A smile for my travel buddy, because sometimes you need one. xxx

Outside, the day had turned unseasonably cool. Gone were the hot days of the summer Season, the laughter of a young Lady Mary as she prepared for her own coming out in a couple more years, and the one day off a week that Charles Carson had enjoyed over the past few months. Somehow, had it only been two weeks ago?, all hell had broken loose at Grantham House: the head housemaid had run off with the neighbor's gardener, storms had highlighted a leak in the attic roof, the housekeeper at Downton had left to care for an ailing sister, sending her notice via letter to Charles only four days prior to her departure, a flooded train track and roadway intersection had delayed both the family's trip from London and the subsequent last-minute order from the green-grocer (which had led to a frazzled new cook who'd scrambled to make do) … and that had just been one day. The following three had shown little improvement, and the butler had managed very little rest as he'd shuffled staff schedules and worked with Mrs. Bute on advertisements for replacements.

"You'll want to hire the housekeeper first, I imagine," she'd commented, and he'd barely managed to contain the roll of his eyes.

"Undoubtedly."

But now it's Tuesday, and he's finally on his way home. That's how he thinks of it, too, for Grantham House may be a second residence of Lord and Lady Grantham and their family, but it's so different to Downton that it feels empty of all the things he's come to love about the Abbey itself.

He's nodded off; the sound of the train lulled him to sleep after what had been a blessedly uneventful journey up to that point. It's only when they stop at the next station that he wakes, due to the increase in noise from the multitude of people coming into his car. He stands momentarily to allow a rather hefty woman to scoot into the empty spot beside him, and he sees she has a basket full of some sort of needlework and knitting. A drop of water slides from her hat and onto the spot where he'd just been. Charles glances around at the others who've gotten on, noting more wet hats and coats that tell him the pouring rain wasn't just a background sound in his dreams.

A glance outside; the dark clouds are ominous. His attention is brought within the car once again, and he sits.

That's when he sees another woman who's just joined the crowd in the train car, and his breath stills for a moment in his chest.

She's beautiful.

The woman who's captured his attention is speaking to her neighbor, and Charles has a few quick moments to surreptitiously examine her appearance. Her auburn-streaked hair is swept up in a tight bun, almost severely so, which is peeking out from beneath a simple hat. There's a bit of floral blouse (or maybe a scarf, he thinks) showing from underneath a lovely coat, and her complexion and smile are bright as she chats with the elderly woman beside her. The younger woman is pulling a pair of gloves off of slender fingers, but her hands are strong and indicative of hard work as opposed to a life of leisure. After another few moments of watching her interactions with her companion, it occurs to Charles that the elderly woman doesn't appear to be anyone the younger one knows, that the beautiful woman must have boarded the train alone, and a cursory scan of the area shows no husband in her vicinity. Shamelessly trying to eavesdrop on their conversation, he catches pieces of questions the older woman is asking, but he can't hear the other's replies at all over the noise on the car.

Another stop, and the passengers shuffle.

The woman slides over on the bench as someone else makes an attempt to squeeze in, and she glances at Charles at last. He is enraptured by the brilliant blue hue of her eyes, a color unlike anything he's seen before. With a gentle nod, he sends her acknowledgement before she turns away.

The countryside changes, the city disappearing with every spin of the train's wheels. Five more minutes go buy and Charles checks his pocket watch, knowing they must be pulling into Thirsk soon. Sure enough, the train begins to slow just as the thought crosses his mind.

He's saddened to see the lovely woman he'd been watching stand up a few seconds after the train pulls up to the platform. It appears to him she'd nearly missed her stop, and he watches as she gathers a small suitcase and her purse while hurriedly bidding her seat mate goodbye. She rushes down the steps of the train, but then Charles sees her turn suddenly to peer back into the train car, a look of near-grief on her face. Charles scans the car to see what she's staring at, and he jumps from his seat on the aisle and rushes to where she'd been sitting moments before, picks up a single glove from the floor, and turns to meet her gaze as he holds it up for her to see.

But then the whistle blows, and the woman - who would have never made it back on the train to retrieve her glove and then off again - gives him a tiny smile. Immediately before the doors close, she takes the one glove in her hand, looks once again at Charles, and tosses it into the train car.

Just as the glove lands at the butler's feet, the train begins to move once more, continuing on its journey back to the Downton Village station.

Charles peers out the window, but the train is fast. The woman? Gone in a cloud of steam and smoke.

He takes his seat, his heart heavy, and chides himself for having allowed his attention to be so taken by the stranger that he didn't even realize she'd dropped the glove in the first place.

The remainder of the ride to Downton is short and before he knows it, Charles is standing up and stuffing the woman's gloves hastily into his coat pocket so that he can retrieve his own valise and trunk with the help of the attendant. He tips the young man after a cart is procured, and his walk to find the family's cart and driver pushes the whole situation with the gloves from his mind for quite a while.

That night, sat before his empty fireplace with a small glass of brandy, Charles suddenly remembers the gloves in his pocket. It wouldn't do for anyone to be finding those, and so he retrieves them and brings them to his desk, intending to tuck them away until he can decide what to do with them.

OOoOOoOOoOOoOO

At least I slept well.

