A/N: Well this was unexpected. As you probably know, I'm primarily a Richobel writer. While I love the Chelsie romance, I've never really felt I know them like I do Richobel, or like I could say anything on their behalf that hasn't already been said by writers far more adept than I at capturing the love and sweetness we all adore.

But I've been rewatching Downton lately, and noticing things I never had done before, and the whole Grigg storyline at the start of Series 4 began to speak to me in a new way. My big revelation was this: Elsie never would have risked losing Charles' friendship unless she was very much in love with him. When one really loves another, that person's best interest becomes one's highest motivation, I think. She knew he was the very best of men, and she wanted him to know it as well. Or ... something.

I'm sure that there are gross differences between this piece and the way I typically write Richobel, and to all my Chelsie-writer friends, I hope I've not made too big a mess in the sandbox. I humbly offer this little story as my contribution to the unofficial 8th series.

Chelsie on!
~ejb~

Her hands were shaking as she wrapped his gift. She couldn't have been more pleased with the way the photograph looked in the frame, and the fact that it had set her back nearly a month's wages was inconsequential when she thought of the smile that (she hoped) it would bring to his face.

She had wavered so many times she'd lost count, from the time she'd found him opening Grigg's letter, to standing on the stoop outside of the workhouse, wondering whether to go in. She'd been a ball of nerves and false bravado when she had approached poor Mrs. Crawley with the prospect of taking on Grigg as a lodger, and had nearly been sick to her stomach each time she had confronted him about seeing his old friend. Still she had pressed on, her heart gladdened by the return of the fire — absent since the death of Mr. Matthew — to Mrs. Crawley's eyes, and by Grigg's renewed health and favourable prospects. And she'd been so relieved it nearly drove her to tears when he had sat with her, when he'd spoken of Alice, exposing his vulnerability in a way that she knew he would never have done unless he considered her a confidante.

She'd made up her mind to have the photograph framed that very evening, and she'd stayed up well into the night penning a note which she intended to accompany it when she presented him with the gift. As she'd written, her pen flying across the page — she hadn't realised she'd so much to say until she got started — snatches of conversation, of exchanges between them, replayed in her mind.

I'm not a complete stranger to romance, Mrs. Hughes, if that's what you're implying. Maybe I am now, but I wasn't always.

Oh, how she had wished — however vainly — that they'd not been stood in the middle of the corridor then, their charges milling about eagerly, awaiting the post. Why would he have said such a thing to her if he didn't have it in mind to expound upon it? Why, indeed, would he say such a thing to her at all, unless—

I cannot believe that you are imposing on Mrs. Crawley at a time like this, when she is almost broken by grief.

–It's because of her grief I am imposing.

I don't understand you.

–No. You wouldn't.

She sighed as she recalled the moment, her ire rising afresh as her pen did the talking. Perhaps there was nothing more between herself and him than the venting of pent-up frustrations after all. So many of her interactions with him were one step forward; two steps back. Volumes worth of words hung unspoken between them. Perhaps that was part of what had motivated her to keep pressing the matter with him.

I'll tell you what it is. It's an open wound. I don't know why, but I do know this: you'd do better to stitch it up and let it heal.

He'd said nothing after her final entreaty, but she'd seen so much disdain flash across his eyes that she feared she'd gone and done it at last, that she'd pushed him away for good.

oOo

Mrs. Crawley, standing straighter and looking more radiant than she had done since the day she'd arrived at the big house to announce the birth of Master George, had said she was delighted, but not surprised, that he had shown up to see Grigg off on the train. But for as well as she had thought she knew him, she would never — not in a million years — have figured him for it. And so, when she had asked him to walk back to the Abbey together and he'd obliged but kept relatively quiet, she hadn't pushed. And that decision had paid off in spades when next they'd the chance to sit down together.

… Alice was a gentle soul, a sweet and a gentle soul.

–And you were courting?

Well, you know how it was then. Not like today. You were lucky if you got to walk them to the corner.

–But you wanted to marry her.

