She finished securing her hair, placing the final pin in at the nape of her neck. She wouldn't admit it out loud, but she had spent a few extra minutes on it this morning, adding a few flourishes she usually wouldn't even consider.

You ninny, it's clearer than ever that he likes the look of you, and more, just as you are. What's the fuss about? She smiled at her reflection, mildly startled, as she was on occasion these days, it didn't quite match her own mental picture of herself. Most days, she didn't feel much different now than she did twenty years ago.

But that wasn't exactly true, was it? Surely, her body felt as strong and capable and energetic as it always had, but she thought of all of the heavy things, the secrets and half-truths, she had carried around with her, for decades, or years: Becky, of course; the existence of babies that shouldn't be, according to society's standards, and the terrifying truth of what had happened to Anna, what the odious Mr. Green had done to her.

On this Christmas morning, however, there was something wonderfully, deliciously different:

She had a happy secret.

She was engaged.

To Charles Carson.

It was enough to take the breath out of her every time her mind or heart landed on it, which was every few minutes or so. She'd slept very little last night, but really, it was a wonder she'd slept at all. And had she? Actually slept? It was hard to say really. She had passed the hours between when she'd crept upstairs to her room - after that soft, magical time they'd shared in his study - and dawn in a befuddled, dreamy, happy trance that wasn't quite sleep, really. The entirety of who she was being tugged, sometimes gently, sometimes otherwise, in the direction of Downton's butler. In those hazy pre-dawn hours, her mind roamed, wondering if he, too, was having difficulty sleeping.

No matter what she had thought, what she had hoped, was happening between she and Charles Carson, over the past few years and months, especially, there was no way to know how it would feel on this side of his proposal. Everything inside of her, everything that she was made of, was shifting, sliding, resettling, tugging, pulling towards another person.

She belonged to someone.

He belonged to her.

She was overflowing with the largess of what she possessed: Charles Carson's heart, always.

How she would manage to behave normally today was a bit beyond her, but she'd certainly try. And her hair would look exceptionally tidy, in any case. She smiled at her reflection again, laughed a little breathlessly, and headed downstairs, to start this particularly Happy Christmas.

oooOOOooo

This might prove difficult, he thought, as he realized, for the fourth or fifth time, he was singing to himself. And it was only just past seven in the morning. He just felt so relieved, so glad, so joyous – yes, that was the word,joyous– it was burbling and bursting out of him in scraps of song. And, on top of last night's wondrous events, he was tickled by the existence of his secret, of the fact that Elsie Hughes would soon marry him, but if he didn't get himself settled, it wouldn't be a hidden state of affairs for very long.

He made his way downstairs, past the servants' hall, and noticed Elsie Hughes' door was open, the office beyond it empty. He resisted the ridiculous urge to dash around, up and downstairs, opening doors, until he found her, and made his way to the kitchen, still humming.

Beryl Patmore was there, intently preparing a beautiful tower of fruit and pastries, while Daisy whisked a bowl of batter beside her, making it fluffy and light. A few junior kitchen girls were stirring steaming pots and pans on the stove behind them.

"Happy Christmas, Mr. Carson!" Daisy called cheerily to him, smiling over at him.

"Very good, Daisy, Happy Christmas to all of you, as well," he responded, something tugging in his chest, soaring. It felt almost as if that part of him was trying, physically, to locate his new fiancé. As if it wouldn't be contained, regardless of propriety. Speaking of…

"Yes, a very Happy Christmas, Mr. Carson, I'm sure you'll agree?" Mrs. Patmore glanced up from her handiwork, grinning slyly at him.

He paused only for a moment, his sense of what was appropriate battling with this mad happiness that seemed to have entirely infected him, and he was helpless to control it. "Indeed, Mrs. Patmore, I would say this Christmas is an exceptionally merry one, now that you mention it." The cook looked startled, then pleased, then refocused her gaze on her work, hiding her laughter from the rest of her staff. He continued,

"You've not seen Mrs. Hughes yet this morning, have you?"

The cook's grin widened, and she glanced over at him again. "She'll be down soon, I expect, Mr. Carson; she went upstairs to help some of the maids arrange the Christmas flowers and greenery in the drawing room and great hall. They seemed at sixes and sevens without her, as many of us are." He was pretty sure she winked at him. Almost certain.

"Look who I found!" He was distracted by a happy exclamation behind him. Mr. Molesley appeared in the doorway with Andrew, followed by both Bateses, brushing a dusting of snow off of their coats. Mr. Bates was greeted with surprise cheers and hellos, and then suddenly, the whole kitchen was singing, one carol after the other, and he joined in, trying to control his enthusiasm for appearance's sake.

Various members of the staff darted to and fro, and he kept things in motion and running smoothly, as was his duty. But he was also aware of that tugging, searching feeling in the center of his chest which had but one destination in mind.

He went upstairs, ostensibly to ensure that everything was impeccably set for Christmas breakfast, but stopping in drawing room, which was certainly not on his way, to see if he could spot a certain housekeeper rearranging flowers. His detour ended in disappointment, however, as that particular room was empty (though, he noted, the flowers did look expertly styled).

He made his way through the great hall, all but ignoring the magnificent Christmas tree with its pile of gifts, passing several staff members, but not the staff member in question; the dining room looked as elegant and celebratory as he expected, the gorgeously set table and sideboard a delicate riot of greens, reds and golds.

But no Elsie Hughes.

He headed back downstairs, passing Andy, who was carefully balancing the beautiful confections tower Mrs. Patmore had been building earlier. He could hear the staff still singing in fits and bursts, the familiar tune of "Joy to the World filling the hall and kitchen. He stood in the kitchen doorway, observing the happy industry therein, his hands clasped behind his back. He added his voice to the fray,

"…while fields and floods,

Rocks, hills and plains,

Repeat the sounding joy,

Repeat the sounding joy,

Repeat, repeat, the sounding joy!"

And then, at last, another Christmas wonder: a quick, warm squeeze of his hand, the waft of lavender and vanilla, the familiar contralto voice joined his, and the others', and he gazed down at Elsie Hughes, standing close enough for their sides to brush against each other.

She smiled up at him and suddenly everything in him relaxed, settled. His heartstrings weren't tugging anymore. His heart was beside him, and he meant to keep her there, always.