Chelsie Christmas Countdown – Day 15

Story Notes:

1) This isn't particularly Christmassy so I hope you'll forgive me.

2) I don't mean any disrespect to those who are colour-blind. I'm in no way trying to glamorize seeing in colour. I tried to address it in the story, but I just wanted to emphasize this here.

3) I twisted some canon details and compressed the show's timeline to make the story fit. Also, we're going to assume that Mrs Hughes' hair was always the S5/6 colour. And that Alice sings.

colours of the rainbow (so pretty in the sky)

She was nineteen-years-old and trying to keep up with the other maids and footmen as they pushed their way to the front of the small crowd that had formed on the street. Clutching her handbag tightly in one hand, and Marian's hand in the other, as she pulled her up to get a better view of the buskers.

When they were close to the front, Elsie dutifully let go of her friend, smoothing her skirts and quickly lifting her hand to make sure that her hat was still in place. From her spot in the third row, Elsie could easily hear an angelic voice being accompanied by strings, but she struggled to see the performers through hats that obscured her view.

From what one of the maid's was saying, the woman performing desperately needed a new dress.

"It doesn't suit her colouring," Agnes explained to the wide-eyed maids. "It washes her out, makes her look sickly, and it fails to distract from her horrible singing."

Elsie rolled her eyes. Agnes had become insufferable the moment she set eyes on the baker's son. She never failed to remind them how finding your soulmate is life-changing. The lucky ones were able to see the world with new eyes. They were able to see beyond different shades of grey. It was so wonderfully eye-opening.

It was astounding to think that apples were red and the sky was blue when they looked mostly the same to her.

"Oh look Elsie!" Marian nudged her during an applause.

Lifting herself onto her toes, Elsie looked to where Marian was pointing. The two men had put away their instruments, and were pulling out an assortment of strange objects from a box. One of the men was tall, clean-shaven, perfect posture, not a hair out of place. He'd have done well in service, she observed. The other one, not so much. He was shorter, scruffy with a devil-may-care attitude.

"Are those bowling pins? Oh dear, they're going to juggle," Agnes groaned. "It's official. Art is dead."

Elsie exchanged an irritated glare with Marian.

"Elsie, your lip!" Marian exclaimed suddenly.

Realizing that her chapped lip had split, Elsie reached up. Without thinking she gently traced it with her silk-covered index finger. She could hear her mother's voice in her mind, chastising her for always gnawing at it.

She looked down.

And froze.

There, on the tip of her white glove, was a streak of something. It stood out like the difference between hot and cold.

It was different. Something horrible and different and terrifying. It hurt her eyes and she peeled her stained glove and gasped as she saw the back of her hand.

Everything was affected.

Everything, everywhere.

"Elsie?" Marian asked, pulling her out of her trance.

"I… I stained my glove." She remained still. Those gloves had been a gift and she ruined it with that...thing.

Without a second thought, Marian dragged her from the show and Elsie could feel the tears welling up the corners of her eyes.

"What's wrong, Elsie?" she asked when they were far enough.

It was all so overwhelming. She hadn't thought that it would ever happen to her.

She took a deep breath. "I think I'm seeing colour."

Marian clapped her hand excitedly. "You saw your soulmate! There were so many people! Do you know who it is? Oh Elsie, who is it?"

Elsie nodded mutely. She knew exactly who it was. Long legs, the way that he held himself and how his eyes were focused on the task at hand. She shivered just thinking about it.

Marian gasped. "It's one of the jugglers isn't it?"

She nodded. "The tall one."

"You need to go talk to him."

Elsie laughed bitterly. "But why, Marian? So I can leave service and marry a street performer?"

Marian flinched. "You know Elsie, there are people in this world who spend their entire lives searching for their soulmate and never find them. And yet, you accidentally stumble across yours and you're going to let the opportunity slip away. Why? Because you don't think he's good enough?"

"That's not what I meant!" she protested.

"Then what did you mean?" Marian demanded.

"I'm just trying to be practical," she tried to explain. "What kind of life could we possibly have together?"

She would have to leave service. How would they support themselves? How would she help her sister?

"I don't know, Elsie. But I'm sure you'd figure it out together," Marian looked down. "I'd kill to find my soulmate," she added softly.

Elsie sighed. "You're right. I'll try to speak to him after the show."

But she never did. After watching the show and clapping enthusiastically after every act, she went to make her way to congratulate him on a job well done.

And saw him kissing the singer's hand.

