Keeper of the Keys

It was a name one of the younger housemaids had secretly bestowed upon her many years ago. The maid thought she was being discreet; what she failed to realize was that there had never been, nor would there ever be, one thing to go on under the roof of the Abbey that could be kept from Elsie Hughes.

At first the name perturbed her, as if it were meant to say that she was the key person keeping everyone else from fun. Soon, it became a badge of pride, signifying the responsibility she had to keep everyone under her charge out of harm's way, as best she knew how. A locked door between the men's & women's private quarters was key itself to that.

Now the once meant to be nasty nickname cheers her to no end, for today, she will relinquish her title.

Not entirely, mind you. She has yet to cross the bridge into retirement, thank heavens. She'll still keep the keys of Downton Abbey, letting their soft jangle upon her hip let everyone know just who is in charge. Instead she'll give up an entirely different key. One of which she will share a matching copy.

She had chosen the gift box very carefully. "Nothing too simple but not too ostentatious either," she had told the shopkeeper. "What will you be keeping inside this box," the woman asked her, hoping that the housekeeper's answer might help her recommendation.

"The future," Elsie sighed through a slight chuckle. Seeing the look of bewilderment on the kind woman's face behind the counter, she shook her head gently with a laugh. "Oh never you mind. The one on the left," she said pointing up at the shelf upon the wall. "That one shall do nicely."

The shopkeeper placed the box into a carrier, unwrapped per Elsie's request. "I will take care of all that," she said with a smile. "I am actually looking quite forward to doing so."

Carson hadn't seen Mrs. Hughes since breakfast, which suddenly struck him as odd. He had been quite busy reassuring Master George that Father Christmas would indeed be able to make it down the chimney, no matter how rotund Sybbie insisted he be.

"Carson," Sybbie interjected with big, mischievous eyes. Carson couldn't help but remember her mother suffering the same expression upon him year after year as she grew.

"Yes, Miss Sybil," he replied with a mock sigh. He did love to tease the children a bit by playing the uptight butler. Anyone else could clearly see that the two imps, and now Lady Edith's own little Marigold coming into the fold, had him wound completely round their little fingers. It was quite the wonder they themselves would be able to fit down the chimney from all the extra biscuits that mysteriously made their way into their hands when the other adults weren't looking.

"JUST in case," Sybbie continued seriously, her brows knitted in concentration. "I think we best tell Mrs. Patmore that she should hold off on making biscuits for Father Christmas this year. One more and we might need Mr. Molesley to get him unstuck!"

Carson did his best not to laugh. He couldn't wait to tell Mrs. Hughes. It was a rare day that he didn't have some quip from the children that he was dying to share with her. They were coming into their own personalities, sometimes with a bit too much cheek for his liking. At least in public, that is. Often he would lie in bed at the end of the day and laugh about them, silently hoping that their absent parents had be able to see them as well.

"Oh, is that so, m'lady," Carson mirrored her serious tone. "What do you think, Master George? Shall we have no biscuits this year?"

George's face went ashen at the prospects of no biscuits at all. "NO Sybbie. I like biscuits!"

Sybbie sighed loudly and showed off quite another Crawley trait entirely. He eyes dramatically rolled in her head as she said, "Fine Georgie. You can have biscuits only if you share with Mari."

"Don't you want any biscuits, Miss Sybil," Carson asked, raising his own eyebrow at her for effect.

"I guess it would be alright if we three could have Father Christmas's biscuits."

"And what is Father Christmas's treat, if not biscuits," Carson challenged.

"He can eat carrots with the reindeer," she said matter of factly as she took Marigold's hand and abruptly led the toddler towards the tree.

Poor Carson almost fell down the stairs in his rush to relay such important information to Mrs. Hughes. He rounded the base of the stairs, unceremoniously letting himself into her sitting room where she sat at a small table littered with packages and paper.

"Shut your eyes," she squeaked at his shocking entrance. He had almost ruined the surprise! Daft man, she thought as she smiled to herself, rolling a sheet of paper over the newly purchased box.

Mr. Carson spun on his heel, half startled, half embarrassed. "I apologize Mrs. Hughes, it's just that Miss Sybil," he stammered, still caught off guard by her admonishment.

