No time frame at all. Not a one-shot if you don't want it to be but saying that no plot has formed in the old head as yet, so ideas welcome.

"Mr Carson?"

The sound of his name caused him momentarily to jump out of his skin. He had only stopped working for a second at first but now, consulting his watch, saw he had been standing idle for a good five minutes. Stupid of him, there was enough to be done tonight without him loitering around. He turned his head, aware that he needed to respond at some point. The voice had woken him from a haze of thought an he had no idea whose it was. Expecting Thomas staring insolently at finding the butler being remiss in his work, he was quite relieved to find it was Mrs Hughes watching him rather enquiringly.

"In a bit of a day dream?" she asked.

He gave her a lifeless smile that he hoped she would forgive. For some reason or other he felt distinctly melancholy although he had absolutely no reason to. He was just sulking, he supposed, that the night he wasn't feeling to good happened also to be the night when Lord Grantham's family were giving their annual society ball: ergo, their busiest night of the year.

"You could say that," he replied softly.

Collecting empty glasses from one of the sitting rooms, he had caught a hint of the orchestra's playing. It was one of his favourites, well, one of the few he could say he knew; The Carnival of Venice. It reminded him of many another dance he had "attended" in is younger days. A mellifluous sound, he had thought previously and he still thought it. It was beautiful, and quieter than most pieces, for which he was grateful today.

Out of the corner of his eye he could see the housekeeper still watching him. Pull yourself together man, he thought.

"I'm sorry, Mrs Hughes," he apologised, suddenly sounding business-like- or at least he hoped.

He turned to look at her, hoping that she wasn't looking at him with that concern he was used to. Usually he welcomed it, but for some reason, it wasn't what he wanted tonight. However, she was not, nor was she looking about ready to beat him around the ears for wasting everyone's time: her manner was relaxed, almost as if she herself were on the verge of a dream-like state as he had been.

"Nice music," she murmured almost to herself.

"Yes," he agreed on the off-chance that she expected him to speak, "Yes, it's beautiful."

Judging by her expression she hadn't been expecting a response but was grateful of one all the same. She smiled rather more happily than he had ever seen her do so before. It occurred to him that whereas when he became reflective it made him melancholy, it made her quietly happy. It was, he supposed, simply the difference between a glass half-empty and a glass half-full.

"Charles?"

Though the use of his first name should- by definition- set off warning bells, it once again lurched him from his reflections and so he responded.

"Hm?" she did seem to be standing on ceremony where coherent sentences were concerned.

"Dance with me?"

It was posed as a question, but in the small voice it came out in it almost sounded like a plea. A rather odd plea too, he thought, though not an altogether unpleasant one.

"Certainly, I'll just whip my old ballroom shoes out and wait for you to put your ball gown on," he quipped. He hoped it didn't sound bitter, he hadn't meant it to.

"Has it ever occurred to you that you're dressed just as smartly as the people you wait on?" she asked.

No, it hadn't.

Seeming to have realised the oddity of her request, she was looking down at the floor, though her body was still presented to him in the forward manner that befitted such an offer. He took a moment's pause and then, throwing propriety's caution to the wind, he simply moved forward and took her hands from where they rested at her sides.

He heard her gasp a little at the first contact but other than that she showed no great reaction to his movement. Swaying back and forth for a second, hardly touching, then she moved closer until her head all but rested on his chest. He wondered if he could put his arm around her without alarming her and was answered when she wrapped one of her little arms around his waist. He breathed a sigh and closed his eyes, resting his head on hers. They weren't so much dancing as holding each other while stepping back and forth. They didn't speak so much as one word until the music faded away and the muffled sound of applause was heard from the ballroom.

He felt her remove her head from his chest, with rather more difficultly than he'd expected. He had to admit, he didn't want it gone either. They stood for a moment idiotically holding hands.

"Elsie?" he tried out her first name.

"Yes?"

"What the devil is wrong with us?"

She laughed hollowly.

"I'm not sure," she replied, "Our dancing skills are certainly wanting something, though."

He half-laughed at that, for some reason wanting to draw her back into his arms although the music had long stopped now. He was about to open his mouth to say something, though he was not quite sure what, when the door was opened. Both turned rather too quickly, as if they had been caught in something they oughtn't to have been, to see who was there.

Standing in the doorway, Miss O'Brien goggled impolitely at the pair. They realised too late that they were still holding hands. The lady's maid seemed to fall dumbstruck for a second but was nevertheless the first one of the three to recover.

"They're moving through to dinner now," she informed them casually as if she had not seen where their hands were, "Mr Bates thought you ought to know."

Elsie was momentarily hopeful but then reminded herself; this was Miss O'Brien. She saw no other option than to match the maid's manner. Gently, she dropped the butler's hands.

"Thank you, Miss O'Brien," she replied pointedly, "We shall be down presently."

Miss O'Brien, though it can't have taken her more than a few seconds of real time, seemed t linger at the door for an age. Elsie could have sworn she saw a glimmer of mirth pass across the wretched girl's face before it was turned away. Mentally cursing the lady's maid's untimely arrival and her own foolishness in being caught in such a position she turned back to Charles, standing just where he had been before. What was happening to them? She could quite think of what to say to him, though there was something plainly needed to be said. In the end, he saved her.

"Might I come to your sitting room at the end of the day?" he asked, rather timidly.

She nodded, wondering if she'd ever be able to get another sentence out.

"Yes," she replied haltingly, "If we ever get through tonight."

It returned to him that they were in the midst of the busiest night of the year. He nodded briskly but his pace leaving her standing in the sitting room did not match it.

What do you think?