This chapter is M rated.

The Return of the Native

Winter 1908

"He's... he's—"

"He's beautiful, Charlie," said Elsie, gazing down at their newborn son lying so delicately in her arms—his blind gaze staring up at them. Their baby was blind, Dr. Clarkson had confirmed shortly after his birth, but none of that mattered. Not now. She placed a few gentle kisses on the boy's forehead; he yawned in response.

"Yes..." said Charlie, almost breathlessly. His thumb gently caressed the baby's cheek, and their son stirred at his touch.

"Do you think he's cold," said Elsie softly.

Charlie shook his head, his eyes fixated on their new son. "No, I don't think he's cold."

"Put a few more logs in the fire just to be sure, Charlie," she said.

He obliged, and she watched as he fueled the crackling fire across the room—and then he promptly made his way back to her side. He kissed her lips gently before they both turned back to their baby.

"He doesn't look much like a Catie now, does he?" said Elsie with a slight laugh. They had decided on the name Catherine a few weeks after finding out she was with child; Charlie had liked the name; Elsie was indifferent—she had been so focused on the shock of it all that she really hadn't considered any other names.

"No," said Charlie. "No, he does not."

"What should we call him, Charlie?"

He shook his head. "We can figure that all out in the morning, Elsie," said Charlie. He sighed. "You should focus on resting now."

Their baby closed his eyes, and he managed another cute little yawn. Elsie kissed his little cheek.

"I know," she said softly. She felt tired and she was in immense pain from the birth, but none of that seemed to matter. Not now. "I just... I want to look at him for a little while longer, Charlie."

Spring 1920

One moment, they were waking up from their slumber—stretching and yawning, and all the noises each morning brought—and then in the next, she was quietly gasping his name as he repeatedly thrusted himself inside of her.

He reached for a book; that was how it all started—it had been left on her side, for some unknown reason, and he thought he would read a chapter or two before it was time to truly wake and face the day. And then he was on top of her. Three sweet kisses led into a passionate long one, and he quickly lifted her nightgown so he could feel her warm skin touch his own—his fingers began dancing and roaming along her beautiful body... That was how it all started.

Their love making was always slow but never boring, and never anything too vulgar. He was convinced it was where he belonged—between her legs, watching her face look up at his own. If his body only allowed it, he would make love to her every hour of the day just to see that beautiful face and to hear those precious little moans escape her mouth.

Her head tilted, and Carson leaned down to kiss her neck as he quickened his movements. She was so close, he could feel it—but he worried he might be even closer.

Finally, he felt her shudder beneath him and then, after a muffled moan, her release. He followed her quickly, spilling all of his love inside of her.

He rolled off of her to catch his breath, too hot and sweaty to stay in any lover's embrace, but he reached to grab hold of her hand. They had kicked the sheets down to the bottom of the bed when they started undressing, and now their sweaty naked bodies were exposed to the almost summer morning air.

After a short moment, she stood and he watched as she made her way to their washroom. The door closed, and he turned his attention to the clock. It was still quite early—but they would be on their way towards the house within an hour or so.

The door opened and Elsie appeared again, dressed in his blue robe. He admitted to her on more than a few occasions that he enjoyed seeing her in his clothing—he was almost hesitant to have them washed afterwards, knowing it would remove her scent. She found her way back to his side, their lips meeting for one long kiss before she rested her head on his chest, her fingers teasing his lower stomach and belly button. He placed a gentle kiss on the top of her head.

"Do you regret not leaving Downton after we married?" Elsie asked him softly.

"Sometimes I do," he admitted. She looked up, and their lips met for one more soft kiss. "But I only ever knew how to be a butler, Elsie—what else would I be good for?"

She placed her head back on his chest. "Many things, Charlie." The care in her voice was almost enough to roll her on her back and make love to her again. "You're a hard working man with the ability to do anything you set your mind to."

He stroked her back. "I appreciate your encouraging words, Elsie dear, truly, but... I was a middle aged man. I hardly think starting over would have been the simple option."

She snuggled closer to him. "I never said it would be simple, Charlie," she said. "Only doable." She sighed, rubbing her fingers up on the hairs of his chest. "I'll be going up to Lloyd Andrews Saturday to fill out the rest of the paperwork. I asked if it could just be sent here—but Mrs. Shelton is insistent I come to her."

