Chapter 7

The Bells

After reading the same line half a dozen times, Carson finally concedes that no matter how much he wants to be productive, it's just not going to happen today. With a frustrated, he slams his ledger shut. Today is as good as any to polish some silver.

Carson ties on a green apron and carefully spreads out a collection of silverware in front of him. With a gentle hand, he rubs the silver polish over the spoon, removing the stains and tarnish. He removes the cloth and inspects the silverware under the light. He starts at the end, and traces a finger along the elaborate engravings along neck towards the bowl of the spoon, only stopping when sees his own gaze staring back at him.

This is his lot in life – to be so close to such beautiful objects but to never be able to call them his own. It never bothered him before. But lately...

Shaking his head to clear his thoughts, he places the spoon back down and picks up another.

His movements are familiar. Mechanical. He enjoys the routine, finds it relaxing, especially when everything familiar to him is spinning out of control.

These days, he occupies his thoughts with the Memorial business, of talks of monuments and ceremony arrangements. But then sometimes he'll find himself thinking of her. Remembering the feel of her pressed against him. Her legs wrapped around him. The taste of her, all of her.

At dinner, she's all poise and class and he's hit with pangs of guilt. Because everything they've done, whatever it is that they are doing, it's wrong.

Yet he can't find it in himself stop.

Whenever Carson thinks he finally got it out of his head, he remembers his wild feelings reflected in her eyes.

"I want you..." she had said.

His suddenly stops his ministrations and he's standing there with a tarnished spoon in his limp hand.

Now he knows. Any remaining chance that he could continue to feign ignorance was destroyed the moment she uttered those words.

Still waters run deep. If they're not careful, they'll be pulled under.

Carson clears his thoughts with a sigh and continues with his duties. He doesn't want to think about it. To talk about it. To keep dancing between the thin line of something more and dissolving apart entirely.

By the time Sunday comes around, they still haven't talked about it. A steady parade of guests had kept them occupied, and provided the perfect excuse to avoid the conversation all together.

Mr Carson trails behind Mrs Hughes and Mrs Patmore as they walk to Church. She's not sure if it's because he feels uncomfortable around her or because he and Mrs Patmore are still not quite seeing eye to eye. When they arrive, she slides into the pew and settles in next to the cook, exhaling in relief and disappointment when Mr Carson sits on the far end of the pew in front of them. She watches as he moves away from her only to be obscured by the women's hats.

"Are you alright?" Mrs Patmore asks suddenly.

The knot in Elsie's stomach twists and she almost tells her then, almost blurts it out right there in the church pews in front of the entire village and God himself because it's Mrs Patmore with her blue eyes looking up at her and waiting patiently for a response. Her lips open slightly and in her mind she starts formulating the sentence: "I'm having an affair with Mr Carson."

But then in her mind's eye she can see Mrs Patmore's horrified expression and the inevitable fallout and she can't let the words leave her lips.

If she tells Mrs Patmore, it's all going to be real. Very uncomfortably real. They will have to deal with the consequences instead of pretending they don't exist at all.

"I'm fine," she reassures her friend.

Mrs Patmore frowns a little. "If you're sure..."

Thankfully, she lets it go, just shrugs and focuses her attention on the starting processional. Mrs Hughes realizes that she probably shouldn't feel this grateful for the organ player.

Afterwards, while the Crawleys walk ahead of them and the rest of the staff trail behind, Mrs Hughes steals a quick glance at Mr Carson walking beside her.

A knot tightens in her stomach as she remembers how the vicar had spoken about the importance of honour and integrity. About resisting temptation. About everything they are meant to uphold.

The road stretches on; she can see the Abbey in the distance, the majestic building tiny on the horizon. The church bells chime behind them; she refuses to turn around and let them drag her back down. The solemn monotone notes hang in the air, reminding her of the mistakes, the danger, the wrongness of it all.

She turns her gaze back to the ground and the pavement stares back grey and cold.

They don't say anything. There is nothing left to say until they stop pretending.

That night, they finally stop skirting around the issue. The rest of the house had long since gone to sleep, and only they remained hovering in the stairwell whispering in hushed tones.

Carson follows her up the stairs, utterly exhausted, ready to turn in for the night. In these quiet moments in the shadows of the day, he forgets himself. He finds himself reaching for her, seeking her touch.

His hand slides up the handrail and finds hers. Mrs Hughes freezes at his unexpected touch and he stops short behind her. She is suddenly aware of his hot breath tickling the back of her neck and her heart in drumming in the silence.

It would be so easy to roll her head forward and grant him access. To let herself drown in his intoxicating kisses.

"What are we doing?" she breathes.

He hesitates. "I don't know."

She doesn't know what she wanted him to say, what she expected him to say. She closes her eyes, tries to quell her conflicting feelings.

Her job is everything. Everything she has worked her entire life to accomplish. Without it, she would somehow become less. Mrs Hughes would cease to exist. He could take it all away.

They both know that it would go badly for both of them, but it would be worse for her. Because she has less transferable skills. Because her virtue has been lost. Because she is a woman.

Taking a deep breath, she untangles her hand and turns to face him. Her breath catches when she recognizes the storm in brewing in his eyes.

"Elsie, please tell me what you want."

Resign. It's on the tip of her tongue, but then she realizes with horror what she was about to say. The audacity of it shocks her, makes her bite down on her bottom lip to keep if from spewing out. He makes it seem so deceptively simple, when everything is so very complicated. She can't possibly ask him to resign, not if he doesn't want to, not when his life is dictated by the ring of the gong.

She won't contemplate the possibility of retirement; she can't. It is nothing but a pipe dream.

So she averts her gaze to her clasped hands and tries to muster up some conviction. "We should stop." It's the reasonable thing to do.

"Yes, we should," he agrees.

"If anyone were to find out..." she closes her eyes, doesn't even want to contemplate that possibility.

"Even if they didn't..." Carson adds quietly. It cuts her heart to know exactly what he means. They believe in service and standards and honour. They are not too special, too good for the antiquated rules they are meant to uphold.

"The rules exist for a reason."

"That they do," he nods and she wishes he wouldn't. "We can't ignore them."

There's a part of him that wants her to argue, to persuade him that they can, of course they can. The world is changing around them, and maybe it's time that he accept it and change with it.

She nods and purses her lips tightly. "It would taint everything."

This is for the best. She knows this. She understands this. But right now, it hurts.

She stands there for a moment longer, and Carson wonders if she is looking for some kind of closure, some kind of acknowledgement that they're choosing to end this aspect of... whatever this may be. He makes a decision, bridges the distance between them and presses his lips lightly to hers. It's the best kind of goodbye he's capable of at the moment. He is worried that if he tries to speak, he won't sound the least bit convincing.

When he pulls back to step away, her eyes are shimmering slightly, and then she leans in, gives his lips a quick brush of her own. Her own goodbye.

She pulls away, and he is tempted for a brief second to ask her if she is sure that this this what she wants. He wonders if she would rather stop with this pretense, maybe even marry and retire. But she takes a step back and turns around, and his mad thoughts vanish as quickly as they had come.

She made her decision and he agreed. And now she's walking away.