A/N: This is a story based on a dream I had last Saturday night. Just so you know, my brain chose Dana Delany to play Lady Rosalie Crawley, Robert's youngest sister. How could I possibly say 'no' to Dana?...

Please let me know what you think.

Downton Abbey, 1902

It's only the beginning of her second month in Downton, but Elsie feels she really likes it here. Perhaps she'll stay here longer than in Edinburgh. Maybe she'll even get promoted after Mrs. Rogers retires next year.

She's just finished her breakfast, and is about to go upstairs and clean the drawing room, when the housekeeper enters the servants' hall with a deep set frown on her face. "Elsie, a word," she says in a clipped, tired voice, and Elsie wonders what in Heaven's name happened. She certainly doesn't remember doing anything wrong.

She follows Mrs. Rogers into her sitting room, and closes the door. "Is there anything I can do?"

"As a matter of fact…" the older woman bites her lip, "I'd like you to take care of Lady Rosalie. She arrives tomorrow."

It's Elsie's turn to frown, not understanding. "Lady Rosalie? I'm not sure I…"

"She's Lord Grantham's youngest sister. She's coming over from London, and she'll probably stay a while, like she does, but she hasn't got a lady's maid at the moment. I thought you might step in? Miss Wilkins couldn't possibly tend to her as well as to her ladyship, the Dowager Countess and the young ladies."

Elsie blinks, surprised. "I'm not sure I could manage, Mrs. Rogers. I've never tended to a lady. Perhaps Leslie could…"

"No," Mrs. Rogers interrupts her with a definite shake of her head, "Leslie certainly wouldn't do. I'm afraid it's all down to you, Elsie."

She has to agree, she cannot openly oppose to the housekeeper's wish, although she's quite angry at being treated like a little girl, as if she wasn't a woman of thirty-nine, and the head housemaid in such a great household. She nods curtly and heads upstairs to prepare the room.

She bumps into Leslie in the corridor, and pulls her in the green room, the one she's never been to, one in which Lady Rosalie is supposed to stay. "Who is she? And why does Mrs. Rogers want me to take care of her?" she demands, curious and a little stressed. Leslie rolls her eyes and shakes her head, her golden hair catching the sun.

"Don't worry, Elsie. Lady Rosalie is… quite peculiar in her ways, but she's as nice as they get. You'll think you're on holiday."

"Yes, but—what if I cannot do whatever it is she might want from a lady's maid?"

Leslie's eyes narrow a bit. "Trust me, she'll tell you. She'll tell you everything she wants."

"What was that supposed to mean?"

The younger girl shakes her head again. "Least said, soonest mended."

This leaves Elsie quite perplexed. And if there's one thing Elsie Hughes despises, it is feeling perplexed.

The room has a cold, impersonal feeling about it; Elsie brings in some flowers and changes the bed linen in hope of bringing some warmth and colour into it, but by the end of the day she feels completely defeated. She sits quietly at dinner, ever so often catching the eye of Mr. Carson, the young butler.

Sometimes it feels as if the man is constantly watching her, making sure that she's there and that everything is alright.

It's not unpleasant, she decides.

Lady Rosalie is taller than Elsie, slimmer than Elsie, younger than Elsie—and it's that last thing that surprises her the most. Given that Lord Grantham has got three daughters, and Lady Painswick had been married for quite some time, Elsie imagined their sibling to be closer to their age, approaching forty—not a willowy, red haired goddess of no more than thirty.

For a moment, when Lady Rosalie is being greeted by Mrs. Rogers and Mr. Carson, she stares shamelessly at her, taking in golden freckles peppering her face and shoulders, the deep green of her eyes, the easiness with which she moves, elegant and confident.

And then she's looking at her, and Elsie feels herself blush.

"Milady, this is our new head housemaid, Miss Hughes," Mr. Carson's deep voice resonates surprisingly close to Elsie's ear. "She will take care of you during your stay."

Lady Rosalie smiles and nods, obviously not caring about the 'head housemaid' part. "Very well. I'm sure it will work out perfectly. I think I'll have a bath before dinner, would you kindly arrange it, Hughes?"

Nobody has ever addressed Elsie in this manner. It's strange, it's new, but not unwelcome. "Certainly, milady," she curtseys and heads upstairs straight away.

