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If he had to lay blame somewhere, and it seems only right that he does, he thinks he would place it on The Letter {with capitals and dark atmospheric music playing in his mind}.
Before that was the absence, the week she spent away. And then that conversation he wasn’t meant to overhear.
But mostly, it started with The Letter.
Not the one she got from her sister, asking her to return for her brother-in-law’s funeral {‘poor May, and the little ones, their youngest has just had a wee bairne herself, poor thing’ll never know his grandfather, isn’t that sad Mr Carson?’} although if he wants to be logical that really did start everything off.
And not the letter he received from her while she was gone, which had come as something of a very pleasant surprise and felt rather odd; he isn’t usually the one left at Downton waiting to be written to after all. That one had been filled with the changes that had occurred in her home village, the fields that had been built on now, the ones that hadn’t. She wrote that she had forgotten the smell of fresh snow topping the hills (which had caused him a good deal of worry, before he chided himself – of course she was careful, of course she was wrapping up well) and that May’s house was just as she remembered it from her childhood, when her Ma and Pa ran the farm. There had been other things too, talk of the children; grown now but still hurting for the loss, of her sister, struggling to stay strong when Mrs Hughes knew she was suffering terribly {a trait inherited it would seem, as he has certainly come up against that before}.
No, The Letter came later, after she returned. Returned with more stories and bright eyes, red cheeks and a glow. Sadness lurked there of course, in the faint shadows beneath her eyelids, the downward quirk of her lip whenever she spoke of her sister. But still, there had been something there, something that made him look at her, follow her as she moved about the servants’ hall, made him want to smile when he turned to her to ask for the toast, only to find her already holding a buttered slice out to him.
Something, he found out later, as he hovered about the kitchen door, not meaning to listen, but unable to enter now that he could hear Mrs Hughes and the cook talking, something that had a good deal to do with Mr Joe Burns.
That man, that name. He had thought the farmer quite forgotten after the impertinent visit he made all those years ago {to ask a woman such as Mrs Hughes to return to farm life, to have her spend the rest of her days in a labour that she has educated herself above, with no hope of rest, or a happy retirement, more than earned, in a cottage somewhere when she was done. He had wanted to find Joe Burns and shake him}. But there Mrs Hughes had been, extolling the virtues of the man on Mrs Patmore, telling her, between bites of cake and sips of tea, that he had looked healthier than when she saw him last {but still red cheeked, no doubt}, that he was happy, the farm running successfully as ever.
He had peeked around the doorframe and she had been smiling, the both of them. She had said he might visit, when he returned to his farm again {having known Mrs Hughes’ brother-in-law, but not living in Argyll he had agreed to stay there a few days more, help with the transition of the work to one of the boys - a saint, it would seem, 'a very kind man’}, that she might meet him in Ripon if Mrs Patmore was free to join her.
He had walked away then, locked himself in his pantry and not come out until he had heard her familiar tread pass by, head for the attics; the jangle of keys fading away.
And then The Letter came. The one that arrived this morning at breakfast, that had her smiling and jumping up from the table before he had even poured their tea. The one he could see her talking over with Mrs Patmore in the corridor, all smiles and laughter. The one that he had been thinking of when the delicate china cup in his hand shattered quite unexpectedly.
She had returned to him at that, clasped him by the elbow and all but dragged him to the kitchen sink. Washed the little ceramic peices out with gentle hands, holding his palm beneath the tap. And he had leant in a little to help and caught the vanilla scent of her hair, the hint of lemon from the polishes she handles day-to-day. And then he had been turning her, free hand at her waist, injured hand forgotten.
Drawn to her lips as they opened in a question, a protest, he kissed her, pressed his mouth to hers and kissed her.
Is still kissing her now, while the water continues to flow from the tap. Waits for her to pull back, to tell him that she is promised again to Joe Burns, that he is an awful man to corner her here, where anyone can see. Where anyone…
He breaks away, flushes as red as the blood still welling in his palm.
“Mrs Hughes, I’m–”
She stops him with a hand on his chest, fingers splayed. “Do not apologise Mr Carson. Not if you ever wish to do that again." Her eyes blaze at him, but he can hardly look away from her lips, swollen and darkened. Glistening.
"But…Mr Burns?" He asks, tries to focus.
She frowns, "What has Mr Burns to do with it?”
“The letter, I thought…" He cannot say it, not now, not with her taste in his mouth.
"Yes, isn’t it nice? I think Joe has taken a fancy to Mrs Patmore, I couldn’t tell him enough about her once I got started, he wanted to know–”
He kisses her again, cuts her off. At some point they will have to talk about this but not right now.
So yes, if he has to blame something, he would have to say it was The Letter {with capitals and Vivaldi’s Spring-flutes playing in his mind}.