She felt her heart drop to her stomach.

Some people never found their soulmates. Others did only to find out that it was unrequited. Perhaps she was one of the unlucky ones.

Marian followed her gaze and gasped. "I'm so sorry Elsie."

"For what? It's not like we were in love or anything," she smiled diplomatically. "We should start heading back."

Turning on her heel, she noticed a discarded flyer at her feet. She leaned down to pick it up. Written across the page in large black letters were three words:

The Cheerful Charlies.

She crumpled it in her fist, frustrated with the fact that it was bothering her so much. Not everybody found their soulmates - her own parents hadn't, and they were mostly happy in the end.

She had meant to throw it away. It was a pointless memento. But then as she stood near the rubbish bin, she decided against and instead, smoothed out the crinkled page. Later, she tucked it in between the pages of her journal and that is where it remained.

Carson's world was very much in black and white.

There was a daily schedule, almost always the same. Rules applied to everybody without exception. There was a proper way of doing things.

He didn't like "wishy-washy," "maybe," "if-then," and "either-or." He frequently became quite frustrated when faced with "sometimes this and sometimes that." And he became exceptionally frustrated when a footman would say "I'm not sure."

Black and white meant that things were predictable. Black and white meant that things seemed fair and were always clear. But when the two were mixed, all he was left with was various confusing shades of grey.

Often times, Carson suspected the concept of colour was utter nonsense. He had met the love of his life years ago, and his world hadn't changed a bit. If anything, it had gotten darker.

He sighed and looked at the calendar on his desk. The new head housemaid was arriving today. Not that he was particularly sad to see the old head housemaid go. She was smug and irritating, always clawing at moving up and out of service with her extravagant pride and non-existent work ethic.

Mrs Hannigan, the housekeeper whose hair was more salt than pepper, had indicated that her replacement came highly recommended from Clennell Hall in Northumberland - a place he had passed by years ago. She was apparently hardworking, ambitious - but not overly so. She experienced. Enthusiastic. Respectable. A breath of fresh air.

Somehow, Carson doubted it. But as butler, it was not his decision to make.

"Ah, Mr Carson. There you are!" said Mrs Hannigan as she walked into his pantry.

He looked up, and noticed that she was accompanied by another woman.

"Mr Carson, may I present Miss Elsie Hughes, the new head housemaid," said the housekeeper as he stood to greet her.

"Pleasure to meet you, Mr Carson," she said, her Scottish lit evident in her voice.

She was respectable, that was true. She was of average height, dressed smartly in tailored morning suit with a high-collared blouse and gored skirt. He was struck by her confidence, unwavering under his gaze.

"Welcome," he said stepping around his desk. "I hope your journey was satisfactory."

"It was fine, thank you," she said.

He opened his mouth to give his typical preamble, and then he froze.

There was something wrong with her eyes.

It was bizarre, some sort of trick of the light. It had to be. It was shocking in its stark defiance of the darkness around it. He watched, in horror and fascination, as as it lit up her eyes and made its way down her cheeks, down to the curl of her lip.

The black and white was gone, peeled away to reveal the blazing glory underneath. He hadn't realized that he had been stepping back until she spoke.

"Mr Carson?" Mrs Hannigan prompted.

He cleared his throat. "Downton is a great house, Elsie, and the Crawleys are a great family. We live by certain standards and those standards can at first seem daunting." He had given this speech many times before to various footmen and hallboys whenever they arrived.

Somehow, he managed to continue as evenly as possible with his heart racing as it was.

"If you find yourself tongue-tied in the presence of the family, I can only assure you that their good grace will help you to perform your duties to the best of your ability."

He consciously ignored the look she was giving him, a strange mix of annoyance and amusement swimming in her colourful eyes.

"Thank you, Mr Carson. I'll keep that in mind."

He was seeing in colour. He had so much as glanced at the new maid, and his world had sprung to life.

Then the realization hit him and his heart clenched. She hadn't blinked. Hadn't moved, hadn't given any indication that anything was different for her.

Was it possible nothing had changed for her? That she was still seeing black, white and grey while his world was suddenly in screaming colour?

Carson swallowed and forced his features to remain in a smooth mask.

"Well, there's nothing more to discuss here," he said, as flatly as he could. "Mrs Hannigan will show you around."

"Of course." Her voice was cool, entirely devoid of any sort of emotion, completely at odds with her eyes, which were raging with color and light. "Well, Mr. Carson, I look forward to working with you."

