Mrs. Hughes had a great deal on her mind and hadn't slept well recently. Tonight was no different; it was two o'clock and she found herself once again contemplating the ceiling of her bedroom. She didn't have a lamp on, so she was actually only imagining her ceiling, which she knew like the back of her hand. Over her head there was a curving crack in it, one that had been barely noticeable when she first moved into the housekeeper's room, but now was about six inches long. Six inches in almost twenty years. How would her own life be measured, if all she had achieved at this moment was all she would achieve in her life? Would it be measured like that crack in the ceiling, as just a measure of time that she had spent in one place? She had achieved a great deal, by some standards. Mrs. Hughes was a farmer's daughter, but she had taken her education at the village school and moved on to educate herself further as she moved up through the ranks in service. She read, she observed, and she learned. And now she had become the housekeeper at one of England's great estates, working for a family that had its share of faults and frailties, but who treated employees well. She could hold an intelligent conversation with the lady of the house and then go downstairs and speak to her newest housemaid just as easily. But how would that measure in the end? She could think of at least one thing she had not achieved in her lifetime, but she knew that it was fruitless to linger on those thoughts. In vulnerable moments like this, it could be extremely painful.

She lay still, her eyes wide open, though she could see nothing. All was silent, other than the creaking of the house. She gradually became aware of sounds breaking that silence - a voice, she thought. She raised herself up on her elbows to listen. It was coming from the men's side of the hall; it sounded like someone was having a nightmare. At first she waited for Mr. Carson or one of the others to wake the poor man, but after a few seconds it occurred to her that it sounded like Mr. Carson himself who was in distress. She got out of bed, put on her dressing gown, and left her room. She made her way quickly and quietly through the dividing door - years of taking care of staff who were ill had taught her that - and toward Mr. Carson's room. She hoped he hadn't moved his lamp since the last time he'd been ill, or she might have difficulty finding it. Otherwise she might have to turn on the overhead light and that could be a rude awakening for him. Mrs. Hughes entered Mr. Carson's room and started to move toward the table where his lamp usually stood when she was brought up short by his nightmare-fueled mumblings.

"Don't go," he muttered. "I can't do without you, Mrs. Hughes." His voice rose and Mrs. Hughes stumbled again in the direction of the lamp. "Please don't go, Mrs. Hughes. How will I do without you? Elsie, don't go." She had some difficulty finding the lamp at first, not because he had moved it, but because she wasn't used to arriving in the pitch black without a light of her own. It was only a few second more, though, before she had found it and switched it on. She hurried to the bed and began shaking Mr. Carson by the shoulder.

"Mr. Carson, wake up." She tried to sharpen her tone enough to cut through his sleep, but not to wake anyone else. "Mr. Carson!"

His eyes opened at the sound of her voice and his face crumpled. "Why do you torment me?" he pleaded.

"Mr. Carson," she said more firmly, shaking him harder. "Wake up! You're having a bad dream." At last, she could see him wake as she looked into his eyes. Suddenly his opposite hand reached over to the hand that still lay on his shoulder and clamped onto her wrist like a vise.

"What is happening?" He spoke in a low, urgent tone.

"You had a bad dream," she answered, then winced. "Mr. Carson, you're hurting me." He let go of her wrist as quickly as he had taken hold of it. "You were making quite a bit of noise. I was already awake, so I thought I'd come wake you before any of the others were disturbed."

"Thank you," he said. "I'm sorry to have bothered you."

"It's no trouble, Mr. Carson. As I said, I was already awake."

He didn't say anything else or even look at her and his breathing seemed to have quieted, so Mrs. Hughes decided she would leave him. However, she had taken only one step away from him when he grasped her hand again, this time much more gently than before. "Don't go yet, Mrs. Hughes."

She stood still, her heart in her throat. First there had been the nightmare and everything he had said before she woke him, but now that he was awake he was behaving oddly as well. She wasn't used to him taking her hand like that. She gave a little nod and he let go of her hand and patted the bed beside him.

