Mrs. Charlie Carson

It was Boxing Day night, forty-eight hours since they had met in Mr. Carson's office and had the conversation that had changed their lives. And yet the old habits persisted. Mrs. Hughes was tidying up her desk when there was a tap at the door and she saw Mr. Carson standing there. She expected to see him with the usual sherry and glasses, but instead he held a small ledger, a few envelopes stuffed with papers, and some stray pages.

"May I come in, Mrs. Hughes?" As always, he observed the formalities.

She smiled and gestured to their usual habitat, the small side table and the chairs on either side of it. He nodded in acknowledgment, moved into the room, nudged the door closed with one foot, and put the material down on the table. Watching him with newly aware eyes, Mrs. Hughes was taken by what a graceful man he was. He was really quite attractive and she felt an impulse to kiss him and moved forward to do just that. He turned around just as she came up to him, and he appeared to divine her intention instantly. And he stepped back.

Mrs. Hughes stopped abruptly. He turned his head just a little to the side, as if away from her, though his eyes met hers. With an exasperated sigh, she moved back and was even more annoyed to see him relax a little.

"What is it?" She let a note of irritation slip into her words.

He straightened up again. "I do not think that we ought to let our understanding alter the form of our interactions on a regular basis, Mrs. Hughes."

What a convoluted mouthful. "Why not?" she demanded.

He seemed puzzled that she should challenge him on this. "I think it may appear unseemly," he said.

"How?" She was still perplexed. "We're engaged to be married. I think it's legal."

"We need to maintain a sense of decorum in our place of work," he attempted.

She stared at him for a minute and then rolled her eyes and flung herself down in the chair on her side of the table. "I wasn't proposing world revolution, Mr. Carson. I only thought that after a long day's work I might enjoy a chaste kiss with the man I'm going to marry."

He did not sit. Instead, he shifted uncomfortably before her. He could tell that she was unhappy and this troubled him. Perhaps he could explain. "I am not ... insensible to or... undesiring of... the physical pleasures of ... love..., Mrs. Hughes." The colour rose in his face as he stumbled his way through this and had she not thought him unbearably pompous in this minute, she might have smiled indulgently. Mr. Carson was trying to have his cake and eat it, too. "But ..." Suddenly he seemed to come to himself and stood taller and assumed a posture more in keeping with Downton Abbey's regal butler. "But I like to do things properly," he said firmly, "and I won't apologize for that."

His words only incensed Mrs. Hughes. "And I don't?!" Her eyes blazed and for the first time since their relationship had changed, Mr. Carson felt the heat of her fury.

He winced. "That's not what I meant."

"Well, it's what you said!" She crossed her arms in a pose that conveyed a distinct coolness toward him.

For a long moment, neither of them moved. She stared across the room at her desk and wondered whether she should go back to it and finish the accounts that she'd put away that she might spend some time with him. Or perhaps she should just go up to bed. Maybe he would be more affectionate in her dreams.

Mr. Carson was in a quandary. He did, indeed, feel very uncomfortable about showing her any affection in their workplace, and he had his reasons. It was unprofessional. Were the butler and the housekeeper to begin kissing and hand-holding and whispering sweet nothings in the passage, then everyone would soon be doing it and the place would look like a county dance instead of a place of business. Of even more importance, such behaviour would undermine their authority, his in particular. He could not be seen to be so susceptible to his feelings. No one would take him seriously. His authority in the servants' hall was that of a benevolent autocrat, with emphasis on the noun rather than the adjective. He also believed that intimacy between himself and Mrs. Hughes ought to be private, for their own sakes, not something open to the scrutiny of others. He thought she would understand all that, or some of it anyway, and abide by it.

And yet she was unhappy. She was bolder than he was, he knew. She would say Let them look on, and not care that they did. But was he really wrong?

He was uneasy standing there and he did not know whether he should stay or collect his papers and go, and leave the conversation he had intended to have for another night. But he did not want to part from her on a sour note. It had been only two days since she had agreed to marry him. Shouldn't the honeymoon have lasted a little longer? He knew already there was only one way to resolve this and that he must take the initiative.

