In the years that follow, Elsie and Charles visit as they are able and time allows. When they find help to manage the guesthouse or when there are no bookings, they take the train to Lytham St. Anne's. Becky always seems pleased to see them, greets them with that "Hughes smile" as Charles calls it. When they aren't able to make the trip, they write religiously and Becky continues to send paintings and pencil drawings of butterflies, of Duff, and of her friends. She has the nurses write for her of teaching her friends to play the card games of which Charles sends instructions. She is particularly pleased when she manages one of the card tricks he sends.

At Christmas, Elsie manages to send a new dress or suit of clothing; perhaps a pair of shoes on Becky's birthday. The nurses send a card of thanks in return with Becky's signature scrawled at the bottom. Elsie is amazed that such a talented artist has such poor handwriting. But then again she thinks that while she has very nice handwriting she has no talent for art. Elsie puts each letter, every card, every painting away in box for safekeeping. She chooses not to think that they are of no significance to anyone other than Charles and her. That one day someone will toss the pictures, along with many other things, into a bin. That their house will be cleared of its belongings, furniture sold, clothes given to the church charity drive, personal possessions bequeathed away to those listed in their will. The furniture means nothing, nor the clothes, but certain things mean everything to her. The ring Charles slipped onto the third finger of her left hand, her mother's broach, Charles pocket watch that she hears ticking away in the quietness of the night, and Becky's drawings. They are all precious to her. But she cannot think of all that; if someone tosses them out she will not be around to know it anyway.

xxxx

The house is warm; as the sun beats down upon it Elsie has thrown open the windows to air the rooms, to enjoy the summer breeze that occasionally blows through ruffling the curtains. They have one guest, a young man who is repairing some of the stained glass windows at the church and putting in another given by the Granthams in remembrance of the Dowager. He's been in the village for a fortnight and he will be leaving in a week going back to Glasgow. He's been little trouble, comes in early, takes breakfast and supper with them, talks cricket with Charles. Elsie is happy to have someone in the house from home, a young person to talk with. When she hears Charles and the young man talking sport, she wonders what it would be like if the young man were their son. If Charles had a son to talk cricket with and she had a son to dote over, cook for. She's seen the look in Charles' eye, when he's talking with the lad. Or the misty-eyed look just before he averts his gaze when he thinks that she's not looking when she and the young man are talking of home. Truth told, both of them will be sad to see him go.

One day a knock at the door comes, the quick rap of a visitor rather than the longer familiar knock of a friend. Elsie places a cool hand to the door handle to turn it, opens the door to find a young man, his bicycle standing behind him, a letter in his hand. She has been on the receiving end of a telegram a fair few times in her life. Some for herself. Many for others in her duties as Housekeeper. Experience tells her that this is personal; something that she doesn't want to open. The telegraph boy extends the note toward her; he was here just two days ago delivering another telegram. One telling her to stand by, that there is no need to come just yet. Wait until she receives further word. She takes it from him and the sends him on his way.

She closes the door and leans against it, holds the telegram to her breast, and closes her eyes. She knows what is inside, what the doctor and his staff have written. She wishes Charles is home perhaps he could read it first, but then she scolds herself. She has never cowered in the face of anything. Not when her father dropped dead in the fields when she was sixteen or when her mother died of pneumonia when she was forty-five and Housekeeper at the Abbey. Not when she rushed into the dining room to find him surrounded by the family, red faced possibly dying from a heart attack. Not when duty called first and all she could do was to direct the dinner service and then attend to him. Not when she found her girl in a disheveled heap in the corner of her sitting room after that despicable valet forced himself upon her. No. Elsie Carson did not flee from a crisis. Her mother taught her that.

She reads the black lines on the cream paper. Her last connection with home gone. Her last living relative dead. Her sister with the angels.

xxxx

Charles runs his thumb over the gold lettering on the book's spine as he casts appraising eye over the leather cover, taking in each detail. The fine stitching, the walnut colour of the leather. He hums in appreciation. Opening the cover, Charles examines the cream marbled end covers; turns the page and rubs his finger across the name on the title page. Her name in stark black script stands contrasted against the crisp white page. Elsie watches as her husband's lips turn up at the edges. She's already looked over the book but he appreciates the finer qualities of the thing. The perfection of it. But when his eyes first register the author's name, Elsie's heart swells with unimaginable pride. Charles passes the book back to his wife and she cradles it lovingly in her lap.

"So you're pleased?" the lady in the smart jumper and skirt asks. She looks so comfortable and confident behind the desk, Elsie thinks. Elsie is proud of the woman she has become. To have been through so many trials, she has indeed triumphed in the end.

"Oh, my lady, it is so much more than I ever imagined," Elsie replies sincerely.

