanted to do was hide her from all the troubles in the world.

“Stay, mama, I insist,” Robert told her.

“Very well,” she said, “if we must break tradition.”

“I think Downton has already broken tradition,” said cousin Isobel. “Your granddaughter’s married to your former chauffeur and your butler and housekeeper are married and have a son together—whether you like it or not, you are partaking in the changing of times, cousin Violet.”

“Yes, well, might I remind you Carson and Mrs. Hughes are not under my jurisdiction.” She eyed her son.

He looked around as he sipped his tea. “Where is Carson? Why didn’t he bring up the tea like normal?”

Cora blinked. “I gave him and Mrs. Hughes the afternoon off,” she said. Robert rolled his eyes. “They’ve recently had some good news—and I thought they deserved some time together to celebrate.”

“And has Hughie gone with them?” asked Mary.

“Oh, he’s a darling little boy,” said Sybil. Branson smiled.

“I don’t believe so,” said Cora.

“He’s a very interesting boy,” said cousin Isobel. “Dr. Clarkson told me he was also dumb, but he seems perfectly capable of holding on a conversation now.”

“You spoke with him?” asked Mathew.

“For a short while, yes,” she said. “At the hospital. He was there getting a physical, I believe.”

“I suppose I’ll have to get used to saying the boy’s name if he is going to be staying for a while,” said Robert’s mother with a slight chuckle. “In my head I always call him that little blind boy.”

“And one day, when I’m older... maybe you’ll call me that little blind man.”

She stood abruptly, as fast as her old bones would allow her. “I do beg your pardon...” she said with a flush.

“I know I’m not supposed to be up here, but I can’t seem to find my way back down.”

Robert cleared his throat as he straightened himself—though, while doing so, he wondered why he was making such an effort; the boy was blind, after all. “I... apologize for my mother’s unkind words,” he started.

“Unfiltered but not unkind... sir. People have said much worse to my face,” he said. “Can you please help me find my way downstairs—before my dad finds out I’ve been up here again?”

“Yes, yes of course,” said Robert. He gestured towards Branson, who nodded. They all watched as Branson gently guided him out of the library and into the hall.

“Did he say again?” asked Mary, a look of shock on her face. And Robert noticed Sybil smile to herself.

“I... I must admit, I quite like him as he is now,” said Robert’s mother with a smile. “He’s funny.”

“I’ll have to have a word with Carson,” said Robert.

“Oh don’t you dare get that sweet boy in trouble,” said Cora.

“I won’t mention this incident, but I would like to know what they plan on doing with him,” he said. Cora gave him a disapproving look, but he ignored it. “He can’t stay here, Cora. Not forever.”

Elsie thought back to their first night together. She had been so scared of what he might think, what he might do—other than the occasional risqué novel passed from young maid to young maid in her youth, she really had know knowledge of what it meant to be a true married woman.

Charlie had been so gentle that first night—and most nights after that. But it wasn’t until they returned from their honeymoon and they fell into a routine—with the stress of their duties always leaving shadows under their eyes and pains in their backs and necks and feet—that she truly understood what it meant to be a woman in those novels. Their days consisted of following orders and giving orders and making sure everything and everyone was obeying the rules, while their nights were filled with passion and love and sex, and a great release of all the burdens looming over them.

She recalled one night when he released himself inside of her and he whispered in her ear, “This is where I belong.” And it was where he belonged. She would like to say it was the night they conceived Hughie, but he was already growing inside of her by then.

His large calloused hands now cupped one of her cheeks, his thumb brushing her lips softly. “My beautiful wife,” he said quietly as she kissed his thumb lightly.

“We should start getting ready,” she said.

His head lifted slightly to get a clear look at the clock ticking on their bedside table. “We still have an hour.”

“Yes,” she agreed, snuggling in close to him. “Let’s hope we use that hour wisely.” Her hand found his chest and he fiddled with her wedding ring as their lips met once, twice and finally a third time before she rested her head on the ridge of his neck.

“It would have been nice to spend the afternoon in York,” she said casually. “To really have lunch in a public house... and maybe visit a few stores while we’re there.” She felt his finger glide gently up and down her arm, and she shivered. “This was nice too,” she added softly. He kissed the top of her head. “But you know I hate lying—and I felt so embarrassed when we spoke with Mrs. Patmore.”

“We do all that when we visit Hughie,” he said.

“Well, now that he’s here,” she said, and she felt his body stiffen, “we don’t get the chance to do it as often.”

“Elsie—I know you don’t want to hear this... and I hardly like saying it,” he said, “but he’s going back to Lloyd Andrews.”

She pulled away and he sighed. “You’re right. I didn’t like hearing it.”

She stood—her naked body feeling a slight chill in the air—and she made her way to their washroom.

“I’m putting my foot”—she slammed the door shut behind her—“down...”

She heard him groan and the sound of their old creaking bed as he stood. And soon there was knocking.

“Elsie, darling—I don’t wish to end this lovely afternoon with a fight,” he called to her.

“I don’t want a fight either, Charlie,” she said honestly. She opened the door and she was met with her equally naked husband on the other end. She felt like crying, but no tears seemed to be coming. “But I need you to know I do not agree with you and I will do everything in my power to keep him with us.”

He blinked and bowed his head slightly. “I know.”

“Can I ask why you keep coming up here,” Tom asked him calmly as they slowly descended the steps. “It can’t be to find the bathroom—it’s nowhere near the library.”

“I’m... trying—” Hughie began, but stopped suddenly.

“Don’t be scared I’ll tell the others,” said Tom. “I’m a good secret keeper. I promise.”

“I’m trying to memorize my way around the house,” he said, “but it’s so big. I got lost again. I went back into the library because I knew where that was already.”

“Why are you trying to memorize it? Are you staying at Downton?”

“No,” he said. “Wishful thinking, I suppose.”

“If Sybil and I weren’t leaving tomorrow, I would offer my help...”

“I just want to prove to my parents that I’m capable of... something.”

Tom chuckled slightly, looking at the blind boy.

“What?” asked Hughie.

“Nothing,” Tom said. “You’ve really come out of your shell, that’s all. I could hardly get a word out of you the first few weeks you were here.”

“Oh, thank heavens,” said Mrs. Patmore as they reached the final step. “I was wondering where you got off to.” She turned to Tom. “I’m sorry, Mr. Branson, for any trouble he may have caused.”

“He was no trouble at all,” assured Tom with a smile. “I should be getting back.” With a final nod to them both, he started up the stairs.

“Are you going to tell my dad?” Hughie asked as Mrs. Patmore guided him into Mr. Carson’s pantry and into a chair. Daisy followed behind sheepishly. She stood at the doorway, too scared to enter the room entirely.

“I won’t tell him,” said Mrs. Patmore, “if you promise not to tell him what Daisy told you.”

“What did... Daisy tell me?”

“That...” Mrs. Patmore glanced at Daisy. “That she called you a monster. She’s been worrying about it for the last few days.”

“Before the wedding,” explained Daisy. “I handed you your tea—and it just slipped out. I feel awfully bad about it.”

“You didn’t call me a monster,” said Hughie. “In fact, you said the exact opposite.”

“I know but I thought you might have thought I did,” she said, fiddling with her hands anxiously.

“Do you think me a monster?”

“No,” she said.

“Thank you,” he said softly.

Mrs. Patmore let out a sigh. “If that’s all settled,” she said. “Daisy, you get back to work—and Hughie, I don’t want to see you leave that chair until your parents get back. I mean it.”

Chapter Text

The Return of the Native

Spring 1920

"I wonder why Mr. Bates has stopped writing Anna," commented Elsie as she looked down at the tea cup in her hands. The look of disappointment on the girl's face nearly broke Elsie's heart that morning when Charlie didn't hand her a letter.

"I don't see it as any business of ours," commented Charlie. He sat at his desk, rummaging through papers; they were down a footman and he was eager to higher someone, but Lord Grantham had yet to agree on it. His mind seemed preoccupied, like it had been before she had told him about the lump. Now, she suspected, that everything was resolved, they would go back to business as usual, and Elsie wished that could be true.

She shook her head. "Perhaps he's lost hope," she said softly.

"Have faith, Mrs. Hughes"—he glanced up, greeted by his wife's raised brow—"Elsie," he corrected. "I'm sure his letters... got lost in the post. That's all." He tried to sound reassuring, but his tone made him uncertain.

"He used to write to her every day." She took a sip of her tea. "Do you think I ought to have a word with her?"

"I'm sure everything will sort itself out in time, dear," he told her gently. "I don't think you should get involved."

Elsie watched him carefully as he continued to read through his papers without giving her presence much thought. After waiting a moment, she cleared her throat. "I've been thinking about buying something... as a treat for myself."

Again, he glanced up, a slight smile forming on his face. "I agree. What are you planning on buying? A new dress... a new hat, maybe...?"

"That all sounds lovely, but I think instead I'm going to buy an electric toaster," she said.

His thick eyebrows lifted and she could see the discern he was attempting to hide from her on his face, but his eyes remained focused on his papers. "An electric toaster," he echoed cautiously.

"Yes, I've been reading all about them in the catalogue..."

Finally, he looked up, his attention fully on her. "Elsie, are you certain that's what you wish to spend our money on... an electric toaster? You're not worried it might burn our cottage down—or worse, should you bring it to Downton?" He made no effort to hide his disgust at the mentioning of bringing such technology to Downton.

"Have some faith in the future, Charlie," she said with a slight teasing tone. "I'm sure it'll be fine."

He shrugged, unsatisfied, and his attention went back to the papers below him. "Why did Mrs. Crawley come see you after dinner," he asked, cleverly changing the subject.

She shifted in her seat. "She was delivering a letter... from Ethel."

He twitched at Ethel's name. "Yes, Mrs. Crawley did mention she had fallen into hard times, didn't she?"

"I'm afraid it's even worse than that." Elsie glanced cautiously at his closed door and she hesitated before continuing, "She's... been working as a prostitute."

Charlie's eyes went wide in shock and he too glanced at his closed door. He tugged uncomfortably at his collar. "Well..." He coughed. "Why—what did the letter say?"

"She wants to meet me—but she won't come here."

"Of course not," he said, frowning. "Getting herself pregnant was one thing... but—to degrade one's self to, to..." He trailed off, unable to speak of such sin.

"She didn't get herself pregnant," Elsie retorted stiffly. "In case you have forgotten, Mr. Carson, making a baby is a two person job." Her mind went to Hughie, and all of the things she might be forced to do if she were to become a single mother in that very moment; supporting both Hughie and Becky alone, she would become a pauper, perhaps. She did not condone Ethel's actions, but she did sympathize with the poor girl—and that little boy of hers. Elsie sighed. "To be perfectly honest, darling, I'd rather not think about her or the letter at this very moment."

"Very well," he said, blinking. "Let's talk about Hughie, then." He stood. Elsie released a gentle sigh as she watched him make his way to the seat across from her. "Lord Grantham would like to know when he'll be going back to Lloyd Andrews—and I would too." She rolled her eyes. "Elsie, love, I know you've settled on keeping him here—but the last thing Downton needs is a little blind boy wandering the estate. Lord Grantham and I both agree..."

"You're such an old curmudgeon," she muttered. "You both are."

"Don't be like that, Elsie," he said in a stern voice. "Speak ill of me all you wish, but—"

A knock on the door shut Charlie up immediately and Hughie quietly entered the pantry.

"Hello darling," Elsie greeted as she stood. Charlie adjusted himself in his seat as Elsie guided Hughie down into the chair she had previously occupied.

"Are we sleeping at the cottage tonight?" asked Hughie softly.

"No," said Charlie. "We'll be staying here tonight. This whole week, in fact."

"Oh, that reminds me," said Elsie to Charlie. "I've forgotten Hughie's church shoes at the cottage and I haven't got any time tomorrow to fetch them myself."

"Hughie and I will retrieve them on our afternoon walk," he said, glancing at Hughie. Charlie then pulled out his watch. "It appears to be a certain twelve year old boy's bedtime," he said in a teasing tone, lifting his eyebrows at Hughie.

"Oh. When's the bedtime of a certain twelve year old blind boy, then," Hughie retorted.

Charlie glanced up, sharing a smile with Elsie. "I do believe they are one and the same, Hughie," he said.

Barrow made his way into the kitchen where Mrs. Patmore and Daisy were busy preparing for the dinner. Both their eyes glanced up when he entered, but they were too busy to make any true acknowledgments. Mrs. Patmore simply nodded at him; Daisy hummed slightly. Blind Hughie sat in Mrs. Patmore's chair, his face and body facing the wall.

"Where's Mr. Carson?" Barrow asked Daisy as she removed a hot pan of mush from the oven. Hot steam rose from it and she set it onto the table.

"In the servants hall," said Daisy. "He's helping Alfred with something, I think."

And Barrow turned his heel towards the servants hall.

"Go on, then," he heard Mr. Carson say. Followed up with Alfred listing spoons: "Tea spoon. Egg spoon. Melon spoon. Grapefruit spoon. Jam spoon..."

He was missing the last type of spoon, Barrow new. The bouillon spoon.

There was a slight pause before Mr. Carson asked, "Shall I tell you?"

Barrow stepped forward into the servants hall where Mr. Carson and Alfred both stood with a tray of spoons on the table below them.

"All right," said Alfred.

"A bouillon spoon," said Mr. Carson.

"But I thought soup spoons were the same as table spoons."

"Ah, so they are. But not for bouillon, which is drunk from a small dish."

"And here I thought spoons were just spoons," said a soft voice beside Barrow.

He looked down to see Blind Hughie standing beside him. He quickly glanced at the kitchen, noting how quiet his footsteps were. But Barrow ignored him and he looked on at butler and footman, feeling a slight jealousy set in his stomach at such a sight.

"Off you go now," said Mr. Carson. "I must get on."

He hid his envy from Alfred as the footman left the room and then Barrow watched Mr. Carson as he collected the spoons. "You're taking a lot of trouble with young Alfred, Mr. Carson," Barrow said. "I feel quite jealous."

"I don't know why," said Mr. Carson—and Barrow felt his heart sink a little. "He asked for help. You never did." His eyes drifted down to Hughie as Barrow meekly walked away. "Come along, Hughie. Let's fetch your coat."

The wind whistled and the trees in the distance hissed. Hughie held tightly to his cap atop his head to prevent the gust of wind from blowing it away. The air felt cool and harsh and mean, and nature felt rebellious and wild and very much unpredictable in that moment.

His dad cleared his throat as the door to the cottage clicked closed. "Do you have your shoes?" his dad asked.

"Yes," answered Hughie, lifting the hand not holding his cap to show his father he still held onto the shoes. His hand lowered again, and his shoes bumped his thigh. "I think it might rain."

"It does look a bit cloudy out," observed his dad. "I'll... go fetch the umbrella—you are to wait here." He let out a slight sigh. "I don't want another mishap like the one the other day."

"It's very hard to begin," said Ethel gently.

"Well, find a way, Ethel," Elsie found herself saying—perhaps on a normal day she would dare not speak so harshly, but Lord and Lady Grantham were hosting the Archduke that night and there was still a ton of things left to do before his arrival. "We all have lives to lead."

"Could you write to the Bryants?" Ethel asked. "To say I want them to have Charlie."

Elsie twitched slightly. "We've already been down this path," she said. "To no avail."

"I know. And I know I said a mother's love was worth more than all they had to give, but I said it for me, not for him."

And Elsie felt the guilt rise from her soul. She shifted from one foot to the other, determined not to reveal her own personal struggles to Mrs. Crawley.

"My dear," said Mrs. Crawley, "you mustn't do anything until you're absolutely sure."

"Mrs. Hughes said we all have lives to lead, but that isn't true," said Ethel. "I've got no life. I exist, but barely."

"Ethel," said Mrs. Crawley, "we all know the route you've taken."

"It's good of you to have me here," said Ethel with a nod.

"All I mean is I work with others like you to rebuild their lives," said Mrs. Crawley. "Can't we work together to find a way for you to keep your son?"

"With his grandparents, Charlie can build a life that is whatever he wishes it to be. With all respect, ma'am, you and I working together could never offer him that."

Elsie felt guilt consume her at Ethel's truthful words, and her mind wandered to Hughie and Charlie, and Lloyd Andrews. She swallowed it all away, and with a slight nod, she said, "You want me to write to them again?"

"But leave it vague," ordered Mrs. Crawley. "Say that Ethel would like them to keep in contact with their grandson."

Elsie nodded, agreeing that would probably be the safest option.

"I won't change my mind," Ethel said firmly.

"Nevertheless, that's what I'll do. Then there'll be no disappointment, whatever comes." She turned to Mrs. Crawley. "Now, if you'll forgive me, we've a big dinner tonight."

Hughie's head lifted as a strong gust of wind passed them. In his hand he held his shoes, innocently swinging them back and forth by their laces. With each passing swing, Carson worried the strings would break loose and the shoes would go flying forward into mud or dirt, or something worse.

"It doesn't appear to be raining now," noted Carson, glancing up at the dreary sky. "Why don't you hold the umbrella and I'll hold your shoes." He handed his son the umbrella as he took the shoes.

Without warning, Hughie whacked the umbrella onto the hard surface below them—and Carson twitched at the slight noise it made clashing with the ground.

"Erm, It never hurts to be prepared in case it does rain, though," said Carson carefully. He watched uncomfortably as Hughie began sliding the end of the umbrella up and down the dirt path. Carson coughed. "Perhaps I should hold onto the umbrella as well."

With the umbrella in one hand and the shoes in the other, Carson continued along the path towards Downton Abbey with Hughie at his side.

"Why did mam go to Mrs. Crawley's this afternoon?" asked Hughie.

Carson did not agree with his wife on many things, especially as of late—Ethel and her situation being among them. Mrs. Crawley was too kind and too forgiving to the unworthy, and she had no business dragging his dear wife into her dirty business. "Nothing to concern yourself with," he told his son.

"Is it because of Ethel?"

His brow lifted. Hughie, he was beginning to discover, knew more than he led on. "No," he said firmly. "Your mother is... buying an electric toaster."

"An electric toaster?"

"I'm only telling you this because I don't want you anywhere near it—there's no telling what it might do."

"Oh," said Hughie. He paused for a quick moment, before turning his head in the direction of his father. "Er... dad?"

"Yes?"

"What's an electric toaster?"

"Well, it's—erm, I'm not sure exactly," he admitted, "but anything with the word 'electric' in its title is bound to cause chaos..."

"What about spoons?" asked Hughie softly. "Do they cause chaos?"

"Spoons do not cause chaos, Hughie," said Carson with a frown. "Mr. Barrow causes chaos—and it would be best you keep your distance from him."

Hughie had no response, and they continued along the path in silence. The gentle breeze made Carson feel cheerful, and soon he began humming a gentle tune; a tune he found himself singing more often:

Twas on a Monday morning

When I beheld my darling,

She looked so neat and charming

In every high degree.

She looked so neat and nimble-o,

A-washing of her linen-o

Dashing away with the smoothing iron,

Dashing away with the smoothing iron,

Dashing away with the smoothing iron,

She stole my heart away...

"Dad?" said Hughie, bringing the humming to a stop.

"Hm?"

"Why did you and mam get married?"

He glanced at his son briefly before his eyes focused forward. "We loved each other, of course," he told his son with a gentle smile.

"But... you were butler and housekeeper," Hughie said.

He released a gentle sigh. "We never planned on any of it," admitted Carson, "but once everything was confessed... we knew we couldn't go back to being just that." He felt a few drops of water hit his head and he opened the umbrella, Hughie's shoes now balanced between his arm and side. "We were prepared to leave Downton—to start our new lives together."

"Why didn't you?"

Lady Mary wanted me to stay, he thought to say. He cleared his throat. "An arrangement was made so that we could both stay on," he told him instead. "Your mother... still wanted us to leave, but I convinced her it was better we stay." As the rain fell harder, he pulled Hughie in under the umbrella, and Hughie's head lightly brushed against Carson's stomach. His free hand rested on Hughie's shoulder, and he pulled his son closer to him—telling himself it was only to keep him out of the rain. "Just as we will convince her to send you back to Lloyd Andrews." He looked down at Hughie with slightly raised eyebrows as he waited for his response. When he said nothing, Carson cleared his throat and his eyes looked forward again. Downton Abbey stood tall and proud in the distance. "Need not worry, Hughie. You will be back with your friends in no time."

"All right," said Hughie softly, and Carson felt a slight pang in his heart.

Elsie gave a quick glance inside the kitchen, watching Daisy and Mrs. Patmore work. They were too busy preparing the food to stop for a quick word, so she continued along the hall towards Charlie's pantry.

In the distance she saw Hughie reclined in her chair in the servants hall with Alfred standing beside him and Miss O'Brien sitting across from him. Hughie said something that made Alfred laugh—Elsie appreciated the effort they all were making with him—but he quickly brought back his composure once he noticed Elsie's eyes on him. She smiled to let him know there was no trouble.

Charlie exited his pantry just as Elsie was about to enter it. He murmured an apology as they avoided bumping into one another.

"Can I have a quick word?" she asked him gently.

He gestured to his open door, leading her in. "Certainly," he said, "but it must be quick. I'm to ring the dressing gong soon."

"It's about Ethel," she said quietly, and he quickly closed the door. "I'm to write to the Bryants. She wants the boy to live with them."

"She's been down this path before," said Charlie in a soft voice. "Do you think she'll go through with it this time?"

She shook her head. "I don't know—but I'm hopeful she will," she said. "I wished we lived in a better world—where women didn't have to..." She could not say the words. "And just to feed their children... and make ends meet.

"That boy deserves a better life," she continued. "A life that I think only the Bryants can give him." Hughie came to mind. She stopped and her eyes wandered down to her hands.

"I don't want Hughie to leave us either, Elsie," he said softly, and her head jerked back up. "Having him close has been a real treat—I am not ashamed to admit it." A gentle smile sprung on his lips and his eyes twinkled with love. He looked away briefly before he settled back on Elsie, the smile on his face now faded. He cleared his throat and straightened his vest. "But Lloyd Andrews is where he belongs," he continued firmly. "It is where his friends are... competent nurses and teachers... people who know how to properly take care of him."

Elsie sighed. "We know how to properly take care of him, Charlie," she said—refusing to admit she agreed with him. Her hand found his arm and she watched him as he melted at her touch. "All I ask is you give it a few more weeks..."

"Elsie—"

"We won't have to worry about him missing anymore school," she continued. "I've spoken with Mr. Davies and he's agreed to send some assignments here."

"And if we do decide he's staying," he said, weariness in his voice. "What would we do then? I doubt Lloyd Andrews would agree to a teacher sending assignments to an unregistered student."

"We'll speak with Mr. Dawes at the schoolhouse in the village," she said. "Surely something can be arranged."

He still looked weary, but he nodded. "If this is what it will take to convince you, then I'll agree to it." He removed his watch from his vest pocket to check the time, and then promptly put it back. "Three weeks, Elsie," he said firmly. "Three weeks—without any mishaps..."