"All right," he said heavily, trying to catch her eye. "Before we go up, at the end of the evening, and only if there's no one else around."

This did get her attention. Her head turned and she fastened an icy glare on him. "And that's your idea of a concession?"

His shoulders slumped and he looked away in unhappy resignation.

But, of course, it was his idea of a concession and Mrs. Hughes recognized it. "All right," she said, giving in and lightening her tone. "It's a deal." She didn't think it was much of a deal, but it was clearly as much as she was going to get. It was her policy to make the best of things. He looked up quickly and she smiled at him. "You drive a hard bargain, Charlie Carson, but... Oh, dear, have I transgressed again!" And her voice turned from conciliation to exasperation.

When she said his name, he blanched, although he recovered more quickly this time. "Am I not to call you by your name either?" she demanded.

"Well, not here!" he said, his eyes round with indignation.

"Mr. Carson," she said, with a broadly sarcastic inflection, "we are only here. There is no anywhere else for us."

He did not want a second round of confrontation. "There's the house," he said mildly. The house he had bought for them. The house that had given him the excuse, or perhaps the courage, to propose marriage.

"All right," she said swiftly, soothingly. She wondered what he thought she wanted to do that they needed to decamp to the house to do it. And then she wondered about why he needed to go several miles from Downton just to kiss her. It was too complicated to unravel now. "We just won't take up that issue for the moment." She didn't want to argue with him either. "Sit down and tell me why you've brought in a great stack of papers instead of a nice bottle of sherry."

Mr. Carson sat down in his usual place but he did not take up the papers. Instead, he folded his hands in his lap and sat with his head down for a moment. "I don't like the name Charlie," he said, after a while. "It reminds me of Charlie Grigg and of a time and a life that I would rather not remember."

She decided not to pursue the argument that as it was a part of his life he'd do better accepting it, than running away from it. There were other matters she wanted to discuss this evening. But... "Didn't your mother call you Charlie?" she asked, speaking more gently. She could not imagine anyone calling a little boy Charles, outside of the royal family perhaps.

"Yes."

"And didn't you like it then?"

He shrugged, still looking at his hands.

"I like it a lot, Mr. Carson," she said softly. "It suits you."

A more comfortable silence descended upon them.

"So tell me what's in your papers, then," Mrs. Hughes said, indicating the ledger.

This was apparently a sound suggestion, for he revived a little and turned in his chair to face her.

"These are my financial papers," he said, tapping them with a finger. "I think it's important to lay out my financial affairs so that you have an idea what you're getting into."

She looked into his earnest countenance and smiled. "I'm still going to marry you even if I discover you're not rich, Mr. Carson."

"Well, I'm glad of it, Mrs. Hughes, because I'm not. But I think we'll be on fairly sound financial ground. I wanted to show you what there is - bank account, investment portfolio, retirement scheme - that you will be clear on it all. You should be familiar with it so that you can make decisions about it, should the need arise."

"I'm sure there's plenty of time to deal with these things, Mr. Carson," she said complacently. "It's only been two days."

He shook his head, disagreeing. "It's important to get everything in order. First, I want to go over it with you and then I shall go promptly to the bank and make sure that your name is included on all the documents and accounts so that in the event of any catastrophic development, you may be assured of stability."

This sounded a bit unsettling. "Is there something you're not telling me, Mr. Carson? Are you unwell?" She did wonder.

Now, he looked exasperated. "Everything is fine, Mrs. Hughes. Unlike you, I would not conceal such fundamental matters as the state of my health." It still rankled him that she had not wanted to confide in him when she'd had that cancer scare.

That was a provocative statement, but Mrs. Hughes decided it was not a battle worth fighting. "All right, then. So what's the hurry? If you change everything before we're married, won't you have to change it all over again when I've got your name?"

