Although most of these female characters are frequently seen in cloches, on this more sober occasion they nearly all appear in hats with brims large enough to shade their faces. Especially Mary.
my grand idea of drawing all the Westworld girls and posting them in one big collection petered out in the space of 24 hours so here’s the first two! Neither of these gals are having the best day
Love is a funny thing, she mused to herself. It can be present for ages, simmering under the surface, taking different forms before showing itself truly. In hindsight it had been that way for them, at least she believed that; he might never admit it. It seemed he was incapable of that kind of love. There had always been something there, but she always gave it some other name, he would never acknowledge its existence. He was her partner in running the household, they worked very closely together; of course she would be concerned when something happened to him. He was her friend, they had known each other for a very long time, lived in close quarters, understood what the other dealt with on a daily basis. They would never, could never, be more. One day she would retire or he would retire, he would die or she would die and life would have to go on. Their warm friendship would be enough for the one left behind.
She was happy, enough. He seemed happy, until that letter came and she found herself picking it out of his waste paper basket. She shouldn’t have stuck her nose into his business, but he was upset. She needed to know why and fix it if she was able. He would forgive her in the end. He always did.
He was angry. Possibly more angry than she had ever seen him before. It wasn’t fading as it usually did. She was beginning to doubt she would be forgiven. He may forgive Mrs. Crawley for her involvement, but she was sure she would be joining Mr. Grigg in the ranks of the unforgiven. This may have been a mistake.
Then she found him searching through a box, for an old photograph of all things. The look that crossed his face when he found it was one she had not witnessed from him before, from others, yes, but not him. Love, real love, the remembrance of it at least. Charles Carson had been in love and hurt deeply. The way he said her name proved that. Everything was beginning to make sense now. And she was sad. Sad that his heart had been broken and instead of allowing it to heal he had locked its pieces away, festering, preventing himself from loving anyone else. She needed to help him heal. Show him that love didn’t always hurt in the end. She would have to push him again and hope that someday he would forgive her.
When he came to the railway station, appearing out of the smoke, she had been astonished. She truly hadn’t expected him or the handshake she witnessed before the train pulled away. The healing was begun and she was glad. When he allowed her to walk back to The Abbey with him, she thought she might be forgiven. Halfway through their silent walk, when he thanked her, she was sure she had been.
She risked their new balance when she sneaked into his pantry, once she was sure he had started the dinner service, and searched for the old photograph. It didn’t take long. It wasn’t prominently displayed, but she knew him well enough to know it would be within sight if he were to look up while working in his ledgers. And there it was, partially obscured, leaning between his lamp and completed ledgers. She could do better than that for him.
The silver frame she had found was simple, but had weight; he would be able to tell the quality once he had it in hand. If pressed she would simply say it was his birthday soon, so he shouldn’t expect anything then. Deflection was the cornerstone of their relationship. Never let the other know how you truly feel. Hide behind some witty comment or sarcastic retort. She would let him come to terms with everything in his own time, just as she had been doing. He would get there in the end.
Love was a funny thing, she still mused to herself. She wasn’t sure what had happened to that old photograph of Alice. One day the frame had gone missing from its usual place on his desk and she hadn’t wanted to press him. He was free to decorate as he pleased. Then, one morning, she noticed its return to the corner of his desk. The old photograph replaced by a new. Weddings were such happy occasions.
His fist few into Mr. Murray’s jaw before he realized what was happening. The crack and moan that quickly followed the impact startled him back into reality. He looked up into the shocked faces surrounding him, he was sure they were mirrors of his own. There was no movement save for Mr. Murray falling into the nearest chair, cradling his head. Even Carson couldn’t move, his fist was still clenched, now hanging from his side, ready to strike again if need be.
He wasn’t a violent man. It had been decades since he had been forced to use physical means. He didn’t know what had come over him. One minute he had entered the servants hall to deliver the afternoon post, the next found that post on the floor at his feet. He had heard Mrs. Hughes name and several statements that should have never been linked to her, let alone any other woman of quality and his instincts had taken over.
He heard her steps making their way down the hall, probably drawn by the unnatural quiet that had fallen. He felt the room tense in anticipation of her arrival. When she found out what had happened she wouldn’t be appreciative.
