Once Upon A Dream

Charles had paused at the corner of the street to check the time on his pocket watch, a lovely gift from Lady Mary Crawley upon his retirement from Downton Abbey over ten years ago. His attention to detail and careful handling of the timepiece had kept it in perfect working order, ticking away the seconds of each day … each one of those seconds now his own. He had polished the silver watch only just this morning and now took pride as it gleamed in the afternoon sun.

He was just about to cross the street and head for the bakery when he spotted her. These days, she rarely made it into the village, choosing instead to send a hall boy or one of her maids to run the tedious errands of the day. There had been a time, decades ago, when she would have relished a trip to the village, some time away from the hustle and bustle of the day, and a chance to catch up on things happening in the village or with friends she only saw at church on Sundays.

Her sure steps were slower now than they had once been, though he supposed so were his. Time had marched on for both of them, though with his free time and lazy days, he had not suffered the effects as much as the woman with whom he'd shared countless evening hours. She now used a cane to steady her steps instead of his arm as in bygone days. He smiled, briefly, as his mind flooded with images of walks taken where he had been privileged to be the steadying force for her as she so often was for him. Now, it seems, he had been replaced with a wooden staff with a silver toned tip … a walking stick so very unlike the one the Dowager Countess had used but just as sturdy. He supposed hers was more practical, something modest but tasteful compared to Lady Grantham's whose was ornate and expensive.

Despite the trappings of her rigid attire, she no longer stood tall and straight … a regal figure of the head of the downstairs helm. Years of bending over ledgers, rotas, and other labor intensive duties had taken their toll on her. Now, she walked with a slight bent to her upper back near her shoulders. Part of him wondered if even just a week of relaxation would ease that tension and erase that effect of the hard work and devotion she'd given to the Abbey. He had never had a massage but he could easily believe that the healing touch of another person could ease the tension from tired, sore limbs. Goodness knows, sometimes that was the only way to get rid of a headache … with a Beecham's powder delivered by a caring friend and some pressure on his temples as his eyes closed and his mind was left to clear for a moment. He wished he had been better about offering that same comfort to her, especially now as he observed her with an unobstructed view.

With the marches of time, his hair had progressed from black waves to silver ones, his eyebrows the last testament to his younger days. He thought, when looking in the mirror, that it wasn't all bad. For years, he had tamed his unruly locks with pomade, making certain every hair was in place and he looked his best. Now, he embraced the little curl that often fell to his forehead, letting it have its way after years of being kept bound by the rules of his job. Several of the women in the village had remarked on how distinguished he looked, some being more vocal about their thoughts than others. He gave a slight shudder as he thought of Mrs. Wigan who took every opportunity to express her feelings, much to his dismay.

As she paused to speak to Mrs. Baker, the sunlight caught her hair and his breath hitched in his throat. Her lovely auburn locks were almost all gone leaving behind threads of silver and white, mingled together in a perfect color combination which only accentuated her features. As he looked on with admiration and wonder, he was reminded of the colors so often used at Christmastime or the shine of a silver spoon after being polished to perfection. Even to this day, he took great pride in his table presentations, though there was no one at his lonely cottage to appreciate them. He did wonder if the current butler of Downton Abbey was keeping up standards or letting those finer details slip through his fingers. In his day and with his esteemed colleague by his side, they had served royalty, itself, and with grace and charm, finesse and panache. They had both been younger, then … darker hair, spritely steps, and steadier hands.

Her sweet voice echoed across the street and landed softly on his heart causing it to beat a little faster. It had been much too long since he'd had the pleasure of hearing that infusive laugh, the thick brogue that emerged when she was excited or angry, the soft tones reserved for him and the secrets they kept together. Somehow, speaking with her on the Sundays when he chose to attend services didn't seem the same as when they had worked side by side. Friends and family were always milling about, greedy to catch a bit of gossip or add to a conversation whether or not their comments were wanted.

Now, as he watched her, his heart began to ache. It ached for all the times they sat closely at a table presiding over a meal, huddled over plans for the next garden party, quietly in her sitting room or his pantry sipping a fine Margaux or sherry. As his heartbeat pounded in his ears, his breath began to quicken. He could almost … almost … remember the scent of her soap and shampoo, some lotion she had used for her hands. He struggled to recall the various tones of her voice, though just hearing her from across the street was enough to jog his memory a little, though not quite enough.

He realized that he had been tightening and loosening his fists, though not out of any rage or anger. It was more of an attempt to grasp memories, to hold them close to his chest and revel in their delights. What he wouldn't give for one more day of working beside her, sharing all of the big and little things that only they would understand?

It was at that moment that Charles Carson realized what a fool he had been all those years ago. He had let his self-doubt and insecurities get the better of him. She couldn't possibly want him as a husband. She had worked too hard to elevate herself to the status of housekeeper of a great house. He could offer her stability and warmth, but he doubted she ever craved those things as he once had, before Alice Neal had waltzed out of his life and broken his heart. He was too much of a traditionalist while she was more progressive. She was vastly more popular with the staff, and he, according to her, worshiped the family they served. Their differences only made them a stronger team but somewhere along the way, he had convinced himself that he wasn't quite worthy of her and all she had to offer.

Part of him wondered if she ever thought of him, observed him from afar without his knowledge. He doubted it but he could never be completely certain. It would be lovely to discover that there were times when she thought of him as he was thinking of her now. If only he had a glimmer of hope, he might pluck up the courage to ask her for an afternoon tea or a simple stroll around the village one afternoon … when she was free, of course.

