Spoiler alert: the final episode, just after Mr. Carson flees the kitchen to the pantry with his cup of tea.
Elsie Carson was grateful Mrs. Patmore had turned away as her husband's trembling hand caused a cacophonous clattering of porcelain.
But Elsie had seen it, the way he fought to bring it under control, of course she had. Only, the context of his trembling hand was something she tried not to consider in the middle of the populated and bustling kitchens at Downton.
She'd felt his fluttering, trembling touch on their wedding night.
They both were trembling that night, but in different ways. Her lips had trembled against his as he tried to stay still, endeavored to make her comfortable in those first few moments of living as closely as to people can. His eyes were profound in the dim light when she pulled away only slightly to convey all was well, that the pressure was subsiding slightly. Her legs had trembled the next morning, recuperating from the unfamiliar embraces in which she found herself the night before. But both of those feelings had soon subsided.
But him. On their wedding night, her dress and corset puddled in the floor was lost on him, she had remembered before her eyes drooped to the floor. Only his bare feet brought her some sense of comfort as she stood bare to him. His breath was a loud, shuddering gale before his vest and shorts landed on the floor beside him. Had she not seen his feet begin their approach, she would have missed him inching closer, careful to not pounce as an eager lecher. He had spent many a sleepless night preparing for this moment since she confessed her insecurities. There were words he hoped to have in reserve should her countenance fall. His own concerns were secondary at that point. Caught in a careful battle between hysteria over her concerns and rage at herself, she missed his head bob as he made a silent decision.
"Elsie," he whispered, careful not to startle her.
Her eyes, wide-eyed and fretting, had kept to his approaching feet, careful not to stare anywhere else, but she quickly found his eyes soon enough. Her eyelids flickered at the sight before her, the flesh tones of his shoulders, his chest in the periphery. It made concentration difficult for a moment. But his eyes, his eyes were everything.
She had expected slightly furrowed, prodigious brows above serious eyes and a loving, passionate frown. It's what had taken her breath away before he had first claimed her lips. But something had switched in Mr. Carson the moment they were announced as man and wife, together.
And this Mr. Carson, with soft eyes made impossibly dearer to her by the laughter wrinkles more present on that day than any other she had known him, set her to rights. She had found the confidence she needed in that moment without another word beyond her own name, given greater meaning the moment he finally whispered it as her husband, the butler and the man.
She grew a little breathless by his loving gaze. On any other day, looking to his collarbones would allow her to gather her reserve. But the livery that hid them and his broad chest from her was missing. Still, her growing confidence allowed her to relish this sight, this man who needed no formal livery to be an impressive figure.
A spark was lit in her eyes the moment they had begun their dance that evening, their kisses becoming more fervent now that no interruptions, no boundaries, would come between them. It was kindling to her husband, who had looked at her with increasing intimacy for the past year. And while her confidence grew, she was not without fear, without uncertainty as her husband's eyes grew darker, forming a question he was unaware he was asking.
And she answered it as the proud, clever, mischievous woman that became Mrs. Elsie Carson that morning.
"Charlie."
He missed the nodding entreaty that followed, as her voice, her endearment, proved to overwhelm all sense of reality. She hadn't pressed him again to call her Elsie while they were at work. And she had defended him and her position on the reception in the name of Charles Carson, not to mention pledged herself to him with formality and somber humility in the church that morning.
But the world only knew them as Charles Carson and Elsie Hughes, butler and housekeeper, groom and bride. That night, however, they were simply and profoundly, Charlie and Elsie.
His eyes flickered for a moment in recognition of the name she would reserve for their private moments, amused with himself that he didn't mind it. And as she stood there, one brow raised to the heavens before giggling, giggling before him in nothing but her shift and knickers, he gulped at the sight of this woman who had entrusted her happiness to him.
Now that she was free of most of the confines of her own livery, his eyes roamed to her breasts that moved with every hitching breath. Gulping at the sight, he missed her eyes dim at his obvious appreciation, winning out over her self-consciousness.
"Charlie," she uttered, low and hovering between a whisper and a moan. He caught her nodding entreaty now, and his right arm rose slowly towards the curve of her shoulder. She watched helplessly, entranced by how his hand trembled towards its destination. The moment his large, strong, soft hand grazed across her skin, the wavering contact sent gooseflesh to attention down her arm as his hand slowly lowered to enclose her own.
She had lifted his hand to her lips, kissing it before his fingertips grazed her cheek. The trembling had subsided once she rested his hand atop the strap of her shift. His hand remained steady that evening until she was spent, cradled in his arms as he spooned her from behind.
In the weeks and months that followed, she had welcomed his trembling touch with an amount of pride. It heightened her own senses as they learned to please each other.
But witnessing his trembling hand nearly failing to manage a teacup and saucer made her indulgence, her pride in eliciting a trembling hand in her husband, feel misplaced. Her normally masterful skills of observation were obscured by her own vanity, she realized with a criticizing voice in her head as she tried to exchange pleasantries with Mrs. Patmore in the kitchens as her husband had retreated to his pantry. Her teacup quickly finished, she retreated to her sitting room. But the linen rota was forgotten as she contemplated the tray with their glasses and sherry as she worriedly bit her lip.
What else have I missed on account of my pride and vanity, she wondered. When she was all alone, she had dared to think on making her husband tremble in their most intimate moments. But those thoughts were quickly chased away.
The memory of a shaking handful of papers placed on her desk was soon accompanied by other evidence. He had taken to pouring their nightcaps at Downton in his office or before she returned from some errand in the evening. He had used his left hand to sip his sherry or wine, as well. The thought brought her to her feet only to stand aimlessly in the hallway outside his door for a moment.
Perhaps she was being hasty. Perhaps it was just a case of a bad wrist, the kind she feigned to have one summer day when Charlie Carson found himself cooking dinner for them both. The memory now turned sour now that another one seeped into her consciousness.
This was a serious concealment. And I would know, wouldn't I, she reminded herself mockingly. She recalled dark days – isolated, driven to work to ignore debilitating fear of if and when cancer would end her days as a housekeeper, as a woman.
A creeping, uneasy certainty grew within her. Two weeks before, she had woken with a start as his arm gingerly unwound itself from her waist, across her hip, leaving each colder in his wake. She had stared at his shoulders, turned away from her in their shared bed, sleepily frowning at the sight.
From their first night as husband and wife, they had enjoyed spooning together from dusk until dawn as they slept. But now she wondered if his hand had fluttered when he placed it at her waist, waking her. Now they slept somewhat apart now, and they hadn't indulged in, that side of things in the past week. Though were not young anymore, they still managed to secure an early, intimate evening with some regularity. The absence of it had made her rather restless (and she had to marvel that she had once been so afraid of the intimacy she craved). Just that morning, she had thought of catching him off guard with the promise of an early evening that night.
But now, the only thing that mattered was honesty. They had met with and overcome concerns over physical intimacy because of their choice to face things head on. The emotional intimacy required between husbands and wives compelled the same honesty in the face of fear. But the knowledge of what was required didn't make her task any easier.
Steeling herself, she marched through Charlie Carson's open doorway, a silent prayer on her lips to receive the words and patience necessary to be the wife her husband needed at the beginning of his darkest hours.