A knock on the door pulled her hand away from his arm. They both turned as Barrow entered.

"Isn't it time for you to ring the dressing gong, Mr. Carson," he said.

Charlie took a moment to collect himself before he agreed. "I do believe it is," he said with a nod. "If you'll excuse me, Mrs. Hughes... Mr. Barrow."

Elsie watched as Charlie calmly left the room. Thomas Barrow smiled at her—but she could not help but wonder if there was a darker meaning to his kindness. She nodded at him and she gently returned a smile before she excused herself from the room.

"Do you think he's on the run from the police?" asked Daisy.

"Don't be so daft," retorted Anna.

"Well, he hadn't got the money for a taxicab from the station," said Barrow.

"Maybe he fancied the walk," Mrs. Hughes said.

They were gathered around the servants table—Tom Branson's unexpected arrival was what brought them all together. Blind Hughie uncharacteristically sat at the head of the table where Mr. Carson usually sat, but no one, to Barrow's surprise, seemed to mind the change in seating.

"Yes, that's it," said O'Brien sarcastically. "I should think he loves a night walk in the pouring rain without a coat."

"What room is he in?" asked Daisy with a tray in her hands.

Barrow spotted Mr. Carson making his way towards the servants hall in the distance, and he prepared himself to stand. As he stood, he heard him say, "I'll take that, thank you, Daisy." He eyed the group before taking the tray from Daisy's hands and then quietly he left.

"So there'll be no more gossip on that subject tonight," said Barrow as the group began to disband.

Mrs. Hughes only nodded. She turned to Blind Hughie, who had remained seated when Mr. Carson entered. She grabbed his arm and she gently guided him up. "Let's get you off to bed," she said.

Everyone who still remained at the table, except for Barrow, muttered goodnights to the blind boy as he and Mrs. Hughes left the hall.

Carson knocked on Elsie's door before entering. He found her standing and sipping her tea. Upon seeing him enter, she placed the cup onto the table below her. He noted a medium sized box also on the table with a metal object of some kind inside of it. When she looked back up at him, he kissed her gently, tasting the tea on her lips. "I'm going up."

"Goodnight," she said.

"I'll try to keep them quiet, but to be honest, I knew it would happen. I knew he would bring shame on this house. It sounds as if he's on the run from the police, and for all we know, Lady Sybil is languishing in a dungeon somewhere in Dublin."

Elsie sighed. "Let's wait and see what the morning brings." She took the metal object out of the box, and Carson took a few steps back.

"Is that—erm—the electric toaster?" he said cautiously.

She smiled at the object. "It is," she said. "If it's any good, I'm going to suggest getting one for the upstairs breakfasts."

He shook his head. "Then my hope, my darling, is that it will be a complete nuisance," he said. "And I say that in the most loving way possible."

Her brow raised. "Of course you do." She set the electric toaster back onto her table.

He made to leave, but quickly turned his heel to face her again. "Can... you give me the address for Lloyd Andrews in the morning?"

"Whatever for?"

"Hughie has asked me to help him write a letter to his friends," he said.

"That reminds me," she said. "He's also requested a new roommate." At that, Carson straightened. "He says your snoring keeps him up at night—and Charlie, it is a bit much. I don't see why he can't sleep with the hallboys."

"He's not a hallboy, Elsie," said Carson. "He's the butler's son..."

She rolled her eyes. "He's the son of butler and housekeeper, if you recall—or have you forgotten our honeymoon already," she said, and he bowed his head slightly as if to apologize. "I can put him up with me, but I think he would do much better in a room by himself..."

"I do not think it wise to leave him unsupervised, Elsie" he said. "We can move him in with you tomorrow, if you think it best." He kissed her gently on the lips again. "Goodnight, my dear."

"Goodnight, Charlie."

Barrow sat still in the darkness with the sound of the wind and the rain howling outside. The noise brought him into some type of trance. The children he grew up liked to read stories about sunshine and happiness, but Barrow always enjoyed the ones with thunder storms and gloomy days and nights in them. Those books were the most appealing to him growing up. But now he utterly despised them.

He held a burning cigarette with two fingers—and after a long drag, the ashes fell onto the ashtray beside him.

Barrow sat alone at the long wooden table in the servants hall. Mrs. Hughes, who was usually the one to go up last, went up hours ago with her keys jingling at her side. When he was sure it was safe, Barrow quietly snuck down again.

His bitterness and hatred were the only things that kept his soul from burning out. And he took the moments alone, either in his room or downstairs, to contemplate his existence... to contemplate whether or not he should keep his soul fueled.

He froze in a panic when he realized footsteps quickly added to the noise outside. Perhaps it would be that maid again, sneaking out to meet her beau—no, not during such a storm. Maybe Mrs. Hughes, off to fetch something in her sitting room. Or both Mr. Carson and Mrs. Hughes sneaking off for a midnight romp—he hated himself for thinking of something so fowl.

The face that greeted him instead surprised him, and he took another drag of his cigarette as he watched him enter the servants hall. If it were his father, Barrow would stand. But it was only Blind Hughie—his hair disheveled and his hazy eyes open—so Barrow remained silent and seated. The blind boy wore blue pajamas and matching slippers, but his legs were too long for the bottoms and the many buttons on his top went unbuttoned. Barrow watched as the blind boy sniffed the air.

"Mr. Barrow?" said Blind Hughie.

Again, Barrow said nothing. He put out his cigarette in the ashtray just as thunder boomed outside. He let his chair scrape the floor as he pulled out to stand. The noise of the chair made the blind boy jerk his head towards him.

"Hello?" Blind Hughie tried again.

But Barrow made no effort to interact with him. Instead, he simply straightened his suit and he headed for bed.

"'Dear friends, I hope this letter finds you well,'" said Carson, reading his words aloud. He watched as his son scrunched his face in disgust. "What's wrong with this one? It is as generic as it could possibly get."

"That's why it's so terrible," said Hughie.

"What do you want me to write?"

"Dear mingers," began Hughie—and Carson sat straighter, appalled at his own son's fowl language.

"You will not begin your letter with an insult, Hughie," he said.

Elsie knocked on his opened door and he stood quickly. A young man stood behind her. "Yes?" Carson said.

"This young man," said Elsie, gesturing behind her, "is here for the interview, Mr. Carson."

"Yes, of course," said Carson after clearing his throat. He glanced at Hughie. "Er—Mrs. Hughes..."

"Come along now, Hughie," said Elsie.

Hughie stood and he walked to his mother with ease. The young man, dressed tidy in a suit and tie, seemed intrigued by Hughie, for he could not keep his eyes off him, even when he was leaving the pantry.

Mr. Carson cleared his throat again to get his attention and he gestured towards the now empty chair in front of his desk. "James Kent, I presume?"

"Jimmy," he corrected as he he took his seat, and Carson resisted the urge to roll his eyes.

"How did the interviews go?" Mrs. Patmore asked as Carson entered the kitchen. She was stirring up some batter for the dessert that evening, Carson observed. Daisy stood in the corner, setting up the tea cups on the wooden tray. Hughie stood next to her—his hands a safe distance away from the breakable glass.

"I hoped for better," Carson said.

"Which one's getting it?" asked Daisy from her corner.

"The decision on that matter has yet to be decided," he said firmly.

"The maids have clearly chosen a favorite," said Mrs. Patmore. "And I have to—I'll admit it; it's nice to see a pretty face every once in a while."

As he contemplated on whether or not he should scold her for such an inappropriate comment, Elsie entered the kitchen with her coat and hat still on. He watched as she wiped her eyes, and he noticed the tear stains on her cheeks.

He went to her quickly. "Elsie, darling, what's wrong?" he asked quietly.

"Can I have a word with you in private?" she said gently.

He nodded and they quickly fled to her sitting room just as Mrs. Patmore started yelling something at Daisy.

Elsie removed her hat and she looked carefully at herself in the mirror. She rubbed her eyes. "Oh, would you look at me? I'm a mess."

"She gave the boy up, then?" asked Charlie, a hint of melancholy in his voice. He stood near the closed door, too preoccupied with his thoughts to sit in that moment.

Elsie only nodded, fearing she may start crying again if any words escaped her.

"It was for the best, Elsie," he told her gently—she saw his reflection in the mirror, watching her own reflection carefully. She observed his eyes, which gleamed in the dull light of her room.

"I agree," she said, and her lip began trembling. "Ethel just gave that boy a future."

Charlie quickly walked to her and he pulled her into a embrace. He held onto her tightly and placed a gentle kiss on the top of her head as she resisted the urge to break down in his arms. The sound of shattering glass in the distance made them both pull away from each other. Following the glass was a hard thud and a loud shriek that echoed downstairs.

"Hughie!" said Elsie.

Carson followed her out of her sitting room and into the hallway. Hughie was on the floor near the servants hall with broken tea cups surrounding him and blood seeping from the palm of his hand. Hughie cried out in pain as he grasped his hand tightly. Mr. Barrow, Miss O'Brien, Anna and Daisy all gathered to witness the tragedy.

"Oh dear," said Elsie in a shaky voice. She carefully walked passed the broken glass and bent to grab hold of Hughie. "Anna, will you help me get him up?" The girl nodded, and together they brought him to his feet.

"What happened?" asked Carson, a look of shock on his face.

"I'm afraid it's my fault, Mr. Carson," said Daisy. "He told me he could manage it himself. I don't know why I believed him, but Mrs. Patmore asked me to..."

He raised his hand to silence her, and she went mute. "While I appreciate the bond you have made with Hughie, such behavior will not be tolerated..."

"Charlie!" Elsie said sternly—there would be time for scolding later. She started examining Hughie's bloodied hand. A small glass shard stuck out of it and gently she tried pulling it out; Hughie cried out in pain. Thankfully, it did not look like a deep cut... but a visit to Dr. Clarkson was not avoidable.

"Never mind now, Daisy," Charlie said with a sigh. He waved his hand down at the mess. "Clean this all up quickly. We'll discuss your punishment later."

Elsie looked up from her son's hand. Miss O'Brien gave Mr. Barrow a quick glance before she pursed her lips and walked away. Mr. Barrow avoided her gaze. And Daisy looked pale and consumed with horrible guilt, the poor girl.

"Let's get you cleaned up," she told Hughie, holding him close to her. He shivered in her arms, but the crying slowly shifted into soft whimpers.

Chapter Text

The Return of the Native
Autumn 1911

Carson instantly caught a whiff of something burning when he entered the cottage late in the evening. “Elsie,” he called out gently as he placed his hat on the rack. He began unbuttoning his coat. His wife was certainly not a grand gourmet chef or anything close to that sort, but her cooking skills had improved enough in their nearly four years of marriage that he no longer expected burnt meals from her. He waited anxiously to hear a reply from the kitchen.

There was no answer. And normally Hughie would be at his feet, babbling about one thing or another. He hung his coat next his hat and hurried further inside to investigate.

A pot of something boiling over greeted him when he entered the kitchen and he quickly ran to salvage whatever it might hold inside. His hand reached for the pot and—he yelped, waving his hand in the air. A cloth was scrunched up near him and he quickly grabbed it to safely remove the pot from the burner.

But the smell of burning only grew stronger, so instead of tending to his aching fingers, he opened the bottom oven to reveal a burning tin of potatoes sizzling inside. He removed them carefully with the cloth. “Elsie,” he called out again.

Again, there was no answer, and he was starting to worry. With one hand putting pressure on his two aggravated fingers, he made his way into their sitting room. His irritation quickly left him as he caught sight of Elsie sitting in their creaky old rocking chair, cradling Hughie in her arms as if he were still a baby. Elsie soothed Hughie by patting his back gently; Hughie’s hand cupped Elsie’s cheek. She looked up, unfazed, when Carson entered.

“Has he been asleep for long?” he asked as quietly as his deep voice could manage, but the boy still stirred.

Elsie cooed at him, rocking him in her arms to assure he would remain asleep, while Carson drew nearer. She shook her head.

Carson opened his arms, the pain in his hand almost completely gone, and Elsie carefully passed Hughie to him. Again, Hughie began to stir. He stilled once his hand found his father’s face; the gentle touch was almost enough to make Carson melt.

He took a moment to look at the little sleeping boy in his arms before clearing his throat. “Right. Off to bed with you, then,” he said in a whisper.

Elsie kissed Hughie’s head before Carson made his journey towards the boy’s room.

Carson watched Elsie carefully as she filled his  plate full of black and brittle potatoes. He noted the exhaustion showing on her face, specifically the bags under her eyes.

“Will Lady Sybil be all right?” she asked as she made her way to the seat across from him.

He placed his napkin on his lap. “Yes,” he said, cutting into the small chicken breast that lay on his plate. “She’s to stay in bed for a few days, but she‘s expected to make a full recovery—she’s lucky you found her when you did.” He carefully began scraping the burning bits off the potatoes with his fork and knife.

“It was Hughie who found her,” she said. “He kept insisting we continue our walk; I wanted to head back to the cottage—and imagine my surprise when I saw Lady Sybil dangling upside down on that tree.”

He looked at her, his brows lifting. “You never said Hughie was with you...”

“Where else would he be, Charlie?” she said.

He dropped his fork and knife. “You left him alone with Lady Sybil?”

“I was only gone a few minutes to fetch nanny,” she said. “And I don’t think Lady Sybil minded—she was laughing when we returned, her hurt ankle nearly forgotten.”

He shook his head. “Is... it wise to bring him so close to the house... especially when his lordship’s daughters are outside.”

She rolled her eyes. “He was drifting off and I thought the cool breeze might wake him up,” she said. “Honestly, Charlie, I’m not going to keep him locked away in the cottage just because you’re ashamed—”

“I’m not ashamed,” he said quickly, and then sighed. “Elsie, I’m not ashamed of him.” After a quick moment of silence, he picked up his knife and fork again and cut into the burnt potatoes. He sighed. “He’s back to a normal sleeping schedule, then?”

She took a moment to reply. “I hope so,” she said eventually. “The walk seemed to energize him a bit, but he fell asleep shortly after we returned. He was getting fussy, so I just let him sleep...”

Carson hummed in response.

“Dr. Clarkson says it’s normal for the blind to get their days and nights mixed up,” she told him gently.

In his peripheral vision he caught sight of something shiny below the chair next to his. And leaning down to pick it up, he asked, “What’s this?” Upon closer inspection, he realized it was a glass shard.

She let out a deep sigh as she stood and took it from him. “Oh heavens. I thought I had found them all.” She dumped it into the waste bucket in the kitchen.

“What happened?”

She avoided his gaze, which told him everything. He straightened himself in his chair. “I see.”

“It’s my fault, really,” she said. “I knew he was tired... I shouldn’t have given him the cup.”

Carson sighed. “He’ll be four in February, Elsie,” he said, “and you’ll be fifty before that. He doesn’t speak... he doesn’t listen. He throws tantrums once, twice... sometimes even three times a day. Don’t you think it’s time we consider that school Dr. Clarkson told us about?”

She made her way back to the table. “He’ll get better,” she said. “He only needs time to adjust.”

Spring 1920

Elsie sat at her desk, examining the list of food Mrs. Patmore had requested they purchase for that week. She enjoyed Mrs. Patmore, and she was grateful for the friendship, but sometimes she requested the most extravagant things, even for such a fine household like Downton Abbey...

Hughie hissed in pain and her attention immediately went to him.

Lady Sybil was examining the ugly wound on his hand; Dr. Clarkson did a fine job sewing him up, but a scar was inevitable. Elsie watched as Lady Sybil grabbed the bandage on the side table and she gently began wrapping him up. Next to it was a bowl of water and a bloodied rag. Oh, the whole thing was a terrible mess, and her poor Hughie.

“You’ve had quite the nasty fall, haven’t you?” Lady Sybil said gently to Hughie.

Hughie said nothing, his eyes closed and his head facing the direction of the ground; he had hardly spoken since that fateful day, and Elsie was worried he was reverting back to his old ways.

A knock on the door pulled her away from them. “Come in,” Elsie said softly with her attention on the door.

Charlie entered, holding a large box in his hands. “This just arrived for you,” he said to Elsie. His eyes drifted to Lady Sybil and Hughie, and he placed the box down onto the table. “I do beg your pardon. I didn’t know you were in here.” He turned to leave, but Lady Sybil stopped him.

“No, I’m nearly done,” she said.

Charlie took a moment to watch Lady Sybil work before clearing his throat. “Er—we do appreciate the kindness you and the family have shown Hughie these last few months,” he said, and Lady Sybil smiled, “but you needn’t worry about his well being, milady.”

She and Elsie shared a knowing look. “I am a nurse, you know, Carson,” Lady Sybil retorted.

“Yes,” he said, bowing his head slightly. “I only meant you have other things—more important things—to worry about at the moment... I wouldn’t want to disturb you.”

“You’re not disturbing me,” she said. She smiled at Hughie, who had yet to move an inch since his father’s arrival. “It’s a nice distraction. Really.” She finished wrapping his hand and she quickly turned to Elsie. “I suppose I should be headed back upstairs—if you need anything at all, Mrs. Hughes, please don’t hesitate to ask.”

“That is very kind of you, Lady Sybil,” Elsie said with a nod. “Thank you.”

They both stood and Charlie stepped aside to allow Lady Sybil to exit. He waited until she was gone before giving Elsie a disapproving look.

“I don’t see what the big deal is, Charlie,” said Elsie. “His hand started bleeding and I didn’t want to go all the way back to Dr. Clarkson.”

“She is a lady of this house, Elsie,” he said—as if his statement was all Elsie needed to understand she was in the wrong.

“Who also happens to be a nurse,” retorted Elsie.

“She is about to have a baby. She does not need the added on stress,” he told her. “She has enough to worry about already with Mr. Branson... and his Republican ways.”

She said nothing and then he hummed, his eyes drifting down to the box on her table. “What’s this?” he asked.

She glanced at Hughie, then smiled gently. “Well, you’ll be happy to know I’ve returned the electric toaster.”

His brow rose. “And... exchanged it for something safer, I hope.”

She nodded. “That’s right.”

“It isn’t anything capable of setting the house on fire, is it?” he asked curiously.

“No,” she said, shaking her head. She opened the box to reveal a strange typewriter-like object; Charlie observed it with caution.

“And it is...?” he asked.

“A Braille writer,” she said simply, and Hughie’s head shot up. “I’ve gotten it so Hughie can write letters to his friends—and to anyone else, for that matter.” She took the the Braille writer out of the box—it was heavier than she had expected—and she carefully examined it. “The cost of it was a bit more than the electric toaster, but I think it’ll be worth having it in the long run.” Her attention went to the empty box. “I purchased the paper for it as well... but it doesn’t appear to have arrived yet.”

“You’ve purchased a Braille writer without consulting me first?” Charlie said, and she glared. He coughed. “Well... what will we do with it once he’s back at Lloyd Andrews?”

“He’ll take it back with him,” she said with a nod, a hint of despondency in her voice.

Anna sat at the servants table with her book tightly grasped in her hands. She was looking down at the page, but she could not read a word—she only saw words jumbled together to make incoherent sentences—so she decided to look up.

Jimmy—or James, as Mr. Carson had introduced—was all the young maids could talk about. They sat at the end of the table, giggling about his expected arrival in the morning.

Miss O’Brien and Alfred sat across from her, silently working on their own tasks; Miss O’Brien focused on removing a stain on an item of clothing while Alfred was working on some silver Mr. Carson had asked him to polish.

Daisy entered the room with a new tea set in her hands. With her head hung low, she placed it onto the table. She should have turned to leave, but she stayed to gawk at Alfred for a moment.

He noticed, and he turned to her. “How’re you getting on, Daisy?” he asked.

“I’m to do extra work around the kitchen,” she said, “to make up for all the trouble I’ve caused.”

“Why would you give a blind boy a tea tray,” asked one of the maids in disbelief.

“I thought he could manage—he’d done it twice before already,” she said. “I don’t know what happened.”

Miss O’Brien’s head jerked up and she briefly glanced at Daisy before turning back to her own work. The others took notice.

“Miss O’Brien?” asked the maid.

The expression on Miss O’Brien’s face was hard to read. She opened her mouth to speak, but Mr. Carson entered the room and they all stood. Mrs. Hughes and Hughie followed him in.

Mr. Carson waved his hand down, and they all sat. Mrs. Hughes gently guided Hughie to her own seat. “His Lordship has sent a telegram,” Mr. Carson informed them all. “He’s to arrive back in the morning.”

“Did he say anything about Mr. Branson?” asked Alfred.

“Daisy!” screamed Mrs. Patmore from the kitchen, and Daisy hurried off towards her.

Mrs. Hughes poured a cup of tea and gently placed it in front of Hughie. Mr. Carson looked at the object with deep concern before turning to Alfred. “That is no business of ours, Alfred,” he said sternly. He took a moment to look at the curious faces around him before gesturing to Mrs. Hughes. “Carry on,” he said to them, exiting the room with Mrs. Hughes at his side.

Their attention went to Hughie, whose undamaged hand found the cup. He sipped his tea thoughtfully with a slight slurp at the end. Anna smiled—Mr. Carson would certainly scold him if he heard.

“How are you managing?” Anna asked him.

She waited for a reply. To her surprise, he ignored her, and he simply continued slurping his tea; he seemed to have gone back to how he was when he first arrived at Downton, which was concerning.

Anna looked up. The maids continued gossiping and Alfred continued polishing, but Miss O’Brien’s eyes remained on Hughie.

“Are you well, Miss O’Brien?” Anna asked.

Miss O’Brien’s eyes lowered to the dress she had been cleaning. She nodded. “Yes, quite well,” she said softly. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

Barrow elegantly made his way down the steps and into the hallway, a suitcase in both of his hands. The train ride was a bit exhausting and he felt a bit hungry, but there were duties to get on with.

“You’re back,” he heard the distinct voice of Molesley say. Where the old man got the impression they were friends, Barrow did not know.

He stopped and turned. “I am,” he said before continuing along the hall. “Anything happen here?”

“There’s a new footman,” said Molesley. Barrow felt the flame in his soul ignite at the thought of that tidy young man—Jimmy, was it? “Came today. How was London?”

“Quite fun, as a matter of fact,” he said.

“Has the firebrand been saved?”

“That’s not for me to say, is it, Mr. Molesley? I better take these upstairs.”

He turned the corner, leaving Mr. Molesley gaping. And he caught a beautiful glimpse of the new footman. His eyes lingered for a moment—perhaps a moment too long.

“You got the job, then?” he asked Jimmy, and the young man jumped slightly.

“I’m on my way, Mr. Barrow,” said Jimmy. “They say you were a footman once.”

“That’s right.”

“So can I come to you if there’s anything I need to know?”

“Certainly,” he said. “Why not?”

He nodded, and then continued walking. As he reached the end, he caught sight of Miss O’Brien behind him—normally he would ignore her and continue walking, but he was having a good day, so he stopped to indulge her.