She and Mrs Hannigan turned away, and it struck him that the colour of her coat matched the colour of her eyes. Wildly, he wondered what it was called. Brown? Red? Purple? Or maybe it was blue?

Had Mrs Hannigan not been there, he'd have opened his mouth to ask her. It had nothing to do with the possibility that Elsie hadn't seen the colours…

He'd heard of it, of course. Heard bits and pieces of conversations at dinner, always full of pity as they discussed poor old spinsters or desperate men.

"Poor Shrimpie," Her Ladyship had said once, her fingers curled around her fork, tines facing upwards, much to her mother-in-law's horror. "He sees the colours, but it seems that Susan doesn't."

It was entirely possible that Elsie Hughes continued to see him in black and white.

The door closed behind them and Carson dropped back down onto his chair and sighed. It was for the best.

He had decided long ago that he didn't need a soulmate.

Eighteen months later, in a very unprecedented turn of events, Elsie became Mrs Hughes. Poor old Mrs Hannigan was getting on. Her knees could no longer withstand the frequent trips up and down stairs.

The position of housekeeper was a coveted one and the family was determined to hire the best candidate possible. The interview process was long and arduous, especially compared to other positions. It drew interest from women from all over - women who had more years of experience than her, women who had worked in more prestigious houses than her.

And somehow, she had won the competition.

Elsie supposed that taking on a significant part of Mrs Hannigan's workload over the last year had worked in her favour. She knew she was more than capable of taking over as housekeeper, and evidently, so did Her Ladyship.

She was less sure about Mr Carson's confidence in her. Along with Mrs Hannigan, he had sat in on the interviews since he would be working closely with the new housekeeper. He was a difficult man to read due to his incredibly stiff nature and his excessive stuffiness made her eyes roll and her lips curl. Privately, she admitted that his sugar and ice personality - especially evident with the young Lady Mary – fascinated her. Loyal to a fault, he was the type of person anybody would want to have on their side.

But she worried that he wasn't particularly fond of her. He was always so gruff and sometimes - dare she think it - evasive.

On her first official night as housekeeper, he invited her to his pantry for a celebratory glass of champagne.

He lifted his glass. "Congratulations, Mrs Hughes," he emphasized her name, and something about his deep voice made her stomach flip.

"Thank you," she sipped her drink. She didn't quite know what else to say. "I'm still quite shocked to be honest."

"Why?" he seemed almost insulted at her admission. "You were the best and most qualified candidate."

"Flattery will get you everywhere, Mr Carson," she teased, laughing when he raised a scandalized eyebrow.

As they shared their first glass of wine as Housekeeper and Butler, she was reassured that theirs would be a partnership of equals.

Sometime after Mr Bates' arrival, Mrs Hughes began to suspect that something had changed for Anna. She had caught the housemaid gazing off, wide-eyed and distracted on multiple occasions, so she left a magazine on Anna's bed, with a colour wheel tucked carefully between the pages. Now that the head housemaid could see colour, she might as well know what was seeing. As Elsie had learned over the years, it was all so incredibly complicated and she still didn't know or understand it all. She had learned about the basic hues and how each one could be altered by adding black or white, creating different shades and tints. But there were far too many colours for her to remember the names of all of them - the mauves and glaucouses of the world remained a mystery to her.

Mrs Hughes entered the Servant's Hall where the maids chatted, Thomas hid behind a newspaper, and Miss O'Brien stitched a button onto one of her Ladyship's dresses. Mrs Hughes wondered for a moment how Miss O'Brien knew which colour thread to use. Miss O'Brien certainly never mentioned a soulmate.

Bu then again, the world accommodated the black and white. Reliance of shapes, labels and the use of other senses meant that most people never lacked anything. Those who were colour-blind were just as - and in some cases - even more capable than those who could see.

Colour was seen as a thing of luxury – the upper class flaunted their bright silks and delicate hats. Their intricate floral arrangements screamed that they were the lucky ones, that they could see the colours even when many of the lords and ladies could not.

Mrs Hughes never breathed a word that she could see. She didn't want the gossip, nor the pity. How utterly tragic – a spinster with a soulmate.

She found herself wondering about Mr Carson. How could he be so sure of the wine just by looking at it? Could he see colours? She never knew anything like it. He was able to differentiate between them so easily, seemingly without sniffing or tasting or reading the label. She had known others to be good, but nobody was as good as him.

She purposefully hadn't asked how he knew, and he hadn't offered the information. It was really none of her business.

