A/N: Thank you so much for all the wonderful reviews, favorites, PMs. I have enjoyed writing this story so much and I've been reluctant to let it go, hence the delay between this chapter and the former. I've begun working on a modern AU Chelsie story, but we are moving in early July (just around the corner, really, but we have accumulated so. much. stuff. ugh.), so I won't promise a timeline on it. Thanks for everything, and I hope that some measure of this and all the wonderful Chelsie fics out there make it into Series 4!

Epilogue

"Els, have you seen my" but his voice dies away as he sees Lady Mary sitting on the sofa opposite his wife. "Oh," he mumbles, drawing himself up, with surprising difficulty, into his role as butler of Downton Abbey. "Lady Mary, I didn't realize you were here," he says formally, coldly. "It's very good of you to call. If you'll just excuse me for-" but Lady Mary cuts right across him.

"No need, Carson," she shakes her head irritably, "Mr. Carson, no need at all. I just stopped by on my way to the village. I've had a lovely chat with Mrs. Carson," and here she inclines her head towards Elsie elegantly, economically, "and I really must be going. I've several things to tend to this morning." Charles' eyebrows, if possible, raise nearly to his hairline, but he continues to stand stiffly, looking coldly elegant in spite of wearing his vest and pants and holding his shirt in one hand. She stands, as does Elsie, who accepts Lady Mary's proffered hand and walks with her to the door. Lady Mary says something to her in a low, hushed tone and Elsie nods quickly, offers polite thanks and closes the door after her. She takes a deep breath before she turns around.

"Well?" he hisses. "And when were you going to tell me Lady Mary was here? Would you have let me walk out here in my undershorts?" And the pitch of his voice rises on the last word.

"I'm sorry, Charles, I truly am. I never expected anyone this early, and I certainly never expected Lady Mary to pay us a visit. I am sorry, love." And she is, she is sorry, truly, but she's also the tiniest bit angry. The effect that girl has on him. It's always irritated her and the fact that she can wrought such a change in him in their own home has her feeling mutinous.

"I dunno why you think she wouldn't pay us a visit. We had a good working relationship for many, many years. We're a part, albeit a small part, of the Family."

Elsie struggles mightily against rolling her eyes. She doesn't want to argue with him, certainly not about her, but she stops herself in mid-tirade. She might have been an uppity minx (and she most certainly was, she thinks darkly), but now she is a troubled young widow, a lost soul with a fatherless son and Elsie should (and does) have pity for her. But even so, Charles' attitude towards his precious Lady Mary has twitted her and she fixes him with a rather arch look.

"And what do you mean by that look, might I ask?"

"You might."

"Well?"

"Well what? You've no right to be ordering me about, Mr. Carson."

"Whatever has gotten into you? Lady Mary pays us an unexpected social call, I end up coming into the room (and here his voice lowers; it's never been difficult for Elsie to imagine him on the stage) half dressed. Whatever could she be thinking? No wonder she left out of here in such a rush. And what did she say to you as she was leaving?"

"Whatever has gotten into you? And she said nothing of consequence," Elsie says grudgingly.

"Whatever it was, I'm sure it was of consequence," he says and the temper that Elsie has been struggling to contain boils over.

"She is not our family, Charles. They are not our family. We are a family. I am your family."

Charles looks at her in shock, but a gradual understanding dawns. My god, I love this woman. "You're jealous," he says calmly.

"Jealous?" she scoffs. "I never. I just cannot abide the way you change so completely in her presence. It's been months-" He walks towards her, tossing his shirt lightly on the back of the sofa.

"You're jealous," he repeats in that same maddeningly calm tone, and grasps her shoulders.

"Of all the ridic-" and he kisses her in mid-sentence before she can complete her thought, before she can carry her argument further. He kisses her so that he can make her understand that she's nothing to be jealous of, not anymore, that his heart is more her own than his, that he loves her, that he has always loved her. His hands slide down to cup her bottom. She giggles and he smiles against her lips. She pulls back, looks accusingly at him. "I'm not jealous, you know," she says calmly and kisses him again, sliding her arms around his neck.

