Over on tumblr the wonderful monajo7 produced a little picture manipulation that I adored. I told her I'd write a story based on it - this is the result. I have a chapter 2 in mind if this is well-received...

AU modern Chelsie (of course!)

New Year's Eve

Carson had never been one for New Year – it all seemed such a fuss over nothing. It was, actually, rather a dreary time of year, what with the joy and festivity of Christmas gone and the return to work looming. January and its frost and its gloom.

And of course, another New Year's Eve to reflect on all the things he hadn't achieved since the year before.

He still hadn't managed to find a 'work-life' balance, he was still renting a tiny one-bedroom flat when he really wanted to buy a small house, he was still single, he still had that slightly podgy tummy that he'd been meaning to join a gym and do something about. There were places he hadn't been that every year went on his list of 'things to see'. He'd lived in North Yorkshire all his life and had seen most of Europe; he'd been a high-class butler for years travelling from one luxurious destination to the next until he set up his own company. But there were places in his own country that he'd never seen – Ireland, for example, or Scotland, he'd done Edinburgh – everybody did – but there was more to it than that and whenever he saw one of those 'visit Scotland' adverts he thought he should. He'd like to.

When he'd received his yearly invitation from his old friend Robert to attend his New Year party he thought a few times of tearing it up and pretending he was out of the country. But at heart he was a moral man, a decent man, and lying wasn't in his nature. So, there he was, dressed up and taking a leisurely walk from his flat to Robert's expensive pile of bricks. He didn't really get on with Robert's wife – she was a bit too American for him, her teeth had always seemed an unnatural shade of white that rather drew his focus whenever he was in conversation with her – but he liked his children, especially Mary, and his mother was always good for a laugh, that sharp tongue of hers.

He hated vagueness just as much as he loathed a lack of punctuality; that was a real bugbear. So when the invitation stated 'smart casual' he wasn't exactly clear what that meant. In the end he'd asked a younger man who worked for him; as much as he hated to admit it Jimmy was his best worker – though he'd never tell him so – and he knew about these things, so Charles has asked and he'd suggested jeans, a shirt and a jacket. Charles had taken his advice and was fiddling with his shirt collar as he made his way up the path towards the house.

"Oh, sorry," he said as he suddenly stopped, bumping into the back of someone. "Sorry," he said again, righting himself.

"It's quite alright. It's very dark out here."

The voice is female, there's an accent. Scottish. Warm.

His eyes are still adjusting to the dark but he can make out she's of a petite stature, and she smells lovely… he can't pinpoint it, maybe vanilla, maybe Christmas spice… She's moving up the path again and he follows, grateful when the porch light comes on and he can see more clearly.

"I'm Charles, by the way," he says as he stands behind her at the door.

"Oh goodness, I'm sorry," she turned to face him, taking her hand from the flowers she's holding and stretching it out, "Elsie Hughes."

"Elsie," an older name, "hello." He shakes her hand, reluctantly letting go. "So, you er, know Robert and Cora?"

"Well, I'm more of a friend of a friend. I think I'm a bit of a charity case tonight," she gives him a small smile. "I'm friends with Isobel Crawley, her son is marrying Mary."

"Ah, yes, Matthew."

"Yes, I've known him since he was a boy."

"And you're a charity case because…?"

"Because I'm single on New Year's Eve," she laughed, pressing the doorbell. "Clearly I can't be trusted to be on my own."

"Tell me about it," he said, as they stand side-by-side at the front door.

The party was crowded, fun but crowded. Elsie had spent the past forty minutes trapped in the kitchen in conversation with a rather ambitious young woman who appeared to want to ram all of her political beliefs down everyone's throat. Sarah, her name, and Elsie had always found 'Sarahs' strong-willed characters. She was exhausted, and slowly getting drunk, she hadn't even made it to the buffet yet.

Escaping by feigning a need for the bathroom she gets lost upstairs and it takes her a good five minutes to find her way back along the right corridor for the right stairs. These Victorian houses have so many extra rooms one would never guess as to when standing outside.

She trails her hand along the rail as she makes her way down; it's an old habit, looking for dust. Her mother used to have her cleaning to earn her pocket money, she got rather good at it and branched out into cleaning the houses of her mother's friends – partly to put herself through University but it had led to her career, and she provided well for herself.

