The Return of the Native

Spring 1920

Carson looked down at the papers before him. They were short a footman and the maids were going wild in the servant's hall with every passing second, and Mrs. Levinson and her American ways were not making the situation any better—how was he to run Downton properly without a full and adequate staff?

A knock on his pantry door pulled him back to reality. Instead of looking up to see who his guest was, he pulled out his watch to check the time. Where did the time go, he wondered as he stood.

"Might I have a word?" he heard Mrs. Hughes ask him gently.

"Not right at this moment, no," he told her. His eyes focused down at the notes on his desk. Lord Grantham was hesitant enough to have young Alfred join the house—as was Carson—and he refused to allow any more staff to be hired, but if he could just catch his lordship at the right moment... "I must be ringing the dressing gong—I'm late as it is."

"I only need a moment..."

"And you will have it, Mrs. Hughes," he said. He passed her quickly, his eyes focused onward. "As soon as dinner is over with—you'll have my full attention."

"Alfred—your behavior tonight has been most inappropriate," Carson lectured as they descended the stairs together.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Carson," said Alfred, "but it was Mrs. Levinson who said it."

"It is your job to serve Mrs. Levinson and the people at Downton," he said. "Not to participate in their conversation, no matter how alluring. Anything said to you by any member of this household will be answered in a respectful tone and a blank expression. Is that understood?"

"Yes, Mr. Carson," said Alfred.

They reached the bottom step where Miss O'Brien stood waiting for them. "What's this?" she asked.

"Never mind you," said Carson with a shake of his head. He left Alfred to explain himself and headed onward to escape to his pantry.

The truth was he might have been too harsh on the boy. Mrs. Levinson, though he never dared to admit it out loud, was an unfiltered mad woman—it was not Alfred's fault he got caught in the crossfire.

"How was dinner?" asked Mrs. Hughes, exiting the kitchen. He stopped and waited for her so they could walk together.

He responded with a slight huff.

He heard her chuckle. "That bad, was it?"

"My hope is everything will go back to normal once Mrs. Levinson and her risqué banter are far away from Downton. On a ship back to America, preferably."

"Downton won't ever go back to how it was before, Mr. Carson," she said. "The war made sure of that."

He allowed her to enter his pantry first and then he followed suit. He spotted the tea tray on his way to his desk and his eyes brightened.

"I thought some tea might calm our nerves," she said.

"Our nerves," he echoed curiously.

He sat down at his chair, feeling a great relief rush over him, and he closed his eyes. He would prefer his favorite bottle of wine over tea, but perhaps his wife knew best.

"If you recall earlier, I wanted a word with you," she said.

"Yes, yes, I recall," he said, his eyes still closed. Both his mind and body desired only sleep. "What is it, Mrs. Hughes?" He waited. When she said nothing, his eyes opened. He watched her carefully as she quietly poured tea into a small white cup and he knit his brow. "Elsie?"

She turned to him, tea cup in her slightly shaking hand—and he noticed a glistening in her eyes. "Do you have any regrets, Charlie?"

"I'm not sure what you mean?"

"If you were given the chance to go back twelve years ago, would you have changed anything? Or... would you have let it all remain the same?"

"If you're asking if I regret marrying you," he said after clearing his throat, "no, Elsie, I do not. There may be some things I would—if given the chance—do differently... but I do not regret anything."

Instead of handing him the tea, she placed it on his desk in front of him. "Hughie, you mean," she said softly.

He sat straight in his chair. "You're putting words in my mouth, Elsie, and I don't like it."

"We were quite the scandal back then, weren't we?" she said, her eyes wandering to the open door. "Butler and Housekeeper... nearly destroying their futures by marrying and bringing a disabled baby into the world."

He frowned. "What was it you needed to speak to me about?"

She turned to prepare her own tea. "I suppose in another lifetime you'd be married to Alice—and I to Joe," she continued, ignoring his question; deep down he knew she would get to her point eventually. "And Alice would birth you a nice healthy seeing boy... who would be called Neal, not Hughie."

"Don't be like that, Elsie," he said. He turned to see Alfred and Mrs. Levinson's maid walk past his door in a fit of giggles—they were getting far too close for his comfort. He looked back at Elsie. "This isn't a conversation I would like to be having while working," he added quietly.