So much I could taste it. I know, 'Where is that young man now, so full of passion?' Anyway, she chose Charlie, and that was that.

–But what's changed?

He told me that she regretted it. That she wished she'd chosen me. She's dead now, so it doesn't matter, but that's what she said.

–I disagree. It matters a lot. The woman you loved, loved you.

But it doesn't change anything.

–It changes you, from where I'm looking.

There was nothing more she could have said, no more to be done. She thought she'd done an adequate job of communicating — without embarrassing him — that he'd done well, that she was proud of him. For whatever that may be worth. If she wished, for an instant, that she could have taken him in her arms, she just as quickly banished the thought to the far recesses of her mind.

Until she had put the day to bed, and had brushed out her hair and put on her nightgown and dressing gown and lain her head on the pillow. When she closed her eyes, all she could see were his dark ones: flashing fury at her when she'd relayed the story of having gone to see Grigg in the workhouse, rife with annoyance at her and contempt for the other man each time she had pressed him to settle the score, tender and forthright with admiration as he'd spoken of Alice.

She'd got out of bed and sat down at the little desk. Foregoing the lights lest she disturb any of the others, she'd lit the oil lamp, its flame illuminating the picture frame. Feathering her fingertips over its edges, she'd retrieved her stationery and dipped the tip of her pen in the little inkwell.

Dear Mr. Carson,

While it is my belief that the outcome of recent events, as it pertains to Mr. Grigg, has proven favourable, I do feel that I owe you an apology. I meddled in your private business, and in so doing I broke — or at the very least splintered — your trust, something I know is not easily given. It is an honour and a privilege to call you 'friend,' and I do hope I've not done the sort of damage that cannot be repaired.

You said that it was none of my concern why Mr. Grigg's letter upset you, but you see, ours is the most longstanding friendship I have ever had. Whilst I've seen you vexed with some regularity over the years, I hadn't ever before seen anything wear away at you quite like that letter had done. You asked why I'd read it and I suppose I had to know what had shaken you so, and as to the reason for my curiosity, well … have I mentioned yet that you're my oldest friend? She'd paused there, adding "dearest," then crossing through it, then tsking and adding it back with a barely-whispered, "Sod it."

The nature of our friendship dictated to me that it was worth risking your wrath, as Mrs. Crawley put it, to give you the chance to put things right with Mr. Grigg. You see, I've not weathered the War and the senseless deaths of Lady Sybil and Mr. Matthew without learning a thing or two. The truth is, Mr. Carson, that life is short and second chances are rare. I saw in you a good man with a heavy conscience, and I wouldn't have been any kind of friend if I'd seen a way to helping you unburden yourself and neglected to do my part in bringing it to bear.

I can't remember feeling more joy in recent times than I felt when the train came to a stop and the smoke cleared ... and there you stood on the platform. If you passed a sleepless night beforehand then know that you weren't the only one. All that I wanted was for you to lay your head on the pillow at night knowing that the past was well and truly put behind you, not for the sake of Alice Neal or Mr. Grigg or anyone else, but for your own. You are a kind man, and just, and you carry the weight of it nobly but I see that it wears you down. In making peace with Grigg, I hope that your burden is just a bit lighter. You've closed a chapter with the best possible ending.

You said that you weren't a total stranger to romance, and for what it's worth I never thought you were. And when you spoke to me of Alice, I could see that you loved her with all your heart. I'm sorry that it wasn't to be, both for your sake and hers. She missed a trick, did Miss Neal. I'm only glad that she realised her mistake — not for any anguish it may have caused her, but for the relief you must find in it now. It's plain as day, even after all this time, that she had the fullness of your devotion.

I should be so fortunate.

As she'd finished crossing the 't's,' she'd raised her pen to strike out the line. "No," she'd said aloud to the empty room. If I'm going to make a mad fool of myself, I shall leave no stone unturned. And so she had concluded:

I am, Ever your friend,
Elsie Hughes

She'd read the note, and then re-read it, and then put it by while she wrapped up the photograph in its frame. She'd left it overnight and read it again in the morning and finally come to the conclusion that she couldn't give it to him; it was too much. But she'd tucked it away inside her copy of Stevenson's Letters — appropriately — instead of chucking it out.

