A/N I wasn't planning to write another story, at least not so soon after the last two, but I had an idea, and this is what I came up with for a start. Let's see how it goes. This story takes place after Series 3 but before Series 4. Please leave me a review to let me know what you think. Your reviews inspire me, help me improve, and to a certain extent, determine the direction of the story. Without your kind reviews and encouragement during my previous stories, I probably would not have had the desire to make another attempt.

Chapter 1

Mrs. Hughes sat next to Mr. Carson's bed late that night, holding his hand, sniffling softly, and praying fervently for his recovery. He had suffered another attack, and Dr. Clarkson was very concerned. This time, it hadn't been a simple case of nervous exhaustion; it had most definitely been his heart. The doctor had said that he would stand a fair chance of recovering fully, if he were to rest, but his condition was very fragile. The smallest hint of stress or anxiety could cause the onset of another episode, and to that end, Dr. Clarkson had administered some sleeping medication and instructed Mrs. Hughes to be sure that Mr. Carson remained still and calm for several days. He was now resting comfortably, while she kept vigil, her own heart pained by the recollection of the circumstances that had led to the incident.

She had stormed into his pantry earlier that afternoon, angry about some last minute changes he had made without consulting her, and they had argued. The disagreement itself had been no more serious than hundreds of others they had had over the years, but this time the outcome had been devastating. At one point during the heated exchange, Mr. Carson's face had flared red, his eyes had bulged, and he had clutched at his chest, finally collapsing into his chair. Panicking inwardly, Mrs. Hughes had retained just enough composure to do what was necessary. She had had the presence of mind to loosen his tie and collar and to undo the top buttons of his shirt. Then she had used the telephone in his pantry to call the doctor, while Mr. Barrow and Mr. Bates had helped Mr. Carson upstairs to his bedroom.

Now, hours later, convinced that the whole dreadful occurrence had been completely her fault, she became wracked with guilt every time she replayed the scene in her mind. She was tormented by feelings of grief, sorrow, and worry. The man she loved lay before her in a very precarious state, and there was precious little she could do to improve his situation.

She watched him sleep, studying his features in the dim light of a single lamp. She could never stare at his handsome face so openly while he was awake, so she took the opportunity to commit to memory every line and contour. She even allowed herself the pleasure of brushing a stray lock of hair from his forehead – something else she could never do while he was awake. He stirred, and she was afraid she had awakened him, but he just shivered from the chill and remained asleep.

Intending to find him another blanket, Mrs. Hughes tiptoed to the large steamer trunk at the foot of his bed, opened it carefully, and found a thick coverlet conveniently lying right on top of all the other items inside. She lifted it out of the trunk, carried it to the side of the bed, and began to unfold it. As she did so, something fell from between the folds. When the item hit the floor, it made enough noise in the otherwise silent room that she jumped. Once again, she feared that Mr. Carson would wake, but the doctor's sleeping draught must have been quite potent, because the patient continued to slumber. She covered him with the quilt and then stooped to retrieve the fallen article.

Upon closer examination, she saw that it was a black, leather-bound volume with no markings on the outside, and she presumed it to be one of the butler's ledgers. Wondering why a household account book would have been hidden among the folds of a blanket in his steamer trunk, Mrs. Hughes moved nearer the lamp and opened it to the first page. Nothing could have prepared her for what she found written there in Mr. Carson's impeccable script:

Dearest Mrs Hughes,

I begin this register, this diary, of sorts, with the intention of recording all the things I would like to tell you but cannot. The first and most important of these things is that I love you. You may know that I care for you deeply, as my dearest friend, and that I hold you in the highest regard, as my capable and trusted colleague, but that is only half the story. The rest - what you do not know and what I dare not tell you - is that I am in love with you, as well. Love of the heart-stopping, breath-taking, knee-weakening variety.

I would gladly tell you all this, the whole truth, the second half of the story, so to speak, if not for the first half. The simple fact is that I value your steadfast and loyal companionship too highly to risk losing you altogether. If I were to proclaim my love for you outright, you surely would never be able to look at me or speak to me the same way again, and our friendship would be ruined. I don't dare hope that you could possibly love me in the same way, and so I have resigned myself to love you in the secrecy of my heart, and in the pages of this book, where I will register the thoughts and feelings I long to share with you.

We spend most evenings together, chatting about this and that over glasses of port and sherry. We talk of luncheon menus and cleaning schedules; we speak about the family and their guests; we discuss how the new maids are settling in and decry the footmen's frivolity. While I cherish this time with you, it is not nearly enough. I want to share my innermost thoughts with you. I want to know all your joys, your fears, your hopes, your longings, your heart's desire. I can't help thinking that if we were married, I should like to sit with you at the end of each day, hold you in my arms, reveal all my secrets to you, and hear you whisper your secrets to me.

Alas, since I cannot hold you in my arms and share with you my heart's most intimate workings, I shall document here everything I would tell you if I could, while I imagine you here in my embrace. It's an imperfect solution, I know, and the conversation will be a bit one-sided, I'm afraid, but I have no better plan.

I shall end this first entry with a solemn promise: should I ever have reason to believe, beyond my wildest imaginings, that you might return my affections, should I have reasonable assurance that I will not jeopardise our friendship the moment I speak, I will not hesitate to lay bare my heart to you.

Actually, upon further consideration, I think I shall end with an earnest prayer: a prayer that I shall someday be granted the blessed opportunity to fulfill the aforementioned promise.