She finished prepping her own tea, but made no effort to touch it. She turned back to him, nervously fiddling with her thumbs. "The truth is I know you no longer find me attractive, Charlie..."

He sighed, resisting the urge to roll his eyes. "Elsie, you are beautiful—I love you," he told her.

Mrs. Patmore's voice boomed in the distance, ordering Daisy to do one thing or another, so she hurried to shut the open door. "Then why haven't we made love in over four months," she asked him gently and he shifted in his seat. Her eyes drifted to the floor.

Carson's face turned pink and his eyes glanced back at each of his closed doors. Secrets had ways of getting out, and he was not about to fall victim to the whispering walls of Downton. "Can we discuss this later, El—Mrs. Hughes."

"Charlie... I didn't come here to make you uncomfortable," she said. "But you see I've—I've discovered a lump. And you might have noticed it had you been down there recently."

His breath caught and it felt as if his heart had sunken to the pit of his stomach. "You've discovered... a lump?"

"On my left breast."

She could no longer hide her fear and she quietly began to cry. He lifted himself out of his chair and had her in his arms in seconds. He could feel her shaking as he guided her down in a chair.

"I want him here..." she said softly.

"I'll set up an appointment with Dr. Clarkson in the morning." He grabbed her tea and attempted to hand it to her, thinking it might cure her shakiness, but she refused it; he set it back down and knelt before her.

"I want him here and I want him in my care," she said, her voice weak but steady. "I don't care what Lord or Lady Grantham have to say about it. I'll quit if I have to."

"Elsie, my dear, what are you going on about?"

"Hughie," she said, and he straightened. "I don't want him away from us any longer—not if I'm dying."

He flinched at the word. "We don't know... anything yet," he told her gently.

"He's not Becky... not like we thought. He doesn't deserve to spend his days in the care of strangers. Not while his mother is alive and perfectly capable," she continued. "I don't want to spend my last days without him. I don't—Charlie, I can't."

"These will not be your last days," he told her. He kissed her hand gently. "And we'll be seeing Hughie next Saturday..."

"I can't wait that long. I'm going tomorrow—I need to see him now."

"Elsie, you need to see the doctor," he said. He let go of her hand and found the seat across from her. "I'll telephone Dr. Clarkson in the morning—and see if he can get you in as early as tomorrow afternoon."

Standing, she quickly found the telephone on the edge of his desk.

"I don't think he'll be in this late," he told her.

"I'm going to try to telephone the school, not Dr. Clarkson."

"I don't think they'll pick up either."

"Believe me, there are several stages to go through before there's any cause for despair," said Dr. Clarkson. Elsie buttoned her blouse and made her way back to her seat, and Dr. Clarkson too went back behind his desk. "When you come back in a day or two, I will remove some fluid from the cyst. With any luck, it will be clear and that will be that."

"And... what if it's not clear, Dr. Clarkson?" asked Carson.

"It will be sent away for analysis," he said.

"Because... it may be cancer," said Elsie.

"It may be cancer," he said, "but I am fairly certain it is not. Have you had any other symptoms? Have you felt ill or tired?"

"I have been tired," she admitted.

"But is that something so out of the ordinary," said her husband, "given our profession?" He rested his hand on her knee, and she patted it gently.

"No, I quite agree," said Dr. Clarkson. "Not out of the ordinary at all."

"Yes—well, may I speak to him... just for a moment?" she spoke kindly, though her patience was running thin. This was her fourth attempt at contacting the school. "This is Elsie Carson—his mother..." She waited as the faint staticky voice of a woman came through. Finally, she let out an exasperated sigh. "When might be a good time to call, then? Hello? I'm having difficulty hearing you..."

She waited. When it was clear she had lost the connection, again, she hung up the headset with greater force than she intended and leaned against the desk, preparing herself for another round. A knock on the open door got her attention and she turned to see Anna at the doorway.

"I'm sorry to bother you, Mrs. Hughes," said Anna, "but Daisy says the oven isn't heating properly... and Mrs. Patmore stepped out for a bit."

She let out a deep sigh. "Just add that to the list of problems we have in this house," she said, allowing Anna to lead her into the kitchen.