She sighed. Mrs. Shelton was a good and respectable woman, but she could be difficult at times.

"I'm still a bit hesitant, Elsie..."

"Of course you are," Elsie said. She kissed his chest.

"I'm not saying I want him back at Lloyd Andrews, but this whole business with Miss O'Brien... and possibly Mr. Barrow—It all makes me uncomfortable," said Carson. "And not only that—what if he needs something that we simply cannot provide for him here, Elsie?"

"We'll get it all sorted soon, Charlie," she assured him.

He huffed. "And I warned him about Mr. Barrow," Carson continued. "If a spoon caused chaos, it would have Mr. Barrow's face on it." She looked up at him again with raised eyebrows. "What? It's an expression."

"Not a very common one," she muttered, laying back down. "Have you spoken with Hughie yet?"

Carson shifted. "This... is a very delicate topic, Elsie. It isn't something I can exactly bring up in casual conversation," he said carefully.

"Well, don't wait too long, Charlie," she said.

He cleared his throat. "Perhaps you should take Hughie along with you Saturday. It might be good for him to see his friends again—and get him away from all this drama for a few hours."

"I don't see why Mr. Travis is coming tonight," said Ivy.

"Haven't they already made up their minds?" said Alfred. He took a quick bite of cheese from the cheese platter just as Mrs. Patmore turned her attention to the spices. "The baby's going to be Catholic, isn't she?" he continued with a mouthful.

"It hasn't been decided yet," said Barrow firmly. Lord Grantham seemed very much opposed to the baby being Catholic, and opposed to the dear girl's name. Sybil, her name was—in honor of her mother.

"Lady Mary and Mr. Branson seem to think otherwise," said Anna, entering the kitchen with Mr. Carson and Mrs. Hughes following her close behind. Their mere presence silenced the whole kitchen.

"Surely you all have better things to do than to stand around here and gossip about the family all day," said Mr. Carson. His hands were behind his back and his head was held high.

Mrs. Hughes beside him looked just as stern. "Don't you all have work you should be doing?" she said.

The group of servants all scattered. Barrow was following Alfred and Jimmy out when Mr. Carson cleared his throat.

"Not... you, Mr. Barrow," he said, glaring; the look on his face was almost enough to make Barrow snarl. "Mrs. Hughes and I would like a quick word."

Barrow straightened his suit, and tried to mask his distaste for the old man. "Very well," he said. "Lead the way, Mr. Carson."

"So, you're accusing me of hurting your son, is that what this is all about?"

"We're not accusing you of anything," said Carson. "Not yet, in any case."

"We just want to know your side of the story," said Elsie. "That's all."

"What is there to know," said Mr. Barrow with a slight huff. His eyes quickly focused on the floor. "The boy tripped and fell. That's all there is to it."

"Well, Anna and Miss O'Brien seem to think otherwise," said Mrs. Hughes.

His eyes shot up. "If they know something more than I do, Mrs. Hughes, then I suggest you find them and ask them," said Mr. Barrow. "Is that all, Mr. Carson—Mrs. Hughes? If you don't mind, I'd like to get back to work now."

Carson growled as he watched Mr. Barrow exit, shutting the door behind him. "I don't like him," he muttered. "I don't like him one bit, Elsie."

Elsie sighed. "I daresay he's not too fond of us either, Charlie."

"I've no great wish to persecute Catholics, but I find it hard to believe they're loyal to the Crown," said Charlie.

"Well, it'll be a relief for them to know you no longer want them burned at the stake," Elsie teased. They were all gathered around the servants table, enjoying their late night meal. The drama upstairs certainly made sure they would not be having a quiet dinner that night.

"I don't believe in orthodoxy," said Jimmy.

Charlie's head shot up—and Elsie wondered if he would scold the poor boy. Hughie also turned his head towards him.

"That's a long word," said Miss O'Brien, rolling her eyes.

"A man can choose to be different without making him a traitor," Jimmy retorted.

"I agree," said Mr. Barrow.

And Charlie lifted his brows at Elsie—she gave him a look of her own, telling him to ignore the comment.

"I don't like discussing religion," said Anna. "We'll only fall out, and surely it's our private business."

"Amen," agreed Elsie.