That's what Charles keeps telling himself the next morning as he sits at his desk after the staff's breakfast and pores over the letters before him - two letters, to be exact, representing the two candidates he'd previously chosen not to interview for the position of housekeeper. Unfortunately his first choice hadn't shown up for her appointment the afternoon before - a detail which, given the contents of the letter and references she'd sent, was rather a surprise to him. A surprise and an annoyance, frankly, given that he'd rushed back from Grantham House specifically to arrive home in time to conduct that interview. But no matter; at least one of the remaining two would do, and he lifts a sheet of paper from his stationery box in order to craft a swift reply to the woman's enquiry.

Just as he's sealing the envelope, Mrs. Patmore knocks swiftly on his door.

"Did you not hear me call for you then, Mr. Carson?" she asks, entering at his request. "There's a woman here to see you. Said something about the storm yesterday evening and missing an appointment to interview." She pauses, then adds in a not-so-quiet whisper, "Scottish, of all things. Don't think the Dowager would like that now, do you?"

Charles stands and smooths out his jacket. No, he thinks to himself, she wouldn't.

But aloud he replies, "It's not the Dowager hiring the woman, Mrs. Patmore. That task falls to her Ladyship, and she seemed quite comfortable with the idea of a Scot. Although not keeping her appointment yesterday does not bode well."

Mrs. Patmore leaves, heading back to her simmering pots in the kitchen as Charles follows her before heading to the servants' hall.

"Miss Hughes?" His voice is loud in the room, and the woman standing before the fire turns to face him.

Charles feels as though all the blood drains instantly from his face.

"It's you," he whispers, while simultaneously she says the same in a rather louder voice.

They both chuckle, and Charles realizes that Miss Hughes has her hands knotted tightly before her.

She sees him staring. "I seem to have misplaced my gloves, Mr. … Carson, I presume?" She unclenches her fingers and drops her arms down by her sides, suddenly uncomfortable in his rather commanding presence.

Charles nods. "Yes, I am. It appears it's a rather small world, Miss Hughes."

She smiles.

"If you'd like to leave your bag and umbrella by the door, we can head to my office and you can explain why you didn't appear before me yesterday."

"I would appreciate that very much, Mr. Carson."

She follows him to his office, noting with approval that he holds the door for her and then leaves it fully open. It's her first indication that this is a house of good, upstanding morals amongst the staff, and she thinks it's highly unlikely that Mr. Carson would tolerate any shenanigans between any of the lot. It's a comforting thought after her last place.

"Have a seat, Miss Hughes." He searches for, and then finds, her original letter of enquiry. "Elsie Hughes, formerly of … Argyll? And more recently of London and the employ of a Mrs … Bartlett?"

"Just so. As for my missed appointment yesterday, I can only plead a rather uncharacteristic fault of mine in getting off the train at the wrong stop, and then the poor weather for making the road from Thirsk to Downton Village virtually impassable by carriage until this morning."

"It was coming down in buckets, wasn't it?"

"It was at that. I came as soon as I could get someone to bring me, so here I am. Late, and grateful you've seen me at all. I presume that means the position is still open?"

As they continue to talk, it quickly becomes apparent to Charles that he isn't in total control of this interview. Had the woman before him been any other woman, he'd have turned her away after the missed appointment, regardless of the excuse. But his brief observations of her on the train, added to her answers to the next few questions he fires at her - soliciting details of her work ethic, her household management experience, and various other things - only confirmed that he'd been correct in giving her a second chance. She's asking questions of him in return for each of his to her, and their conversation is easy and relaxed - almost familiar, he thinks, and it comforts him. There is a kindness in her, yet she is efficient and knowledgeable without a doubt.

"Can you start tomorrow morning?" he asks. She nods, a small smile playing about her lips as she contains what he assumes is extraordinary happiness.

"If there are housekeeper's quarters available, then certainly. I've brought all of my things just in case."

Charles thinks back to the small suitcase she'd left in the other room, wondering how it could possibly contain all of this woman's possessions.

"Of course. I've had the new head housemaid, Sarah, prepare it. Her Ladyship will need to meet with you, of course, but I foresee no difficulty with that. I'll see if she's available within the hour, and in the meantime you can join the others in the servants' hall."

Charles rises, and Elsie follows suit.

"I thank you, Mr. Carson," she says, holding out her hand to him; he looks questioningly at her fingers for a moment before taking them in his own and giving them a rather firm shake.

And then he remembers.

Elsie watches as he moves to his desk to retrieve something, and her face lights up when he withdraws her gloves from his desk and hands them to her.

"I never thought I'd see them again, you know," she confides in him. "Thank you for keeping them."

Charles watches as she runs her hands over the soft, slightly worn, buttery leather. "They're very soft," he comments.

"They were my mother's," she tells him in a quiet voice, and her eyes meet his, each of them finding something in the other's which gives their hearts a little flutter. "They're not terribly dear, I suppose, but they're dear to me."

"And yet you discarded them?"

"I discarded one," she corrects gently. "The first was out of my control. Besides, a single glove won't do anyone any good, so it only made sense to keep them together in the hopes that someone new might appreciate them."

It's only when she's at the door that she hears his murmur.

"Someone new did, Mrs. Hughes."

Her heart jumps again as she makes her way down the corridor to the servants' stairs, and she knows it has nothing to do with the subtle change of her name.

The End

This story was borne of a short story someone shared at church last week entitled "The Glove in the Subway," by Jane Ranney Rzepka. You can find it at www DOT uua DOT org (FF doesn't really like the link formatting ...).

I'd love a review if you'd be so very kind. Hope you enjoyed this! xxx