And then the reality of the situation hit him as if he'd been slapped hard across the face. They were friends or, at the very least, good colleagues. No one in the village would think anything of it if they were seen together, sharing a quiet meal at the Grantham Arms or discussing a book in an unused corner of the library. But, while his time was his own, hers was not. She was still answering summons, bells, keeping someone else's home to perfection. Oh, why hadn't he let himself feel all of this when she was by his side daily? It would have been so much easier to plan an outing or to even broach the subject of a future. Even if she didn't wish for a true partnership, a marriage built on love and romance, he might have been happy to settle for one build on companionship, warm friendship … living like brother and sister if only to have her near, to have her warmth and intelligence fill a home that they built together.

Just then, as if sensing his darkening mood and thoughts, she turned and looked in his direction. She must not have seen him since she offered no wave of her hand in a friendly greeting. Her brow was creased and her eyes squinted against the sunlight. She was still a beautiful woman, always had been in his eyes. Even from this distance and with his aged eyesight, he could tell she was weary, almost worn down. She was still giving her job everything she had and would "for as long as anyone would have her," he remembered her saying once. Where would she be in five years, ten if they were lucky? All those stairs to climb, weary bones, tired eyes, and little free time to enjoy her later years would certainly wear her down, make her older than her true age. His heart shattered with the image his mind conjured of that scenario as a lone tear escaped his eye and slid slowly down his cheek.

He had the power to alter that vision. To some degree, he'd always held it within his grasp. One simple question followed by one easy word and their worlds would merge, hopefully rendering them both happier than their lonely nights left them now. If he stopped to overthink it, he would lose his nerve once again, convince himself that all the reasons he hadn't done this before were still valid, and pushing aside his feelings from this moment to the deepest part of his soul. It was now or never. No time like the present.

He raised his hand and opened his mouth to call out to her … MRS. HUGHES! But, his voice died in his throat as he watched her suddenly drop to the ground at Mrs. Baker's feet. Her fist was held tightly against her chest as she lay motionless on the ground as a flurry of activity swirled about her. With no regard for his own safety or propriety, he darted across the street and collapsed by her side, his tears now freely flowing down his face as he chanted her name like a mantra: ELSIE! ELSIE! ELSIE!

Suddenly, his eyes flew open and he sat up abruptly in bed, his cheeks wet with the tears from his nightmare. He ran his hand down his face and around the back of his neck, trying hard to regain some semblance of reality in the darkness of the bedroom. It was half past three, according to the clock on the nightstand, he noted as he poured himself a large glass of water and drinking it entirely. Then, he turned to his left and breathed an audible sigh of relief. There, curled on her side under the thin sheet that covered them both was Elsie … Mrs. Hughes … his beautiful wife … sleeping peacefully.

With a shaking hand, he reached out and brushed her auburn hair, much darker than it had been in his dream, away from her face and shoulder. He watched as he slipped through his fingers like fine silk. He raised his hand to his nose, inhaling deeply and reminding himself of the intoxicating scent of her shampoo.

Her face had fewer creases, now, too. She looked happy and peaceful, as restful as he had wished for in his nightmare. She was here with him, sleeping comfortably in their large, soft bed instead of one of the small attic rooms at the main house where they had spent so many years working. Lightly, he trailed his index finger across her temple and along her cheek, watching as she shifted ever so slightly in her slumber. A smile crossed his face before he leaned over and pressed the softest kiss to her cheek. "I love you so much, Elsie," he whispered softly to the darkness.

In her sleep, she shifted onto her side and snuggled instinctively into his awaiting arms. "Mmm, Charlie," was the reply he received as she wrapped her arm around his stomach and placed a warm kiss to his heart … the very heart that had been ripped apart in his dream. "Everything okay?" she mumbled, still emerging from sleep.

He ran his hands up and down her back, reassuring himself that she was happy and whole, nothing like what his mind had imagined. In the morning, he might recount his dream to her, if she asked and he felt strong enough to remember the heartbreaking details. But one thing was certain. He was going to make it a point to ease her workload around their cottage as much as possible. They would take more trips to the seaside or London to see the beauty of the world around them. They would fully enjoy every moment of time they had together. He would still be her grumpy curmudgeon from time to time … some things never change. And she would still challenge him with her progressive ways of thinking or modern inventions which honestly intimidated him a little. But, they would weather those storms together, live life to the fullest, and run as far away from his nightmarish vision as possible.

If Charles Carson had learned anything in his hellish sleep, it was this: visions are seldom all they seem and his reality was so much better with Elsie by his side. He sent up a prayer of thanks that years ago he had plucked up the courage to ask for her hand in marriage, rescuing them both from an unhappy retirement. His best friend had become so much more, and his heart had been mended. Together, they were forging a life built on love and romance, trust and companionship, affection and respect.

As his body began to calm and his mind settled, he placed a series of kisses to her forehead. This time, as he drifted off to sleep, he imagined a day by the sea, not unlike the one so very long ago where he'd taken her offered hand and they'd set out on a course that led them to the alter and now to a life of leisure, living happily together in a cottage all their own. Perhaps, he pondered as he relaxed and drew her closer, he would speak to her over breakfast about going to Brighton, reliving a bit of their honeymoon days.

As the darkness of the night gave way to the sunrise, Charles dreamed of that very trip and woke with a smile on his face and his bride in his arms. This day … every hour of this day … he would make sure it was one of her best yet. He had seen the alternative which only deepened his love for her and his resolve to bestow upon her all of his worldly goods and to worship her with his entire being. It was time to plan a trip to the sea.

A/N: If you've made it this far, thank you so much for reading the story. I was listening to Lana Del Rey's version of Once Upon a Dream and the image of Charles watching an aged Elsie from afar popped into my head along with the line: Visions are seldom all they seem. I couldn't let Charles live his life with the unhappy vision of Elsie so we had to find a way to make it right … hence the story. I hope you've enjoyed it. I would like to write more in 2021 so keep those fingers crossed for me! HUGS and CHELSIE ON!