"It's funny though, isn't it?" said Alfred. "All that Latin and smelly smoke—and men in black dresses. I'm glad I'm Church of England, me."

"Really?" said Mr. Barrow. "And what do you feel about Transubstantiation?"

"You what?"

"Never mind, Alfred," said Charlie as Mr. Barrow attempted to hide a laugh. "Your heart's in the right place. I can't say that for everyone under this roof." He glared at both Jimmy and Mr. Barrow.

"And what about me?" asked Hughie softly, lifting his head slightly towards his father.

"What about you?" asked Charlie.

"Where do I fit in?"

"The Church of England," said Charlie, "with your mother and I."

Surely at his age, Hughie would understand why they went to church—but it was almost as difficult to read his mind now as it was when he was four and not speaking.

Hughie contemplated the information for a moment before replying, "I think I'd like to be a Buddhist when I've grown a bit."

The clacking of forks and knives on plates all stopped and the room fell into an awkward silence.

"What's that, dear?" asked Elsie, attempting to ease the tension. "A Buddhist, is it?"

"I'm not quite sure what it is exactly," admitted Hughie softly. "Mr. Davies told us about the creator—a man called the Buddha. He was a prince who left his home and wealth in order to find enlightenment."

"That sounds like an interesting story," said Charlie. To Elsie's surprise, he did not look surprised or embarrassed by his son's little outburst.

"Why would anyone willingly turn their backs on a life of royalty?" asked Jimmy in disbelief. "I don't buy it."

"There is more to life than wealth and power, James," said Charlie sternly. He turned to Elsie, and they shared a quick smile. Oh, how she loved that man, stubbornness and all.

Carson watched as his son adjusted the black band on his arm; he really did not like it, and he at times found the feel of it unpleasant too—but they were doing it to honor Lady Sybil.

Hughie silently typed on his Braille writer as Carson looked on from his desk. He cleared his throat, and Hughie stopped typing.

"Are you... sure you don't want to finish reading the book?" asked Carson softly. He had Hughie's book in front of him with the horrid creature staring up at him.

"You don't like reading it," said Hughie.

"That's not true," said Carson, flipping through the pages. "Now, I'll admit it's no Old Mother West Wind, but I still enjoy reading it to you."

"Maybe... we can try to find a version of it in Braille," said Hughie.

Carson felt his heart sink slightly. "If that's what you want."

The door opened and Elsie entered the pantry with a stack of papers in her hands. Her keys jingled as she made her way to Carson.

"Do they sell Braille books in shops, mam?" Hughie asked.

"How—how did you know it was me," asked Elsie, sounding almost astonished. "I haven't spoken yet?"

"Your keys," he said simply, and Elsie smiled.

"Well, I haven't seen Braille books at any of the local shops here," she said, placing the papers on Carson's desk. She eyed the book in Carson's hands; the disappointment he felt inside must have seeped out onto his face, for she gave him a look of concern. She turned back to Hughie. "But that doesn't mean they don't exist. Why don't you ask Mr. Davies if he knows of any places."

Hughie quickly frowned, slumping down in his chair.

She eyed them both, and then quietly she went to the door she had entered from and closed it. "I suppose there's no better time to do this than now..."

Carson shifted in his seat, feeling a warmth on his face. "You don't mean...? Surely not now."

"Why not?" she said. "You haven't got anything else to do."

"What is it?" asked Hughie, his posture straightening.

"Your father wants to discuss something with you," said Elsie. She turned to Carson. "Now I can leave the room or I can stay... whatever you want."

"It just... this isn't the right time, Elsie," said Carson quietly.

Elsie rolled her eyes.

"Oh—I know what this is all about," said Hughie knowingly. And his parents turned to him. Carson cleared his throat.

"You... you do?" said Elsie, eyeing him carefully.

Hughie lifted his bandaged hand. "My fall," he said. When his parents said nothing, it seemed he started to doubt himself. "It is, isn't it?"

Carson glanced at Elsie. "Er—yes," he said slowly, ignoring the fierce look given to him by his dear wife.

"Well, it isn't all that interesting, really," said Hughie. He massaged the bandaged hand with his other hand. "I miscounted my steps—and I just fell. And Mr. Barrow tried to catch me. I think Miss O'Brien saw the whole thing. You can ask her."