“Yes, Miss O’Brien,” he said. “How can I help?” Anna made her way down the hall as Miss O’Brien reached him, and she eyed them both curiously as she passed them. And a few maids giggled their way down the hall with a scolding Mrs. Hughes not far away from them. Miss O’Brien seemed to be waiting for the hallway to clear before speaking, and Barrow rolled his eyes. “I haven’t got all day, Miss O’Brien,” he told her, lifting the bags in his hand.

When Mrs. Hughes and the giggling maids were out of sight, Miss O’Brien turned to him. “I want to know why you tripped the Carson boy,” she said quietly.

And Barrow straightened. “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he said just as quietly. “He’s done nothing to me. I haven’t even spoken to him since he’s arrived. What motive do I have to harm a little blind boy?”

“I don’t know,” said Miss O’Brien, “but I know what I saw.”

“And what did you see, Miss O’Brien?”

“I saw your foot. And him tumbling to the ground,” she said. “And I’ll be telling Mr. Carson.”

He dropped the bags not so delicately to the floor and he inched closer to her. “If I did trip the blind boy—and I’m not saying I did—do you think telling Mr. Carson will do you any good? He won’t believe you. You’re nothing but a two faced stone face to him.

“Tell Mrs. Hughes—that’s who really cares about the blind boy’s well-being,” he continued calmly. He picked up his bags and made to leave, but quickly turned back to her. “But, of course, if you do tell her, I can’t promise your own secrets are safe with me. And then we’ll both lose our jobs. And we wouldn’t want that, would we?”

She stepped back slightly, her face expressionless but her eyes screaming in an almost terror. He took it as a small victory.

“Good day, Miss O’Brien,” he said with a nod before turning his heel and he continued walking. After all, he was having a good day, and Miss O’Brien would certainly not be the one to ruin it.

“‘Why did I not die? More miserable than man ever was before, why do I not sink into forgetfulness and rest?’” Carson read aloud. Hughie sat in the chair beside him, his head and body facing away from Carson. He seemed distant, uninterested in the story being told to him; and Carson quite frankly felt his son was too young to hear such a story, but he continued on as he had promised he would: “‘Death snatches away many blooming children, the only hopes of their doating parents—‘”

“Dad?”

He took his son’s interruption to flip through the book; thankfully there were only a few pages left in the chapter. “Yes?” he said, distracted.

“Why don’t you like me?”

Carson lowered the book. He took a moment to gaze at his son. “I... er”—he coughed—“love you very much as it so happens,” he said softly.

“But—you don’t like me.”

Carson shifted in his seat. He mumbled something even he could not understand, and then rose the book to his face. “Shall we continue?”

“No. It’s all right,” said Hughie, standing. “I’ll sit in the servants hall until it’s time for bed.”

Carson set the book down, feeling a slight pain in his stomach. “Very well,” he said formally. “I’ll... use this time to get some much needed work done.”

Autumn 1911, cont.

The sound of Charlie screaming made Elsie jerk awake. She lifted herself up quickly, her bare skin meeting the cool air. She shivered slightly, lifting the sheet to cover her chest. She felt Charlie stumble out of bed beside her, cursing under his breath.

“Charlie,” she said. He responded with a few incoherent words. “Charlie, what is it? What’s happened?”

She heard Hughie laugh joyfully and Charlie continuing to stumble around the room, hitting and knocking unknown items over. “He’s hit me... with my walking stick, that’s what he’s done, Elsie,” he told her. “I felt him touching my face and then—wack.”

“I’m sure he meant no harm by it,” she said softly, trying to hide her own amusement. It really was not funny at all, but Hughie’s laughter seemed to be contagious. Her eyes tried searching for Hughie in the darkened room, but she could only hear his happy squeals.

She heard Charlie ignite a match and soon a small burning light illuminated at the far end of the room. He lit the small candle on the dresser, and she could finally see his bulky figure more clearly.

He shuffled his way back to their bed, naked and angry. Hughie had taken his spot on the bed with Charlie’s walking stick tightly in his grasp. To Charlie’s dismay, he began slapping it onto their mattress. Charlie nearly growled, yanking the walking stick out of Hughie’s hand and placing it high on top of their dresser, out of Hughie’s reach. The action only seemed to make their son happier, for he only got louder and more giggly.

Charlie checked the time on the clock, and he sighed deeply. “I have to be up in three hours, Elsie,” he said. “He wants to play—he thinks it’s play time.”

She stood, searching for her long discarded robe in the darkness. “I’ll take him out so you can get your sleep,” she said.

“No. You need to sleep too, Elsie,” he said with a sigh.

She found her robe draped on the chair and quickly put it on. “I don’t think I’ve slept since he was born, Charlie,” she said tiredly. She grabbed Hughie by the hand and she gently guided him out of the bed.

Charlie sighed. “I’m writing a letter to that school first thing in the morning.”

Spring 1920, cont.

“I’ve spoken with Mrs. Shelton,” said Elsie. “The earliest we can take him back is a week from Thursday—they’ve got a big even happening near them. I don’t know what it is; she wouldn’t say. I suspect it has something to do with the archbishop.”

Charlie looked miles away when she looked up at him; his wine had barely been tasted and his attention was on the book Hughie had been so enthused about reading.

“Have you gotten far?” she asked him, and his eyes lifted to meet hers.

He tapped the book with a few fingers. “We’re nearly to the end, Elsie,” he said quietly.

“Are you quite well, Charlie?” she asked him, concern in her tone. “You’ve barely touched your wine.”

“Yes,” he said with a cough, cupping the wine glass.

“I suppose this whole thing with Mr. Branson has put you on edge,” continued Elsie. “I’m on edge myself, I’ll admit—I never thought he was capable of such things.”

He nodded, glancing at the book. “I’m... suddenly feeling quite tired. I think I’ll turn in for the night.”

“Oh. All right, then,” she said. He kissed her cheek. “Goodnight.”

“Goodnight, Elsie.”

Anna watched as Mr. Carson made his way around the room. It was nearly the same every day: one letter for Miss O’Brien; another for Alfred; two for Mr. Barrow—how he was so popular, Anna did not know; a few for the maids; and then back to his seat. Hughie’s napkin was again on the table, but Mr. Carson made no effort to put it on his lap; he simply eyed it and then turned to Mrs. Hughes.

There were no letters for Anna again that morning, but the pile of letters she received from John the night before told her he still had her on his mind, and that was all that mattered.

Miss O’Brien looked up from her letter, eyed Hughie and then Mr. Barrow, before turning to Mrs. Hughes. Mr. Barrow seemed distracted with his own letters to notice. Miss O’Brien was hiding something, Anna knew.

The bells began ringing and Anna and Miss O’Brien both stood and they walked together in silence, as they always did.

Barrow took a quick peek inside the kitchen as the sound of yelling echoed the halls. To his surprise, Daisy was the one yelling, not Mrs. Patmore. To that new kitchen maid, of all people. He continued to the servants hall where the yelling transformed into whispers.

“...experienced his cruelness first hand,” said Miss O’Brien’s voice clearly. “He deserves to be punished for what he’s done to you.”

Miss O’Brien and Blind Hughie were the only two in the room, and they sat across from each other.

“What’s this?” said Barrow, entering the room.

O’Brien immediately stood. “Nothing to concern yourself with, Mr. Barrow,” she said stiffly.

“Oh, I think it does concern me,” he retorted. His eyes went to the blind boy, who looked as dead as Miss O’Brien.

Mr. Carson entered the room. His eyes briefly found Miss O’Brien and Barrow before turning to his son. He cleared his throat. “I have some time off before luncheon,” he said. “I thought we could finish off the chapter we started last night.”

Barrow felt his heart sink as his attention went to the blind boy again. He would surely meet his end if Blind Hughie told his father the truth. And Miss O’Brien had a sort of mischievous look about her when Barrow’s eyes drifted over to her.

“No, it’s all right,” said the blind boy surprisingly.

Mr. Carson nodded. “Very well,” he said, turning to leave. Barrow noticed a glimmer in his eyes when he left.

Miss O’Brien followed him out—he saw nothing in her eyes.

“You’ve known all along it was me,” he said to Hughie when he was sure they were alone. “Why haven’t you told anyone yet?”

He waited for the blind boy’s response, and for a moment he thought he would never get it, but as he turned to leave, Barrow got his answer:

“Because... you’re just like me,” Hughie said softly. “A monster in a world of Frankensteins.”

Chapter Text

The Return of the Native

Spring 1920

“This is nice,” said Elsie. She examined the food on the table, making sure she hadn’t left anything behind, before sitting in her designated chair across from her husband. Her hand found the napkin on the table and she elegantly placed it on her lap. “When was the last time just the three of us sat down for a meal together?”

“Last Christmas, if I’m recalling correctly,” said Charlie, inspecting the bowl of vegetables before him. His brows rose, but when he caught Elsie’s eye, he masked his distaste.

“Well, yes... but Hughie’s friends were with us,” she said, “along with a room full of strangers.”

Reluctantly, Charlie began dishing his plate with vegetables. His eyes drifted to the steak, and he seemed more pleased with it.

Elsie sighed, looking at her two boys beside her. “This may very well be the first time since—well, since...” She stopped, her head bowing slightly.

Charlie looked up, glancing briefly at Hughie before his eyes set on Elsie. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat. He slid the vegetables to her side and she dished Hughie’s plate before dishing her own.

“Will Lady Sybil be having her baby at Downton?” Hughie asked. His bandaged hand searched around the table until he found his own napkin. And less elegantly than his mother, he placed it on his lap.

“It appears that way, yes,” said Charlie.

Elsie took a sip of her water. “It’ll be nice to have a baby in the house—after everything that’s been going on lately.”

“That is... if the baby survives,” said Hughie. He grabbed his fork and it clanked on his plate, in search of food.

Elsie and Charlie shared a look of concern before turning to their son as uncomfortable silence filled the air. Hughie must have sensed the tone shift, for his head tilted in the direction of mother.

“It happens,” he added quietly.

“Yes... unfortunately sometimes it does,” his mother agreed, “but we should always pray for the best.”

“But if the best never comes... you’ll feel disappointed.”

Elsie again turned to her husband. His eyes focused down on his plate of food, but he sat frozen. Finally, after a long moment, he began cutting his meat. “This is Hughie’s last night at the cottage,” he told Elsie formally. “We might as well clean out his drawers here and bring it all back with us tomorrow morning. That way we can head straight for the station come Thursday.”

Elsie hesitated for a moment. Her eyes glancing at Hughie, who searched for his water glass. It was just a bit out of reach, so she pushed it towards him. He grabbed it and took a small sip. “If that’s what you want,” said Elsie.

Charlie’s eyes glistened. “It is.”

“There we go,” Elsie said after buttoning the last button on Hughie’s pajama top. She examined the sleeves, which were too short to cover his wrists fully. Hughie had grown since arriving at Downton. He now stood right at Elsie’s shoulders. “We’ll have to get you a new wardrobe before too long.” She grabbed his good hand and gently she stroked his palm with her thumb.

Hughie pulled away from her touch, and quietly he made his way towards his bed. She watched as he pulled back the sheets and tucked himself in.

Charlie entered the room with Hughie’s suspenders in his hand. “Here we are,” he said, placing them on top of a pile of Hughie’s clothes. “Have we gathered everything?”

Elsie nodded. “I believe so.”

He glanced briefly at Hughie. “I’m off to bed, then,” he said. “Goodnight.”

They both waited for Hughie’s response—when he said nothing, Elsie turned to her husband. “I’ll come up after I’ve finished packing.”

With one last look at Hughie, Charlie nodded and left the room.

Elsie quietly made her way towards the stack of clothes on the table. As she began folding a button down white shirt of his, she turned to Hughie. His eyes were open wide and his head tilted in her direction—and his blind stare almost felt like he was looking into her soul.

“But it is disappointment, isn’t it?“

“I don’t know what you mean, dear,” said Elsie in reply.

“The emotion.”

Her mind suddenly drifted to the conversation at dinner. She set the now folded shirt down and made her way to his bed, sitting comfortably beside him. “I imagine anyone in that situation would have many emotions—disappointment could very well be one of them,” she said, wrapping her arm around him, “but it’s best we not think about those things.”

“Why not?”

She kissed his forehead. “Because it’s sad to think about.”

Carson had been concentrating on a book when Elsie entered their bedroom some thirty minutes later, already in bed with his pajamas on. The buttons on the front of her dress were already undone, her corset peeking through for only him to see; anywhere outside of the bedroom, he would deem the look too risqué for any woman, much less his wife. She let out a tired sigh as she examined herself in the mirror. He returned to his book.

After a moment, she spoke: “Anna seemed pleased to receive those letters from Mr. Bates the other day.”

“Didn’t I tell you everything would sort itself out,” he said—his eyes focused on the words before him.

“I wonder what happened.”

“Its no business of ours, Elsie.”

“Well, it’s good to see her in such high spirits again,” she said. “Perhaps this means they’ll be releasing him soon.”

He looked up. Her hair was now fully down, and her dress was pooled at her feet—with her corset and underclothes now on full display. “One can only hope,” he said. “Did you get everything packed all right?”

She nodded. “I believe so,” she said. “I really should have him try everything on first, but I’m too tired to do all that tonight.”

“You ought to take his measurements tomorrow,” he said.

“I’m amazed at how much he’s grown in only a few months,” she said.

“Yes, well, it’s best we wait to buy him new clothes,” he said—watching as she carefully removed her corset. She let out a breath of relief before her attention went to removing her underclothes. “We don’t want to buy him a new wardrobe only for him to outgrow it in a month or two.”

And there she stood, naked and beautiful and entirely his. She went to her drawers to throw on a nightgown.

“I wish you would tell me what’s happened between you two,” said Elsie softly. “You haven’t read to him in days.”

He bowed his head, returning to his book. “I’d prefer not to have a conversation about my shortcomings with you this evening, darling.”

Silence filled the air as Elsie made her way to her side of the bed. She snuggled close to him and he set his book down on the side table.

“I would give him my eyes if I could, Elsie,” he told her.

She patted his arm. “I know you would,” she said, “but he doesn’t want your eyes, Charlie.”

Mrs. Patmore watched as Jimmy, the new footman, swaggered on passed the kitchen with a group of giggling maids following him close behind. The young man was like a lighthouse, and the maids were his pretty little boats attracted to his light. Mr. Carson was already appalled at the maids’ behavior.

Anna entered the kitchen with an amused smirk on her face. “Jimmy seems to have found his cluster,” she said.

“He certainly is popular with the maids,” retorted Mrs. Patmore. “Mr. Carson’s started sweating bullets.”

They shared a laugh as Miss O’Brien entered. “May I borrow some soda, Mrs. Patmore,” she asked.

The cooks brows lifted. “You’re going to give it back, are you?”

Miss O’Brien remained expressionless, and Mrs. Patmore went to retrieve it for her. Ivy entered the kitchen with a tray full of empty tea cups and a tea kettle with Mrs. Hughes following her in.

“Have you finished your order list yet?” Mrs. Hughes asked.

“I thought you didn’t need it until the end of the week,” said Mrs. Patmore.

“Yes, well, we’re taking Hughie back Thursday, and I don’t know how long we’ll be away,” she retorted, and she frowned. “I’d prefer today, if you can.”

“I’ll have it for you by the end of the day,” said Mrs. Patmore.

Mrs. Hughes nodded and she quickly left the kitchen, heading in the direction of her room. Mrs. Patmore handed Miss O’Brien the baking soda.

“I’m sad to see Hughie go,” said Anna in a low voice. “He seemed to be doing so well.”

“He were doing well... until his little accident, that is,” said Mrs. Patmore.

Miss O’Brien huffed. “I’d hardly call it an accident,” she muttered.

“What?” said Mrs. Patmore.

“What are you hiding, Miss O’Brien?” asked Anna. “You and Mr. Barrow seem to know quite a bit more than you lead on...”

Her eyes drifted to the baking soda in her hands. “I don’t know anything,” she said softly, and then she quickly turned her heel and hurried away.

Anna turned back to Mrs. Patmore just as Mr. Carson and Hughie entered. Hughie wore his faded red coat while Mr. Carson had on his less extravagant black coat. They both had their hats in their hands and resting on their stomachs—the mirrored image was almost enough to make Mrs. Patmore laugh; how could Hughie mimic his father without even seeing him?

“We’re going for our afternoon walk,” Mr. Carson told them. “If you need anything, tell Mrs. Hughes.”

“All right, then,” said Mrs. Patmore with a nod. Her eyes drifted to Hughie’s bandaged hand; what was the mystery all about?

“I don’t want you leaving Downton with the impression that I hate you,” Carson told his son gently, “when that is far from the truth.”

“I know you don’t hate me,” said Hughie.

Carson cleared his throat. “And I... do like you,” he added, “very much so. I’m hard on you sometimes... because—this world... it can sometimes be unkind, and I only want what’s best for you.”

Hughie kicked the dirt below him, and Carson thought he might have accidentally stumbled—but he continued the same pace as his father. “The older children say Mrs. Shelton was a pirate in her old life, before coming to Lloyd Andrews,” said Hughie after a long moment of silence. “They say she has tattoos all over her arms and body—that’s why she never shows her arms... and why she wears long dresses.”

“I don’t want you participating in such tasteless gossip when you return to Lloyd Andrews,” ordered Carson with raised eyebrows. “Mrs. Shelton never shows her arms and she wears long dresses because she is a respectable woman... not because she is some former pirate.”

“I know that,” said Hughie, “but sometimes children like to make assumptions about her that aren’t very true.”

Carson hummed in response.

“Carson,” said a voice behind them.

Carson turned to see Lord Grantham and Mr. Crawley walking towards them. He stopped, grabbing Hughie by the shoulder, and he pulled him close to assure that he too would remain still.

“Lord Grantham. Mr. Crawley,” he greeted them with a slight bow of his head and a tip of his hat.

“Hello Carson,” Lord Grantham greeted formally. He briefly glanced down. “Hughie.”

Hughie made no effort to acknowledge his lordship. Carson cleared his throat, annoyed at his son’s disrespectful behavior. “Actually, Carson, if I could have a quick word—Mr. Crawley can watch Hughie for a moment.”

“Of course, milord,” said Carson quickly, stepping into the grass with his superior.

Mathew Crawley stood in silence with the young blind boy beside him. The boy grabbed his damaged hand and he began fiddling with the bandages, and Mathew noticed the speckles of blood on it. “You really shouldn’t do that,” he told him. And the boy stopped and let his arm fall to his side. After a moment of silence, he cleared his throat. “It was... quite the nasty fall, wasn’t it?”

“Yes,” said Hughie quietly.

Another moment of silence filled the air before Mathew cleared his throat again. “I understand you attend Lloyd Andrews Learning Community near Sheffield,” he said.

“Yes,” said Hughie just as quietly as before.

“I should think you’d be overjoyed to go back,” he said, “given all the chaos you’ve had to endure here.”

“It’s the School for Unwanted Children,” said Hughie, “no one’s overjoyed to be there, much less the children.”

“Do they not treat you well at Lloyd Andrews?” asked Mathew. “I always got the impression they were one of the better facilities.”

“They treat me like I’m human,” said Hughie, “but... it isn’t home.”

“There we are,” said Robert as both he and Carson rejoined the pair.

“We really ought to start heading back,” said Carson firmly. He grabbed Hughie’s hand. “Good day, milord—Mr. Crawley.”

“Good day, Carson,” said Mathew tipping his hat just as Carson did the same.

Robert and Mathew watched as butler and son started along the path back to Downton. “A Butler with a son,” Mathew commented in a slightly amused tone when Carson and Hughie were well enough away, “I never thought I’d see such a sight.”

“Nor did I,” said Robert, “but I suppose the world’s changing—there are many sights I never thought I’d have to see.”

“I think I’d rather be in a city if I were having a baby,” said Ivy as she cleared the servants table. “Where they’ve got all the modern inventions.”

“Far away from everyone you know and trust?” questioned Anna. “I don’t think I would.”

Mrs. Patmore entered the room. “What are you talking about having babies for, Ivy? I think we can leave that for a little further down the menu, thank you.”

“It’s always an idea to be prepared,” said Jimmy.

“I expect you’re always prepared,” Mr. Barrow told Jimmy.

“I try to be, Mr. Barrow.”

Carson looked up from his papers and he felt the awkward tension in the room. He turned to Hughie, who sat beside him with his new Braille writer in front of him—a boy of twelve was far too young to be hearing such banter.

“I don’t like the direction this conversation is taking,” he told everyone firmly, glaring at Mr. Barrow. “Could we all begin the day’s tasks, please?” Everyone, except for Hughie, followed Carson up as he stood. “And remember, Lady Sybil is in a delicate condition, so no noise on the gallery.”

“It’s exciting, though, ain’t it?” he heard Ivy say. “To have a baby in the house.”

“It won’t make much difference to you. Now get back in the kitchen and do as you’re told,” said Daisy—she was morphing more into a tiny Mrs. Patmore with each passing day, it seemed.

“Well, I think that message got through,” he heard Miss O’Brien remark as he exited the room with Elsie at his side.

“I’ve no objections, Mrs. Hughes,” he told her calmly as they made their way to his pantry, “but I don’t see the point in him writing—er, typing—a letter to his friends when he’ll be seeing them in just a few days.”

“Honestly, Charlie, there’s no harm in it, is there?”

He shook his head, but made no arguments.

“The point is, milady,” said Anna as she brushed Mary’s hair, “Vera Bates planned the whole thing—she meant for Mr. Bates to take the blame.”

“What a terrible act of revenge,” said Mary, looking at Anna through the mirror. “Have you told Lord Grantham yet—he’ll surely want to hear this.”

She shook her head. “I haven’t found the time.”

“Find him after supper,” she told her. “He won’t mind if it’s something this important.” She watched Anna carefully as she delicately started tying up her hair. “I spoke with Mr. Crawley earlier,” she started, and Anna looked up. “And he had a rather strange encounter with little Hughie the other day.”

To Mary’s surprise, Anna only smiled. “He’s a sweet boy, but he isn’t the best conversationist, milady.”

“Yes, well, he told Mr. Crawley that he wasn’t too eager about going back to Lloyd Andrews,” said Mary. “He referred to it as the School for Unwanted Children. I wonder if there was any truth to it.”

“He clearly misses his friends, but I haven’t heard him call it that, milady,” said Anna, shaking her head. “Although—he’s hardly spoken to me since his fall...”

“That’s right. He fell,” said Mary. She turned to Anna. “How is he? Who’s been tending to his wound since Lady Sybil went into labor?”

“Mrs. Hughes, I believe,” said Anna.

“What a terrible accident it was,” said Mary, turning back to her mirror.

“Yes, milady, it was,” agreed Anna, frowning, “only...”

“Only what?”

“Nothing,” she said. “It’s best I keep my mouth shut until I have proof of any wrongdoing.”

At that, Mary raised her eyebrows, but she chose to ignore the comment. And she took a quick moment before speaking again, “What would you do if you gave birth to a blind and dumb baby, Anna? Or, at least, something of that sort?”