In the hallway beneath her she made out the back of the man she'd arrived at the party with, in a roundabout way. Chris? Charlie? Colin? She smiled to herself; outside in the darkness she could only make out his tall silhouette; in the light of the hall she could see his strong, serious demeanour, the bulk of his shoulders, the width of that chest that produced such a deep rumbling voice. If she'd only heard his voice out in the darkness she might very well have been attracted to it, it was quite a powerful seduction tool. But usually she dated younger men, and he was definitely older than her, maybe five, six years? But older. Young men were more pliable, easier to simply 'drop' if things got too serious. She wasn't a cold woman, not at all, but she didn't have time for relationships and all that messy business that came with it – she'd hurt a man once, Joe, he'd proposed and she'd accepted only to jilt him before they made it to the church. She didn't want to hurt anyone again so she remained single, and younger men were good company; dinner, a movie, sex – and she could turf them out in the early hours without them taking offence. Older men liked to sleep after sex… and they usually only managed to get it up once a night anyhow. She smirked to herself – how wicked she was after three G&Ts.

He caught her eye as she got to the bottom step and there was something there, something about the way he looked at her, as if he was seeing her for the first time. His eyes cast from head to toe then back up to her chest. Then he smiled, very slightly, his mouth twisting to the side as he observed her.

She pursed her lips, lifted her chin only slightly to give the indication of a nod, but as she made her way down the hallway and towards the buffet she most definitely had an extra swing to her hips.

He doesn't like to admit it to himself, but he's been looking for her all night, scanning the assembled guests for her. He can't place her hair colour – she's not a red-head, not a blonde, something in between, some times light brown under a certain light. But her eyes are bright blue, large blue; earlier he heard her laughing and when he glanced over her eyes were sparkling with mischief and it made him smile, made his chest feel light.

He's not the kind of man who's usually attracted so quickly. But the more he watches her the more he realises how very beautiful she is – though unaware of it, perhaps, unaware of her allure. She's fun too, loud and lively at times. Her hand is on the arm of the man making her laugh; Charles knows him, school teacher, Joseph Molesley, and he's married, his wife won't be pleased if he's flirting, but maybe Elsie isn't aware he's married… Elsie, he wonders if it's short for anything. It seems such an old-fashioned name to him, but then Charles is something from the dark ages.

"Sit down old chap," Robert insists, pushing Charles onto the sofa, Cora squashes in beside him, on his right, and Mary and Matthew beside her. "Picture time," Robert says, lining up his camera, "want some evidence you actually attended."

Charles tries to smile, there's a young girl on his left and her husband next to her – she's some relative or other he thinks, Rose. She's pretty but loud and excitable, and her husband seems a nice but dim-witted chap, always smiling, always rosy-cheeked. Charles thinks of the very interesting conversations they must have then chastises himself for being mean, they look a decent sort, harmless really.

"Come on, get in," he smiles as Matthew pulls his mother to sit on his lap.

Now Isobel Crawley is a nice kind and he likes her very much, respects her very much, she held the surgery together when her husband died. And there's been such talk, such speculation, about her having it away with one of the other partners – Richard Clarkson – but nothing's been proved. It's all just talk, just gossip.

Her friend, this Elsie who seems to have drawn his attention so, is standing to the side watching. He thinks she looks a bit drunk but she covers it well, stands tall and straight, like he'd ask his maids to do.

"Get in," Rose shouts in his ear and he can't help the glare he gives her. But then she's shoving along the sofa, pulling on Elsie's hand.

"Really, I don't need to be in the photo." She insists; she feels like she's imposing as it is.

Rose is insistent though and she tugs Elsie down until she almost falls on Charles and topples back on the sofa.

"Watch it," Rose's husband laughs as he drops off the end of the couch.

"Get up, silly," Rose pulls him back and Elsie is squashed up against Charles, so much so she can feel the outline of his wallet in his jacket pocket. "And get Daddy in on the end too."

Elsie wonders exactly where 'Daddy' will fit, she's practically on Charles' knee – she's not shy but she doesn't even know the man.