It had been years since their first meeting, and he still hadn't breathed a word to her that she was the reason he knew the difference between rosés and tawny ports just by looking at them.

All Carson wanted to do after dinner was to sit down with a nice glass of brandy - served at room temperature, neat of course. He held the glass cupped in the palm of his hand, and not for the first time he noticed the golden-brown drink resembled the colour of her hair.

It had been a harrowing day. And now that that louse was gone, he finally felt like he could breathe again.

"Were you ever going to tell me why you were sneaking around the pantry?"

He groaned and finished his glass.

Mrs Hughes stood in front of his desk, her face stern, but her blue eyes sparkled with mischief.

"How did you know?" he asked defeated, gesturing for her to take a seat.

"Mr Carson, you should know by now that there are very few things that go on in this house without my knowledge," she sat down as he poured her a glass. "Anna saw you in the pantry and Lady Sybil told Gwen about your visitor," she relented. "Though I don't know much more than that."

His eyebrows rose in horror. "Everybody knows then."

She didn't contradict him.

"They're all laughing at my expense," he moaned. "Carson, the clown."

"They're not laughing at you," she reassured him. "They are laughing at the situation. It's difficult to reconcile the fact that you, Mr Carson of all people was once a vaudeville musician."

Carson grumbled a bit, but the tension in his shoulders had decreased significantly. "I suppose it is a small comfort that they are having a difficult time believing it."

Mrs Hughes didn't say anything, instead opting to hide her smirk behind her glass. He could tell that she was curious, unasked questions burning in her mind, but she was not one to pry.

"Charlie Grigg was my stage partner," he found himself saying. If she was surprised that he was divulging such personal information, it did not show. "We were known as The Cheerful Charlies."

He fully expected for her to laugh, but instead she furrowed her brows. Shock perhaps? Confusion? For whatever reason, he felt compelled to explain it to her. He opened a drawer. and pulled out an old playbill and handed it to her. She breathed in sharply.

"This can't possibly be you," she examined it carefully, a finger glossing over the grainy picture. The pages had yellowed over the years, the corners curling in, but it was most definitely him. She bit her lip, "You're so young."

He nodded. He was so very young, so very naive.

"I can't believe it," she said in awe and he wanted to crawl into a hole and be buried alive. He expected her to laugh, to take back all the reassurances she had given him when she only knew half the story.

Instead she looked up at him in wonder.

"You're not shocked?" he asked, hopeful.

She shook her head, bit her lip, and he felt the knot in his stomach unclench.

Because Mrs Hughes' eyes could twinkle and dance and skip and say a thousand words that she never would.

These were the thoughts that ran through Mrs Hughes' head in the middle of the night:

Mr Branson has been getting very familiar with Lady Sybil.

Of course, it could be innocent.

(Don't be ridiculous. They both see the colours.)

That on its own is not untoward. It's possible to see colours and not engage in a romantic relationship. Colours do not necessarily equate to love and everything that comes with it. These things do not fall neatly into place.

Just look at Lady Mary and Mr Crawley's chaotic courtship.

It's possible to see colours and not be heartbroken.

It's also possible to see colours and just work colleagues. Friends, even.

Yes, definitely possible.

Knowing one's soulmate does not change everything.

Just keep an eye on Branson. Hopefully they won't be reckless.

Perhaps talk to him if things progress. No, sooner is better than later. Nip it in the bud.

Remember to talk to Mr Branson in the morning.

Also remember to change the cleaning rota for Gwen's day off.

"Mrs Patmore," he pulled the cook to the side. "Have the results come in?"

She shook her head, as she had every time he asked. But unlike before, this time she had some new information to share. "Dr Clarkson said that they should be in no later than next Friday."

He sighed and nodded. It had been horrible waiting in limo for the past to months. His only saving grace was knowing that if she were indeed ill, his world would dim until it was monochrome again.

Or at least that's what the stories said.

"She'll be alright," he said. This had become his new mantra.

"How can you be so sure?" Her voice was so weak and for the first time, he was aware of of the fear seeping through Mrs Patmore's stoic mask. He had been so preoccupied that he hadn't noticed that she was buckling under the pressure of this secret.

"Your dress is lilac," he said with confidence. Mrs Patmore's eyes widened as the implication dawned on her.

"It's lilac," he repeated, "andit isn't fading."

Just as Mr Carson had predicted (hoped) she was fine. "A benign something-or-other" Mrs Patmore had said while Mrs Hughes spied on their conversation.