“I should think I would love it, milady,” she said. “The baby, I mean.”

“Yes, of course, as any mother would,” said Mary, bowing her head slightly. “Do you think... Mr. Carson and Mrs. Hughes want him to stay?”

“I know Mrs. Hughes isn’t too pleased he’s leaving,” answered Anna, “and Mr. Carson only wants to please his lordship. I can tell deep down he’s also sad to see Hughie go.”

“Well, we can’t have that,” said Mary. “If the Carsons want their son to stay, then of course he should stay. I’ll speak with Lord Grantham.”

“Let’s see here,” Carson mumbled, as his finger brushed against the dots on the paper. “Dot... one, two, three—er, five, I think,” he said. He turned to his son for confirmation.

“That’s right, Five,” said Hughie. “Now move your hand over.”

Carson carefully glided his hand over to feel the next few bumps. “Er—there appears to be three dots on this one,” he mumbled. “Two vertical and two horizontal.”

“Now what does that mean?”

“I... I really don’t know, Hughie,” he said with an exasperated sigh. He removed his hand from the paper, and checked the time on his watch. “And I really haven’t got the time—I should be upstairs.”

“I’ll give you a hint, then,” said Hughie. “It’s your name.”

“It’s my name?” Carson said, sitting back. “Five and... I don’t know, is it a C? For Charles?”

“No... dot five F—it means father,” Hughie explained.

Carson smiled gently. “I thought my name was dad.”

“That’s a little more complicated,” said Hughie. His hands found his Braille writer. “It’d be D-A-D”—he typed quickly, and Carson tried following along, but a Braille writer was far more complicated than any typewriter he had encountered; it didn’t even have the correct number of keys to type properly—“but that takes up too much space on the paper. Typing ‘father’ is simpler—dot five F.”

“They both look rather complicated to me,” said Carson, examining the dots on the paper quizzically.

“That’s because you’re just learning,” said Hughie. “You’ll understand it eventually.”

The door opened and Elsie entered. “Mr. Carson—why on earth are you still down here,” she spoke in a strict tone. “Alfred and Jimmy went up ages ago—they’re waiting for your orders.”

Carson stood abruptly. And after mumbling a few inaudible words, he quickly hurried out of the pantry.

“How long does it take for a woman to give birth to a baby?” asked Hughie.

The Carsons were sitting together in the servants hall, enjoying an afternoon cup of tea. The room was mostly empty with Anna sitting alone in the middle and a few maids sitting off at the far end of the table.

Elsie sipped her tea. “It really depends,” she told him gently. “It can take hours or even days—sometimes even longer than that.”

“It didn’t take Sarah nearly as long as it’s taking Lady Sybil,” said Hughie softly—and the comment nearly made Elsie choke on her tea.

Charlie looked at him, horror in his eyes. “Sarah? Who’s Sarah?”

“My friend,” he said, “from Lloyd Andrews.”

“You don’t mean to tell me you’ve actually befriended one of those... girls,” said Charlie in a low voice, disgust in his voice.

Elsie rolled her eyes.

“Yes,” said Hughie.

Charlie shifted in his seat, and his eyes looked suspiciously around the room in fear someone might have overheard Hughie’s confession. To his relief, Anna and the maids seemed too preoccupied with their own tasks to notice.

“Well, I don’t want you associating yourself with her—or any girl like her, for that matter—when you return to Lloyd Andrews. Do I make myself clear?”

“Sarah’s not in Lloyd Andrews anymore,” he said. “Her parents took her out in January.”

“How... old is Sarah,” Elsie asked gently.

“A few years older than me,” said Hughie, and Elsie felt sad for the young girl, and for all young girls like her. She even thought of poor Ethel. “Did I take too long?”

She smiled, remembering that cool February day as if it were only yesterday. “You took about fourteen hours.”

Jimmy and Mr. Barrow quietly entered the servants hall. Jimmy took his seat, but Mr. Barrow remained standing, pulling out a cigarette from his pocket. His eyes drifted down towards Hughie, and then at Anna, who was watching him carefully.

He lit his cigarette and smoke filled the air. Hughie’s head tilted and his nose wiggled slightly.

“Hello, Mr. Barrow,” Hughie said softly.

“Good afternoon,” Mr. Barrow said formally. He took a seat next to Jimmy—and the young footman almost looked uncomfortable that Mr. Barrow chose to sit next to him. “Hughie.”

“It could certainly overturn the case,” said Robert, taking a sip of his tea. “Murray’s coming tomorrow—he’ll talk with Anna, and then head over to see Mr. Bates.”

“Mr. Bates might finally have something to look forward to,” said Mary. “He wouldn’t tell Anna the full story—but it seems the prison had been keeping him away from Anna for the past month or so...”

The door opened, and Branson entered. Both Cora and Mary stood, and Robert set his tea cup down.

“How is she?” asked Mary.

Branson smiled. “Desperately wanting the baby to be out already,” he said. “But otherwise fine. Sir Phillip says it’ll still be a while.”

“These things take time,” said Cora as she and Mary both sat back down, a smile forming on her face.

“It all sounds quite exhausting,” said Mary.

“I imagine you’ll be in the same position before too long,” Cora told her—and Mary bowed her head slightly.

Robert took notice, and he lifted his brows at her. She ignored his look, sitting straighter. “There was one other thing I wanted to discuss with you, papa.”

“Oh, what’s that?” he said.

“I think we should invite Hughie to stay,” she said, and Robert rolled his eyes. “It’s clear Carson and Mrs. Hughes want him to...”

“Well, as it so happens, I’ve spoken with Carson, and he agrees with me that the boy should leave.”

“Of course he’s going to go along with whatever you say,” said Mary. “You’re his commanding officer—he’s bound by duty to obey you.”

“I don’t blame the boy, but he has long overstayed his welcome, Mary,” said Robert stubbornly. “What made them decide to bring him back anyway?”

“Well, I suppose I can tell you now,” said Cora. “Mrs. Hughes had a bit of a health scare, and she wanted poor Hughie close by.”

“Really?” said Branson, a look of concern on his face. “I hope she’s all right now.”

“Oh, yes,” assured Cora. “She’s perfectly healthy, but the news was quite worrisome at the time.”

“Hughie should stay,” said Branson. Robert opened his mouth to object, but Branson continued. “And I speak for Sybil—not myself, because I know my opinions aren’t as warmly welcomed here... Sybil would want Hughie to stay. And if she weren’t upstairs having our baby, she would be down here telling you.”

“I agree,” said Mary. “Sybil would be overjoyed if you allowed Hughie to stay.”

Robert picked up his tea cup and he took a long sip. “I’m not going back on my word,” he said firmly, shaking his head.

Anna entered the kitchen quietly. Mrs. Patmore was quite frantic—cooking dinner never seemed like an easy task for her. Her eyes shot up when she heard Anna’s footsteps, but she made no effort to acknowledge her. Instead, she turned to Ivy, and ordered her to stir something boiling on the burner. And Daisy was near the spices, examining one spice and then another—and then finally satisfied with the third spice she examined, and taking it off to shake it on a tray of raw fish.

Mrs. Patmore looked around the kitchen in search for something. She opened and closed a few cabinets before turning to the young kitchen maid— “Ivy, what’ve done with the tea tray and kettle? You’ve washed it, haven’t you?”

“No,” said Ivy nervously. “It’s still in the servants hall—we just got so busy...”

“I’ll fetch it,” Anna assured her, turning her heel and quickly making her way down the hall.

Hughie sat alone in the servants hall with the tea tray in front of him. His hands searched around the tray, touching each of the items—he grabbed a small white tea cup and placed it close to him, and then he reached for the kettle.

Anna ran to him in a panic, but he did not wince or cry out in pain—the kettle had not been hot since that afternoon. When she realized he would not hurt himself, she stopped to observe him.

He lifted the kettle off the tray, and the hand not holding the kettle grabbed the cup. He carefully, after a few hesitant dips, poured the liquid inside the cup—and only a few drops splattered onto the table. He set the kettle back onto the tray before wiping the spilled liquid around the cup with his bandaged hand.

“It’s not going to be any good,” she told him.

He tilted his head towards her. “I didn’t do it to drink it,” he said.

“I’m afraid the tray’s needed elsewhere,” she said. “I hope you won’t mind.”

“No,” said Hughie softly.

She lifted the tray up, and she turned to make her way back to the kitchen, but she quickly stopped and she turned back to him. “Miss O’Brien—or Mr. Barrow... or the both of them, maybe—did something to make you fall the other day, didn’t they?”

Hughie said nothing, and Mrs. Patmore’s frantic screaming from the kitchen forced Anna to hurry out of the room. But she glanced back, watching him carefully as he fiddled with the bandages on his hand.

Chapter Text

The Return of the Native

Spring 1920

“I’m not sure I’m comfortable with him being in the same classroom as those delinquent children, Elsie,” said Carson. He took a seat at his desk and quietly he began rummaging through the papers in front of him. He sighed; with Lady Sybil about to give birth, they were all certainly in for a long night. But it was his own child he thought about in that moment. “We may want to have a word with Mrs. Shelton about it on Thursday.”

Elsie followed him to his desk. “I think it’s good he’s interacting with children his own age.”

“Yes, but to associate himself with such a shameful girl and... and with boys who steal dogs,” he muttered, shaking his head. “I don’t like it.”

“I do wonder about Sarah,” she confessed, and he looked up at her. “He never mentioned her to me before—and I thought I knew all his friends at Lloyd Andrews.”

“Perhaps he never mentioned her to us because he knew we would disapprove...”

“I don’t disapprove of their friendship, Charlie,” she said with a sigh. She hesitated before continuing, “Do you think you ought to speak with Hughie about... well, you know.”

“About... what exactly?” he said, raising a brow up at her.

She glanced cautiously at both of his closed doors before turning back to him. “About—well, about intimacy, Charlie,” she whispered.

“Oh.” He shifted in his seat. Thirteen years of marriage and the word, and any word similar to it, still made him feel uncomfortable when spoken outside of their bedroom, no matter how polite. “Are... are you quite sure? It’s a bit soon, isn’t it?”

“He is twelve—and I know boys learn about it sooner than most girls do,” she said, her face turning a slight pink. She grabbed his hand, and he found comfort in her touch. “I just don’t want him hearing the wrong things from the wrong people, that’s all.” He must have looked pale or sickly to her, for she looked down at him with concern. She stroked his hand lightly. “If you’re not comfortable speaking with him, I will...”

“No, no,” he said firmly, giving her hand an assuring squeeze. “I should be the one telling him. It is... after all, a father’s duty to have this discussion with his son.” He sighed, and then he nodded. “I’ll have a word with him before we leave.” The thought of those delinquent boys at Lloyd Andrews having already tarnished his precious little boy’s mind with filthy words quickly brought Carson’s heart down to his stomach. What horrors and lies would they have told him?

“But don’t just brush over things with him, Charlie,” said Elsie. “Take your time with it—and answer any questions he might have.”

Would such a boy his age have many questions? He again nodded—feeling the sweat forming on his forehead—as a knock on the door pulled his attention away from her, and Mr. Molesley opened the door. In his hand, he held what appeared to be an opened letter.

Elsie pulled her hand away as Molesley entered.

“Er—are you busy, Mr. Carson,” Molesley said meekly.

Carson cleared his throat. “No, Mr. Molesley,” he said. “What is it?”

“It’s just—I’ve had a letter from Mrs. Bird,” he said, lifting the letter.

“Mrs. Crawley’s chef?” asked Elsie. “Whatever for?”

“Well... that’s the thing—she isn’t working for Mrs. Crawley’s anymore,” he said, handing Carson the letter.

Carson quietly read the letter to himself. And it appeared to be a regular letter: she was wishing Mr. Molesley farewell, for she had gone off to her sisters in Manchester... and she was leaving because Ethel Parks was now—He looked up from the letter, an uneasiness settling in his stomach. “Mrs. Crawley has hired a prostitute to manage her house?” He could not hide the horror in his voice from Elsie. First, pregnant teenage girls befriending his vulnerable blind son in a school that is suppose to keep him safe... and now Ethel Parks, the former prostitute, was representing House Crawley. What was the world coming to?

“And that’s why Mrs. Bird felt she had no choice but to hand in her notice,” said Mr. Molesley.

“Nor did she, poor woman,” said Carson.

“But Mr. Carson,” said Elsie, “this is Ethel we’re talking about. Our Ethel.”

“Don’t tell me you knew about this?”

Elsie shook her head. “I hadn’t heard about Mrs. Bird leaving,” she said, “but Mrs. Crawley did inform me she hired Ethel on, yes.” Carson huffed. “Mrs. Crawley was just trying to give her a helping hand. Is that so wrong?”

“I do not criticize her for her charity,” said Carson. He could feel the sweat drip from his forehead. “But she hasn’t considered her actions. No respectable person, certainly no respectable woman, can now be seen entering her house.” And suddenly, he recalled the many times his own wife set off to do an errand in the village in the past week, and he wondered if all those times she had gone to see Ethel and Mrs. Crawley.

“But Ethel’s given all that up,” said Elsie.

He rolled his eyes. “I didn’t think she was running a brothel in Mrs. Crawley’s kitchen.”

“Can’t we say nothing for now?” offered Elsie. “Mrs. Bird’s gone and I don’t remember Ethel as any great cook, so it may sort itself out.”

“Very well,” he said, standing. It was hard to say no to his darling wife—not impossible, but hard, nonetheless. “We shall keep silent for the moment.” He turned to Molesley. “But I don’t want the maids going into that house on any pretext whatsoever. Is that clear?”

“Quite clear, Mr. Carson,” said Mr. Molesley with a nod.

“Or the footmen,” he added quickly—that rambunctious Jimmy Clark coming to mind.

Mr. Molesley nodded, and then quietly he exited the pantry.

Carson turned back to his wife. She gently wiped the sweat away from his forehead. “Perhaps Hughie forming friendships with pregnant young girls is a good thing after all,” she said.

“How so?” he asked with hesitancy.

“It may allow for grumpy old butlers to sympathize with their situation a little more in future,” she said, and he frowned.

“Has their work suffered because he’s here?” Mary asked—who seemed as persistent as ever. They entered the library with Edith and his mother already gathered around the fire. “The fact is, papa, this isn’t your decision to make. You’re forcing him out...” Mathew was near a collection of books on the far end of the room, and when he heard Mary argue, he quickly made his way to the sofa.

Robert rolled his eyes. He wondered if he could have at least one moment of peace on such a hectic night.

“What’s this?” asked Robert’s mother.

“The Carson boy, granny,” said Edith. “Mary seems to think he should stay.”

“Oh, Hughie Carson,” Robert’s mother said with a slight chuckle. “The blind boy—soon to be blind man.”

“We’ve been over this, Mary,” said Robert firmly. “I refuse to go back on my word. The boy is leaving on Thursday, and I don’t intend for him to come back.”

Mary opened her mouth to say more, but the door opened and Cora entered the room with Sir Philip and Dr. Clarkson arguing behind her. Why his wife insisted on bringing more unnecessary drama to that night, Robert did not know.

“How is she?” asked Mary, her stubbornness all but forgotten.

Dr. Clarkson gave Cora a concerning look as Sir Philip made his way to Robert.

“It’s my belief that Lady Sybil is at risk of eclampsia,” said Dr. Clarkson.

“What is that?” asked Robert, turning to Sir Philip.

“A rare condition,” said Sir Philip, “from which she is not suffering.”

“Tell him why you think she may be,” Cora said to Dr. Clarkson.

“Her baby is small, she’s confused, and there is far too much albumin—that is protein—in her urine...”

“Dr. Clarkson, please,” said Robert. “Have you forgotten my mother is present?”

“Peace,” said his mother. “A woman of my age can face reality far better than most men.”

“Look, the fact remains if I am right, we must act at once,” said Dr. Clarkson.

“And do what?” asked Mary.

“Get her down to the hospital and deliver the child by Caesarean section.”

“But is that safe?” asked Mathew.

“It is the opposite of safe,” said Sir Philip. “It would expose mother and child to untold dangers. She could pick up any kind of infection in a public hospital.”

“An immediate delivery is the only chance of avoiding the fits that are brought on by the trauma of natural birth,” said Dr. Clarkson firmly. “It may not work, but—”

“Honesty at last,” said Sir Philip. “Even if she were at risk from eclampsia, which she is not, a Caesarean is a gamble which might kill either or both of them.”

“I think we must support Sir Philip in this,” said Robert.

“But it’s not our decision,” said Mary—and there her stubbornness appeared again. “What does Tom say?”

“Tom has not hired Sir Philip, he is not master here, and I will not put Sybil at risk on a whim. If you are sure, Sir Philip?”

“I am quite, quite certain.”

“You’re being ridiculous,” said Cora. “Obviously we have to talk to Tom.”

His eyes drifted down to his mother. “Well, don’t look at me,” she said. “Cora is right. The decision lies with the chauffeur.”

Robert turned to Mary, who raised her eyebrows at him in a mulish way. He was the master of that house, after all. He knew what was best. For both his youngest daughter, and for his butler.

“How are things going?” Elsie asked as Anna reached the bottom step.

“I’m not sure,” said Anna. “The doctors are arguing, and that’s never a good sign.”

Charlie emerged from the servants hall. “Is everything all right?”

“Unfortunately, it seems it is not,” said Elsie.

The three stood in silence for a quick moment before Alfred joined their small circle to ask for a quick word with Mr. Carson. The butler guided the footman to his pantry.

Anna turned to Elsie. “This might not be the right time, but I was wondering if...” Anna stopped, bowing her head slightly.

“Yes?”

“Well, it’s just...” She glanced into the servants hall just as a few maids let out soft giggles when Jimmy said his farewells to them as he left. “I don’t think Hughie’s fall was entirely an accident.”

Elsie felt her stomach twist. “Whatever do you mean?”

“I haven’t got any proof,” she said softly, “but Mrs. Patmore and I... well, we heard Miss O’Brien, and...”

“Anna, are you trying to say Miss O’Brien pushed Hughie down?”

Anna shook her head. “I don’t know,” she said, “but I do know Miss O’Brien, and I think Mr. Barrow, know more than they say they do.”

The pain in Elsie’s stomach only grew stronger. “Thank you, Anna.” She entered the servants hall with a fire growing in her chest. Hughie sat in her chair talking with Daisy, who stood beside him. Miss O’Brien sat alone a few chairs away from them. “A word, please, Miss O’Brien,” said Elsie calmly. Hughie’s head jerked towards her just as Miss O’Brien stood.

“I’ve already told you—I don’t know anything,” insisted Miss O’Brien.

“Well, Anna seems to think you do,” said Elsie. Miss O’Brien blinked, shifting her stance. Elsie waited for a response. When Miss O’Brien refused to speak, she decided to rephrase her original question: “Are you aware of something that I and Mr. Carson are not, Miss O’Brien?”

“I wasn’t involved.”

“But... you know what happened?”

Her door opened without a knock first, and Charlie entered her room quickly. His face was pale and a panic shone in his eyes.

“I apologize for interrupting,” he said breathlessly, glancing quickly at Miss O’Brien, “but I’m needed back upstairs.”

“What’s happened?” asked Elsie.

“I don’t know,” he said. “Nothing, yet—I don’t think. But I need you to keep an eye on everyone down here while I’m tending to the family.”

Elsie nodded. She turned back to Miss O’Brien as Charlie hurried away. “We’ll discuss this later, Miss O’Brien,” she told her firmly. Elsie made her way towards the door.

“I suggest you speak with your son,” said Miss O’Brien. Elsie turned back to her, and for once Miss O’Brien looked sincere. “If it’s the truth you’re looking for.”

“That’s it.” Carson practically skipped his way into the servants hall. Everyone but Hughie stood. “The baby is born,” he said as sighs of relief filled the room. “It’s a girl. Now you can all go to bed.”

He smiled down at Hughie, who sat in Carson’s own chair. He then directed his attention to Elsie, who guided Hughie up to a standing position.

“Time for bed now, dear,” Elsie told him gently.

“It appears Dr. Clarkson caused quite a lot of unnecessary chaos tonight,” Carson whispered to his wife as the three of them headed for the stairs.

“I wouldn’t call it unnecessary, Charlie,” she told him. “It never hurts to be cautious, now does it?”

“No, I suppose not,” said Carson. They reached the steps. A few of the maids hurried passed them and ascended towards their bedrooms. He smiled. “But once again his diagnosis has been proven wrong.”

“Are you headed up to bed?”

“I’m going to finish a few things down here first and then I’ll go up,” he said.

Elsie glanced at Hughie. “There are some things I wanted to discuss with you, but I suppose it can wait until the morning.”

If they were alone, he would kiss her. Maybe even stroke her arm and allow for the kiss to linger a bit. But, to his dismay, they were surrounded by servants, so instead he only nodded. He cupped Hughie’s shoulder. “Goodnight, Hughie.”

“Goodnight,” said Hughie softly.

Carson watched as they ascended the steps, feeling a warmth inside him.

The news came as a shock; he was half expecting to awake from a terrible dream. Everyone gathered in the servants hall, except for blind Hughie—no, Hughie... he was just Hughie now. All the fire in his soul seemed to extinguish the very moment Mr. Carson spoke those terrible, terrible words. Lady Sybil was...

But that can’t be. She couldn’t be... could she? He had just seen her—they had all just seen her.

“Is there anything we should do, Mr. Carson?” asked Daisy beside him, though her voice was muffled.

Mr. Carson told her something; he might have told everyone something, for he looked at them all—his mouth moved and his eyes sparkled, but Barrow only heard his own heart beating in his chest.

No. It was all some sort of nightmare; it must be. Barrow quickly fled from the room, from the crowd of servants.

“Thomas?”

He had not realized he was crying until she was standing there witnessing him weep. And he sucked it all up, for her sake and for everyone else’s—men do not cry, his father often told him growing up.

“I don’t know why I’m crying, really,” he murmured softly. “She would’t have noticed if I’d died.” He hoped what he said was a lie.

Her hand found his back; the touch nearly made him shiver. “You don’t mean that,” she said.

He whimpered, shaking his head. “No,” he said. “No, I don’t.” He sniffed. “In my life, I can tell you, not many have been kind to me. She was one of the few.”

Her other hand found his arm, and she embraced him. It was far from a mother’s touch, or even from a lover’s touch, but her warmth was nice. She pulled away as Mrs. Hughes appeared, and Barrow quickly straightened himself out—he made himself look more like a man, more like the person his father always told him to be.

“Oh, don’t mind me,” said Mrs. Hughes quietly. “The sweetest spirit under this roof is gone... and I’m weeping myself.”

Elsie entered Charlie’s pantry. He stood gaping at the wall like some lost puppy. “Oh Charlie,” she whimpered.

He pulled her into his arms and she softly wept on his robe as he placed light kisses atop of her head.

He pulled away to wipe her tears, and then a little of his own. “What... what about Hughie,” he asked her.