"I'm afraid it's not as simple as I thought," said Dr. Clarkson. "The test, you see, was inconclusive..."

Carson's hand found hers and she squeezed it gently. "What do you mean?" she said.

"I had hoped that the fluid from the cyst would be clear, but there were traces of blood in it. Not enough to confirm the presence of cancer, but a little too much to exclude it."

"It'll be sent away for analysis, then?" asked Elsie.

"Yes," he said, "but I'm afraid it may take some time to confirm whether or not it is cancer."

"How long?" asked Carson.

"Anything up to two months," he said. "In the meantime, try to take it easy, Mrs. Carson. Put your feet up every now and then—let your husband take on some of your more challenging duties for you."

"I should be happy to," said Carson gently.

"Do you need me to speak with Lady Grantham," asked Dr. Clarkson.

She shook her head. "No."

Her husband turned to her. "No? Elsie... are you certain?"

"Yes, I'm quite certain," she said, giving him a stern look. "I'll tell her if I need to, but for now this is my business... and only mine." She hesitated for a moment, then turned back to the doctor. "Dr. Clarkson, Hughie will be staying with us while we wait for the results." She ignored the stunned look given to her by her husband and continued on: "I was wondering if we could set up an appointment for him. For a check up, that is."

"Of course," said Dr. Clarkson with a nod.

"Do you think it wise, Elsie," said Carson, "when the doctor just told you to take it easy?"

"If having your son here will help calm your nerves while we wait for the results, Mrs. Carson, I don't see any issues with it," said Dr. Clarkson. "As long as you don't overdo it—and that Mr. Carson is there to take over whenever necessary."

"Thank you, Dr. Clarkson."

"I'm only thinking of what's best for you... and for him, Elsie," he said quietly. They were walking the path back to Downton, and despite having no one near them to hear his words, he still felt the need to talk in a soft whisper. "He needs care that we simply cannot give him."

"We'll cross that bridge when we get there, Mr. Carson," she told him simply, her eyes facing forward and avoiding his stare, fearing she might burst into tears if she looked into his eyes at that moment.

"I just don't want you to get overtired... Mrs. Carson," he retorted. "You know how he is—fine one moment, then in an explosive rampage the next."

Her eyes drifted. Hughie, at times, could be difficult... but nothing she, his possibly sickly old mother, wasn't prepared to handle.

She felt his gentle hand touch her shoulder and they stopped, and she finally found the courage to look up at him. "At least allow me to speak with Lady Grantham..."

"No. I will not be seen as the sickly woman of Downton—or the dying one in the months to come."

She felt the tears rush over her again, and her husband pulled her into a tight embrace and kissed the top of her head.

"Elsie, I'm on your side—as is her ladyship. Please, allow me to speak with her."

Carson entered the library quietly—her ladyship was seated at the desk, and Lord Grantham stood beside her with his hand on her shoulder. They both looked up to see who had entered, after realizing it was only Carson, they turned back to each other.

"I promise I'm not angry with you," said her ladyship softly. "I just wish you would have told me sooner, that's all."

"I'm sorry, my dear—Jarvis and I will only be a few hours," he said with a gentle kiss to his wife's lips. "And the truth is, I think I might need to get away from it all for a bit. I should be back before lunchtime."

"Oh, all right," she said, "but don't be too long. I don't think I can manage my mother on my own."

He kissed her again. "Goodbye, my dear."

Both Carson and her ladyship watched as Lord Grantham left the room. And Carson moved forward.

"Might I have a word, milady?"

"Yes, Carson, what is it?"

He cleared his throat. "I have been given permission by Mrs. Hughes to relay this information to you," he started. "You see, milady, Mrs. Hughes, may be ill... she may be very ill, in fact."

"Oh, that's terrible," she said. "I'm so sorry to hear that."

"If she would let me have it my way, I would inform Lord Grantham and the entire staff of her condition," he continued, "but she wishes to keep quiet until it is confirmed she is ill."

"She has every right to keep such news private, Carson," agreed Lady Grantham.

"I was wondering might I have permission to take on some of her more rigorous duties around the house. Just until we get confirmation."