*CE*

Lady Mary had instructed her driver to drop her at the cottage, then proceed onto the village. The walk would do her good. She'd been curious, very curious, to visit them in their cottage. Of course she'd seen them at church, on occasion in the village, and while she could see that they appeared to be happy, it wasn't the same as observing them in their own home. She'd been patient, given them time to adjust to their life together, then decided to pay a visit after their return from Scotland. She'd been disappointed (a little) not to be received by Carson; Mrs. Hughes, Carson, she corrects herself irritably, had always been pleasant, but there had always been a slight undercurrent of tension between them. No, she could never feel entirely comfortable around her. She knew the woman could be kind, deeply kind; she had only to think of Ethel's situation to know that and of course there had been other instances. And Sybil had loved her; Sybil who had always been attracted to the truest, strongest hearts of the house. But she had always gravitated to Carson, to the one person whose unwavering loyalty had shored her up during the worst times of her life. She had wanted to repay that loyalty in some very tangible way, so she watched and waited, hoping to discover what he might want above all else, what he might be too stubbornly reluctant to reach for on his own. Her own brief happiness with Matthew had given her new eyes, so to speak. It was all very ridiculous, this, but instead of being so completely self-absorbed that she was unable to notice anyone else, she became almost hyper-aware of those around her. The sly looks her mother gave her father, the obvious delight Sybil and Tom took in each other, even Edith's disastrous relationship with Sir Anthony had a certain touching charm to it. But when she looked at Carson, watched him watch her, she had known as surely and completely as she'd ever known anything. He loved her, quietly, tentatively, and Mary had promised herself she would do whatever was in her power to make him happy. Of course, life interferes with even the noblest intentions, and the difficulties associated with starting a family, not to mention her subsequent confinement and the birth of her child had occupied nearly all of her thoughts. But when Matthew, and here she stops herself. At any rate, she had been able to chivvy Carson into moving forward. The man was so delightfully stubborn, although she could spare a kind thought for Mrs. Hughes, who would have to endure that stubbornness, but she'd always been the only one who could manage him, so perhaps her kind thoughts here were wasted. She smiles a bit, smiles to think of Carson being managed by his beloved Mrs. Hughes. And she knew that Mrs. Hughes (Carson!) was beloved; she had only to hear his voice (he called her Els; if Sybil were here they would both be rolling about the floor laughing over it) and see just a glimpse of real feeling on his face before he disappeared into that awful dignified façade. She stops abruptly, turns back to the cottage. She will see him for herself, now; she will talk with him. She had scuttled away (so completely unlike her) on seeing Carson in his undershirt (and another giggle threatens), but now she would see him. He's had time, certainly, to put the rest of his clothes on this morning.

*CE*

She walks down the path to the small cottage the Carsons share and raises her hand to knock. She listens for a moment; is that laughter? No, giggling, more like. It's dreadfully rude to eavesdrop, but she finds she can't help herself. Their voices are low, but she finds she can make out some of their conversation.

"Charles, we can't. Not now. I have to be at choir practice in an hour."

"You flatter me, love. It may be more accurate to say twenty minutes?" Much muffled laughter, and, is that the sound of kissing? Mary knows she should leave, knows this is terribly wrong, and yet her feet are rooted to the spot. Suddenly, there is a noise, almost as though a small table has been pushed across a stone floor. More laughter, and she hears Mrs. Carson's voice again.

"Careful, love. We'd not want to break anything else." Now Mary's eyebrows raise nearly to her hairline and she finds that she is struggling against an almost hysterical bout of laughter. She's stood on the front step so long now that she must knock. Surely at least one of the neighbors has seen her here. She wills herself to rap sharply against the door. Silence. Then, the unmistakable sound of Carson's voice.

"Whatever anyone's after can wait, Mrs. Carson. All of it can wait."

And Lady Mary turns and makes her way towards the village, satisfied beyond measure that her beloved friend is happy.

The End!