“He’s still asleep,” she told him. “I... didn’t want to wake him.”

“Perhaps that’s for the best. We can... inform him of the news in the morning,” he said, trying to sound firm but the shakiness in his voice revealed his true emotion to her. He had known her the longest than anyone downstairs; he had watched her grow up.

“I’m going up to lie with him for a bit,” she said softly.

He nodded. “I’ll come to your room after I’ve gotten everyone settled down here,” Charlie said. He grasped her hand firmly, and he stroked the top of her hand with his thumb. “I don’t think you should be alone tonight, Elsie.”

She kissed his lips lightly. “Nor should you, Charlie,” she said. “Nor should anyone in this house, for that matter.”

Hughie’s small bed occupied most of the left side in his mother’s bedroom. Elsie’s drawers and her mirror were pushed together in one corner to fit the bed more comfortably. A single candle on Elsie’s side table illuminated the room. And Elsie cuddled with Hughie in his bed when Carson entered her room half an hour later. The two of them in the same small bed looked more than a bit crowded—especially because of how much Hughie had grown in the past few months—but Elsie seemed determined to make herself fit. Carson found a chair discarded in the corner and he sat down beside his wife and their sleeping son.

Everyone had gone back to their bedrooms, but he knew hardly anyone would sleep soundly that night. Hughie perhaps would be the only one.

He cupped Hughie’s face and, ignoring all the rules his own father and grandfather had taught him, he leaned down to place a gentle kiss on the boy’s forehead. His eyes then looked up at Elsie, and he kissed her lips—and he allowed for the kiss to linger before pulling away.

She snuggled in closer to Hughie. “I don’t want him to go, Charlie,” she whispered to him.

“I know you don’t, Elsie,” he said, his hand rubbing Hughie’s arm. But Hughie’s needs far outweighed both of their wants combined, they both knew.

“And if you have any questions, don’t be afraid to ask them,” Elsie said softly. Hughie sat across from her, eating his breakfast. He seemed to be the only one in the house who had an appetite that morning. Everyone else looked uninterested in the food plated for them. The news of Lady Sybil’s death was shocking, to say the least, and no one seemed to want to do anything but mourn.

“Will we have to wear those armband things for a while?” Hughie asked. He wasn’t cheery, but he seemed much more put together than everyone around him.

And a few somber faces looked up. Elsie blinked.

“Yes,” said Charlie firmly. “Lady Sybil was an important figure in this household... and she will be greatly missed. We should all honor her memory in any possible way we can.”

“But I don’t like the way it feels on my arm,” said Hughie.

“Well, you’re going to wear it for Lady Sybil,” said Charlie, attempting to hide his frustration. “And you’re not going to complain about it.”

Charlie fell silent again, his eyes drifting down to his own untouched plate of food—and Hughie’s knife and fork clacking on his plate was the only sound remaining.

Mr. Barrow sniffed slightly—the poor man had been crying the most downstairs. “I suppose you’re used to constant death,” he said to Hughie sourly. “The School for Unwanted Children must have three, four deaths a week, don’t they?” Elsie glanced at her husband, who looked at Mr. Barrow with distaste.

“Not really,” said Hughie, unfazed—and Charlie softened. “I’ve only known about two deaths. The sick children are mostly kept separate from everyone else. But there was this one girl called Dagmar—she had epilepsy, so she spent most of her time in bed or in hospital.” He paused to take a sip of his water. “Last year she became well enough to attend a week of classes. Mr. Davies had the class in groups for a project that week. And she was placed in my group. The whole week she seemed fine, but on Thursday she didn’t show up—and on Friday Mr. Davies pulled us aside to tell us she had died in her sleep the night before. She was nice and the whole thing was a bit sad, but we really didn’t know her. And I’m glad they didn’t make me wear the armband thing for her.”

Elsie found Hughie’s hand just as the bell for the front door rang. Everyone looked up. “Who could that be?” she asked Charlie, who looked just as confused as everyone the others.

“Mr. Murray,” Anna told them, and they all turned to her. “Lord Grantham must have forgotten he was coming today—should we tell him to come back sometime later, when we’re no longer in mourning?”

Everyone, except for Hughie, stood with Charlie. He waved them all down. “I know Mr. Crawley is up,” he said after a moment of hesitation. “I’ll see what he thinks is best.”

His daughter cooed in his arms as he wept. He wept for his poor Sybil, and he wept for himself, but mostly he wept for the precious angel in his arms. She seemed so oblivious to it all, and he envied her. She could not be called Baby Branson all her life, but all Tom could think about in that moment was his darling Sybil.

He heard the door open, and he turned from the window. And after a moment, he sniffed. “Are... are you lost again?” he said, trying to hide the sadness in his voice.

“No,” said Hughie softly, “or... maybe I am. Where am I?”

“You’re in the nursery,” he said with another sniff. As if on cue, his daughter began crying—and softly he began rocking her.

“I’m sorry, er, sir—I didn’t mean to disturb...”

“You haven’t disturbed me,” insisted Tom. He continued to rock his poor child, even after she stopped crying. “She liked you very much, you know.”

Hughie mouth twitched slightly, as if it were about to form a smile. “I’m sorry that she died,” he said.

He nodded. “Me too.”

“I wish I could remember the time when she and I were friends,” said Hughie, and Tom smiled.

“You were little,” he said, “and you had other things to worry about. She doesn’t—that is, she didn’t—hold it against you for not remembering her as well as she remembered you.”

“Sometimes young girls go to Lloyd Andrews to have babies,” said Hughie. “My friend Sarah was one of those girls. Her parents took her out in January, but while she was there we were inseparable. She called me her blind baby brother and I called her my pregnant older sister. She had her baby in November.” He paused, opening his eyes—and Tom became mesmerized by their beauty. “But the baby died shortly after...”

Tom blinked. “I’m very sorry to hear that,” he said, looking down at his own baby. What would he have done if he lost both of them?

“I asked her how she felt... you know, after. And she just told me she was disappointed,” he continued.

“I’m feeling a bit disappointed myself,” said Tom softly—and he realized he had stopped crying.

“But that’s not all you’re feeling?”

“No,” said Tom, and he sniffed again. “I’m feeling a great many of things right now.”

“She named the baby Carson—after me,” said Hughie. “Most of us go by our last names at Lloyd Andrews—I was Carson there.”

The door opened and Mary entered. She stopped when she saw Hughie—his eyes had closed again, along with the secrets they were sure to hold—and she turned to Tom for answers.

“Hughie wanted to meet the baby,” said Tom.

Mary bowed her head. “Yes, of course,” she said. She paused for a quick moment before turning back to Tom. “I don’t want to press you, but have you thought of a name yet?”

“As it so happens, I think I have,” he said, looking down at his beautiful daughter. “I want to call her Sybil—after her mother.”

Robert watched as Carson poured his drink for him. “A Catholic Crawley,” he muttered, taking the drink from his butler. “What has this world come to, Carson? There hasn’t been a Catholic Crawley since the Reformation...” He took a long sip and then he looked up. “I’m sorry to put all my troubles onto you like this, Carson. You hardly deserve it.”

“That’s quite all right, milord,” he said with a slight bow. “As butler of this house it is my duty to make your troubles my own.”

Robert blinked. “I’ve invited Mr. Travis for supper tomorrow night,” he said. “In hopes to persuade the others—although I doubt Mr. Branson can be easily persuaded... Inform Mrs. Patmore—we don’t need to have anything extravagant. Just make sure we have enough for him as well.”

“Yes, milord,” he said dutifully. “Will that be all for the evening?”

“Yes, I believe so.”

Carson bowed his head slightly and he turned to leave. But as he reached the door, another thought popped into Robert’s head.

“There was one more thing,” he said, stopping his butler in his tracks. “Lady Mary has been very persistent these last few days.” Carson raised a curious eyebrow, and Robert realized Mary had yet to inform Carson of her little plot to get Hughie to stay. “About Hughie,” he added.

Carson’s breath caught. “She needn’t worry, milord—Hughie will be back at Lloyd Andrews within the week,” he said. “We only pushed his return back so he could attend the funeral...”

Robert raised his hand to silence his butler. “You misunderstand me, Carson,” he said softly. “She doesn’t want Hughie gone. In fact, she’s quite insistent he stay.”

His brow continued to be raised, but his mouth twitched slightly. “I can assure you, Lord Grantham, I had no knowledge of this,” said Carson firmly. “I would never undermine your—”

He set his drink down. “If you want the boy—Hughie, I mean... If you want Hughie to stay, then of course he should stay, Carson,” Robert said, his own words nearly surprising him.

Carson straightened. “Milord, this is a prominent household...”

“Downton Abbey has had its scandals in the past, and I’m confident the future will only bring more. A blind boy is the least of our worries,” said Robert, and Carson opened his mouth to protest. “Lady Sybil would want him to stay,” he added softly, and Carson bowed his head. Robert turned to examine his drink on the table. “The truth is, Carson, I now understand how it feels to lose a child. I can’t imagine life without my dear Sybil—but now I must. And I don’t wish to put any other father through that pain.”

Carson bowed his head slightly. “Thank you, milord, but... I’m afraid the decision on whether he stays isn’t quite as simple,” said Carson softly, and Robert turned back towards him—not bothering to hide his shock.

“You and I can go down to the schoolhouse on Friday and speak with Mr. Dawes... if it’s his education you’re concerned about,” said Robert. “I’m sure he’ll be happy to make any special arrangements needed for the dear boy...”

“To be honest, milord, that isn’t all that troubles me,” said Carson. “Hughie needs care that we simply cannot provide for him here. But Mrs. Hughes and I... we are very grateful to you and to her ladyship...”

His dear Cora. Would she ever love him again? Robert raised his hand to silence his stubborn butler. “Before you decide on anything, Carson, discuss it with your wife. She may think differently.” The look on Carson’s face told him Mrs. Hughes did, in fact, think differently. He paused for a quick moment before picking up his drink again, taking a quick sip. “But I want you to know... you have my full support, whatever you decide.”

Chapter Text

The Return of the Native

Winter 1908

“He’s... he’s—”

“He’s beautiful, Charlie,” said Elsie, gazing down at their newborn son lying so delicately in her arms—his blind gaze staring up at them. Their baby was blind, Dr. Clarkson had confirmed shortly after his birth, but none of that mattered. Not now. She placed a few gentle kisses on the boy’s forehead; he yawned in response.

“Yes...” said Charlie, almost breathlessly. His thumb gently caressed the baby’s cheek, and their son stirred at his touch.

“Do you think he’s cold,” said Elsie softly.

Charlie shook his head, his eyes fixated on their new son. “No, I don’t think he’s cold.”

“Put a few more logs in the fire just to be sure, Charlie,” she said.

He obliged, and she watched as he fueled the crackling fire across the room—and then he promptly made his way back to her side. He kissed her lips gently before they both turned back to their baby.

“He doesn’t look much like a Catie now, does he?” said Elsie with a slight laugh. They had decided on the name Catherine a few weeks after finding out she was with child; Charlie had liked the name; Elsie was indifferent—she had been so focused on the shock of it all that she really hadn’t considered any other names.

“No,” said Charlie. “No, he does not.”

“What should we call him, Charlie?”

He shook his head. “We can figure that all out in the morning, Elsie,” said Charlie. He sighed. “You should focus on resting now.”

Their baby closed his eyes, and he managed another cute little yawn. Elsie kissed his little cheek.

“I know,” she said softly. She felt tired and she was in immense pain from the birth, but none of that seemed to matter. Not now. “I just... I want to look at him for a little while longer, Charlie.”

Spring 1920

One moment, they were waking up from their slumber—stretching and yawning, and all the noises each morning brought—and then in the next, she was quietly gasping his name as he repeatedly thrusted himself inside of her.

He reached for a book; that was how it all started—it had been left on her side, for some unknown reason, and he thought he would read a chapter or two before it was time to truly wake and face the day. And then he was on top of her. Three sweet kisses led into a passionate long one, and he quickly lifted her nightgown so he could feel her warm skin touch his own—his fingers began dancing and roaming along her beautiful body... That was how it all started.

Their love making was always slow but never boring, and never anything too vulgar. He was convinced it was where he belonged—between her legs, watching her face look up at his own. If his body only allowed it, he would make love to her every hour of the day just to see that beautiful face and to hear those precious little moans escape her mouth.

Her head tilted, and Carson leaned down to kiss her neck as he quickened his movements. She was so close, he could feel it—but he worried he might be even closer.

Finally, he felt her shudder beneath him and then, after a muffled moan, her release. He followed her quickly, spilling all of his love inside of her.

He rolled off of her to catch his breath, too hot and sweaty to stay in any lover’s embrace, but he reached to grab hold of her hand. They had kicked the sheets down to the bottom of the bed when they started undressing, and now their sweaty naked bodies were exposed to the almost summer morning air.

After a short moment, she stood and he watched as she made her way to their washroom. The door closed, and he turned his attention to the clock. It was still quite early—but they would be on their way towards the house within an hour or so.

The door opened and Elsie appeared again, dressed in his blue robe. He admitted to her on more than a few occasions that he enjoyed seeing her in his clothing—he was almost hesitant to have them washed afterwards, knowing it would remove her scent. She found her way back to his side, their lips meeting for one long kiss before she rested her head on his chest, her fingers teasing his lower stomach and belly button. He placed a gentle kiss on the top of her head.

“Do you regret not leaving Downton after we married?” Elsie asked him softly.

“Sometimes I do,” he admitted. She looked up, and their lips met for one more soft kiss. “But I only ever knew how to be a butler, Elsie—what else would I be good for?”

She placed her head back on his chest. “Many things, Charlie.” The care in her voice was almost enough to roll her on her back and make love to her again. “You’re a hard working man with the ability to do anything you set your mind to.”

He stroked her back. “I appreciate your encouraging words, Elsie dear, truly, but... I was a middle aged man. I hardly think starting over would have been the simple option.”

She snuggled closer to him. “I never said it would be simple, Charlie,” she said. “Only doable.” She sighed, rubbing her fingers up on the hairs of his chest. “I’ll be going up to Lloyd Andrews Saturday to fill out the rest of the paperwork. I asked if it could just be sent here—but Mrs. Shelton is insistent I come to her.”

She sighed. Mrs. Shelton was a good and respectable woman, but she could be difficult at times.

“I’m still a bit hesitant, Elsie...”

“Of course you are,” Elsie said. She kissed his chest.

“I’m not saying I want him back at Lloyd Andrews, but this whole business with Miss O’Brien... and possibly Mr. Barrow—It all makes me uncomfortable,” said Carson. “And not only that—what if he needs something that we simply cannot provide for him here, Elsie?”

“We’ll get it all sorted soon, Charlie,” she assured him.

He huffed. “And I warned him about Mr. Barrow,” Carson continued. “If a spoon caused chaos, it would have Mr. Barrow’s face on it.” She looked up at him again with raised eyebrows. “What? It’s an expression.”

“Not a very common one,” she muttered, laying back down. “Have you spoken with Hughie yet?”

Carson shifted. “This... is a very delicate topic, Elsie. It isn’t something I can exactly bring up in casual conversation,” he said carefully.

“Well, don’t wait too long, Charlie,” she said.

He cleared his throat. “Perhaps you should take Hughie along with you Saturday. It might be good for him to see his friends again—and get him away from all this drama for a few hours.”

“I don’t see why Mr. Travis is coming tonight,” said Ivy.

“Haven’t they already made up their minds?” said Alfred. He took a quick bite of cheese from the cheese platter just as Mrs. Patmore turned her attention to the spices. “The baby’s going to be Catholic, isn’t she?” he continued with a mouthful.

“It hasn’t been decided yet,” said Barrow firmly. Lord Grantham seemed very much opposed to the baby being Catholic, and opposed to the dear girl’s name. Sybil, her name was—in honor of her mother.

“Lady Mary and Mr. Branson seem to think otherwise,” said Anna, entering the kitchen with Mr. Carson and Mrs. Hughes following her close behind. Their mere presence silenced the whole kitchen.

“Surely you all have better things to do than to  stand around here and gossip about the family all day,” said Mr. Carson. His hands were behind his back and his head was held high.

Mrs. Hughes beside him looked just as stern. “Don’t you all have work you should be doing?” she said.

The group of servants all scattered. Barrow was following Alfred and Jimmy out when Mr. Carson cleared his throat.

“Not... you, Mr. Barrow,” he said, glaring; the look on his face was almost enough to make Barrow snarl. “Mrs. Hughes and I would like a quick word.”

Barrow straightened his suit, and tried to mask his distaste for the old man. “Very well,” he said. “Lead the way, Mr. Carson.”

“So, you’re accusing me of hurting your son, is that what this is all about?”

“We’re not accusing you of anything,” said Carson. “Not yet, in any case.”

“We just want to know your side of the story,” said Elsie. “That’s all.”

“What is there to know,” said Mr. Barrow with a slight huff. His eyes quickly focused on the floor. “The boy tripped and fell. That’s all there is to it.”

“Well, Anna and Miss O’Brien seem to think otherwise,” said Mrs. Hughes.

His eyes shot up. “If they know something more than I do, Mrs. Hughes, then I suggest you find them and ask them,” said Mr. Barrow. “Is that all, Mr. Carson—Mrs. Hughes? If you don’t mind, I’d like to get back to work now.”

Carson growled as he watched Mr. Barrow exit, shutting the door behind him. “I don’t like him,” he muttered. “I don’t like him one bit, Elsie.”

Elsie sighed. “I daresay he’s not too fond of us either, Charlie.”

“I’ve no great wish to persecute Catholics, but I find it hard to believe they’re loyal to the Crown,” said Charlie.

“Well, it’ll be a relief for them to know you no longer want them burned at the stake,” Elsie teased. They were all gathered around the servants table, enjoying their late night meal. The drama upstairs certainly made sure they would not be having a quiet dinner that night.

“I don’t believe in orthodoxy,” said Jimmy.

Charlie’s head shot up—and Elsie wondered if he would scold the poor boy. Hughie also turned his head towards him.

“That’s a long word,” said Miss O’Brien, rolling her eyes.

“A man can choose to be different without making him a traitor,” Jimmy retorted.

“I agree,” said Mr. Barrow.

And Charlie lifted his brows at Elsie—she gave him a look of her own, telling him to ignore the comment.

“I don’t like discussing religion,” said Anna. “We’ll only fall out, and surely it’s our private business.”

“Amen,” agreed Elsie.

“It’s funny though, isn’t it?” said Alfred. “All that Latin and smelly smoke—and men in black dresses. I’m glad I’m Church of England, me.”

“Really?” said Mr. Barrow. “And what do you feel about Transubstantiation?”

“You what?”

“Never mind, Alfred,” said Charlie as Mr. Barrow attempted to hide a laugh. “Your heart’s in the right place. I can’t say that for everyone under this roof.” He glared at both Jimmy and Mr. Barrow.

“And what about me?” asked Hughie softly, lifting his head slightly towards his father.

“What about you?” asked Charlie.

“Where do I fit in?”

“The Church of England,” said Charlie, “with your mother and I.”

Surely at his age, Hughie would understand why they went to church—but it was almost as difficult to read his mind now as it was when he was four and not speaking.

Hughie contemplated the information for a moment before replying, “I think I’d like to be a Buddhist when I’ve grown a bit.”

The clacking of forks and knives on plates all stopped and the room fell into an awkward silence.

“What’s that, dear?” asked Elsie, attempting to ease the tension. “A Buddhist, is it?”

“I’m not quite sure what it is exactly,” admitted Hughie softly. “Mr. Davies told us about the creator—a man called the Buddha. He was a prince who left his home and wealth in order to find enlightenment.”

“That sounds like an interesting story,” said Charlie. To Elsie’s surprise, he did not look surprised or embarrassed by his son’s little outburst.

“Why would anyone willingly turn their backs on a life of royalty?” asked Jimmy in disbelief. “I don’t buy it.”

“There is more to life than wealth and power, James,” said Charlie sternly. He turned to Elsie, and they shared a quick smile. Oh, how she loved that man, stubbornness and all.

Carson watched as his son adjusted the black band on his arm; he really did not like it, and he at times found the feel of it unpleasant too—but they were doing it to honor Lady Sybil.

Hughie silently typed on his Braille writer as Carson looked on from his desk. He cleared his throat, and Hughie stopped typing.

“Are you... sure you don’t want to finish reading the book?” asked Carson softly. He had Hughie’s book in front of him with the horrid creature staring up at him.

“You don’t like reading it,” said Hughie.

“That’s not true,” said Carson, flipping through the pages. “Now, I’ll admit it’s no Old Mother West Wind , but I still enjoy reading it to you.”

“Maybe... we can try to find a version of it in Braille,” said Hughie.

Carson felt his heart sink slightly. “If that’s what you want.”

The door opened and Elsie entered the pantry with a stack of papers in her hands. Her keys jingled as she made her way to Carson.

“Do they sell Braille books in shops, mam?” Hughie asked.

“How—how did you know it was me,” asked Elsie, sounding almost astonished. “I haven’t spoken yet?”

“Your keys,” he said simply, and Elsie smiled.

“Well, I haven’t seen Braille books at any of the local shops here,” she said, placing the papers on Carson’s desk. She eyed the book in Carson’s hands; the disappointment he felt inside must have seeped out onto his face, for she gave him a look of concern. She turned back to Hughie. “But that doesn’t mean they don’t exist. Why don’t you ask Mr. Davies if he knows of any places.”

Hughie quickly frowned, slumping down in his chair.

She eyed them both, and then quietly she went to the door she had entered from and closed it. “I suppose there’s no better time to do this than now...”

Carson shifted in his seat, feeling a warmth on his face. “You don’t mean...? Surely not now.”

“Why not?” she said. “You haven’t got anything else to do.”

“What is it?” asked Hughie, his posture straightening.

“Your father wants to discuss something with you,” said Elsie. She turned to Carson. “Now I can leave the room or I can stay... whatever you want.”

“It just... this isn’t the right time, Elsie,” said Carson quietly.

Elsie rolled her eyes.

“Oh—I know what this is all about,” said Hughie knowingly. And his parents turned to him. Carson cleared his throat.

“You... you do?” said Elsie, eyeing him carefully.

Hughie lifted his bandaged hand. “My fall,” he said. When his parents said nothing, it seemed he started to doubt himself. “It is, isn’t it?”

Carson glanced at Elsie. “Er—yes,” he said slowly, ignoring the fierce look given to him by his dear wife.

“Well, it isn’t all that interesting, really,” said Hughie. He massaged the bandaged hand with his other hand. “I miscounted my steps—and I just fell. And Mr. Barrow tried to catch me. I think Miss O’Brien saw the whole thing. You can ask her.”

“Mr. Barrow tried to catch you,” Carson muttered, rolling his eyes. “I find that very difficult to believe.”

“He’s nice if you’re nice to him first,” Hughie said.

“Are you saying this whole thing is just one big misunderstanding?” said Elsie.

“I suppose,” said Hughie.