"If you believe you can handle it," she said, "but I don't want you overworking yourself like you did during the war. These are stressful times, for the both of you."

He bowed his head, then with a defeated sigh, continued: "There is... one more thing, milady."

"Yes?"

"Mrs. Hughes is... well, she is insisting we have—Hughiehere with us while we wait for the results," he said.

"Of course," said Lady Grantham—and he looked up at her in surprise. "What mother wants to be away from their child during such a frightful time? Tell Mrs. Hughes that Hughie is welcome here at Downton for as long as she wants him. I'll speak with Lady Sybil about hiring a caretaker for him."

The door opened and Barrow entered the library. Carson straightened himself and turned to him with a frightful glare. "I'm sorry to interrupt, your ladyship," he told Lady Grantham, "but Mrs. Patmore is requesting a word with Mr. Carson. I've been sent up here to retrieve him."

She looked up at Carson, a gentle smile springing to her lips. "Better go where you're needed," she told him. "If you or Mrs. Hughes need anything at all, please come and tell me."

"Thank you, milady," said Carson.

He exited the room with his eyes glaring at Barrow. The young man simply smiled at him and with a courteous nod he followed him out.

Anna sat with the maids at the table, looking on as Mrs. Patmore went on a loud rampage with Mrs. Hughes and Daisy attempting to calm her.

"What's going on in there?" asked Thomas Barrow as he swaggered his way into the servants hall. He pulled out a package of cigarettes from his pocket and lit one with a small match.

"The oven isn't heating properly and Mrs. Patmore is going ballistic," said one of the maids.

"Is there going to be a dinner?" he asked.

"I'm sure there is," she said. "It's just going to take a while longer."

He huffed, letting smoke fill the air around him. Quietly, Miss O'Brien entered the room—she and Barrow's eyes met for a quick moment before she sat down at the table next to Alfred.

"Where've you been?" Barrow asked her curiously.

"Never mind you," she said stiffly. Anna saw a gentle smirk spring to her face for a quick second before she went back to her natural stone face.

They heard Mr. Carson's voice boom as he entered the kitchen to have a turn at calming the frantic Mrs. Patmore.

Barrow smiled. "I've got some news," he said. He seemed to always have news, thought Anna. And it was never his news to share.

Daisy entered the room with a tray of tea and a look of worry on her face.

"Hughie is apparently coming to stay with Mr. Carson and Mrs. Hughes for a while," said Barrow. He flicked the ashes on his cigarette into the ashtray on the mantle shelf.

Both Anna and O'Brien's heads shot up—the rest looked at them for answers.

"Who's Hughie?" asked Alfred.

"Mr. Carson and Mrs. Hughes's disabled son," answered Miss O'Brien quietly.

"Quite the scandal it was when they announced they would be getting married—even the bigger scandal when they announced there was to be a baby," continued Barrow with a smirk. "Mr. Carson was fifty-two and Mrs. Hughes, forty-six. Far too old for such a life, if you ask me."

"They moved him into a facility—or a school, I think—not too long after I started working here," said Anna. It was not her story to tell, she knew. "But how do you know he's coming back?"

"I overheard Mr. Carson speak to her ladyship about it."

"I didn't even know Mr. Carson and Mrs. Hughes were married," said Alfred.

"Because unlike you and Miss Reed, Alfred, Mrs. Hughes and I keep our private lives just that—private," Mr. Carson said, entering the servants hall with his hands behind his back and a stern expression on his face.

Everyone stood.

"But why is she Mrs. Hughes and not Mrs. Carson," asked Alfred.

Carson waved his hand to command them all to sit again. "She remained Mrs. Hughes at Downton after we married to avoid confusion."

"And what about the... your son? Is it true that he's coming back to Downton?"

"For a little bit, yes," answered Carson after a slight hesitation. "Mrs. Hughes and I were going to announce it over dinner, but I see the news has already made its way to you." His eyes found Barrow's.

"Why's he not been living here with you and Mrs. Hughes?" asked one of the maids.

Carson tugged at his collar and let out an uncomfortable cough. "He was born blind and he needed special care—care that Mrs. Hughes and I were not able to give him," he explained in slightly shaky voice.

"And he doesn't need it now?"