"Well, we've the leather bound volumes of course and for the general trade market there will be these," Lady Edith remarks as she reaches across her desk to hand Elsie a copy of hard cloth bound volume with a paper dust jacket. Elsie smiles as she takes the book and thumbs through it. To her it is just as beautiful. The illustrations inside are the real treasure no matter the cover that binds them. She leans over, proudly shows the volume to Charles.

"Becky was very talented," Lady Edith offers with a smile. "I could not believe all of the pictures when I saw them."

"It was rather amazing," Charles replies with a smile. "Memories collected over a lifetime. I never thought that they might be collected into a book."

Elsie finishes with the book in her hand and places it on the desk. Finds herself drawn to the letters on its spine. Butterflies of Great Britain by Rebecca Hughes. If only our mother could see, Elsie thinks wistfully. Perhaps she can.

"And we've taken the originals and placed them in our archives like you asked, Mrs. Carson. They will be preserved," Lady Edith assured her.

"Very well," Elsie replied. "Now as to any proceeds that are earned from the sale of the book, Mr. Carson and I wish for those to go to a fund that we have set up in Becky's honor to provide funding for those who need care at the home where she lived. It has been fixed, so Mr. Ward will be contacting you to make the arrangements."

Lady Edith smiles broadly at the former butler and housekeeper. She tells them that she is honored that they asked her to be a part of publishing Becky's work; to help secure her legacy. Now that their business is concluded, Charles and Elsie inquire of little Marigold who lives with her mother in London. Lady Edith shows them several pictures of the little girl who is bright and cheerful much like her mother now. London is good for them and Edith has come into her own. Though the Butler has his favorite, Charles is proud of the woman Edith has become.

xxxx

The Carsons return to their guesthouse and visitors come and go. The summer of 1931 is their last as proprietors, as "property magnets" Charles once called them. For Charles' seventy-fifth birthday, they take down the guesthouse sign, decide to pack it in and close up shop, and retire for good. They've done well for themselves and before they are too old, before knees and hips and backs give out completely, they sell the house to a young couple with four children. With a tidy sum in their account, they buy a cottage near the sea and spend their days doing as they please. Charles pocket watch rarely leaves its spot on the dresser and he and Elsie find that their mornings lie in is just right. On cool nights they sit uninterrupted by a small fire, reading their books, her leaned into his chest, sherry glasses nearby. And early nights, well, early nights are sweet and tender, slow and gentle. When the weather is nice and warm, they walk in bare feet along the sandy shore hand in hand, holding each other steady.

Elsie looks forward to the post when they receive a letter from Beryl with news of Downton, of home. But home is where they are now, together. They will visit at Christmas and stay at the Bates' hotel. She cannot wait to see her girl and the little one with the golden hair of her mother and the soulful brown eyes of her father. If she misses anything, it is that. Seeing Anna's child grow up, Beryl, and Daisy. She keeps up with them through the post and Charles has installed a telephone. She speaks with them on occasion but she and Charles are frugal and telephone calls expensive.

Each month Elsie receives a statement from Mr. Ward's office. Becky's book has done well, has allowed a stipend for a fair few people to supplement their care. It is a gentle reminder that each life has purpose no matter how affected or afflicted. She hopes that her mother would approve, thinks that she would, will ask her one day. When she sees her again. One day. But today, she sees her man strolling up the path to their cottage. She smiles. He has a fishing rod, a pail, and a stringer full of fish. She hugs her arms close to her breast. He brings his catch, his bounty, and lays it at her feet. He leans in to kiss her and he tastes of sea spray. Her mind flashes back to that day in his pantry, all those years ago before the war, another now on the horizon, when she asked him about another way. She sees it before her now. She reaches up, cards her fingers through his white hair, and has never been happier.

A/N: Well, we've reached the end of our story. An even ten chapters. This has been a real emotional experience for me. When I started out, I just though "Hey, this will be just an exercise in fleshing out a tidbit that was left in hanging in a lovely episode." But it turned into something much more personal. Many of us have / had someone in our lives, a "Becky" that we have been or are a carer for. I have one. Due to privacy, I will not say who it is. But every decision that I make as to how many classes I teach, whether or not it is time to retire (I am only in my early 40s, mind but can retire at this point) to devote my full energies to this person, to financial considerations to provide appropriate care, is wrapped around considerations for this person. This is a lifelong situation for this person and I do worry what will happen when I am no longer around (due to distance, health, or worse). But as I told someone privately (and I appreciate your listening, you know who you are), I appreciated the way that PL played this out because for many of us, this is just life. We, like the fictional Elsie Hughes, do not seek nor ask for pity, it just is life. You just simply deal with things as they come and make the best decisions you can. Therefore, thank you for all who read, reviewed reblogged on Tumblr, commented privately, and provided me with insight (chelsie-carson and klswhite). It has meant more to me than you can know. Ok, therapy session over. x