Disclaimer: Not mine, obviously! All recognizable characters belong to the brilliant Julian Fellows. This will serve as the disclaimer for each snippet to come after this one.

A/N: Some liberties are taken with this one, so I guess that makes it AU. Spoilers apply; I know they exist, just not the actual details of them, not having seen the entirety of series three. Forgive me if they are wrong.

Favorite

Birth

Somehow, the housekeeper knows this child will be different. Cannot quite explain it. The announcement of the impending birth has excited everyone in the house. Whispers and well wishes are uttered, prayers for a son sent heavenward. Though somewhat unorthodox, she is present for this little one's arrival. She had been with the lady of the house when she experienced her first labor pains, and had unwittingly remained for the duration.

She is smitten the moment the babe is placed in her arms to present to the exhausted mother. She almost does not want to relinquish her hold. She feels this impossibly small body against hers, experiences a strong pang of longing for something she cannot, will not ever have.

Four

She is just tying off the end of her plait, readying for bed when she hears her bedroom door creak open. She turns around, sees the little girl. She is wide-eyed with one hand on the door handle, the other holding Rosie tightly, her small thumb in between her lips. The housekeeper stares in amazement, wonders how the child found the servants' quarters, how she found –knew –which room was hers.

The child lets go of the handle, shuffles toward her, thrusting her little body into the arms of the housekeeper. Rosie falls to the floor as tiny arms latch together around her neck. She feels soft lashes fluttering against her neck. Soon the flesh of her neck and collar of her nightdress are damp from what she knows to be tears. She tightens her arms around the child reassuringly before pulling back to look into those sad blue eyes.

"Whatever is the matter, lass?" she whispers. "What has gotten you into such a state?"

A sniffle and a hitch of breath. "Dream."

She reaches for a handkerchief on her vanity, wipes away the tears. "Would you like to tell me about it?" She feels a shake and the small body burrows closer. "Why didn't you wake Nanny?"

The girl moves impossibly closer, reaches for the handkerchief, holds it close, studies the embroidered roses in the candlelight. "Nanny would be very mad."

She rests her chin lightly atop the child's head, smiles knowingly. Nanny would be very upset, indeed.

Eight

She cannot stop the gasp that escapes her lips as she sees the child standing before her, her disagreement with the cook forgotten for the moment. She grabs a clean flannel, wets it. Takes the child's hand and leads her toward her parlor.

Once they reach the small room, she pushes the girl to sit in the chair behind the desk while she rummages for her first aid kit. Puts a dab of alcohol on the wet flannel, cleans the blood from the girl's chin best she can. A hiss comes from the girl. She slips the torn stocking down the girl's leg and cleans the knee also. Another hiss.

The housekeeper gently, but firmly reminds her that young ladies are not to be climbing trees or racing against the stable boys to see who is fastest. Especially in their new frocks that have just come from Paris. The girl's large blue eyes are downcast, guilty. A finger gently raises her chin. Blue meet blue in a gaze of understanding. Concern mixed with fondness cloud the older woman's eyes. The younger smiles shyly and reaches forward, wraps her gangly arms around her, says thank you.

She returns the hug. Reaches in a drawer and withdraws a piece of candied ginger she saves just for the girl.

Twelve

It is early. Not even the kitchen maids are about yet, but the housekeeper cannot sleep. There are a few ledgers she can give a look at, she supposes. She pushes back the bed cover and gets up, bare feet touching the cold floor. A shiver runs through her. She reaches for her dressing gown at the end of her bed, her slippers, opens her door and silently makes her way to the privy.

On her way back, she looks up, sees a flash of something enter her bedroom. She quickens her pace, hopes one of the maids has not fallen ill. She rounds the door frame, sees the young girl –lady –sitting in front of her vanity. She closes the door, walks to the young lady. Swiftly lights the candle and can see a bunched swath of cloth on her lap. She kneels down, lifts the girl's chin and can see she has been crying.

"What is it, milady?" she says quietly.

The girl leans forward over her bundle, whispers in the woman's ear. Her eyes widen, then soften in understanding. She takes the small hands in her own, smiles as she squeezes them reassuringly. She has long given up asking why she does not seek out her mother or sisters. Just accepts it, and happily so. This young lady is the closest she has to a daughter.