"Mr. Barrow tried to catch you," Carson muttered, rolling his eyes. "I find that very difficult to believe."

"He's nice if you're nice to him first," Hughie said.

"Are you saying this whole thing is just one big misunderstanding?" said Elsie.

"I suppose," said Hughie.

"Well, isn't that a relief," Elsie told Carson as he grumbled in his chair. "To think you were worked up over nothing."

Hughie stood. "I think I'm going to get a glass of water. Is that all right?"

Elsie helped him find the door. When he was sure his son was gone and unable to hear him, Carson turned to his wife. "I don't think he was telling us the truth, Elsie," he told her, his eyes fixated on the closed door.

She shook her head. "No, I don't think so either."

"Mr. Barrow clearly pushed him... or tripped him—or did something to make him fall," he said. She nodded in agreement. "I suppose I have no choice but to speak with His Lordship..."

"Whatever for?" said Elsie. "Hughie obviously doesn't hold any grudges against Mr. Barrow, or he wouldn't have let us believe he had fallen."

"He hurt our son—and not to mention his actions made in the past," he said. "A man like him does not belong at Downton, Elsie."

Elsie bit her lip. "I don't think Hughie wants him to get fired over this..."

"Hughie does not get to decide who stays on and who doesn't. That privilege goes to me—and to you." Carson sighed. "If he knew what type of man Thomas Barrow truly was, he would not be so forgiving."

Her eyes drifted to the floor. "Maybe he does know what type of man he truly is, Charlie," she said, "and that's exactly why he is so forgiving."

"I think you should speak with him tonight," said Elsie softly when she found Charlie standing in the hallway, glaring at a few giggling maids in the distance.

"I need to have a word with you and Mrs. Patmore in my pantry," Charlie told her, his gaze still on the girls.

"Whatever for?" she asked, noting his stiff posture and the grimace on his face.

"You'll find out soon enough," he said, and he nearly stomped to his pantry. The maids fled as he walked passed them.

Elsie turned her heel and she entered the kitchen where Mrs. Patmore, Ivy and Daisy were all busy preparing luncheon for upstairs. Mrs. Patmore glanced up.

"When you have a moment," said Elsie, "Mr. Carson wants to speak with us in his pantry."

"What have we done this time?" asked Mrs. Patmore.

"We'll find out soon enough," said Elsie in an almost mimicking tone, and they both laughed. She glanced at the steaming food on platters and trays. "Whenever you find the time."

"Oh, I'm sorry if I've kept you waiting," said Mrs. Patmore as she entered the pantry, hot and sweaty from preparing the lunch. "But I had to send up the luncheon."

"It's good of you to spare the time," said Mrs. Hughes.

"Oh, it's all right," said Mrs. Patmore. "I've only the men to cook for today, and they're easy."

"What were you doing at Crawley House this morning?" Carson demanded.

Mrs. Hughes pursed her lips.

"Who says I was at Crawley House?" Mrs. Patmore retorted, feeling a slight pain in her stomach.

"I saw you coming out," said Mr. Carson.

"Oh, I see," she said. "Well, Mrs. Crawley was giving a luncheon party and I..."

"...and you were helping Ethel," said Mr. Carson. Beside him, Mrs. Hughes rolled her eyes.

"I suppose I was," said Mrs. Patmore.

"Against my strict instructions to give the place a wide berth..."

"Now, Mr. Carson, no one disputes your position as head of this household," Mrs. Hughes told him, "but I am not sure that you are entitled to dress down Mrs. Patmore in this way."

He looked down at his wife, frowning. "Of course, if Mrs. Patmore wants to spend her time frolicking with prostitutes..."

Frolicking with prostitutes? "Do I look like a frolicker?"

"May I ask who was expected at this precious luncheon?" said Mr. Carson.

"Her Ladyship, the young ladies and the Dowager," said Mrs. Patmore.

"You have allowed a woman of the streets to wait a table on members of our family? Oh, I am speechless." And he stormed away, like a stubborn child unwilling to play by the rules of someone else's game.

"I guess he won't stay speechless for long," said Mrs. Hughes, and Mrs. Patmore sighed.