A sudden smile traversed his face. "That'll be nice, won't it? Mrs. Carson," he said in a deliberate tone. "I like the sound of that."

"Mrs. Charlie Carson," she said, because it was in her nature to stir the pot every once in a while.

He gave her a look.

"I want there to be no doubt about these things," he said seriously, "just in case. I believe in ..."

"...doing things properly. Yes, I know, Mr. Carson."

They spent the next half hour reviewing his finances. It did not surprise him at all that Mrs. Hughes rapidly digested the contents and asked pertinent questions. She had a fine head for figures and considerable book-keeping experience of her own from years of household management. She complimented him on the soundness and diversity of his investments and was impressed with the frugality that had allowed him to save quite a bit. She was not surprised by the careful management he had exercised in his affairs. He, too, had considerable professional experience with accounts. And although he had spent more than she had on what might be called frivolous expenses in casual clothing, wine, and books, his expenditures were only notable in comparison to her own very meagre outlay.

"I've taken the liberty of drawing up a draft budget," he said, after they had dispensed with the formal papers. He produced a sheet of paper with headings for monthly and weekly expenses, indicating where it was possible to do so, specific amounts. In some he had written estimates with a question mark. Still others were only question marks.

Mrs. Hughes's practiced eye ran down the list.

"I don't know why you're showing me this," she said. "It's all your business, not mine. You know I bring next to nothing in the way of money to this marriage." Her eye caught on one of the items lacking a fixed figure. Becky. She glanced up at him, frowning slightly, and started to chew on her lower lip.

They had not spoken of her sister recently. After she had confided in him the fact of Becky's existence, in that depressing conversation where she had had to own up that she had no money and thus could not participate in his scheme to invest in property together, he had made a few perfunctory inquiries about her sister. She had answered him, but kept the details to a minimum and conveyed by her manner that this was not a topic she wanted to discuss at length. He had desisted.

"Why's this here?" she asked, pointing to Becky's name.

He glanced at the sheet. "Because your sister's care is one of the expenses of our household." He looked at her without understanding. It seemed obvious to him.

"That's something I pay for," Mrs. Hughes said. "And, unfortunately, it eats up almost all of my salary, leaving me almost nothing to contribute to the rest of these." This was a bitter admission for her. She was an independent woman. She had supported herself all her life and, for a large part of her working life, her sister as well. It had meant a highly circumscribed existence and a very creative management of accounts, but she had scraped by. She was accustomed to pulling her weight. It shamed her to think she had nothing to bring to the financial aspect of the marriage. She would be dependent on him and that was not something she welcomed, even though she knew it would not deter her from taking that step. She wanted to marry Mr. Carson, even if doing so meant that she would not be his equal in this. The inequity might have repercussions for other aspects of their relationship as well. She didn't know.

"No."

That single word, spoken with a firmness Mrs. Hughes was familiar with as the official voice of Mr. Carson, the butler of Downton Abbey, sharply drew her attention. They had been leaning over the table in their discussion of finances, but now he was sitting up straight and his bearing was suddenly much more formal.

She gave him a puzzled look. "What do you mean, no?"

"No," he said again, in the same tone.

"What are you referring to, Mr. Carson? I don't understand."

He reached out and took the budget paper from her. He put it down on the table between them and rapped it with his knuckles. "This is a budget for our household, Mrs. Hughes. It includes all the expenses that we have. Or, at least, all those that I have knowledge of at this point. Your sister ... Becky," he softened his voice and his expression softened, too, as he spoke her name. He was trying to convey that he thought of Becky as a real person, not an accounting item. "... or rather, her care, is an expense that we will share, as we will everything else. It is my view that we ought, both of us, to contribute to each of the items I have listed here in proportion to our income. Naturally, as I have the larger salary..."

A much larger salary, Mrs. Hughes thought, unable to suppress this brief digression.

"...I shall shoulder the greater portion. But we shall both contribute insofar as it is in our means to do so. We are entering into a partnership, Mrs. Hughes - at least, that is my understanding of marriage - and from where I sit, it is a partnership of equals."