"Will you sit?" he asked.

Mrs. Hughes ignored his gesture and pulled up the armchair so she could sit close to the bed, but not on it. She waited to see what he would say.

"I dreamt you were dying, and I was with you when you died," he said. Mrs. Hughes stopped breathing for a moment. "But then it happened over and over. You were alive, but then you died, again and again."

"If it makes you feel better, Mr. Carson, I assure that I can die only once." The words sounded callous to her as soon as they left her mouth, but she could not take them back.

"That isn't funny, Mrs. Hughes." She was pierced by his grave and reproachful gaze.

"You're right. I'm sorry."

"But the dream was true, wasn't it?" he asked, his eyes not releasing her. "Or at least some of it was."

"What do you mean?"

"I heard you and Mrs. Patmore talking earlier - about your waiting for some news from the doctor."

Mrs. Hughes couldn't speak.

"What is wrong, Mrs. Hughes?"

She was still silent.

"Will you not tell me? I've dreamt and imagined so many things, each more frightful than the last."

"All right. I'll tell you," she said softly. He took her hand again, which shook her almost as much as this strange conversation, more personal than any they had ever had. "I found a lump, a growth of some sort, and I went to see Dr. Clarkson. He did a small surgery to test the fluid in it."

"Surgery!" Mr. Carson interrupted. "When was this? Why did you not say? Didn't you need time to recuperate?"

"It was a few weeks ago," she answered. "I wanted to keep working, to feel normal, to try to avoid thinking about it."

"I remember now. You didn't seem quite yourself. And I was a terrible ogre, wasn't I?" he murmured.

Mrs. Hughes shook her head. "It doesn't matter now. Anyway, Dr. Clarkson's test was inconclusive so he's sent the fluid off for analysis. I hope the results will come soon, so I know what I am facing." She paused and took a deep breath. "I might have cancer." She looked at him with tears in her eyes. He looked terrible, all mussed and red-faced after his nightmare. "Have you got a handkerchief?" she asked.

Mr. Carson nodded. "In that drawer."

She opened the indicated drawer and pulled out one of his handkerchiefs. She moved from her chair to perch on the bed. "You're sweating, you poor man, and you're all flushed." She wiped his face with the handkerchief. "Can I get you a glass of water?"

Mr. Carson could hardly believe the kindness of the woman gently wiping the sweat from his brow, though it had always been there. She was the one waiting to find out if she had a fatal disease, but she was comforting him. "No, thank you, Mrs. Hughes. Just stay here, please, for a little longer." She had laid aside the handkerchief and he took her hand again and spoke gently, this time looking at their hands, rather than her face. "I hope you know you can rely on me, Mrs. Hughes."

"Of course."

"I'm am old curmudgeon, but-"

"Not old, Mr. Carson, please." Mrs. Hughes smiled.

"But I am your friend," he finished, finally looking up at her.

She nodded and looked at him in wonder. She wanted to speak, but couldn't really find the words. Mr. Carson seemed to understand and waited patiently.

"You were that upset?" she said at last.

He looked shocked. "Of course I was upset! What kind of man would I be if I wasn't upset by a dream of watching you die, again and again, and being completely powerless to do anything about it?"

Mrs. Hughes shook her head. "I meant that I didn't tell you."

He was silent for a moment. "Yes, I was."

"I hope our speaking of it now will not cause you any more nightmares," she remarked.

"I don't think so," Mr. Carson replied. "Not now you've confided in me. That means a lot to me."

Mrs. Hughes smiled slightly. She very gently pushed back the hair hanging over his forehead with her free hand. "I should go."

"Stay a little longer."

"All right."

Mr. Carson smiled and squeezed her hand. Mrs. Hughes stayed perched on the side of his bed, the warmth of his hand making her feel safe and cared for. They just looked at each other, saying nothing, until he fell asleep. She felt his hand relax its grip on hers and she sat there for another minute or so watching him sleep before she left his room and quietly returned to hers.

To be continued...