Just as she's about to round the corner, the door to the drawing room opens, and the voice of the Dowager Countess, dripping of sarcasm, resonates throughout the hall. "And so, the prodigal daughter returns."

"Always a pleasure to see you too, Mama," Lady Rosalie says in an equally cold tone, and enters the room.

The last thing Elsie hears in the door slamming behind her.

"What is your Christian name, pray? I hate calling maids by their last names. It makes me feel like I'm talking to dogs, or horses."

"It's Elizabeth, milady—but everybody calls me Elsie."

"Elsie. I like that." Lady Rosalie leans her head over the edge of the tub and runs a sponge across the length of her slender, freckled arm. "Where from Scotland are you, Elsie? And how long have you been working in Downton?"

"I'm from Argyll, milady, and I came here nearly two months ago."

"Goodness! You've travelled quite a distance. Do you like Yorkshire?'

"Yes, milady, it's very pleasant." It's the first time somebody from the family inquired about Elsie's feelings regarding her new workplace; the very idea should seem peculiar, and yet—coming from Lady Rosalie—it is not so. Elsie busies herself with sorting her new mistress' clothing, and wonders what Miss Wilkins talks to Lady Cora, or, for that matter, the Dowager Countess, about as they bathe.

Or even: if she talks to them at all.

"…that horrible affair!"

Elsie pauses outside Lady Rosalie's room, her hand raised to knock on the door. She looks around—she's alone in the corridor, arms full of freshly pressed dresses—and steps a little closer to the door, deeply ashamed to be eavesdropping like that.

"Did you even think about that poor girl?" it's the Dowager Countess' voice again, laced with anger and disappointment. "Have you no shame?"

"I thought about her every minute of every day, mother," Lady Rosalie replies, coldly and evenly. "And do not talk to me about shame. I know everything there is to know on the subject. You taught me well."

"I only taught you the lessons you deserved."

That's enough, Elsie thinks as she jumps back, cheeks burning, and stomps her feet a few times to create an illusion of somebody walking down the corridor from a greater distance, and knocks on the door before turning the handle.

The old countess is standing over Lady Rosalie, seated at her dressing table, and when they both turn to look at Elsie, their eyes are cold and malicious to the point of making her feel quite uneasy, despite her age and experience. "It's past the dressing gong, milady," Elsie says with a polite smile. "Would you like to dress for dinner now, or should I come back later?"

"Now, I think. You don't mind, do you, Mama? You must know how hard it is to train a new maid… to explain to her what I like."

There's something venomous and cruel about the way Lady Rosalie speaks, looking her mother in the eye with cheek and challenge in her eyes, but the Dowager Countess doesn't pick up the glove. She simply turns on her heel and leaves, all but bumping into Elsie in her haste to get out of the room. Lady Rosalie follows her with a sad, thoughtful look on her face, before turning back to the mirror. "I'll put on the red dress tonight, I think."

The dress is actually cherry red, to be exact: a shade Elsie never would have thought worked for a person of Lady Rosalie's complexion, but as it turns out, it accentuates her fiery hair and pale, only slightly blushed face perfectly. Elsie dresses her in silence, following the few quietly spoken directions to the letter.

It's not until she's done and turns to go back downstairs, when Lady Rosalie speaks—really speaks—to her for her first time:

"Love makes us do many foolish things, doesn't it?"

Elsie freezes and turns slowly to meet Lady Rosalie's eyes in the mirror. "I wouldn't know, milady."

"Haven't you ever been in love, Elsie?" she smiles a sad, lonely smiles, and fiddles with her necklace. "Perhaps you are the lucky one. That's all for now."

Elsie nods, stunned, and leaves, not quite sure what she should make of this whole scene.

Helping a lady undress after dinner takes longer than she expected, so when she finally descends the stairs to help herself to the last cup of tea of the day, everybody has already gone up.

Well, almost everybody.

"I thought you might want one," Mr. Carson explains as he pours her a cup of strong, steamy tea, much like the one he's nursing. "It must have been a difficult day."

"Not very much, no," Elsie answers, gratefully accepting the beverage, "but thank you all the same."

She looks at him across the table—the warm, kind eyes, the considerate look he's giving her—and wonders if Lady Rosalie was truly right when she'd said that her, Elsie, was the lucky one…

TBC?...