Had he read her mind?

Mr. Carson wondered how she could have thought otherwise. Had they not worked together for years? each managing their side of the household with comparable duties of managing accounts, supervising staff, ensuring order? His position might have been ranked higher than hers, his the place of ultimate responsibility, but that was the nature of an estate. Somebody had to be in charge. He did not see a marriage that involved only two people as an hierarchical institution.

She stared into those great dark eyes and saw swirling in them the depths of emotion she had known there two nights ago on the happiest night of her life.

"But ... Becky is my sister," she said feebly, not sure why she was protesting.

He nodded. "And she shall be my sister-in-law," he said calmly. And then he gave her a look that suggested he wondered about her good sense. "A man with anything to recommend him at all embraces responsibility for those he loves, Mrs. Hughes. And I, for one," he added, with a pointed reference, "believe there are many ways to demonstrate that love, physical affection being only one of them."

Tears filled her eyes. She had been hounding him about the obvious and he, all the while, was operating on a much more subtle, and substantial, plane.

"And I want, as soon as possible, to add a codicil to my will, establishing a trust fund for Becky, as well. In the event that something happens to us, we will want to make sure that her care is addressed permanently."

That warmed her heart more than she could say, but her practical mind caught on the details. "What about me?" she asked, in an almost joking manner.

"Such an adjustment is unnecessary at this point," he said, shifting a bit and looking away.

"Why?" Until they were married, she would have no claim on his estate, yet he was in a flurry to ensure Becky's security.

He simply stared at her, his gaze intense with a meaning she did not quite grasp. The look on his face reminded her of their conversation on Christmas Eve: That's the point, he had said. And she, not daring to make a leap of faith, had obliged him to spell it out for her.

"What do you mean?" she asked, her brow furrowed in bewilderment, although she thought maybe she did know.

"Well, who else was I going to leave it all to?" he asked quietly. His eyes, filled with longing, told her something she had not yet fully assimilated about how long he had loved her.

Unnerved by the way she continued to stare at him in that guarded way, not giving way to her feelings, his eyes dropped, wandered the room, and then shifted back hesitantly. He did not know what to expect.

Mrs. Hughes realized that this was a moment for action.

"Stand up." She got to her feet and motioned him to do the same.

"What?"

"Stand up!"

He did so, although he moved somewhat tentatively. She looked rather fierce, those brilliant blues eyes blazing, though he knew that this time she was happy, not angry.

She moved right up to him. "I'm going to kiss you, Mr. Carson, whether you want me to or not. Because I can't think of any other way to let you know, in this instant, how very much I love you!" Her voice broke a little as she said these final words. And she reached up with both hands to hold his face as she kissed him.

He did not resist. Instead, he put his arms around her, a gentle embrace offering her some support, but not crushing her against him.

It was a long minute before they relaxed and drew a little apart. She smiled up at him. The expression on his face was rapturous.

"Say it again," he said in a whisper, his deep dark eyes pooling with the currents of passion she had first seen there two nights ago. "Please."

She smiled at him.

"I love you," she said. "Charlie."

THE END

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Writing Breaking With Tradition has been an exhilarating creative experience. Working with such strongly defined characters is necessarily an effort in collaboration. My favourites, Mr. Carson and Mrs. Hughes, were cooperative, and I hope I have captured the essence of their characters and of their relationship. Others were more resistant. Mary, whom I love and wanted to portray in the best light, insisted on being herself. Tom, to whom I am mostly indifferent, was determined to demonstrate the inequities of class and to show his tremendous compassion. And Edith, who I can't stand, made me appreciate her perspective and acknowledge her capacity for personal growth. I learned a lot from them and they helped to make this story what it is. Thank you to all reviewers. EC

PS: The Granthams and, indeed, the whole household ought to have gone to church on Christmas morning. That they did not do so was the result of the pressures of chronology I imposed on the conveying of news about the engagement, rather than oversight or neglect.