He sighed in relief when Mrs Patmore told him. It was the happiest Mrs Hughes had ever seen him. Afterwards, she bit back a smile as she watched him sing. She fully expected him to start juggling the cutlery he was polishing like he had juggled those bowling pins so long ago.

She was pulled out of her reverie when Mrs Patmore came bustling down the corridor.

"Can I have a word, Mrs Hughes?"

"Of course," she frowned and turned towards her sitting room.

Closing the door behind them, she waited for the cook to speak.

"I have a question," Mrs Patmore hesitated, "of a personal nature."

Mrs Hughes frowned. "Go on."

Mrs Patmore's eyes darted to the side and she took a deep breath. "Can you see colour?" she finally managed to say.

Mrs Hughes was taken aback. This certainly wasn't what she had been expecting.

"I can," she admitted, bewildered by the sudden question. Mrs Patmore nodded, seemingly unfazed but this information.

"How long as it been?"

She bit her lip. It felt surreal talking about it. Nobody had ever asked before.

"Since I was nineteen-years-old."

"Oh..." her eyes which were full of unasked questions widened at the revelation. "It's been quite some time, hasn't it?"

It really had been a long time.

Mrs Hughes hesitated, wondering how to proceed. She was curious now, wondered if perhaps Mrs Patmore had seen something new

"Can you?"

"Oh heavens, no," Mrs Patmore shook her head. "I would like to though. I really would. One day. "

Something strange had possessed her to rifle through his rubbish bin. It was a combination of curiosity and concern for a friend. Mr Carson had been acting so strangely. He hadn't even bothered to open the letter; he just huffed and tossed it aside without a second glance. Mrs Hughes recognized that she probably should not have gone read the letter, that she should not have interfered with Carson's personal life. But the fact was that she did.

He told her about Alice, the girl who stole his heart, and traded it for another.

"I should have known it never would have worked," Carson confessed over a glass of wine.

"You couldn't possibly have known that!" she disagreed firmly.

"I didn't see colours when I looked at her. I should have known."

Her heart stopped at his confession. He didn't see the colours when he looked at Alice.

Did that mean that he saw the colours when he looked at somebody else? Or could not see colours at all?

She swallowed the lump that had formed in her throat. "Mr Carson, you know as well as I do that a soulmate does not guarantee happiness, and that it is possible to love and live happily with somebody who is not your soulmate," she reminded him. "Those relationships are not less significant."

He mulled this over. "Did you ever have a significant relationship?"

"I did. A long time ago," she looked down at her hands. He waited patiently for her to continue. "His name was Joe. He asked me to marry him before I came to Downton as head housemaid."

Carson raised an eyebrow. "Why didn't you?"

"He was a lovely man but we weren't right for each other," she confessed. "We wouldn't have been happy."

He looked up at her after a moment, his brown eyes so vulnerable and open. "Have you been happy?" he finally asked.

"I am happy, Mr Carson," she reassured him. "I really am."

When he was still learning, Carson likened Mrs Hughes' eyes to the sky, but then he learned that the sky was not always blue. Sometimes reds and purples danced on the horizon while the sun set, or a blanket of white or grey clouds covered the sky. Early on, he had decided that her eyes were like the sky on a sunny day. Clear and bright.

He was standing on the edge of the beach looking out to the horizon where the sky met the sea when he decided that Mrs Hughes' eyes were actually sea-coloured. For the blues of the sea were more complicated than the blues of the sky. The sea was more than the pale, sparkling blue that turned to white when washing up on shore. It was light and dark blues mixed with greys and greens, always changing with the tide and the angle of the light. Never stationary. Always moving. A kaleidoscope of different emotions.

"Do you have a favourite colour, Mrs Hughes?" he asked. The water lapped against his ankles. She was next to him, her navy skirt bunched up in her hand.

If she had been shocked by his sudden question, she did not let it show. "Do you?" Her gaze did not leave the horizon.

"I do," he nodded. "Blue is my favourite. The same colour as your eyes."

She bit her lip to suppress a smile. "I didn't know you noticed, Mr Carson."

"It was the first thing that I noticed."

"Blue is my favourite colour too," she said softly.

It took Carson a long moment to understand what she'd said, what her words meant. Then he understood in a blaze of realization, and surprise and hope swelled in his chest. He reached for her hand, and she took it with a brilliant smile that lit up her face.

Knowing didn't change anything; he still felt exactly the same as he did before.

But somehow everything did.