"What has she done this time," Mrs. Hughes asked through a wide smile, cheered at the girl who certainly gave as good as she got. Sybbie Branson was one girl she would hardly have to worry after, that was to be sure. Her parentage had given her the genes of cause warriors, but the girl herself was proving to be quite the cheeky, formidable youngster in her own right. It pleased Mrs. Hughes to no end as she thought of their Sybil watching down over her, her easy laughter now ringing out silently over her daughter.

"She is alleging that Father Christmas is too… let us just say large… to fit down the chimney and is proposing a kitchen strike against the traditional plate of biscuits."

Mrs. Hughes couldn't keep her grin at bay. "Oh is she now? Well, I wonder who it is that will just have to do their part and eat those biscuits instead."

"I think Master George has proposed an equally sound solution to that problem," he replied with a smirk.

"And what of the little one," Mrs. Hughes asked, a tinge of concern settling over her voice.

"Still not much of an opinion there," he said quietly. He knew of Mrs. Hughes' concern for the youngest, painfully shy, Crawley grandchild but never knew quite what to say.

"If she's anything like her mother, I'm sure she has one," Mrs. Hughes pushed through the worry she held for Marigold, hoping that Christmas might be the trick to helping the girl feel more settled into life at the big house.

Carson shuffled his feet a bit, at a loss for what to say next. It had never been like this before between them. Conversation had always come so easily. What could be so different now to make him behave like a sentimental schoolboy around her?

Of course, there was the little matter of asking her to invest in a house together.

But that is simply business, he justified to himself time and time again. Setting up an adequate investment to see us through retirement is sensible on all counts. Surely she must understand that as well.

They had met with a tenant looking to sell a small cottage on a patch of Grantham land just over the hill from Mr. and Mrs. Bates. They could let the domicile to a village shopkeeper or a small tenant family until their own retirement. It would always be there to welcome them when the time came.

It would always be there for them, the two of them, together.

It was a rather large proposal, but one that ticked all the boxes of sensibility. Surely she couldn't argue with being sensible, could she? He certainly hoped not, if only for his own heart's sake.

"Well, I should get on," Mrs. Hughes said shyly, nodding her head to indicate the table of presents. "I suspect the bairns would like more than biscuits under the tree on Christmas morning."

"I supposed they shall," he replied. He would give her time for an answer. After all, it was not as if they would be moving post haste. "I will see you for dinner," he said as he tipped his head to her one last time before leaving the hall.

Christmas morning had come and gone. The family had given the staff their yearly gifts of gratitude, and though it was to be the first year without Isis scampering underfoot, gift paper was found to be strewn far and wide as the children giggled and ran through, playing with their newly acquired prizes.

Marigold had found her way to Mrs. Hughes, tugging slightly on her skirt. "I'm afraid if I bend down to her, I might not get back up," she let out through a quiet laugh. Carson carefully picked up the child, trying his best not to frighten the skittish soul, and placed her in Mrs. Hughes' arms. Edith, who had become quite the overprotective mother hen, rushed over, offering to take Marigold from her. "I am quite fine, m'lady," she replied. "Quite fine indeed," she said quietly, brushing an errant lock off of the girl's face.

"Are you sure," Edith insisted. "I can always get Nanny."

"No, please," she replied. "I'd like some time on this special day if it is alright with you."

Edith remembered how hard it had been to go without holding or even seeing Marigold for days at a time. Though she hadn't been a mother long, she couldn't imagine her life differently now. Something told her that Mrs. Hughes had made choices that had taken that life away from her; even if it was what she had wanted, perhaps there was a small part of her that lived with regrets. "It would give me a nice break," she replied, wishing the housekeeper not to feel uncomfortable.

"Thank you, m'lady," Mrs. Hughes replied, letting little Marigold show off her new dolly. "Yelyie," she said, lying her finger on the doll's chest. "Mawi yove Yelyie," she said nestling the doll under her chin, and in turn, nestling herself under Mrs. Hughes'.

It struck Charles straight to the core of his being. The girl had named her doll after their very own beloved Mrs. Hughes. "You understand what she's saying," he whispered just over her ear.

"I believe I do," she replied, trying her best to keep a steady countenance. No use getting anyone upset, especially over something so innocently beautiful.

"Elsie loves Marigold," she whispered into the child's curls. "Mummy loves Marigold, Grandmama loves Marigold, even Mr. Carson loves Marigold," she said with a laugh as the butler's face reddened and his body stiffened.

"DONK," the little girl practically shouted out looking up and over at Lord Grantham.

"Oh heavens. Not her too," he sighed as he reached for a glass of Scotch.