“Well, isn’t that a relief,” Elsie told Carson as he grumbled in his chair. “To think you were worked up over nothing.”

Hughie stood. “I think I’m going to get a glass of water. Is that all right?”

Elsie helped him find the door. When he was sure his son was gone and unable to hear him, Carson turned to his wife. “I don’t think he was telling us the truth, Elsie,” he told her, his eyes fixated on the closed door.

She shook her head. “No, I don’t think so either.”

“Mr. Barrow clearly pushed him... or tripped him—or did something to make him fall,” he said. She nodded in agreement. “I suppose I have no choice but to speak with His Lordship...”

“Whatever for?” said Elsie. “Hughie obviously doesn’t hold any grudges against Mr. Barrow, or he wouldn’t have let us believe he had fallen.”

“He hurt our son—and not to mention his actions made in the past,” he said. “A man like him does not belong at Downton, Elsie.”

Elsie bit her lip. “I don’t think Hughie wants him to get fired over this...”

“Hughie does not get to decide who stays on and who doesn’t. That privilege goes to me—and to you.” Carson sighed. “If he knew what type of man Thomas Barrow truly was, he would not be so forgiving.”

Her eyes drifted to the floor. “Maybe he does know what type of man he truly is, Charlie,” she said, “and that’s exactly why he is so forgiving.”

“I think you should speak with him tonight,” said Elsie softly when she found Charlie standing in the hallway, glaring at a few giggling maids in the distance.

“I need to have a word with you and Mrs. Patmore in my pantry,” Charlie told her, his gaze still on the girls.

“Whatever for?” she asked, noting his stiff posture and the grimace on his face.

“You’ll find out soon enough,” he said, and he nearly stomped to his pantry. The maids fled as he walked passed them.

Elsie turned her heel and she entered the kitchen where Mrs. Patmore, Ivy and Daisy were all busy preparing luncheon for upstairs. Mrs. Patmore glanced up.

“When you have a moment,” said Elsie, “Mr. Carson wants to speak with us in his pantry.”

“What have we done this time?” asked Mrs. Patmore.

“We’ll find out soon enough,” said Elsie in an almost mimicking tone, and they both laughed. She glanced at the steaming food on platters and trays. “Whenever you find the time.”

“Oh, I’m sorry if I’ve kept you waiting,” said Mrs. Patmore as she entered the pantry, hot and sweaty from preparing the lunch. “But I had to send up the luncheon.”

“It’s good of you to spare the time,” said Mrs. Hughes.

“Oh, it’s all right,” said Mrs. Patmore. “I’ve only the men to cook for today, and they’re easy.”

“What were you doing at Crawley House this morning?” Carson demanded.

Mrs. Hughes pursed her lips.

“Who says I was at Crawley House?” Mrs. Patmore retorted, feeling a slight pain in her stomach.

“I saw you coming out,” said Mr. Carson.

“Oh, I see,” she said. “Well, Mrs. Crawley was giving a luncheon party and I...”

“...and you were helping Ethel,” said Mr. Carson. Beside him, Mrs. Hughes rolled her eyes.

“I suppose I was,” said Mrs. Patmore.

“Against my strict instructions to give the place a wide berth...”

“Now, Mr. Carson, no one disputes your position as head of this household,” Mrs. Hughes told him, “but I am not sure that you are entitled to dress down Mrs. Patmore in this way.”

He looked down at his wife, frowning. “Of course, if Mrs. Patmore wants to spend her time frolicking with prostitutes...”

Frolicking with prostitutes? “Do I look like a frolicker?”

“May I ask who was expected at this precious luncheon?” said Mr. Carson.

“Her Ladyship, the young ladies and the Dowager,” said Mrs. Patmore.

“You have allowed a woman of the streets to wait a table on members of our family? Oh, I am speechless.” And he stormed away, like a stubborn child unwilling to play by the rules of someone else’s game.

“I guess he won’t stay speechless for long,” said Mrs. Hughes, and Mrs. Patmore sighed.

Carson sat reclined in his chair with a glass of wine in one hand and a book in the other. He needed the time alone, away from everyone and everything. Mr. Barrow, Mrs. Patmore, Ethel, Elsie... he could not think of them without his blood boiling—he was even a bit irritated with her ladyship at the moment.

He ignored the knock on his door and decided to instead sip his wine. The taste in his mouth brought a great relief to him. The door opened and Hughie entered, making sure to close the door behind him.

Carson straightened, closing his book slightly. “Yes, what is it?”

“Mam said you wanted to speak with me about something,” said Hughie, finding his way to the chair beside his father.

Carson sighed. It was neither the time nor place to have such a discussion. “Well, please inform you’re mother that I am sorry but... this isn’t the right moment either...”

“All right,” said Hughie, and he stood to leave.

Carson placed his book down and sighed. “Wait,” Carson said, and Hughie did not move. “Your mother might discuss it with you herself if I send you away now—and... I’d rather it be me, not her.”

“What is it?” said Hughie as Carson gently guiding him down again.

Carson cleared his throat. He stared at his son for a long moment before he shifted in his seat in an attempt to get comfortable. “Well, I... I wanted to discuss with you—you see, Hughie...” he trailed off. How does one begin such a conversation?  What did his own father say to him? He could not seem to recall. Again, Carson shifted in his seat.

“Is this about me going back to Lloyd Andrews?” asked Hughie. “Because I already know—mam’s taking me back Saturday.”

“Saturday?” he said softly. “Yes—I mean, no. You realize you’re only going back for a few hours Saturday, don’t you? You’ll be coming home with your mother.”

Hughie straightened. “Oh,” he said—almost sounding disappointed. “But I’ve already written to everybody saying I’m returning...”

“Oh,” said Carson, echoing his son. He sipped his wine, turning his attention to the wall in front of them. He had his doubts about Hughie staying, he was not afraid to admit, but he was rather getting used to the idea of having him stay.

“Is that what you needed to tell me?” asked Hughie.

Carson shook his head, but realizing his son could not see his gesture, he softly muttered, “No.”

There was another knock on his door and Elsie entered with a small book—it was the book he had leant to Alfred a few days ago that he had almost forgotten about. “Don’t mind me,” she told them gently. “I’m only returning this back—and then I’ll leave you two be.” She placed the book on Carson’s desk.

Carson gulped, ignoring Elsie and turning back to their son. He set his wine glass down beside the book he had been reading. “Do you... want to go back to Lloyd Andrews?” Carson asked Hughie gently.

And Elsie stopped to look at them both. “What’s this?” she said, quickly coming to Hughie’s side.

“Haven’t you already decided?” said Hughie. And after a quick moment, he added, “I already know you see me as a mistake.”

Carson felt his lip wobble. “No, that isn’t true.” It wasn’t Hughie’s words exactly that bruised Carson so badly—rather, it was the way his son spoke in such a casual tone; Hughie did not seem bothered at all by his own words, which hurt Carson—and most likely Elsie too—the most. And Carson realized quickly he did not want to have such a conversation in his pantry with servants and lords and ladies all around them.

“You are not a mistake,” Elsie told him gently. “A pleasant surprise, I will admit, but far from a mistake.”

“We were very glad of you, your mother and I,” continued Carson gently. “The second we learned of you...”

“But then I came out blind,” he said, “and ugly.”

Carson felt like crying—he could not recall the last time he cried. His eyes glistened after Lady Sybil died, but he did not cry. Men weren’t supposed to cry, he remembered his own father tell him once when he was a boy Hughie’s age.

“You’re just as God intended you to be,” said Elsie, her eyes glistening.

He locked eyes with her. She might have a cry in his arms later, but for now she remained calm, and strong for Hughie’s sake. Carson turned back to Hughie. “Would you prefer it if you stayed at Lloyd Andrews?” he asked carefully. Elsie let out a suppressed whimper.

“I like Lloyd Andrews,” Hughie admitted, and Carson felt his stomach twist. “They understand me—not all of them, but most of them do. I miss my friends and I miss being... comfortable.”

“I see,” said Elsie, and Carson found her hand and squeezed it tightly.

“But... I don’t think I should go back,” he said, and Carson felt a great relief rush over him. “Mr. Davies said I have to learn to be uncomfortable—and to deal with my problems on my own. That’s what normal people do, any heck.”

And Elsie bent down to hug and kiss their beautiful son.

“You are a normal person, Hughie,” Carson said softly.

Chapter Text

The Return of the Native

Spring 1920

Robert watched as a group a young boys kicked around a football in the distance. A few giggling girls watched them by the wall near entrance to the schoolhouse. Oh, to be young and innocent again—though he wondered if he should value such a trait... Jane, a woman of his not-so-distant past—a woman he hardly thought about these days, he suddenly realized—was far from the innocent maiden. But, still, she had a certain purity about her, something he did not see in other women. Her son, Frankie—no, Freddie... He hoped the boy was doing well.

The ball rolled towards Robert, and one boy trudged towards it. In an effort to make the boy’s journey quicker, Robert gave the ball a gentle kick in his direction. The boy gave him a gentle smile as he stopped the ball with his foot—but his smile quickly faded and his eyes wandered behind Robert. And he followed the boy’s gaze.

Carson and Hughie were walking up the path with Hughie clutching Carson’s forearm and hand.

Robert turned back to the boy, who was now back with his friends. Their eyes seemed glued to butler and son—they were a strange pair, Robert understood. Carson was perhaps the only butler Robert knew who had a boy, and a blind boy at that.

The young boy whispered something to his friends... and they ran to the giggling girls, who were no longer giggling. All the children seemed to stop and stare at the blind boy entering their territory.

Robert greeted Carson as the pair approached. “Mr. Dawes is just inside,” he told him, motioning towards the school’s entrance where a couple of older girls stood. They too gazed at Hughie.

Carson seemed to notice the odd stares directed towards him and his blind son but he carried on. And together they made their way inside the school.

Hughie looked quite nervous; he clutched Carson’s hand so tightly that it was beginning to turn red—Carson seemed unbothered.

Remembering his good manners, Hughie removed his cap from atop his head. With the hand not in Hughie’s clutches, Carson removed his own hat and he approached the headmaster. Mr. Dawes was scolding another young boy off in the distance. Robert removed his hat and he quickly followed his butler’s lead.

“This is your final warning, Mr. Wright,” said Mr. Dawes sternly to the boy. “One more little outburst and  you will be removed from the classroom permanently.” He glanced briefly at Robert, and then Carson, before turning back to the poor boy. “Now away with you,” he continued. “I have other matters to attend to.”

The boy turned away from the headmaster, and nearly bumped into poor Hughie.

“Blimey!” the boy said after a moment. “You’re that blind boy everyone’s all in a frenzy about, aren’t you?”

“Mr. Wright,” hissed Mr. Dawes. And Robert saw the grip Hughie had on Carson’s hand soften. “We will have none of that—now away with you before I inform your grandmother of all your misdeeds.”

The boy seemed to jump at the mentioning of his grandmother and he hurried away outside.

“That was Timothy Wright’s boy,” explained Mr. Dawes, and both Robert and Carson bowed their heads. Timothy Wright died in the war, like so many poor men, and his wife died a few years after. “He means well but... you know how boys his age can be,” Mr. Dawes continued.

Robert looked briefly at Carson. Robert only had daughters and Carson produced a blind and fragile child. Neither of them could truly understand how boys his age acted.

“No harm done,” said Carson, almost breathlessly.

Robert took out his watch from his pocket to check the time; he had to meet Jarvis and Mathew in less than half an hour. “I don’t mean to rush you, but I’m unable to stay for long,” he said.

“Of course,” said Mr. Dawes with a nod, leading them deeper into the school. “The classroom is just this way. If you’ll follow me.”

The classroom was small but cozy. Tiny desks filled the room. They all faced a dirty green chalk board with half erased maths equations on it. The walls were covered with children’s artwork and writing. In the spot where His Majesty’s portrait should have resided, a list of names written in bold letters filled the wall instead. Some had a yellow marks next them while others had green—and one very naughty boy, Edward, had a red mark next to his. He suspected they were all names of the students in the classroom. Robert wondered if the boy with the red mark was the one Mr. Dawes had been scolding. And he noticed at the very bottom the name ‘Hugh’ was on there.

A young woman sat at the regular-sized desk up front. She looked rather focused on marking the stack of papers in front of her. Robert watched as she shook her head in dismay as she marked one paper a final time with her pen and then she quickly moved on to the next paper.

Mr. Dawes knocked on her open door as he entered, and the woman stood. Robert followed Carson and Hughie inside the classroom. “This is Miss Bunting,” Mr. Dawes introduced. Carson had to gently remove Hughie’s grasp on his hand to shake the woman’s hand. “This is Charles Carson and his son, Hugh... As well as Lord Grantham.” Her expression changed briefly into a look of dismay at the mentioning of Robert’s title, but only he seemed to take notice.

“I am very glad to have your son in my class, Mr. Carson,” she told Carson. Not waiting for a response, however, Miss Bunting quickly knelt down to Hughie’s height. Sensing her close presence, the boy wrapped his arm back around Carson’s forearm. But she took his other hand and shook it gently. “You must be the famous Hugh Carson. It is an honor to meet you.”

“Hello,” Hughie said quietly. He pulled away from her touch.

“I’m Miss Bunting,” she said. “You’ll be part of my class for the rest of the year.”

“The National League of the Blind has agreed to send someone down here to assist Miss Bunting,” Mr. Dawes told Robert and Carson. “They should arrive before next week.”

“I’ve got my own Braille writer,” said Hughie in a slightly shaky voice.

Miss Bunting smiled. “Well, you’ll just have to give us all a lesson on how to use it Monday.”

Robert checked the time on his watch again; Jarvis and Mathew would be waiting. “I’ve got other business to attend to,” he told everyone—and he ignored the snarky expression given to him by Miss Bunting. “Miss Bunting, it was lovely to have met you.” A formality, of course; some unknown feeling in his gut told Robert it was not lovely to have met her. “Carson, I’ll see you at dinner.” He nodded at Mr. Dawes as he led him to the exit.

Carson sighed, glancing down at his son sitting beside him. Mrs. Drewe and two of her children—who he did not know well enough to remember by name—passed them. Carson tipped his bowler hat and she politely nodded in their direction. The smallest of her children remained fixated on Hughie, even after they had crossed the road. And, after a moment, when they were a safe distance away, Carson watched as Mrs. Drewe scolded her son for staring. The whole village would have to get used to Hughie, he knew.

He sighed, looking down at his son and dreading the task he set out to do. Carson could not recall his father’s own methods to breech the subject, and it felt too shameful to ask Elsie how to approach the topic, so he was forced to come up with an approach all on his own.

“Hughie,” he began strongly. “I... I need to discuss something with you...”

“You do?”

Carson gulped. “Yes.”

“Is it bad?”

Dr. Clarkson passed them with a tip of his hat, and Carson did the same. “No—er, not bad. Private.”

“Oh,” he said. “What is it?”

Mr. Travis passed them and guilt suddenly rushed over him. Carson stood abruptly. A public area was no place to discuss such... things—although, he wondered, would that be his excuse for every place he tried to talk with Hughie?

He remained standing. Maybe walking while speaking with him would make things a bit easier. “Let’s head back to the house, shall we?”

“All right,” said Hughie cautiously. He too stood. He found Carson’s arm and together they walked the path back to Downton Abbey.

When they were a safe distance away from the village, and Carson was sure they would not be interrupted, he began again:

“You see, Hughie...” He could feel his face warm—he would blame it on the hot sun if the sky wasn’t so dreary that day. “When a man... well, becomes a man,” he continued softly, clearing his throat, “he gets these... erm, urges.”

“Urges?” said Hughie, a bit too loudly for Carson’s liking.

Carson quickly looked to see if anyone was around. “Yes.” He then sighed. Perhaps Elsie speaking with him would be far less... humiliating.

“Oh...” said Hughie.

Carson’s brow rose. “Oh?” he echoed back.

“You’re talking about... that?”

Carson observed his son carefully. “Er, yes—if  by that , you mean...”—he cleared his throat again, and he attempted to sound more confident than he felt in that moment—“sexual intercourse.”

“Yes...” said Hughie gently.

There was a long pause and Carson could see Downton Abbey in the distance. He slowed his pace, knowing he did not want to continue their conversation near the house. “What all do you—erm—know about... that?” After an awkward silence, Carson blinked. He thought this subject might be like learning how to ride a bicycle—after an encouraging push from the dad, the son would start riding away. But Hughie did not know how to ride a bicycle, and nor did Carson. “You won’t get in trouble,” he assured his son. “I would just like to know what it is that you already know about... that.”

“Well, Roberts told us...”

“Roberts?”

“Anthony Roberts,” said Hughie. “He’s an older boy...”

“Oh, yes, I see,” said Carson, feeling his stomach twist. So, the older boys had tarnished his precious son’s mind. And they filled it with myths and false assumptions, no doubt. “Go on...”

“Well, he said the woman scratches the man’s back with their nails while he’s on top of her...”

Carson let out a heavy breath. “Is that... all that he told you?”

“He did show everyone else a photograph...”

“A photograph?” said Carson, startled. Such images were not tolerated at Downton Abbey; he especially warned James about this rule before he was hired. If Mrs. Shelton knew such an image was being passed around at Lloyd Andrews—well, a proper woman such as herself might faint, or do something far worse. He never understood why women degraded themselves in such ways.

“A woman and a man... They were together, I think,” said Hughie. “Kenneth described the image to me... The woman was on the bed with her legs open wide and—”

“You can spare me the details,” he quickly told his son.

“Roberts told us they’ve got films of it in London, and he’s seen one of them...”

“Films?” said Carson, too horrified by his son’s words to hide his own shock. He had known about the photographs for some time... but to put such things in films? Carson contemplated his son’s words for a moment before clearing his throat once again. “Well, you’ll be glad to know that what Roberts told you and your friends is false,” he said firmly, feeling the sweat drip from his forehead.

Hughie’s head tilted. “It is?”

“To an extent, yes. Some people—improper people, mind you—do take degrading photographs of themselves or of others—or they make distasteful films—but the connection between a man and a woman isn’t, er—shouldn’t be so graphic.” He huffed. Photographs and films of such private things... And passing those photos around to vulnerable children at a prominent school... And former prostitutes working for Mrs. Crawley. All of England had gone mad. “I need you to understand that for most people—respectable people, that is—intimacy is between a man and a woman who are married... and who love each other.”

Hughie waited a moment before asking, “And you love mam?”

“I do,” he said without hesitation. “Very much.”

“But...” Hughie started but he quickly stopped, and he turned away from Carson.

“Go on,” Carson encouraged his son to continue. He gulped, observing Hughie’s features carefully. His eyes were closed and he still refused to face towards Carson.

“But—what’s the point of it all?”

And now perhaps it was time to discuss the harder part of their already difficult conversation. “Well, to... to have children,” he said. He cleared his throat again. “And to express the love you have for that person.” He paused for a long moment, hoping his son might fill in the awkward silence with his own observations or another question. When it was clear he would not, Carson continued: “Er—do you know how... it happens?”

Hughie’s head lifted. “What do you mean?”

“Well, the man inserts his, erm... inside of the woman’s... er...”

“Oh.”

‘Oh,’ was perhaps the correct response to such an explanation—part of him wondered if his own father did better, but he could not seem to recall. Carson coughed. “Do you have anymore questions for me?”

“What about Jimmy?”

“What about him?” said Carson, quite confused. Realization suddenly came to him and he felt a pain in his stomach. “He hasn’t told you anything inappropriate since his arrival, has he?”

“No... I mean—why do all the maids swoon over him like that? What’s he got that Alfred doesn’t?”

Carson couldn’t help but smile. “I suppose they think he’s more handsome than Alfred,” answered Carson, “but... there is more to life than being handsome or pretty, Hughie...”

“How do sighted people determine who’s pretty and who isn’t?”

“I can’t tell you how exactly,” said Carson. “I suppose fashion has some part in it.” And perhaps a person’s facial features—he really did not know. He fell in love with Alice Neal for her beauty—he really did not know much about her when he knew her, other than she was funny and sweet. He fell in love with Elsie for much of the same reasons—she was beautiful and quick witted, and she put up with his conservative ideals.

He sighed. If Elsie were witnessing their little talk, no doubt she would start laughing at where Hughie had taken their conversation. If Carson could only understand his son’s own thought process...

Hughie stopped walking and Carson followed quickly. And for what seemed like the hundredth time that day, Carson cleared his throat. He tugged at his vest and patiently he waited for his son’s response.

“Dad?”

“Yes?”

“Why are you telling me all this?”

He hesitated before speaking. “Because it’s important to know these things,” said Carson as firmly as he could in that moment. “It will be your duty as the husband to take charge”—he shifted—“come your wedding night.”

“Oh,” said Hughie.

And after a moment, they continued walking.

“Dad?”

“Yes?”

“Do you really think I’ll get married one day?”

“Perhaps, if you want to,” said Carson, pulling his son close. “But you’re still quite young—you’ve got plenty of other things to think about.”

“You’re back,” said Elsie. She entered Carson’s pantry just as he removed his coat. “How did it go?” He turned to her—and he must have looked unwell, for she looked at him in concern. “Not very well, I see...”

“No—the visit went fine,” he said with a sigh. “Although, the other children were cautious at first—and, er, Hughie seemed a bit nervous about it all too.”

“Well, that’s to be expected,” she said. “It’s a new experience for everyone.”

“And I’m not too sure about this new teacher of his...”

“Of course you’re not,” she said, rolling her eyes. “At this point it’s more shocking when you are sure of something.”

“Lord Grantham ought to invite her over for dinner one night,” he said sarcastically. “She and Branson will have a grand time plotting to dethrone the empire.”

He made his way to his desk; he still needed to change for dinner but there were some bills he avoided earlier that needed his attention.

“That reminds me,” she said, following him to his desk. “Mr. Branson’s brother will be coming in a few weeks for the christening.”

“And so I have another Branson to look forward to obeying,” he said with a huff.

“Oh, don’t be like that,” she said. “Mr. Branson is a good man.”

“And a Catholic,” he said in a distasteful tone.

She sighed. “There’s nothing wrong with being Catholic—you’ve said it yourself...”

“I only said I hold no ill will towards them,” he said. “But Lord Grantham is—”

“It doesn’t matter what Lord Grantham is or isn’t, Mr. Carson,” she said sternly. “Mr. Branson is Catholic. His family is Catholic—and so will Miss Sybil. You just have to accept that...”

“ Miss Sybil,” he repeated after a moment. “It sounds strange, doesn’t it?”

“Yes,” she admitted. “A little.”

He shook his head, shaking any sad thoughts away, before looking down at the bills needing his full attention. He felt Elsie’s eyes on him—could she not just leave him be, just for a moment?

“Did you speak with Hughie afterwards?” she asked him softly.

He shifted, but did not dare look up from his papers. “Yes.” The conversation was not as torturous as he originally thought it would be, but he was glad it was done with—and now he only wished to move on from it.

“How did that go?”

