Summer, 1890

Elsie Hughes took the stairs into the kitchen, twisting her neck 'round until she felt a satisfying pop towards her left shoulder. This day had begun, as every day did, slightly after dawn, with all of the frenetic energy that went along with rising, dressing, gobbling breakfast in the servants' hall, then dashing upstairs to get the downstairs rooms aired, flowers set, furniture dusted, and all of the bedrooms and dressing rooms remade.

It was always a hectic time of day, and had become even more so in the past few months; Robert Crawley had returned from London with his astonishingly beautiful – and astonishingly American – bride this past winter, and Miss Rosamund was being courted by a wealthy banker. The house always seemed full to overflowing. No matter. Each morning, right around eleven o'clock, Elsie liked to sneak a strong cup of tea

The children of the house are no longer children, she thought with a smile. And mayhaps, a new generation of Crawleys is already in the works. Elsie grinned to a little, thinking of Lady Cora's obviously loosened corsets this morning. Well, nevermind that Elsie, you best hurry, or you'llve no time for that cuppa. She reached the bottom of the staircase and headed down the hall, toward the kitchen.

"You appear to be a cheery mood this morning, Elsie," Mr. Carson's booming voice cut through her thoughts and she stifled a yelp. Mr. Carson wasn't much for yelping, startled or otherwise.

"Certainly, Mr. Carson. 'Tis a fine summer's day, is it not?" She gazed up at him, keeping most of what her Mam called her "natural inclination for impertinence" out of her voice. If only he knew what I was smiling about. My utter cheek. She bit down on the insides of her own cheeks to tamp down any stray giggles that might be tempted to escape.

"Indeed it is, Elsie," he raised one dark eyebrow at her momentarily, and for a second, she felt almost transparent. He was a rather serious man, Mr. Carson. Well, no; not serious, say, but rather…appropriate. He always wanted things and people to be appropriate. To any given time, place, or class. He seemed wholly unmalleable for such a young man. He couldn't be more than forty, perhaps ten, a dozen years older than herself. But in the two years she'd been working at Downton, she had never seen him out of place. Not a hair, not a word. But…was the corner of his mouth twitching upward, a hint of a grin to match her own?

"I am, in fact, glad I ran into you," he continued, now all business. "Mrs. Davis wants a word. I know you usually take tea now, and I've had one of the kitchen girls set you both up in Mrs. Davis' sitting room. She won't keep you long; and we both know you are ahead of yourself, as you usually are."

Elsie was gobsmacked. Not that Mrs. Davis, the housekeeper, wanted to see her. But that Mr. Carson knew her habit of taking a late morning tea, when she had a chance. And that he didn't seem the least put out by it. That he didn't find it…inappropriate.

"Well, sir, I suppose…" and she trailed off, not exactly sure where or how to end the sentence.

"Yes, very good. Run along, you shan't keep Mrs. Davis waiting. I trust you'll have a lot of questions," he finished, rather nonsensically, from Elsie's point of view.

"Well now I certainly do," she retorted, then felt her face grow warm. Utter cheek. "I meant to say, thank you Mr. Carson. I'll be on my way now." She hurried towards Mrs. Davis' sitting room, not sure whether she felt more like laughing or crying.

And it's unclear whether or not, had she seen Charles Carson gazing after her, knowing what awaited her in that room, and slightly undone by the mild sass of the smart, attractive head housemaid, what she would have made of the grand grin that spread across the butler's face at that moment.