As she turned into the doorway, he heard her exclaim:
“Whatever is going on in here?”
He didn’t dare look in her direction or attempt to make eye contact. She could read him far too well. He could feel her eyes on him, pausing on her survey of the room. Her intake of breath informed him when she finally fell upon Mr. Murray slumped in the chair.
“Mr. Murray, what happened?”
Mr. Murray looked up and caught his eye, clearly receiving the message that he should not tell the truth and make himself scarce as quickly as possible.
“Nothing at all Mrs. Hughes. I was feeling a little under the weather and your staff was kind enough to let me sit down before I made my way back into town. I’m feeling much better now, so I’ll be on my way.”
Mr. Murray quickly pushed his chair back from the table and turned away from Mrs. Hughes and made his way out of the servants hall before she could see his face. The hall stayed silent until they heard the back door slam shut. There was a moment of silence before Mrs. Hughes spoke.
“Mr. Carson,” she started, her eyes falling to the post scattered at her feet. “Could I have a word, please?”
It may have sounded like a question but it in no way was. She finally made eye contact with him, then slowly turned and left the hall. He listened to her retreating footsteps, too many for his pantry, just enough for her sitting room. That was where he was to report.
He quickly waved at Thomas to pick up the post and wordlessly asked him to deal with it. He tried to find a stride that was neither too fast, showing he was hurrying and possibly hiding something, nor too slow, showing he had no respect for her request.
The door to her sitting room was ajar, he let himself in and closed the door behind him. She was sitting at her desk, her back to him, writing in one of her ledgers. She knew he was there. It was in his best interest to wait. A minute passed before she capped and laid down her pen.
“Would you like to tell me what was really going on or would you like me to guess?” she asked, slowly turning in her chair to look at him pointedly.
It wouldn’t hurt to try the lie again, he convinced himself.
“Mr. Murray was feeling poorly, he nearly needed a short rest before he headed back into the village.” It sounded convincing enough to him.
“Mr. Carson,” the look that accompanied the chastising tone clearly showed him she didn’t believe a word of it. “I wasn’t born yesterday. Mr. Murray was clearly cradling his jaw and had quite the mark starting to form as he rushed passed me.”
“You noticed that?”
“I did. I also noticed that your right hand is clutched in a rather tight fist and has been for some time is its color is any indication.”
He looked down and noticed that even now his fist was still clenched, sporting red and white blotches. If he wasn’t mistaken there was some purple starting to appear as well. He unclenched his fist slowly anticipating the pain he knew would come. Trying to mask his wince he returned his eyes to hers.
“The truth?” She asked.
“The truth.” He started. “The truth.” Then paused again.
“Mr. Carson, come sit down.” She waved him to the chair closest to her.
He hesitated for a moment, then crossed to take the seat. When she reached out and took his injured hand in hers, it was the last thing that he had expected. She turned it over several times before she spoke.
“Would you like to know what I believe happened?” She asked rhetorically. She had yet to make eye contact with him since he had sat down, keeping her eyes instead on their hands. “Heading to the servants hall to distribute the afternoon post, you heard raised voices. Upon entering you found Mr. Murray making some rather unflattering and disparaging comments about a member of this household. I can only imagine what he could have been saying about Lady Mary that would cause you to strike him.”
“It was you.” He tried to whisper.
“What was me?” She questioned.
“The things he was saying. They weren’t about Lady Mary. They were about you.”
Her head shot up. “What could he possibly have been saying about me that would cause you to strike him?”
He took a deep breath. “Needless to say, such statements should not be repeated, but you may take my word that he deserved what he got and more.”
His eyes were focused on the wall behind her shoulder; he could feel her staring at him. He didn’t want to see her look of disappointment.
“Well,” she nearly huffed, “I’ll not press you further, but trust that you were justified in your actions.”
“Thank you Mrs. Hughes.” He ventured to make eye contact again. She wasn’t pleased, he had expected that. There was something else though, just in her eyes. It might have been appreciation or, maybe, something else entirely. She gave him a small smile, unexpectedly, before turning her attention back to his hand.
“Now, how are you going to serve dinner with this hand? His Lordship is sure to notice.”
