Chapter Text
The rhythmic, heavy clatter of the train wheels against the iron tracks did little to soothe Mr Carson’s troubled mind. As the steam engine pulled slowly away from Downton station, he stared out at the grey, rolling Yorkshire countryside, though he barely saw it. He released a long, weary sigh. It had been a truly terrible week. Things had gone progressively downhill ever since the telegram had arrived on Monday, and as he began his journey north, Mr Carson was beginning to wonder if things at the Abbey would ever be the same again...
The servants’ hall was a cacophony of clinking cutlery and overlapping chatter as Mr Carson walked into the room, holding a small brown envelope. He approached the head of the table.
"Telegram for you, Mrs Hughes," he announced, handing it down to her.
She frowned slightly as she took it from his fingers, clearly not expecting to receive correspondence of any kind, let alone something as urgent as a telegram. Her curiosity piqued, she opened it swiftly, her thumb tearing the paper, and scanned the page. Within seconds, her eyes widened as her mind struggled to comprehend the ink on the small sheet of paper. All at once, her stoic face began to crumple.
She stood sharply, pushing her chair violently away from the table. Its wooden legs scraped loudly, jarringly, against the stone floor. Without a word, she hurried out of the servants’ hall, her hand clamped firmly over her mouth to stifle a sob.
The rest of the staff watched her go with their mouths hanging open in stunned silence. They had never seen such a dramatic, visceral show of emotion from their housekeeper; she was notoriously calm and even-tempered, rarely raising her voice unless a junior housemaid had done something monumentally foolish. The staff exchanged questioning glances before turning expectantly to Mr Carson.
His eyes were still fixed firmly on the doorway through which Mrs Hughes had vanished, wearing an expression of profound concern. As he stood there, the silence in the hall deafening, he fought a rapid internal battle to decide upon the best course of action. He briefly considered summoning Mrs Patmore but discarded the notion almost immediately; as close as the cook and Mrs Hughes could be, they had engaged in a spectacular row over the store cupboard key not two hours earlier. He certainly couldn’t send a junior member of staff; a woman of Mrs Hughes’s pride would loathe them seeing her in such a vulnerable state.
No, if someone were to provide comfort to her, it would have to be him.
"Excuse me," he announced briskly to the staring table, giving his waistcoat a firm tug to compose himself. He turned on his heel, following the exact route Mrs Hughes had taken moments before.
As he neared the corridor leading to her sitting room, he could hear muffled, ragged sobbing coming from behind the closed wooden door. He stopped in his tracks, feeling his heart break a little at the devastating sound. She was the closest thing he had to a true friend in that great house, and he simply could not bear to think of her in pain.
He knocked lightly, but there was no reply. So, sucking in a deep breath and steeling himself for what he might find, he turned the brass handle and stepped inside.
Mrs Hughes was sitting slumped at her desk, her head buried in her hands, her shoulders shaking as she wept freely.
"Mrs Hughes!" he gasped softly. He was about to ask her if she was alright but swiftly bit his tongue; quite clearly, she was not.
She started a little at the sudden sound of his voice, sitting up and hurriedly wiping at her cheeks, but she could not find her voice.
"Has something happened?" he asked, approaching her desk with slow, measured steps.
She offered a pitiful nod and held out the crumpled telegram. He took it delicately and began to read.
WE REGRET TO INFORM YOU THAT YOUR SISTER BECKY PASSED AWAY LAST EVENING (SUNDAY) STOP PLEASE COME AT ONCE STOP DOCTOR PERCIVAL
"Oh, Elsie," he breathed, dropping heavily to his knees beside her chair.
He could count on the fingers of one hand the number of times he had used her Christian name since she had become Housekeeper, but he was so profoundly moved by seeing her in such absolute distress that the familiar name fell from his lips without a second thought.
He tentatively reached out, placing a large, comforting hand atop her trembling ones. Physical contact between them had been strictly limited in the past, bound by the unwritten rules of their stations. A small part of him wondered if, even in this grave situation, it would still be considered entirely improper. Yet, he brushed the thought aside the moment her fingers uncurled and grasped his hand with a desperate tightness. Remaining on his knees, he began to stroke gentle, comforting circles on the back of her hand with his thumb, anchoring her as the first waves of her terrible grief washed over her.
The family had been remarkably sympathetic upon hearing the tragic news. Lord Grantham had immediately granted Mrs Hughes a leave of absence and offered to cover her travel arrangements to her late sister’s home in Manchester. She had left on the evening train. At that point, Mr Carson, like the rest of the household, fully expected her to return once the funeral arrangements were concluded and the dust had settled.
That was, of course, until he had been summoned to the drawing room this morning, shortly after breakfast.
He entered the drawing room, his hands clasped behind his back, to find both Lord and Lady Grantham awaiting him.
"Ah, Carson. Thank you for being so prompt," Lord Grantham said from his place by the fireplace.
"May I ask what this is regarding, My Lord?"
"We received a letter this morning from Mrs Hughes," Lady Grantham informed him, her brow furrowed in genuine vexation. "It appears she does not wish to return to Downton."
Mr Carson felt the floor drop out from beneath him. He was completely flabbergasted. Mrs Hughes not returning to Downton? The idea was preposterous. It was unthinkable. How on earth would they manage without her? How would he manage without her?