She takes the bundle from the girl, talks softly to her, explains. There is nothing wrong. It happens to every woman.

Sixteen

The housekeeper is speaking with the butler when they are interrupted. The family has just returned from the season in London – the young lady's first. She feels her heart swell a little. She knows the young lady will come to see her, tell her about the season – the sights, the sounds, the smells. She has already told her a little. Though it is perhaps not very proper, the young lady has written to her here and there over the season, describing some of her experiences, in turn asking after her and the staff, the house. She responded with equal affection she had received from the young lady.

The two of them make their way to the entrance hall, wait for the Crawleys to walk through. The Lord and Lady of the house greet them warmly, as do the girls. She catches the eye of the young lady, smiles and receives one in return. She exchanges words with Lady Grantham. There is a garden party to prepare for. Before she is excused her eyes meet the young lady's again.

She walks away, heads below stairs. She must ready a tea tray for her impending visitor.

Twenty

In all actuality it does not surprise her that the youngest lady of the house has decided to become a nurse, her need to help with the war effort strong. She has become a strong-minded individual, caring and passionate. She cannot help herself, but she is proud. Proud of the young woman the little girl she had held on her lap many a time has become.

What does surprise her, though, is that the young woman asks her for help in learning a few tasks to make the transition smoother, all things she tries to tell her others are more adept at. But the girl is insistent and the housekeeper knows she cannot deny her. She shrugs her shoulders in defeat, smiles. The girl, forgetting she is a young lady of twenty, throws her arms around the older woman, hugs her tightly, thanks her profusely.

They begin the next day. She guides the young lady – shows her how to darn a sock, mend an apron, remove stains, strip a bed, make it up again. Though there is fuss from the matron of the kitchen, she shows the young lady how to fill a kettle and boil water for tea, make toast, get the right consistency for porridge. She is a little rusty on the kitchen side of things herself –has not made or baked much since she entered service at seventeen –but she finds it all comes back easily. The muscle memory is still there.

The two of them share an afternoon tea together in her sitting room. It has been two weeks since she has spent extra time teaching the young lady. The tea the lady has prepared is wonderful, the shortbread she helped bake is perfect. She praises her quick study.

The young lady will be leaving in another week. The housekeeper believes she is ready. She will make a fine nurse.

Death

She is numb. Does not really hear or comprehend the words the vicar is speaking. Tears silently and unabashedly spill down her cheeks. She reaches inside her sleeve, pulls out the her handkerchief, the one with an embroidered roses on it, one she had used many times to dry the young lady's tears when she had been a child. Uses it now, to dry her own tears. Fresh ones take their place. She does not care.

His presence beside her is solid. He takes hold of her elbow, steadies her. He knows the depth of her feeling and hurt, has watched the housekeeper and the youngest Crawley daughter over the years, sees the strong affection between Lady Mary and himself mirrored. He stands tall, needs to remain strong for her. She moves her elbow out of this grasp, leans against him slightly. She finds his hand with her own, holds it tightly as more tears escape.

The last prayer is spoken. Mourners begin to file away, back to the house. She feels his arm wrap around her shoulder to steer her away. She remains rooted on the spot. He squeezes her shoulder, lets her know he will wait until she is ready and walks down the path to wait.

She moves closer, sees the casket adorned with flowers. She lets her shoulders slump. Her tears and memories flow freely. This newly deceased lady is the daughter she never had. She grieves now for the small daughter who will never have the chance to know her mother. She vows, if she is able, she will tell Sybil of her mother, of the sweet, compassionate woman she was.

The housekeeper feels a light touch on her shoulder, turns to see the glassy-eyed, ever-poised Lady Grantham. They share a mutual expression of loss –of two mothers, one biological, the other a surrogate –both grieving the loss of a child. The two women stand shoulder to shoulder looking forward. A bird chirps in a nearby tree. She feels Lady Grantham take her hand, gently grip it. No words are spoken. Then, a consoling whisper.

"I know she was your favorite, Mrs. Hughes."