"Well, Mrs. Hughes wants him here with us for the time being," he said, his eyes wandering away from them all. He cleared his throat. "Now if you'll excuse me, I must go ring the dressing gong," he said quickly and rushed out of the room.

"Blind and dumb," muttered Barrow. "Probably disfigured too."

"I can't handle disfigured people," said Daisy nervously as she poured the tea. "I know it's not their fault but... I couldn't even finish reading The Hunchback of Notre-Dame because I started getting lightheaded."

"I'm sure Mr. Barrow here is just exaggerating," Anna assured her. She recalled the young blind boy all those years ago—he looked like any regular child, except his eyes were emotionless and hazy. He would be about twelve now, she suspected. A part of her did always wonder how he turned out.

"DAISY!" called Mrs. Patmore. She jumped and then ran back into the kitchen.

The dressing gong sounded and Anna stood. Barrow put out his cigarette. "Don't be so cruel," Anna said as they exited.

"I'm not being cruel," he told her. "I'm just stating the facts."

"Well, that was quite a spellbound evening," Mrs. Hughes said, and Carson huffed.

"I hate to admit it, but Mrs. Levinson's modern thinkingsaved the whole night."

"It was quite the success, wasn't it?" she agreed.

"But I don't want to make a habit of it," he said. "I'll be calling someone in the morning to have the chimney repaired... or replaced, if need be." She nodded, her eyes drifting to the floor. He grabbed her hand and squeezed it. "I really wish you would have taken it more easy tonight—remember what Dr. Clarkson said."

"Yes, I know," she agreed, "but I can't stop living my life—I've still got a job to do."

He reached for the sherry and poured his wife's glass full again, and then his own. She chuckled slightly.

"We should probably be stopping at two glasses, Mr. Carson," she said, "unless you want me walking up the stairs wobbly and lightheaded."

"I say we've earned it," he said, "considering the last few days we've had."

She sipped her sherry thoughtfully. "I'll be getting Hughie on Monday—I know, it's an inconvenience, but that's the only time they're letting me come get him. You can come if you like, but I'm perfectly capable of managing on my own."

"No, I'll go along. You'll need help gathering his things," he said.

"If you're sure."

"I just wish you would allow Lady Grantham to hire a caretaker for him."

"It was very nice of her—but I really don't think we'll need it," she said. "Mrs. Shelton says he's become quite independent these last few years."

"He has improved greatly," he agreed. "But that is at Lloyd Andrews. What if he comes back to Downton and we have to go through it all again? The crying. The smashing of plates and glasses. Staying up at odd hours of the night... Him refusing to communicate with us properly..."

"That was when he was four, Charlie," she said. "I think he's learned a bit since then."

"And if he hasn't?"

"Like I said, we'll cross that bridge when we get there."

He shifted in his seat. "I'm afraid the staff already know about his arrival."

"How did they learn so quickly?"

"I do not know for sure, but I think it was Thomas Barrow," he said. "He may have eavesdropped on my conversation with her ladyship this morning. But how much he heard, I cannot say."

She frowned. "Oh, let them talk. I don't care anymore," she said. "Let me be known as the dying woman of Downton—Hughie will help me get through it."

He downed the rest of his sherry and set his glass aside. "I thought we might sleep at the cottage tonight."

"Oh, did you now?" she said. "Then we definitely should not be on our third glass of sherry."

"We'll have a late start in the morning, but given the stress we've been under these last few days, I think we've earned it," he said. He brushed the top of her hand with his thumb. "It has been brought to my attention that I have shamefully neglected my husbandly duties, and I wish to correct that tonight—if my beautiful wife will allow it."

She smiled gently. "I didn't bring it up to shame you, Charles Carson. I understand you've been busy. We have all been as of late."

"It is still no excuse," he said. "I am sorry if I have given you the impression that I do not find you attractive or beautiful, because that is far from the truth." He lifted her hand and gave it gentle kisses. "Oh, Elsie, I love you so much."

Her other hand found its way to his face and she stroked his cheek softly. "There's no need to get all sentimental just yet, Mr. Carson," she said—she smiled gently, but he saw the fear in her eyes. "It has yet to be confirmed that I am dying."