"May I enquire as to her reasons?" he asked, keeping his voice carefully neutral while inwardly bracing himself.
"She doesn’t say," Lady Grantham replied, gesturing to a piece of paper on the low table. "She merely apologises and states that, due to ‘unforeseen circumstances,’ she must give her notice."
"Did you know anything of this, Carson?" Lord Grantham asked, watching the butler closely.
"I did not, My Lord," he replied honestly, his mind racing. "She has never mentioned such an intention.”
“Do you suppose it could simply be the shock of the grief?" Lady Grantham asked.
"It is possible, I suppose," agreed Carson
"Well, whatever it is, I am not prepared to lose my housekeeper over it," Lady Grantham said firmly, a note of finality in her voice. "I don’t know how the house would run without Mrs Hughes."
Lord Grantham nodded, though Mr Carson privately wondered if his lordship was merely agreeing to appease his wife. "Quite. Carson, you will be on the next train to Manchester."
"I beg your pardon, My Lord?"
"You are to go, find Mrs Hughes, and bring her back," Robert explained, leaving no room for argument. "We will cover any travel or lodging costs you may incur."
"But what about Downton?" Carson asked, his profound sense of duty warring with his desperate desire to see Elsie.
"We will manage. We have nothing particularly important planned for the remainder of the week. Thomas can cover your duties for a couple of days; it will allow him an opportunity to prove himself worthy of remaining here."
"Do whatever it takes to persuade Mrs Hughes to return," Lady Grantham instructed, before offering a polite nod and excusing herself from the room.
"And if she cannot be persuaded?" Carson dared to ask, once the door had clicked shut behind her ladyship. He didn’t want to consider the grim possibility—he prayed he could convince her—but he, of all people, knew exactly how fiercely stubborn Elsie Hughes could be when her mind was made up.
"I dread to think," Lord Grantham muttered dryly, clearly imagining his wife’s wrath should Carson fail. Carson merely bowed his head; he felt it was professional not to pass comment.
Dusk was already falling, painting the sky a bruised purple, as he stepped off the train in Manchester.
He flagged down a scruffy porter on the bustling platform and asked for directions to the address printed neatly at the top of Mrs Hughes’s letter. The man gave him an incredibly odd, almost pitying look when he enquired about the destination, but provided the required information, warning him it was about a fifteen-minute walk from the station.
As he walked, his leather shoes clicking against the pavement, Mr Carson quickly began to understand the porter’s expression. It was, for lack of a better word, completely squalid. It felt like stepping straight into one of the darker chapters of the Dickens novels he loved so much.
The streets grew progressively narrower, and the houses—a grim product of the industrial revolution—were small, soot-stained, and tightly packed together like rotten teeth. The uneven cobbled ground was slick with filth and mud, still damp from an earlier bout of rainfall. There were only a few feeble, flickering gas lamps lighting the way, casting long, eerie shadows, and Mr Carson had to step carefully to avoid tripping over refuse in the gutters.
Looming factory chimneys rose high behind the terraced roofs, puffing out relentless clouds of smoke and smog that hung low and heavy in the chilly air. A thin, greasy film of soot seemed to cover every surface. And the smell – a noxious blend of unwashed bodies, rotting cabbage, and burning coal – was so pungent that Mr Carson genuinely wouldn’t have minded had his nose abruptly fallen off.
Mr Carson felt entirely disoriented. Whenever Mrs Hughes had mentioned her sister – which, he’d readily admit, wasn’t often – she had painted a picture of a comfortable, respectable life that did not in any way equate to the destitution he was witnessing now. If his memory served him correctly, her sister’s husband was a bank clerk. That was a highly respectable occupation, one that would have earned them more than enough to live somewhere significantly better than this slum. What on earth could have gone so terribly wrong for her to be residing in such a grim part of the city?
He would soon discover his answer. As he approached the end of the first row of cramped houses, peering through the gloom, he spotted the number he was searching for. It looked marginally better kept than its neighbours – the step had at least been swept – but that wasn't saying much. Still, it gave him a tiny flicker of hope.
He rapped his knuckles confidently against the peeling paint of the door. Several long moments later, it was pulled open by a young boy who looked to be no more than eight or nine years old, clad in a shirt that had clearly seen better days.
"Can I help you, mister?" the boy asked, looking up at the towering butler with wide, intelligent eyes that painfully reminded him of Mrs Hughes.
"I’m looking for—" He was abruptly cut off as the door was pulled wider and another child, a girl several years older than the boy, appeared in the threshold.
"James, what have you been told about opening the door without an adult?" she chided, wiping her hands on a flour-dusted apron.
"But you’re not an adult," the boy retorted instantly.
Mr Carson had to press his lips firmly together to suppress a smirk at the lad’s sheer cheek.
"I’m older than you, so you must do as I say. Go and finish laying the table; dinner is nearly ready." She turned her attention to Mr Carson and smiled apologetically, brushing a stray lock of hair from her forehead. "I’m very sorry about that, sir. Can I help you?"
"I was looking for a Mrs Hughes, but having seen the area, I fear I may have the wrong house," he explained softly, preparing to tip his hat and turn around.
"Wait! You do have the right house," the girl smiled, her face brightening. "Please, come in. She’s just in the kitchen."