When Hugh is seated next to Atticus, Rose sits on her husband's knee and they all shove along and now Elsie is on Charles' knee – well, half on it. Toppling to her right and feeling very silly. She can feel his large hand on the base of her back trying to hold her in place as someone snaps a few pictures and she isn't sure if she's smiling or not but the feel of Charles' knee pressing against her thigh makes her feel incredibly warm. She feels he is looking at her and not the camera but she doesn't turn her head for fear of what she might see there. This is all very silly – they only met on the doorstep three hours since.

She gets up as soon as she can and walks away without looking at him – she needs another drink; the entire thing was quite mortifying.

"Hi, again."

Charles splutters into his whisky as Alice approaches him from behind, her voice familiar, the hand she places on his elbow unwanted.

"Almost midnight," she points out and Charles instinctively glances to his watch.

"So, it is. Where's Charlie?"

"Went to refill our drinks before the countdown."

"Ah…" he glances about the room, eager to find someone to escape to.

"You enjoying the party? Had a good Christmas?"

"A busy one," he points out gruffly, "no time to rest, our families want the best over the festive period and we provide it."

She smiles at that, "I know, Charles."

"Yes, well, plenty of demand for high class domestic service, I'll take a break when things quieten down in January."

"Make sure that you do," and there's that hand again, on his arm, squeezing.

As he looks up from her hand to her face she leans in and kisses his cheek, "Happy New Year," she says gently, in a tone he's tried to forget.

He swallows. Looks across the room and catches Elsie looking at them and he backs away.

"Happy New Year to you too, Mrs Grigg." He says pointedly.

As the clock neared midnight Elsie began to back to the side of the room. The lounge and diner were now stuffed with people brandishing champagne glasses – she didn't really like the stuff, gave her heartburn, but she sure could polish off another G&T.

When she reached the far wall she edged along it, her back brushing against the wallpaper, it was almost countdown time and then that meant hugging and kissing and standing there like a total twit as she watched couples embrace and promise each other this year would be better than the last. Blah, blah, blah. Love and false sentiments all because they'd made it to midnight without arguing.

She got to the door as Robert finished his speech and Cora waved them quiet – all of them staring at the flat screen television on the wall and Big Ben.

Backing into the hall she turned, passed a young couple snogging against the wall and stumbled into the kitchen through the swing door.

It was quiet in there and cool, still. The delighted voices of celebration rang through in a muted fashion and she reached for the bottle of gin, pouring a healthy glug of it into her empty glass.

"Happy 2016." A disembodied voice came from the corner of the room and she dropped her glass, grimacing as it smashed. Still, nobody would hear over the singing of Auld Lang Syne.

"Bloody hell," she said, as she turned and spotted Charles slumped on a stool in the corner of the room. "What you playing at? Little Jack Horner?"

"Sorry," he got up, wobbling, and put his own glass aside. "I'll help clean it up."

She bent, picking up the larger pieces of the glass.

"My feet are soaked in gin."

"Could be worse things," he pointed out as he mopped the floor with a cloth from beneath the sink.

"Maybe, what you hiding in here for?"

"Hate parties, forced cheer."

"Are you always so positive?"

He turned his face up to look at her, there it was again, the mischief in those eyes – she was mocking him. Her face was so close to his he could feel the warmth of her skin, smell her perfume again.

And then she did it. She kissed him. And not some polite peck or perfunctory New Year's thing, she kissed him for real; her lips pressed hard against his, sure and deliberate. He opened his mouth to try and breathe and her tongue crushed against his and he felt his trousers tighten – it had been exactly twenty-nine months since he'd had sex. Twenty-nine months… his penis counted each and every day he was sure. He probably would have taken her right there on the kitchen floor if it weren't for her pulling back from the kiss and getting to her feet.

He continued to kneel there like some cretin, breathing hard, jeans tight across his groin, and he watched as she wrapped the glass in newspaper and put it into the bin before he even attempted to stand. His back creaked and he rubbed at it, cursing his age.

"Where do you live?" She asked suddenly.

"Erm, not far," he was confused by the question. "Ten minute walk."

"Good." She put the lid down on the bin. "Let's go before anyone notices we're missing then, shall we?"

Well, let me know what you think. Worth continuing?