Carson sat reclined in his chair with a glass of wine in one hand and a book in the other. He needed the time alone, away from everyone and everything. Mr. Barrow, Mrs. Patmore, Ethel, Elsie... he could not think of them without his blood boiling—he was even a bit irritated with her ladyship at the moment.

He ignored the knock on his door and decided to instead sip his wine. The taste in his mouth brought a great relief to him. The door opened and Hughie entered, making sure to close the door behind him.

Carson straightened, closing his book slightly. "Yes, what is it?"

"Mam said you wanted to speak with me about something," said Hughie, finding his way to the chair beside his father.

Carson sighed. It was neither the time nor place to have such a discussion. "Well, please inform your mother that I am sorry but... this isn't the right moment either..."

"All right," said Hughie, and he stood to leave.

Carson placed his book down and sighed. "Wait," Carson said, and Hughie did not move. "Your mother might discuss it with you herself if I send you away now—and... I'd rather it be me, not her."

"What is it?" said Hughie as Carson gently guiding him down again.

Carson cleared his throat. He stared at his son for a long moment before he shifted in his seat in an attempt to get comfortable. "Well, I... I wanted to discuss with you—you see, Hughie..." he trailed off. How does one begin such a conversation? What did his own father say to him? He could not seem to recall. Again, Carson shifted in his seat.

"Is this about me going back to Lloyd Andrews?" asked Hughie. "Because I already know—mam's taking me back Saturday."

"Saturday?" he said softly. "Yes—I mean, no. You realize you're only going back for a few hours Saturday, don't you? You'll be coming home with your mother."

Hughie straightened. "Oh," he said—almost sounding disappointed. "But I've already written to everybody saying I'm returning..."

"Oh," said Carson, echoing his son. He sipped his wine, turning his attention to the wall in front of them. He had his doubts about Hughie staying, he was not afraid to admit, but he was rather getting used to the idea of having him stay.

"Is that what you needed to tell me?" asked Hughie.

Carson shook his head, but realizing his son could not see his gesture, he softly muttered, "No."

There was another knock on his door and Elsie entered with a small book—it was the book he had leant to Alfred a few days ago that he had almost forgotten about. "Don't mind me," she told them gently. "I'm only returning this back—and then I'll leave you two be." She placed the book on Carson's desk.

Carson gulped, ignoring Elsie and turning back to their son. He set his wine glass down beside the book he had been reading. "Do you... want to go back to Lloyd Andrews?" Carson asked Hughie gently.

And Elsie stopped to look at them both. "What's this?" she said, quickly coming to Hughie's side.

"Haven't you already decided?" said Hughie. And after a quick moment, he added, "I already know you see me as a mistake."

Carson felt his lip wobble. "No, that isn't true." It wasn't Hughie's words exactly that bruised Carson so badly—rather, it was the way his son spoke in such a casual tone; Hughie did not seem bothered at all by his own words, which hurt Carson—and most likely Elsie too—the most. And Carson realized quickly he did not want to have such a conversation in his pantry with servants and lords and ladies all around them.

"You are not a mistake," Elsie told him gently. "A pleasant surprise, I will admit, but far from a mistake."

"We were very glad of you, your mother and I," continued Carson gently. "The second we learned of you..."

"But then I came out blind," he said, "and ugly."

Carson felt like crying—he could not recall the last time he cried. His eyes glistened after Lady Sybil died, but he did not cry. Men weren't supposed to cry, he remembered his own father tell him once when he was a boy Hughie's age.

"You're just as God intended you to be," said Elsie, her eyes glistening.

He locked eyes with her. She might have a cry in his arms later, but for now she remained calm, and strong for Hughie's sake. Carson turned back to Hughie. "Would you prefer it if you stayed at Lloyd Andrews?" he asked carefully. Elsie let out a suppressed whimper.

"I like Lloyd Andrews," Hughie admitted, and Carson felt his stomach twist. "They understand me—not all of them, but most of them do. I miss my friends and I miss being... comfortable."

"I see," said Elsie, and Carson found her hand and squeezed it tightly.

"But... I don't think I should go back," he said, and Carson felt a great relief rush over him. "Mr. Davies said I have to learn to be uncomfortable—and to deal with my problems on my own. That's what normal people do, any heck."

And Elsie bent down to hug and kiss their beautiful son.

"You are a normal person, Hughie," Carson said softly.