It's mellow, warm and they're both awkward, clumsy, knocking into one another with little laughs, quiet sounds of apology as they navigate their way through the cottage, as they polish off a bottle of wine together and trail upstairs for the evening. Although the house is not quite ready, the master bedroom has been made comfortable, cosy with soft netted curtains, clean fitted sheets, the fire is already going in the hearth and Elsie thinks how nice it all is, how right. Tomorrow, they will take their leave for Scarborough, take a generous long weekend away for a proper honeymoon but she is glad they are to spend their first night here as man and wife, to mark the occasion in the home which brought them together.
Outside, it's drizzling lightly, she can hear the gentle drumming of raindrops against the windowpanes, the sky gone dark by now but it's not yet late enough to change, to take up their bedclothes into the bath and so they occupy themselves with trivial little tasks, her husband and she, with their burning faces and shy, averted glances. Smilingly, sheepishly, Elsie finds herself caught up in the narrow passage with him, in the doorway and his knuckles graze her hip although he doesn't mean to, her elbow pushes into his stomach before they make the necessary adjustments, before he raises his hand and signals courteously, shuts the door behind them.
And it's amidst her gentle bustling then, as she takes to unpacking their things, emptying their cases at the foot of the bed that he speaks to her from behind, from where he has lowered himself onto the armchair. She can see his smile, his beaming face from the corner of her eye, that steady, loving gaze which kindles something deep inside her and it's between the folding of gloves and putting away his jacket, their shoes in the cupboard and all her busy housekeeping, that she hears the gravelling sincerity of his voice, that her eyes then, begin to well with tears.
"You do look wonderful," he says.
His praise, that rich velvet of his timbre wraps around her heart, clenches and her breath catches on an unexpected sob, a deep inhalation of laughter, of tears and suddenly, suddenly she is shaking. Shaking with it, and gasping for air because she's been deep under, in the loch and holding her breath since the ceremony, since he'd asked her to join in on his business venture and hadn't known it, has only just now come to shore. Because he is here, his step is loud now, crisp against the floorboards and he's in front of her in a moment, placing his hands on her shoulders, his thumbs running along the lines of her neck.
He is here as she had scarcely allowed herself to hope; a farmer's daughter after all, she has seen the changeable thing called life and perhaps that ever pragmatic part of her hadn't truly believed it until this moment. She hadn't wept when he'd proposed after all, had not let the tears fall when he'd kissed her in the pantry, so sweetly there, or through the echo of his vows resounding in the church, but now. Now, the seeds have taken root and flowered and he is here, her husband; a whisper of worry, of anxiety streaming through his voice, in his face so close to hers and the reality of it is crashing down on her in waves upon waves of emotion, bringing salt water to her eyes.
"What is it, what's the matter? Mrs Hugh— Mrs Carson, have I done something?" He is still brushing her jawline, her chin with the pads of his thumbs and Elsie shakes her head, wipes at her face, under her lashes.
"No, no. Just, when you talk like that…"
She trails off, responds instead by way of a watery smile, the inward tuck of her chin. And she feels more than hears that low rumble in his chest now, his quiet laughter as strong arms wind around her shoulders, fold her in his embrace and thinks of how she'd like to stand this way for a good, long while. How she wants to soak in the heat of him until she can feel it right in the marrow of her bones, in the very fibre of her being. To think that for years, she has lived and breathed this man, has drawn in the scent of his pomade, of his aftershave, for decades the silver polish that clings to his skin. That together they have walked tens of thousands of acres in the form of corridors and passageways, his cuff brushed against her sleeve, that she has sat and eaten and prayed with him and yet to stand with him like this, to feel his hard body pressed against hers is endlessly thrilling, brings a delight to her like she's never known.
And it takes her another long minute, two to realise that he is waiting, that his hands on her shoulders kneading lightly, running down the length of her arms are asking for permission, that his lips pressed to the crown of her head are waiting patiently now for her invitation. Silently of course, not demanding anything, not him, not ever, only with the quietest implore but Elsie understands it all the same. In equal parts it excites her, unnerves her and there is a high thrumming in her head, through her body as she reaches for him. Strokes gently there against the tweed of his waistcoat, at his chest with quivering fingers, moves with small increments up toward his neck and she relishes that harsh intake of breath, the encouraging clamp of his nails into her shoulder. Tilts her head quickly then, and presses her mouth to his throat, bravely to that tender nook, where his collar carves into his skin and whispers.
"Won't you kiss me?"
It's all the encouragement he needs, she discovers, Elsie sees only a flash of his reddened cheeks, of the hard line of his mouth before her eyes flutter to a close and he is kissing her, really kissing her there with warm palms cupping her face, the sweet slide of his tongue along her lips. Lavishing her there with his gentle affections until she is melded into him, until her knees are leaning on his shins and oh, how fulfilling it is. How gratifying it has been to learn at last that he is a man of raw romantic sentiment, a man so full of passion, that beneath the rigid angles and rotations of their lives had been hiding a lover's heart and she has been framed there, enclosed inside as the object of its affection.