Although Mrs. Hughes had willed the night not to come—if you can stop time, just this once, I will do whatever you tell me to do in the future, Lord—the Almighty paid no heed to her request and it was soon dark outside. Dinner was served and cleared away, maids and valets tended to various family members and guests upstairs while footmen bustled around preparing the house for sleep.

Once the work was done, one by one the servants went up to bed until Mrs. Hughes found herself putting out the lights. She invented some jobs which could have easily waited until the next day—perhaps if I organize these dishes and it takes long enough, Mr. Carson will fall asleep and I can hurry upstairs—and completed these tasks slowly. When she had finished, she held false hope that Mr. Carson would have forgotten about their scheduled meeting, although without a doubt, that man has never missed a meeting in his life. The clock in the hall told her it was now tomorrow, and she could no longer ignore the weariness in her arms, the soreness in her back, or the difficult task of keeping her eyes open. Elsie Hughes was almost positive she had never looked so tired and haggard in her entire life, but she did not bother to confirm this theory with the help of her mirror. She suspected Mr. Carson did not care what she looked like, as long as he received the information he was seeking.

Mrs. Hughes tapped quietly on his door. Perhaps if I knock lightly enough, he will not hear me and then tomorrow morning I can truthfully tell him that I came, but that he did not answer the—

At that moment, the door swung open to reveal Charles Carson's concerned face, backlit by a crackling fire and his table lamp brightly lit. And, although she felt as if she could lie down right there on the wooden floor and sleep happily until the sun rose, Mrs. Hughes found a small smile crept onto her face at the warmth emanating from his pantry.

Mr. Carson stepped aside and waved her in, then closed the door behind her. Without waiting for him to assign her a chair, she carefully positioned herself on his settee. He returned to his desk and stood behind it for a moment as if in thought, then brought the wooden chair toward the fire, placed it a few feet in front of her, and sat down.

She stared at the fire for a few long moments before turning her gaze to him. She found his eyes already locked on her.

"Mr. Carson, have you ever thought seriously about dying?"

Elsie, that may not have been the most tactful way to begin this conversation.

His mouth opened and closed multiple times before he reached up and made a quick swipe over his eyes—why is he wiping his eyes?—then merely stared at her, looking lost. When he spoke, he spoke very slowly.

"Mrs. Hughes, there are few things in this world which frighten me. My own death is not among them, but I do fear living in a world without those people I have grown to," his voice hitched, "care deeply for."

She nodded in agreement, wondering how he would go on living, should Lady Mary or Lord Grantham precede him in death.

"Well, you're a much better man than I, but I've known that for twenty years. The thought of dying terrifies me," she admitted, stifling a sob which threatened to escape. She believed she had been successful at hiding the sound, but when he leaned forward with a concerned look on his face, she realized this was not so.

"Mr. Carson, I shall tell you the truth. I've shown some symptoms of illness—" she began earnestly, deciding she should just get the information out and worry about it afterward, "And the doctor has done some tests and sent off for results, which should be in within the next few weeks."

His eyes were dark and cloudy again. He swallowed and fidgeted with his hands.

"What kind of illness?" he asked softly, as if he were afraid of the answer. She waited until he raised his eyes to hers and stared into them for a few moments before she lay the horrible, ugly truth before him:

"Cancer."

Their remained locked until she broke the connection and stared down at her lap. The depth she could see in his eyes made her uncomfortable, and if she had been standing, she would need to steady herself from the dizziness.

He stood abruptly, his hands dropping to his sides, and looked around the room as if searching for something. He wrung his hands as his eyes stopped on the cupboard. After giving her another glance, he crossed the room and opened the top drawer to remove a small picture frame. Returning to his chair, he handed the photo to her and seated himself again, heavily.

She stared at the picture in her hands and traced the lovely woman's face. The photo was in surprisingly good condition for how old it probably was, and Mrs. Hughes marveled at the absence of dust and the rather expensive-looking frame it was kept in. She looked up to meet Mr. Carson's eyes.

"Who is she?"

She expected to hear another story of lost love, another open wound from his past which she would help him stitch up if she were able.

"Elizabeth Carson. She was my mother."

Mrs. Hughes breathed in, at once honored to share a name with the most important woman in his life and surprised that he had never informed her of this. On second thought, she was not surprised by that fact.

"She is stunning, Mr. Carson."

He swallowed. "Yes. She was. But I did not have the pleasure of knowing her. She died months after I was born—of cancer."

She allowed her fingers to trace the length of Mrs. Carson's hair and tried to swallow the knot in her throat. Imagine dying when your precious son was only months old. Imagine never being able to marvel at the stoic, gentle, kind man he grew into. She looked up at Mr. Carson. Mrs. Hughes attempted not to examine his reasons behind revealing this photo at this moment. She tried not to think that he saw her as another victim, a lost cause with no hope remaining. As of right now, she was still alive, and I will work until I cannot manage it any longer, she couldn't help but reminding herself.

The man seated before her had not made a movement since mentioning his mother's passing.

"I am terribly sorry. I daresay she would be incredibly proud of who you are today."

It was only then that she noticed the unshed tears in his eyes. He simply nodded, unable to thank her without dislodging something he would rather leave alone for now. The butler drew in a few slow breaths.

"It appears, Mrs. Hughes, that this disease targets those whom the world never deserved in the first place."

She gave him a small smile at the most genuine, if a little morbid, compliment she had ever received. It was sweeter than any imaginings she may or may not have entertained through the years of knowing him.

Later that night, when she was tucked neatly into her bed upstairs, she would replay this scene in her head and wonder how she should have responded. She regretted answering him with only a smile. Elsie, you must live now with no regrets. Soon, you may run out of time.

Mrs. Hughes decided to seize the opportunity, should it arise again, to speak honestly with Mr. Carson about how dear he was to her. She could not bear the thought of dying with such a secret.