The family had long gone to bed. Most of the servants had settled in as well, the excitement of the day thankfully behind them. When Mrs. Hughes had asked Mrs. Patmore if she'd like to join her and Mr. Carson for some sherry, the cook politely declined with the slightest glimmer in her eye.

Mrs. Hughes rolled her own eyes back at the woman and sent her on her way with a word of gratitude for the beautiful stationery they had exchanged earlier. "I hope you'll be getting better than that soon enough," she threw over her shoulder as a last parting shot. Mrs. Hughes shook her head and joined Mr. Carson in his pantry, the box nestled into a pocket sewn into her dress.

He poured out two glasses of sherry, indicating that she sit. "Won't you join me," she asked nervously. When had this become so hard? Why do I suddenly feel like a foolish schoolgirl?

"I believe I shall," he replied, sighing heavily as he sank into the armchair across from her. "Long day."

"Long, but sweet, day," she said, reminded of the small breakthrough with little Marigold.

"I," he began but quickly found himself needing to clear his throat. "I have something for you."

The two of them, the heads of the downstairs household, had exchanged gifts for over a decade now. Small trinkets of appreciation and, yes, friendship, had crossed the table between the two every Christmas night for years. Still, something simply seemed foreign about this exchange. It all felt new and exciting, like being a child again and looking forward to seeing what had come from Father Christmas.

"Fancy that," she bantered back. "I just happen to have something for you too."

"Mine first," they replied in unison before laughing at their nervous blunder.

"How about we do this together," she said evenly. "We seem to work best when we are in agreement. Wouldn't you say so, Mr. Carson."

Carson smiled slightly reminded of all the trying times they had found themselves on opposite sides of. "I would say so indeed," he readily agreed as he placed the tip of his finger underneath the wrapping. "Same time," he said, feeling like a boy again, challenging his mate to some sort of silly game.

"Go," she laughed as she removed the wrapping revealing a very similar box to the one she had gotten him. She waited for him to finish removing the wrapping from his and gently leaned forward, placing them side by side.

"We may have a case here of 'great minds'" she said, brushing over his hand. "Now you have to open yours first."

"Why must I go first," he quipped back.

"Because you were too slow on the unwrapping. I could have had a whole cuppa and still been waiting for you to take the wrapping off."

"I didn't want to damage it," he said seriously. "You had done such a fine job."

Mrs. Hughes felt the color rise in her cheeks. "Well it is kind of you to say so. Now please, before I burst!"

He laughed at her sudden awkwardness. It felt nice not to be alone.

Carson gently lifted the lid of the box to find a key. "A key to what," he wondered.

"Thank you," he said failing to keep a tinge of uncertainty from masking his reply.

"Don't you want to know what it's for," she said before taking a sizable sip of sherry.

"I guess that would be a detail of fair importance," he responded, turning the shapely piece of metal over in his hands.

Oh how she had hoped he would just see it and understand! He is a man, she smiled to herself before taking a deep breath.

"Our cottage."

Carson nearly choked in reaction. Did she say 'OUR'?

"OUR cottage," he asked incredulously.

"The one we went to see, and I thought you liked, yes," she said entirely calm and relaxed. Inside, she was anything but.

He didn't know what else to say. He was entirely dumbstruck.

"O - Open yours," he stammered.

It was now or never.

Mrs. Hughes half expected to see the same key glinting up at her in the dim room; instead she found herself faced with a different shade of shine altogether.

In his box, Charles Carson had placed a set of customary gold bands, one slightly larger than the other. "I know that this is not something we can do now, but I am nothing if not a planner Mrs. Hughes and with that said…"

He wouldn't be allowed to finish. Elsie Hughes had stood up and taken both his hands into her own. "Steady," she asked him as he paused for a breath.

He looked down at the joined hands. "Now I am."

"Good," she said, giving them the slightest squeeze. "Yes, by the by," she said hesitantly, daring not to look up at his face.

"What," he asked genuinely, momentarily forgetting what had just transpired moments before.

"My answer is yes, Charles Carson."

"Truly," he all but whispered, the word hanging for a moment as he nudged her chin upwards in order that she may look at him fully.

"Truly," she nodded, moving ever so slightly in for the first kiss with the man she loved

Just before he could close the distance, she offered, "There is only one question we must ask ourselves now."

"And what would that be," he whispered against her lips.

"How long can we resist retirement now?"