It was enough, she told herself: his genuine show of surprise at her gesture. His smile; the gratitude in his eyes. Enough to know that he knew she was pleased with his choice in the end. Enough to know that her esteem held sway with him. Perhaps she was indeed as fortunate as Alice had been. Maybe even more so. Even if it was only one-sided; even if it went forever unspoken, she had the chance to love him in her heart whilst he was still a presence in her life. It was more than a woman in her position could ever hope for, really.

He was trying to put on his game face, to see the good in the fate he'd been dealt. Retirement was not a word that existed in his vocabulary until it had been suddenly thrust upon him, and he did not enjoy feeling purposeless, adrift; like a man without a country. Especially not while she was still spending the bulk of her days at the big house. He'd heard from Bates and Anna that she'd taken to running the downstairs like clockwork, keeping all the cogs moving with such precision and command that even Barrow deferred to her without quarrel. It made him proud, but he missed the hustle and bustle, the way the days would fly by. Lately they seemed to drag endlessly on, hour after hour alone in the cottage with no demands on his time.

He would hit the roof if any of his former staff ever found out, but he'd taken rather a domestic turn of late. It didn't seem right to him that she should work all day and then cook and clean and wash and mend all night. At first he did it simply to pass the time, but before very long he found he quite fancied taking care of his home. Their home. And if he ever did have any misgivings, the smile with which she graced him every evening upon her return made it well worth his while.

When they'd moved from their quarters into the cottage, each had filled a box with the personal effects kept in their rooms. They'd sorted through most of the things they'd brought home, but they'd yet to unpack their books into the shelves flanking the fireplace. He'd taken the notion of setting them up a proper little library, organised by subject and author, and she'd thought it a splendid idea and a jolly good use of his time.

He'd been going through the box she'd brought home when he found the Stevenson. As he picked it up several sheets of paper had fluttered to the floor. Setting the book in its rightful place on the shelf, he retrieved the dropped pages and was about to lay them aside when he noticed that they constituted a letter of some variety, and that it was addressed to him.

oOo

He was just reading the final words when she walked in, humming under her breath.

"Hello, love," she said as she hung her coat on the peg by the door. "I've just put the kettle on. The house looks wonderful. I—"

She stopped short when she heard a snuffling sound coming from him. Approaching the chair where he sat beside the bookshelves, she laid a hand on his shoulder. "Charles? Are you alright?"

He made a vain attempt to swipe at his eyes with the back of his hand as he held up the pages for her to see. "Elsie? When was this?"

It took a moment for her to recognise what he was holding, but when she did she gasped, her cheeks flushing. "Where on earth did you find it?" she asked.

"It was in amongst the books you'd kept in your room. When did you write this?" he pressed again.

She sat down on the hearth beside his chair. "It was when I took your old photograph of Alice to the framer's in Ripon. I suppose I'd a lot on my mind, after all the business with Grigg. I never meant for you to see it." She pressed a hand to her forehead. Her cheeks were burning.

"Whyever not?" he sputtered. The look of bewilderment on his face made her smile and she reached out a hand, smoothing her fingertips over his furrowed brow.

"However could I have done? It was hardly appropriate!" She gave a rueful laugh. "And anyway, it isn't as if it would've changed anything."

He took her hand and squeezed it and her eyes met his. "I suppose we've no way of knowing that now," he conceded. "Still, it changes a lot from where I'm looking."

"Oh?" Her eyes were bright with expectancy as she waited to hear his revelation, echoes of an old conversation drifting through her memory.

"I'm the fortunate one," he told her with such forthrightness that it nearly broke her heart. "The woman I loved, loved me. I'd say that changes everything."

Tears of joy coursed down her cheeks, and they smiled at one another even as she wept. She mourned the loss of the years they might have had and thanked the higher powers that the present and future were theirs to enjoy together.