He sighed, looking up at her. “Very uncomfortable, if you must know—but the task is done. And I would prefer that be the end of it,” said Carson firmly. “Now, please, Mrs. Hughes, I really must get this done before dinner.”

“Oh, all right.” She made her way out the door. “You’re such an old curmudgeon,” he heard her mutter in the distance.

“I am certain Lord Grantham will clear out a cottage for you two once everything is sorted,” said Mr. Carson.

“We’ll put him up in his old room until then,” said Mrs. Hughes, taking a sip of her tea. She glanced briefly at Barrow, but she turned away before he could read her expression. “Maybe once they’ve settled in their new cottage, Hughie can take that room.”

“You’ll hear no complaints from Mr. Bates,” said Anna in a cheery tone.

“We’ll see,” said Mr. Carson gently—he looked at Barrow. The bell for Lady Mary rang behind him and Anna stood.

“Maybe we can have a little party this evening to celebrate,” said Jimmy. And Ivy, who was cleaning up the table, beamed at the suggestion. But their excitement quickly faltered once catching sight of Mr. Carson’s face.

After a moment, Mr. Carson and Mrs. Hughes both stood. Everyone followed them up, and Mr. Carson waved them down.

“Did you find those papers I asked for?” Mr. Carson asked Mrs. Hughes as they exited the servants hall.

“They’re in an envelope on your desk...” And they retreated into Mr. Carson’s pantry.

“I suppose you’ll be leaving Downton soon enough,” said Alfred.

Jimmy, Miss O’Brien and all the maids stopped their individual tasks to look up at Barrow.

“Why would you say that?” asked Barrow.

“Mr. Bates is returning,” said Alfred. “Wasn’t he his lordship’s valet before...”

“Yes, he was Lord Grantham’s valet before me,” said Barrow stiffly. The bell rang and he stood. “But that title belongs to me now. And I don’t plan on going anywhere.”

He made sure to glare at Miss O’Brien as he exited.

“Are you sure you don’t want to come with us tomorrow?” said Elsie, watching as her husband poured her a glass of sherry.

“No, there’s no sense in us both going,” he said. “But make sure you keep a careful eye on him. We don’t want any mishaps.”

“I’m not planning on ignoring him all day, Charlie.”

“I’m merely being precautious, Elsie dear,” he said. His eyes briefly glanced at the book collecting dust on his table; the frightful face of the monster haunting him to no end.

“If you just told him how much reading to him means to you,” she said.

“No, Elsie, I brought this on myself,” he said, lifting a hand to silence her. “And now I must pay the price.” He paused, his eyes wandering to the book again. “Perhaps it’s for the best. What twelve year old boy wants his father reading to him?”

She shook her head but instead of saying anything she sipped her sherry.

Charlie once again pulled out his watch from his vest pocket. The train before them whistled and Hughie’s head jerked towards the sound. And Charlie placed his watch securely back inside his front pocket. “Be courteous to others while on the train... Don’t make any unnecessary commotion,” he instructed Hughie. “And don’t go wandering off—stay with your mother at all times...”

“The train is going to leave without us, Mr. Carson,” Elsie said with a sigh.

“Yes, yes, I won’t keep you any longer.” He kissed Elsie’s lips softly and his hand found Hughie’s shoulder. “Hold your mother’s hand when exiting the train—and be sure not to bump into anyone...”

“He knows, Charlie,” Elsie said. She grabbed Hughie’s hand and together they walked to board the train. “If everything goes well, we should be back after lunch.”

Charlie opened the door for them. Elsie was the first to enter and together they helped Hughie climb inside. He kissed her lips again. “Goodbye,” he said, and he looked at Hughie, “and be careful.”

Charlie closed the door and Elsie guided Hughie down to a cushioned blue seat. “There we are,” she mumbled softly as they both adjusted themselves in the seat. A man sat across from them. His face was hiding behind a newspaper and his legs were crossed and facing away from them.

She waved goodbye to Charlie as the whistle blew and the train began moving, and she watched as her husband shrunk smaller and smaller until he became just a blob.

“Won’t this be nice,” she said, grabbing her son’s hand. Hughie instinctively pulled away from her, which nearly made her heart sink. She knew boys his age always pulled away from their mothers—she had seen it many times at church or just in the village walking; it was a part of them growing up. But still, she recalled the day they first took Hughie to Lloyd Andrews. He clung to her and he refused to let her go, which made leaving him there that much harder. They had to yank him away from her. She felt guilty for feeling such a way, but she missed those years of him depending on her. “Actually, I’m glad we’ve got this time together,” she continued. “I wanted to talk to you about something.”

His head lifted. “Dad already told me about sexual intercourse,” he said bluntly.

And the man’s newspaper fell slightly, revealing a very shocked and amused individual behind it.

Her face burned in humiliation. She might have laughed if it were someone else’s child or if she were alone with Charlie, but she was alone in public area and she felt absolutely mortified. And she gave the man an apologetic smile before turning back to her son. She patted his knee. “That... is not what I wanted to discuss—but I’m glad he’s spoken with you.”

“Oh,” he said.

The man went back to reading his newspaper. Elsie sighed.

“What was it, then?” he asked.

“Your father and I love you very much,” she began.

“I know that.”

She looked out the window, looking at the blurry greenery surrounding them; Downton was certainly a beautiful place to live in, but she knew none of that mattered to a blind boy.

“And...” She turned to the man, and she wished she was alone with Hughie. “And I don’t want you thinking you’re not wanted when that is further from the truth,” she told him quietly, hoping the man was not keen on listening in on other people’s conversations. She grabbed hold of Hughie’s hand again, and she was grateful he did not pull away this time. “But you came as a surprise to us—and we weren’t expecting...”

“...me to come out blind.”

And the man’s newspaper crinkled once again as he took a peak at Hughie. Elsie glared. He quickly hid back behind his newspaper and Elsie turned back to Hughie.

“Yes,” she spoke more quietly, “but there were other things too.” They had been so old when he was born and both Charlie and Elsie knew Hughie had some kind of developmental disorder that doctors and nurses could never seem to agree on. “We weren’t prepared for... any of it.”

Hughie waited a moment before speaking: “Do you think they have Braille books in Sheffield?”

She squeezed his hand. “We can certainly look,” said Elsie. “But your father’s happy to continue reading to you if there isn’t any.”

He scrunched his nose. “He hasn’t liked the last few books I’ve chosen,” said Hughie. “If he had it his way, he would be reading me books like Old Mother West Wind .”

The man’s newspaper crinkled again and Elsie, rolling her eyes, turned to him. “Do you mind?” she snapped. And the man turned further away from them, sinking into his seat.

She sighed, looking back at Hughie. “The truth is he likes reading to you, no matter the words on the paper—but he’s too stubborn to tell you that.” She raised her eyebrows at him. “And you’re too stubborn to ask him.”

Carson felt a strong gust of wind pass them as they walked along the path. He held onto his mother’s hand—at her insistence. He would prefer walking alone; he knew the path well. So well, he was sure he could walk it in his sleep. But a small dip that had not been there before—he was sure of it—caused him to stumble slightly.

“Be careful now,” said his mother, blaming his speed and not the misplaced dip—but she did not scold him for loosening his grip on her hand.

They approached the steps and he reached for the metal bar. It had rusted over the years with rain and fingertips changing its shape. It was there before Carson ever stepped foot onto Lloyd Andrews soil, and he would probably stay there long after he had gone.

His mother opened the door—and he heard that familiar creak.

He entered the building—he shuffled slightly, hearing that familiar squeakiness of the floor. A telephone started ringing in the distance.

His mother led him to the front desk—and he made sure to squeak all the way there. The woman greeted his mother and then she greeted Carson, commenting on how much he had grown. He could remember the voice, but the woman’s name was lost to him. A Miss Something, no doubt. The telephone stopped ringing.

And then the door opened—not the door to the outside, but the door leading into Lloyd Andrews.

“You’re back,” said Thompson clearly. His voice was soft and low, never sounding agitated.

“Hello Mrs. Carson,” Herby greeted kindly—because she was always kind to him. His voice was high and animated, and he could be mean at times.

“Hello boys,” said Carson’s mother.

“Where, where, where... are all, are all, all your things?” asked Kenneth. He had a terrible stutter, but he always sounded the most sincere out of all of them.

“I’m not staying,” said Carson, and the realization suddenly hit him. He wouldn’t be with them ever again. Lloyd Andrews was the school for unwanted children—even the staff called it that—but it still felt strange saying goodbye.

“He’s not,” said his mother in a happy tone. “He’s coming right back home with me.”

“It might be for the best,” said Thompson, though he was sadder than before. “Evans took your bed—you’d probably have to share a space with Roberts and his friends.”

“Look at your hand,” said Herby, and Carson instinctively touched his injured hand. It didn’t hurt as much these days and his mother told him yesterday it was healing well. The stitches would come off soon enough. “That must have been a nasty fall.”

“Yes, it was,” said his mother.

The door opened again, and Carson recognized the familiar footsteps squeaking towards them. First, she scolded Herby, Thompson and Kenneth for being outside—and the boys quickly retreated back into the school—and then she greeted Carson’s mother. She greeted Carson next, commenting on his height—why were they all concerned about his height?

She led them inside where Herby, Thompson and Kenneth all waited. Mrs. Shelton and his mother continued towards her room while Carson stayed behind with his friends. Mrs. Shelton’s door opened and then he heard it snap closed again.

“Evans, Evans, Evans pisses... pisses the, pisses the, the bed,” Kenneth muttered quietly.

“Mrs. Shelton has to come in and change his sheets each morning,” said Thompson.

“The room starts smelling if we ignore it,” said Herby.

There was a long pause. And then Kenneth let out an excited breath. “You, you, you should... you should have, have, have, have been here, here yesterday.”

“Oh yeah,” said Thompson happily. “Some of the rebel boys were playing a game of cricket...”

“And Roberts, Roberts, Roberts hit the, the, the, the ball so... so hard, so hard it, it, it broke Shelton’s... Shelton’s window!”

Herby quickly shushed him. “Keep your voice down,” he said in a whisper. “Shelton might hear you.”

“We all told her it was the wind that did it,” said Thompson quietly.

Mrs. Shelton had a cozy room off to the side of the school’s entrance. Charlie and Elsie had spent many hours in it, sipping tea and discussing the best options for Hughie, but it felt like ages since she stepped foot in there. Mrs. Shelton’s desk sat at the far end of the room with a few cozy chairs in front of it. She had three windows on one wall that showed a nice view of the courtyard, but the center window, Elsie noted, had a large hole where the outside world could blow right in. Below the broken window sat a lethargic-looking yellow dog. Mrs. Shelton scratched the dog’s ear before making her way to her desk. Elsie wondered if that was the dog Hughie told her about, the one some of the older boys snuck into her room.

Mrs. Shelton was a tall and thin woman, and she always had her hair pulled back into a tight bun. She was about Elsie’s age—perhaps a bit older—but she dressed more like a woman from the mid Victorian age where it seemed Her Majesty was immortal.

“Never mind that,” she said, gesturing to the broken window. “A man is coming to replace it this afternoon.”

“May I ask what happened,” said Elsie as she took a seat in a cozy chair.

Mrs. Shelton sat at her desk. She opened a drawer, pulling out a stack of papers. “Some boys were playing a game of cricket,” she explained. “I have my suspicions as to who it was... but the children certainly make catching the culprit a difficult task. They all say it was the wind.”

Elsie nodded, remembering the story Hughie had told her about about Mr. Barrow and his fall. And how Mr. Barrow was attempting to help Hughie instead of hurting him. “Perhaps it was the wind,” Elsie said, deciding to play along.

Mrs. Shelton raised her eyebrows in disbelief, but she smiled.

She handed Elsie the papers. “There are just a few documents you need to look over and sign before we can officially disenroll him,” she said.

Elsie took a moment to examine the papers. The first one had all of Hughie’s information. His name: Carson, Hugh Charles. His date of birth: 15 February, 1908. His height and his weight, and his condition and a few other things. The next few pages were legal forms that documented Hughie’s health records and his school records. She signed them with the ink pen Mrs. Shelton had given her.

After signing the last paper, she handed the documents back to Mrs. Shelton and the older woman took a moment to look over them, to make sure everything was in order. Satisfied, she placed the papers down. “I must admit I’ll miss the dear boy,” Mrs. Shelton said, “but Hughie’s time here has come to an end.”

And just like that, Hughie was no longer a student at Lloyd Andrews. They stayed a few more minutes so Hughie could say goodbye to everyone, but soon they were on their way back at the train station.

They stopped at a few shops along the way to see if they had any Braille books. To Hughie’s disappointment, they did not, and a few shop owners didn’t even know what Braille books were. They returned to the train station empty handed and a bit disappointed.

Their train was more than a few minutes late, and Elsie had a clear image of Charlie grumbling about it in her head. She laughed to herself as the train approached. She held onto Hughie’s hand. His grip was loose and noodle-like, but enough to satisfy her and assure that he would stay safe.

An older woman standing beside them looked at the train pulling up distastefully. “Ten minutes late,” she muttered. “This is absolutely unacceptable...”

And Elsie hid her amusement from the woman by covering her mouth and looking down at Hughie. But her laughter stopped once the passengers all started to exit. The conductor rushed over to assist two older men up front. The first man exited with ease, but he looked distressed as both he and the conductor struggled to get the other man out. And after a moment of observing them, it became clear to Elsie that the second man was like Becky, not quite right in the head. He did not seem to want to get off the train, and he was kicking and screaming in protest.

Becky never seemed to mind trains if it wasn’t too long of a journey, and Hughie as a young boy was all right as long as he was on Elsie’s lap the whole time.

The woman beside them scoffed. “Can you believe this? Don’t they have a separate section... or at least a different train for... for these kinds of people? He’s probably the reason the train is so late.”

She was loud enough for the man and the conductor to hear her, and they looked at her for a moment. The man gave her an apologetic look, but Elsie knew there was really nothing anyone could do in that moment; the next few minutes were just going to be difficult and the woman would just have to live with it.

“He’s confused and having a difficult time right now,” Hughie told the woman, and Elsie felt him squeeze her hand. “You should be kind.” And there it was. Those simple words neither she nor Charlie—or even her parents—had the courage to say to friends and strangers all those years ago while out and about, or at church... or anyplace public.

At first the woman looked shocked and then she looked offended. She turned to Elsie—perhaps expecting an apology from her. “He’s right, you know,” said Elsie in Hughie’s defense. “A little kindness never hurt anyone.”

“I just don’t see the point, Mrs. Hughes,” said Carson, straightening his vest. Elsie rolled her eyes. They stopped to take a look inside the servants hall. The maids all gathered around James as he spoke to them with much enthusiasm—too much enthusiasm for Carson’s liking; Daisy and Alfred were chatting while Ivy cleaned up the table; Hughie sat in Carson’s own chair; and Anna sat alone reading a letter.

“It’ll just be for a few hours,” Elsie said quietly. “What harm can it do?” She fell silent as Barrow passed them to enter the room, and quickly he found a seat next to James. “With Hughie officially staying with us, and Mr. Bates’s good news, I didn’t think you would mind.”

He cleared his throat. The maids giggled at whatever James had said, and so did Mr. Barrow. Carson already scolded the footman for getting too close with Daisy the other day; he feared if he allowed such a suggestion, the servants would declare him a hypocrite.

“Very well,” he said with a defeated sigh. “Let them have their little soirée.” Her hand softly brushed against his own. If they were alone, perhaps he would hold it. “But if it becomes too wild, I’m putting an end to it...”

She stroked his arm gently, and then she entered the servants hall. He observed her for a moment as she shared the news to the servants, but then he turned his heel and made his way back to his pantry. There was no point in him staying.

Anna looked on as Jimmy and Ivy danced around the room. The kitchen maid looked a bit dazed but absolutely cheerful. And the maids all looked jealous as he twirled her once, twice, and then a final time. Ivy laughed as their dancing came to end. Jimmy mimicked a fanciful bow and Ivy gave him a handsome curtsy in response. Anna turned to see Alfred brooding in a chair beside Daisy and Hughie.

“I don’t suppose you know how to dance, Alfred,” said Anna.

And Alfred blinked, his expression changing quickly.

“He can dance the foxtrot,” Daisy said, and she smiled up at him.

“But Daisy and me are far better at it,” insisted Jimmy—and Alfred’s brooding returned.

“What about you, Hughie?” asked Anna. “Did they have dances at Lloyd Andrews?”

He shook his head. “They did,” said Hughie, “but I can’t do any of that.”

“I’ll teach you,” said Daisy, “like I taught Alfred.”

She brought him to his feet and she helped him put his hands in the right position—but when they started dancing, his movements were unsteady and sloppy compared to her own. “You go... slow, slow—keep your arms up—quick, quick, slow...” When she wanted to go left, he went right. And when she wanted to turn, his foot stepped onto her own and they stumbled.

He pulled away quickly to prevent more damage. “I don’t think blind people were meant to dance the foxtrot,” said Hughie softly.

“You just need a bit more practice,” said Daisy. “That’s all.”

“You’re not telling him where he needs to put his feet, Daisy,” said Anna. “Here...” She adjusted his arms and she began instructing him where to place his feet. He listened carefully; he was still wobbly and his steps were far from confident, but he was matching her every move. “There you go,” she said.

Mr. Barrow entered, observing the pair as they danced. “You dance well, Hughie,” he said.

“Thanks,” said Hughie, unaware he was being mocked.

Anna stopped her movements to glare at Mr. Barrow. His smile faded and he bowed his head as he made his way towards Jimmy and the maids.

Carson traced the monster’s face with his index finger. He wasn’t particularly fond of the story or the characters... or the dark themes in it, but he wished he acted more enthusiastically about it with Hughie. His door opened, and he quickly pulled away from the book and turned his attention to the glass of wine sitting on his table. He cleared his throat, ridding his voice from any unwanted emotion.

“Yes?” he said as Elsie entered.

“Mrs. Patmore wants to have a word with me in my room. Knowing her, we might be a while—are you all right on your own for a bit longer?”

Knowing both of them, they might talk until dawn. He simply nodded.

Her eyes lingered briefly on the book before turning towards the door. “Come find me if you need anything.” She glanced at him. “And quit your grumbling—it really isn’t a good look on you, Mr. Carson.”

He huffed, but she had already closed the door behind her. He picked up the book on his table and examined the cover once more. The door opened again, and he prepared himself for Elsie. Maybe she forgot to tell him something or she was coming in to scold him some more for being an old curmudgeon. Perhaps he had been a bit too grumpy lately.

He straightened when Hughie appeared, and he quickly hid the book in his hands behind his chair—as if his son could even see it. They stayed silent for a moment, and Carson felt like they had frozen in time for a quick moment.

“Dad?” Hughie called gently.

“Yes—yes, I’m here,” he said, placing the book back down onto the table and taking a quick sip of his wine. “I’m right here.”

Hughie quietly made his way to the chair next to Carson.

Again, there was silence, and Carson cleared his throat just to fill the air with something. He glanced back down at the book before his eyes settled on Hughie.

“What’s the matter?” he asked. “Are you not enjoying the party?”

“They want me to dance,” said Hughie softly, “but I don’t really like it.”

“It can be quite challenging at times,” agreed Carson, recalling his time with Charlie Grigg—did Hughie know his old dad once sang and danced for people? That was a story for another time and place.

“What are you doing?”

Again, Carson glanced down at the book. “Sipping wine and... contemplating on what I might read next.” He watched Hughie for a moment—his eyes remained closed but he seemed alert. He found his son was most alert when his eyes were opened and not focused on keeping them shut. His head tilted in Carson’s direction. “Here,” Carson said, guiding Hughie’s hand up. He placed the wine glass carefully in his son’s bandaged hand. “I was about your age when my dad first let me take a sip his...”

Hughie slowly brought the glass to his mouth, and he slurped the wine. His face immediately tightened, and Carson could not help but smile. He had a similar reaction his first time too.

“It tastes so sour,” said Hughie as he handed the glass back to Carson.

“It’s an acquired taste,” agreed Carson. “You’ll get used to it once you’re a bit older.” He sipped his wine, tasting that bitterness Hughie was referring to.

Hughie shivered, still trying to recover from the taste. After a moment, his eyes opened. “We went to a few shops in Sheffield today,” he said. “I wanted to see if they had any Braille books...”

He already knew the answer, but Carson asked, “And did they?”

“Not in the ones we looked at, no,” said Hughie.

“You ought to write to a few libraries and see if they have any,” suggested Carson.

“Maybe,” said Hughie. “But I was really hoping to find out how Frankenstein ends—but I don’t think they have a version of it written in Braille.”

He felt something inside his stomach flutter as he reached for the book. “As it so happens, I’ve got the book right here...” He paused, watching his son’s face carefully. “I can finish reading it to you. That is, if you want me to—just so you can know how it ends.”

It was a long moment before Hughie replied. “All right,” he said.

And Carson placed his wine glass down and he began flipping through the pages. “Now, where did we leave off?”

“Er—well, Victor Frankenstein made himself ill after discovering it was Henry who had been murdered,” said Hughie.

And Carson swallowed his distaste for such a dark story. “Ah, yes,” he said, finding the page. “The end of chapter twenty-one, I believe.”

Chapter Text

The Return of the Native

Part II

Winter 1925

A young boy stood holding his mother's hand. He reminded Elsie of Hughie in many ways; he was small and looked very determined. His mother had stopped to chat with a group of women, and he seemed eager to keep moving, pulling at her arm and marching in place like a soldier at battle. She ignored his antics, which frustrated him to no end. Finally, he let go—wandering to the post office's front window to take a look inside. Hughie was never quite so independent, certainly not at that age.

Charlie exited the shop with one hand carrying a bulky Braille writer and a thick package in the other. The hand that carried the Braille writer also carried his hat, balanced by two of his fingers. He glanced at the boy—and Elsie wondered if he too saw the resemblance—and then he promptly made his way to Elsie.

She grabbed the package and he muttered his thanks as he adjusted his grip on the Braille writer and put on his hat. The Braille writer was a bit bigger than Hughie's old one, but it came with an attached handle on top to make it easier to carry around. "I feared it might not arrive on time," said Charlie. He fiddled with the buttons on his coat, shivering slightly at the cool February air.

She glanced down at the package. "It didn't," she reminded. "If you remember, Charlie, it was suppose to arrive a week ago."

"Well, it arrived before Monday," he told her. "Let's just be thankful for that."

The women finished their conversation, and the mother went to retrieve her young son from the glass window. The boy happily took his mother's hand again, and together they continued walking. And Charlie and Elsie started toward the other direction.

"Tomorrow's Saint Valentine's Day," said Charlie formally. He lifted his arm for Elsie to grab hold of, and she happily took it. "Do you want to do anything special?"

"What I would like for us to do is spend the day away—go eat lunch at a public house... or maybe visit the house to see how the workers are getting on," she said. "But I know that won't be possible." She paused, and Dr. Clarkson passed them with a smile and tilt of his hat. "I suppose I can cook something up at the cottage."

He hummed in that obnoxious way of his, and she looked up at him. "Is it... logical to have dinner at the cottage, Elsie—we would be getting back to the house awfully late."

Her eyebrows rose. "I should think if we're having dinner at the cottage, we'd want to spend the night there too, Mr. Carson."

"Yes, well, as much as I would like to, we can't," said Charlie with a sigh. "His... Lordship has an early morning the following day, and I simply cannot risk being late. With Mr. Bates and Anna's current situation... I have to be there to pick up their slack, Elsie."

She swallowed her annoyance as she turned her attention forward, to all the villagers passing them. "What would you prefer we do, then?"

"Maybe we can go on a nice evening walk," Charlie said, and he squeezed her hand. "Just the two of us."

She only nodded. "If that's what you want."

"Saint Valentine's Day is a young man's holiday, any heck," continued Charlie in a casual tone. She remained silent. And he must have sensed her disapproval on the comment, for he decided to explain himself further: "It takes more than a fancy card and a few flowers to tell someone you love them, Elsie."

They had been married almost eighteen years and his mindset for Valentine's Day had hardly changed. It had never been their holiday: Elsie had been pregnant their first Valentines as a married couple, miserable and about to burst. And the years following Hughie's birth they spent it trying to please him or they spent it working, or sometimes a mixture of the two. No, it was never their holiday, and he did plenty of things that told Elsie he loved her... but sometimes she wished he made more of an effort. Again, he squeezed her hand.

"Yes, I agree it does take more than a card and some flowers, or a simple dinner at the cottage to tell someone you love them, Charlie, but it's still nice to have on occasion."

Elsie did not allow for him to respond. In the distance, she spotted Mrs. Patmore standing near her deceased nephew's plaque, stroking it softly with her free hand—in her other hand she held her bag and her basket. Elsie quickly waved to get her attention as they made their way over to her. Elsie too took a moment to observe the plaque:

Remember here the sacrifice of Pte. Archie Philpotts Lancashire Fusiliers.

The poor lad had only been nineteen; far too young to see the horrors of war, Elsie knew—she didn't care what her husband thought. The boy was a hero, the same as their dear William.

"My sister still can't believe it. Lucy, my niece, told me she nearly fainted when they told her," said Mrs. Patmore. Her eyes were red and puffy—she always seemed to come back crying when returning from the village now since the memorial.

"It was a very kind of His Lordship," said Charlie, straightening his coat.

"I try to come by every so often," said Mrs. Patmore told them. "Give it a good clean when it needs it." She wiped a small speck of dirt away from Archie's name and then turned to the couple. She eyed the package in Elsie's hand. "It's arrived, then?" Mrs. Patmore asked.

Elsie unhooked her arm from Charlie to pat the package. "It has, finally," she said. "I only hope he'll enjoy it—it took quite the effort to get it here on time."

"I'm sure he'll love it," said Charlie gently.

And together Elsie and Mrs. Patmore began walking back to Downton Abbey with Charlie following close behind them.

They arrived at a short while later—Charlie mostly kept quiet while Elsie and Mrs. Patmore chatted and caught up on all of the gossip for that day: Mr. Branson's departure from Downton; Miss Denker's latest plot to annoy poor Mr. Spratt and the rest of the servants at Dower House; the Gypsies near the train station, who Mr. Carson wholeheartedly disapproved of, even grumbling at the mention of them; and then finally, preparations for Hughie's birthday celebration.

"Daisy and I are making the cake," said Mrs. Patmore, "but we haven't got the time to make anything special for dinner..." She shook her head as they entered the servant's courtyard where Mr. Barrow stood smoking a cigarette. Miss Baxter sat at a table beside him. The sight of the two together triggered the memory of Thomas Barrow and Miss O'Brien, and their many, many years of scheming. But, of course, Miss Baxter was far kinder than Miss O'Brien ever was at Downton, even with her messy past. "What about a party?" she continued as they walked past the pair.

"He says he doesn't want one," Elsie said. And who would they invite? Eddy and the servants, perhaps, but Hughie—or Hugh, as she kept trying to remember to call him—did not know anyone else well enough to invite to a birthday party. The village still seemed quite tense over a young blind boy.

"Is Hughie home?" asked Charlie, adjusting the Braille writer in his hand—it wasn't too heavy, as it was supposed to be more portable, but carrying it from the village to the house must take its toll.

"He came and he went," said Mr. Barrow with a neutral expression, taking a long drag of his cigarette.

"He went with Eddy down to the train station," Miss Baxter explained. "He said he would be back in an hour or so."

Elsie nodded her thanks as Charlie opened the door to the servant's entrance. Mrs. Patmore entered first with Elsie following close behind.

"It's hard to believe he's already seventeen," said Mrs. Patmore.

Elsie huffed. "Oh, don't I know it," she said. "I feel like I ought to start picking out my gravestone, I feel so old."

Carson carefully read the letter in his hands, Charlie Grigg's sloppy cursive making it nearly impossible for him to decipher what the words exactly said. Charlie rarely wrote to him, and Carson almost never wrote back—they had made their peace with one another, more so Carson had forgiven Charlie, and Alice too. That was all Carson truly needed. And Elsie, of course, knew nothing of his letters... or she was kind enough not to get involved. A full tea cup sat untouched beside him, the liquid inside far too cold now to even think about drinking it. Elsie, he knew, would come in soon enough and take it away, and perhaps scold him for not drinking it.

He set the letter down next to the tea cup, figuring out Charlie's mess enough to understand the general message of the letter. It seemed his old friend thought his days were numbered—and perhaps they were. Perhaps Carson's time remaining was also limited.

He had work to get on with, so he shook any unwelcome feelings away from his mind and he reached for his fountain pen. Black with a golden tip, it was a Christmas gift from Elsie; he fussed over the cost with her a bit, but he was appreciative of the gift nonetheless.

As he reached for it, he felt a slight tingle in his hand, and then an unprovoked shake. He quickly pulled the shaking hand close towards him; it bumped the tea cup and most of the liquid spilled onto Charlie's letter, but he was too focused on his hand to care. Carson stood abruptly, grasping the hand firmly with his other, taking a moment to observe the hand. It continued shaking. "Oh no," he muttered quietly.

"It's only a spill, Charlie," said Elsie's voice, and Carson quickly hid the hand behind his back.

He looked up, but she was already out the door, on a quest to find a rag, no doubt. Carson lifted his hand again; thankfully, it was no longer shaking. He hoped—no, he prayed—it wasn't what he thought it was. Elsie returned quickly with a grayish rag from the kitchen and he watched as she dabbed the mess away. Charlie's letter seemed to only be the thing ruined on his desk, and that hardly mattered to Carson. He threw it in the bin without another thought.

"My mind must've been elsewhere," he quickly said, hoping to hide the shakiness in his voice.

"It was Grigg again, wasn't it?" she said as she lifted the now soaked rag. He raised a thick eyebrow at her. So she had known about Charlie's letters. "You really should think about writing to him back one of these days."

Instead of replying, he simply turned away and sat back down in his chair. "How has the new footman been getting on?" Carson asked her, choosing to move on from the discussion about Charlie.

"Andrew? I haven't had any issues with him," she said, holding the wet wag in her hands. "Although—" And she stopped, hesitating. "I have noticed Mr. Barrow attempting to..."

"...corrupt him," Carson finished for her, shifting in his seat at such behavior. He sighed.

"No," she said almost shamefully. "But he does seem eager to befriend him."

"We don't want that sort of scandal at Downton again." He reached for his fountain pen again, thankful that there was no sign of shaking—perhaps he just experienced some sort of fluke. He grabbed it with ease. "I'll have a word with Andrew to assure he stays clear of Mr. Barrow and his... unlawful behavior."

She nodded before quickly exited with the tea cup and wet rag in her hands. He tidied the papers on his desk, taking one last look at both of his hands. And Elsie returned to his pantry empty handed.

"Hughie's gone up," she said, taking a seat in one of his chairs by the wall. Carson stood, moving to his wife to sit beside her.

"What did Madge need to speak with you about this evening?" he asked, grabbing the sherry to pour Elsie's glass, and then his own. Still no shaking.

She huffed, her mouth twitching slightly. She took the sherry glass and looked down into it. "Oh, it seems Madge has gotten quite close to that Robins boy in the last month or so..."

Carson's brows knit in confusion. He took a sip of his sherry. "I don't see how that relates to you or to Downton Abbey." And then realization quickly struck him, and he straightened; another Ethel Parks scandal was more than enough to send him over the edge. "She's not..."

"No, nothing of that sort," she told him softly, "but..." And she stopped, looking down at her glass.

"But...?" he asked cautiously.

"But he doesn't like her working at Downton," she said. She waited for a moment before continuing, watching him carefully in case he might explode in frustration. "He wants her working in a shop somewhere instead so her nights are free."

"So we're down two housemaids now," he grumbled, sipping his sherry. "And only two footmen—and an under butler, who isn't much use to me..."

"It's a changing world, Charlie," she said. "No one wants to spend their whole life in service anymore—if they ever did."

She turned away from him, hiding her expression. Downton Abbey was now a little less extraordinary than when a young and ambitious Charlie Carson first moved into the once great house—no, he refused to admit such defeat; they had just fallen under hard times.

"I'll speak with his lordship whenever he has the time," said Carson dutifully. "Don't you worry, Elsie."

"It appears I'm not the one worried here, Mr. Carson." She sipped her sherry and he let out an exasperated sigh.

Mr. Carson walked around the table handing letters to servants as he always did at that time in the morning—though today everyone seemed much more eager receiving their mail, for it was Saint Valentine's Day.

Phyllis Baxter had not received a Valentine's card since... well, since she was a young girl, perhaps, so she was surprised when Mr. Carson handed her a letter.

She looked briefly at Mr. Molesley, who attempted to hide his own interest in her letter by fiddling with his cuffs when their eyes met. Thankfully, or disappointingly, it was a letter from her elderly Aunt Rose, who must have forgotten such a silly love holiday existed. She looked over at Mr. Molesley again, feeling an urge to explain herself, but he quickly looked away.

"And this letter is addressed to Hughie—er, Hugh," said Mr. Carson while walking back to his seat at the head of the table. Phyllis Baxter turned to the empty seat beside her. Young Hugh Carson had left for school before the bread even rose up inside the heating oven. "He can open it when he returns from school..."

She turned to Mr. Barrow, who had an amused expression on his face as Mr. Carson placed the letter down with his own pile of mail, but he quickly turned his attention back to his own letters.

Mrs. Hughes, who sat next to Mr. Barrow, looked displeased for one brief moment before turning her attention to Mr. Carson, and they began a conversation.

The bells above Charlie rang. Anna rose and so did Miss Baxter, and together they walked out of the room. Charlie stood not too long after them, and everyone else followed suit. He waved them all down and he quickly headed for his pantry. Elsie followed him.

"I'm not sure I like him being away from the house so often, Elsie," he complained to her quietly, and Elsie only felt slightly disappointed that he made no effort to acknowledge the holiday to her; not even a kiss on the lips or a happy Saint Valentine's Day. "I don't think I've seen him since Thursday..."

"He deserves some freedom, Charlie," she retorted, too annoyed with him to agree on anything he said in that moment.

He huffed, shaking his head, and he quickly escaped inside his pantry. Elsie made her way to her own room, not wanting to stay and listen to his grumbling. But she quickly stopped upon entering her room. Something had changed since she had last entered her room an hour or so before breakfast. On her desk sat a beautiful bouquet of white roses and a card with the image of a mischievous Cupid embracing a decorated large red heart propped up beside the flowers. It read:

Mrs. Elsie Carson,

I'm sorry I called St. Valentine's Day a young man's holiday.

With love,

Your curmudgeon

Elsie smiled, her anger and annoyance at her husband almost forgotten. "Oh, I love you, Charlie Carson," she said softly, only to herself.

She placed the card aside and examined the roses. They were arranged strangely, but not terribly—perhaps a last minute order... or better yet he had arranged them himself. She bent to smell them when she heard the door close behind her, and she turned to see him looking at her, his hopeful eyes seeking acceptance.

She went to him, placing a gentle kiss on his lips, but he pulled her in closer to deepen it. When they pulled away a few moments later, she rested her hand on his chest.

"I know it isn't much—"

"Oh, Charlie, it's wonderful."

"We won't be able to do anything special tonight, but I promise next weekend we'll go eat lunch at a public house, we'll go see the house—we'll even go see a film, if that's what you want..."

She smiled, adjusting his tie that had gone lopsided, and he leaned down to kiss her again.

"I love you," he told her softly, their lips still touching.

"And I love you, Charlie Carson, you old curmudgeon."

Barrow looked down at the letter in his hands—Jimmy Kent, not a name he heard often these days. He was well, having found work with some rich bloke in London. To emphasize his love for women, and only women, he wrote about all the loose girls in the city. Perhaps he realized the letter would be received on Valentine's Day, and he did not want Barrow to mistake his letter as anything more than a declaration of friendship. He also spoke about how he missed Downton, and Daisy and Ivy—even Mr. Carson; the servants where he now worked were snobbish and mean, he wrote. He spoke of the fire at Downton, and the regrets he had that night...

Barrow ignited a single match and lit his cigarette before taking the flame and setting Jimmy's letter on fire, and he watched as his words slowly faded out of existence. But before the flame could reach his other hand, Barrow blew it out with a strong cigarette breath. He wasn't going to risk his position at Downton—not anymore. Smoke surrounded him.

"You really ought to be careful when doing that," warned Miss Baxter. She had just entered the courtyard, witnessing his rebellious and possibly foolish act. But he knew she kept secrets, so he did not worry he might tell Mrs. Hughes or Mr. Carson.

Instead, he threw what remained of the letter into the large trash bin beside him—it could not be traced back to him should anyone discover it was a letter.

"I hope everything is all right," Miss Baxter continued after a long moment of silence.

"You can never be too careful these days, Miss Baxter," he said. "That's all." She nodded, but her expression told him she was unconvinced with his explanation. "Did Mr. Molesley finally muster up enough courage to tell you he loves you?" he asked her bluntly, motioning to her own letter.

"No." She clutched the letter to her chest. After a moment, she winced, realizing her own words. "That is—I received a letter from my Aunt Rose in Preston." She turned away, her face slightly growing pink.

Were they close enough that Barrow could tease her about Mr. Molesley? Or perhaps he was being too harsh about it. Their friendship—or acquaintanceship—was something he was beginning to enjoy. But it was hardly enough to ignite the flame in his soul.

"It appears Hughie has a secret Valentine of his own," he decided to continue, and she turned back to him.

"Would that be so terrible," she said gently.

"No," he agreed. "I don't know officially. But he has been gone quite a bit lately—haven't you noticed? He and that friend of his have been hanging 'round the Gypsies apparently. Mr. Carson won't be too pleased when he finds out..."

"It isn't our business," she said firmly.

He shrugged, putting his cigarette in his mouth and taking a long drag. Miss O'Brien was much easier to gossip with.

Seventeen years ago today Elsie was heading off to bed, wishing only in that moment for Hughie to be born—of course she had no idea it was Hughie she was waiting for. She remembered crying in Charlie's arms that night as he tried to coax her to sleep. Saint Valentine's Day was far from their minds on that day. If she recalled, Charlie had given her some flowers to celebrate, but she was too miserable to care. And by early the next morning, Charlie was fetching Dr. Clarkson and she was prepping to have a baby at the ripe old age of forty-six.

The whole nine months were dreadful, and the labor was even worse, but she would do it a thousand times over if it meant having Hughie. Now she wrapped his gift for his seventeenth birthday. Oh, where had all the time gone, she often wondered. Her baby boy was growing into a man, and there was nothing she or Charlie could do about it. A knock on her door pulled her away briefly from her thoughts and Charlie entered.

"I'm going up to ring the dressing gong," he informed her, looking briefly at the gift in her hands.

She nodded, tying a ribbon string around the present. He let out a gentle but irritated sigh, and she smiled to herself. "Where's he gone off to now?" she asked him delicately.

"Nowhere—yet," he said. "But he is insistent on going out tonight. Eddy has apparently found some last minute trouble for them to cause..."

"Well, it is Saint Valentine's Day, Charlie," she said.

"And tomorrow is a school day."

"And also his birthday," she reminded him, and he huffed.

"I'm not waiting up for him, Elsie," he said. "If he isn't home by ten, I'm locking the doors and he's sleeping outside."

He checked the time on his watch once more. It was already half past ten and still no sign of Hughie—or Hugh as he was wanting to now be called. He was ready to telephone the police five minutes past ten, but Elsie told him to wait a while longer; it was still quite early and they really shouldn't start worrying until eleven, she explained to him.

She tried to bribe him with some of his favorite wine, but his nerves still got the better of him. Edward Wright was a terrible influence on his precious boy and he would ban him from the house and their cottage if Elsie only allowed it.

"I'm sure they're on their way back now, Charlie," she told him softly. "I wouldn't worry too much. He knows the area well enough that he can find his way back to the house on his own."

"It's not Hughie I'm worried about," muttered Carson, taking a sip of his wine. It was everyone else he had little trust for.

She placed her hand on his knee for extra reassurance. He patted it gently, appreciating the gesture.

Carson glanced at his hand holding the wine glass. He hadn't shaken since the incident, and he hoped he would never see any sort of movement again. Had he ever mentioned palsy to Elsie? He could not remember, but he was not about to put more worries in that precious mind of hers.

A knock on the door shook his worries away and he placed his glass down as Mr. Bates opened the door.

"We're leaving now," informed Mr. Bates.

His face looked grim—Carson truly pitied the man. Anna had only recently been released from prison and Mr. Bates returned shortly after her, but that damn man Green still haunted their lives.

Carson stood, adjusting his vest on his way up. "I've spoken with his lordship and he says if you and Anna want to take time off tomorrow, you are free to do so."

"Thank you, Mr. Carson, but we must decline the offer," he said. "She likes to keep busy; we both do. It helps us to keep our minds off... things."

"Have you heard from Sergeant Willis yet?" asked Elsie behind Carson.

"I telephoned him this afternoon," he said with a frown. "The investigation is still ongoing."

"Erm—we mustn't lose hope, Mr. Bates," said Carson firmly.

"I don't intend to," he said. He nodded in his direction. "Goodnight, Mr. Carson—Mrs. Hughes."

"Goodnight," said Elsie, and Carson closed the door behind Mr. Bates. "Poor thing," she said quietly as Carson found his way back to his chair.

"I only wish there was more we could do," he said with a sigh.

"I hate to see an innocent woman hang for the murder of a vicious monster..." She shuddered, taking a long sip of her wine; she had known the secret the longest—only telling him the entire truth once Anna had been arrested, and she had wept in his arms almost the whole night.

"It won't come to that, Elsie," he told her. "They haven't got any proof."

They fell silent. Carson looked down at his wine. Red and dry, and very delicious—the wine he had given Hughie all those years ago when Hughie was just a boy. And now... he was still just a boy; an older, much more rebellious boy.

"We should speak to Hughie—er, Hugh—about finding work," Carson said firmly. "I'd like for him to have something near here—so we can keep a close eye on him—but I don't want to force anyone to hire him..."

"I suppose we do need to speak with him about it eventually," she said softly, "but let's not ruin his birthday, Charlie. We can talk to him after."

He checked the time again: it was getting close to eleven. He stood to phone the police when he heard another knock on his door.

"Come in," he called out as he found the telephone's handle.

Anna entered with an amused expression on her face. His hand fell back to his side.

"Anna," said Elsie, standing. "I thought you and Mr. Bates had already gone..."

"We had... only—well, you better come see for yourself."

Carson and Elsie shared a quizzical look as Anna led them towards the kitchen. The sound of laughing and loud, obnoxious singing:

'Twas early the next morning he prepared to go away.

The landlord said "Your reckoning, sir, you have forgot to pay."

"Oh no", the butcher did reply "pray do not think it strange.

A sovereign I gave your maid and I haven't got the change."

They straight way called the chambermaid and charged her with the same.

The golden sovereign she laid down, prepared she'd get the blame.

The butcher then went home, well pleased with what was passed.

And soon this pretty chambermaid grew thick about the waist...

And there Hughie stood tall and proud, dancing and singing like a drunk fool on Saint Valentine's Day. His hat sat disregarded on the floor below his jittery feet. His hair was untamed and his shirt untucked—and he wasn't even wearing his vest, and where on earth were his shoes? Eddy danced and sung along side him, louder and much more foolishly—although, he at least looked more put together.

The maids all giggled around them. Mr. Molesley and Miss Baxter were attempting to settle them down into a couple of chairs. Daisy was in the corner preparing some coffee for them both. And Mr. Barrow stood smiling in the corner, simply looking on at the frightful sight.

"What in God's name..." Carson said in a booming voice.

The dancing stopped and Eddy wobbled on over to him. "Hel... Hello," he said with a burp, "Mr... Mr. Carson!" Eddy's arm wrapped around his shoulders, and Carson, disgusted by the action, quickly brushed him off. He fell to the floor with a loud thud.

Elsie gasped and together with Anna they quickly got him back on his feet. Mr. Molesley and Miss Baxter managed to get Hughie down in a chair and Daisy was pouring a cup of hot coffee for him.

"We found them like this on our way home," explained Anna. "We wanted to make sure they made it here safe."

"Thank you, Anna," said Elsie, growing slightly pink.

"We're sorry we troubled you with this," said Carson. "Please, don't let us keep you any longer. We have everything under control here."

She nodded at him and then turned to Hughie. He sat with his hands supporting his chin with his elbows firmly on the table, and his eyes tightly closed. "I doubt you'll remember any of this in the morning," she said, and his head tilted in her direction, "but you gave Mr. Bates and I quite the show." Her hand rested on his shoulder and she smiled—the first smile Carson had seen from her in months. "Thank you." She turned to Carson and Elsie. "Goodnight."

She quickly left and Mr. Molesley moved towards Eddy. "I'll make sure Eddy makes it home all right..."

"That's very kind," said Elsie, handing Eddy off to him. "Thank you, Mr. Molesley."

"I'll come with," said Andrew as he entered the kitchen. "We've all been there before..." But his smile quickly faltered as he met Carson's disapproving gaze. "At least, I think—I wouldn't know, of course."

Carson resisted the urge to roll his eyes. "Take him," he ordered. "I want him as far away from this house as possible... and then some."

"Your wish, is, is... is my command," said Eddy as he was dragged out of the room with one arm around Andrew and the other around Mr. Molesley.

Carson huffed.

"Come now," said Elsie to Hughie sweetly. She lifted him off the chair and she pulled him in close to her. He snuggled in close, like he did when he was a small and helpless child. "Let's get you up to bed, shall we?"

"Elsie—"

"He's in no condition for one of your famous lectures, Mr. Carson," said Elsie as she slowly led Hughie to the stairs. Instead of arguing with her, he decided to help his wife; after all, Hughie was now almost taller than him, and in an hour or so would be his seventeenth birthday.