Carson muses on the times he's touched, or been touched, by Mrs Hughes. Melancholy romance!
Touch
It occurs to him that he's actually seen very little of her skin.
Beneath that black dress and starched posture.
Beyond the obvious of course.
Her hands – he often starts there – he's observed for years. He remembers, or rather holds on to, those moments when she's touched him. Held his elbow, felt his brow, rubbed his hand when he's been pained (Sybil's death… he remembers her hands holding his). The sea. The smell of the air. The sweep of the warm water rolling over his toes. Her hand. Her fingers folded with his. He remembers that, holds onto it, when nights are lonely – as they so often are.
Hands lead to wrists and he delights (foolishly) in the fact he's seen them too. In fact at times the steady throb of her pulse hidden beneath delicate, porcelain skin drives him to distraction. He thinks of rubbing his thumb over the skin, turning her hand over in his palm, perhaps placing a tender kiss there, his tongue gentle… slight... teasing.
These thoughts come unbidden and he buries them away, as a good servant should. Down beneath the mattress of his solitary bed, somewhere within the springs where the dust settles and ages.
But then. Oh but then she comes to his office after breakfast, and she stands by the small window allowing the spring sunshine to light her face and he watches the shadow as it moves. The curve of her chin down to her neck, the way her hair – neatly coiled – elegantly frames the side of her face. It looks thick, glossy, he wishes he were the sun, he wishes he had its touch.
He wonders how her dress fastens, perhaps hidden buttons, an eye-and-hook, something that distracts him. That damned fabric across her chest fastened right up to the base of her neck. The skin on her neck is white, often like snow, as pure and unblemished. He finds himself musing on these facts during hot nights in his small attic room when the air is tight against him and he throws off his blankets in frustration and muses and dwells and contemplates.
Would the skin on her chest be as white? Does she have freckles? Scars from childhood? She worked on the farm; he knows that, he can tell that from her sturdy posture, strong legs, great energy. Perhaps she took tumbles, more than grazed knees, are there memories of her past etched on her body?
These thoughts lead to nothing.
Or worse, they lead to ruminations on subjects that should be kept from his mind. Because a neck (well, he would trail the tip of his tongue along that) leads to a chest (and sweet kisses across her freckles) to a bosom (and he can't possibly imagine what he'd do if ever got that far for fear of heart failure).
Corsets have always confused him. The female dress as a whole. He remembers fumbling with them in his younger days, days he'd rather rub from the chalkboard, melting away into dust. But he never really got any further than a quick grope of a young girl's breasts in them. He's no innocent. But he was never a rogue.
There was a particular older woman who taught him a fair few things about female anatomy. Enough that when he looks at Elsie he knows what he's missing. Knows what he wants. Though of course it goes beyond intimacy. Beyond the basics, the perfunctory movements of lovers.
What he wants from her is messy. Tied up with his role/job/life as Butler. A home. A partner. Perhaps a wife. Her company. Her words. Her warmth.
And yet he has all that. He knows he does, he reminds himself of it when winter comes and his yearly depression sets in.
But is it enough? If it was then surely he wouldn't question. Wouldn't dream and wish and yearn… and god how he yearns at times.
He feels like an adolescent, he remembers as a boy – on the cusp of being a man – how he would marvel at the way a girl walked, or wonder what went on in bath houses, long for a glimpse. He'd see his mother's corset drying by the fire with the other clothes on a Sunday night and try to figure its purpose. Men didn't wear such things. What was it for? Where did it go?
The agitated thoughts that come with growing up, feelings he didn't understand, feelings that weren't discussed. And then he found city life and stumbled onto the stage and a whole new world opened up to him. Red cheeks, heavy breath, hot bodies squashed into tight corners where things happen.
He wants her in his bed. His small bed. To hold her close. Whisper. Breathe. Touch.
Yet he rises alone. Washes with cold water to quell any hint of desire. Dresses, a tight uniform, a heavy burden, and carries himself downstairs with the same stiff posture that's fitted him for a lifetime.
She wakes a similar time to him, he falls into step behind her on the stairs on the way down, watches her back, the hint of skin at the nape of her neck. The slope of her shoulder.
She's talking to him of something someone did and laughing. He's not following.
When they reach the bottom step she turns, looks up at him, "Mr. Carson? Is anything wrong?"
"No," he says gently, or gruffly, he isn't sure which. "Why?"
"Your hand is on my shoulder." She smiles, her head tipped slightly to one side.
He leaves it there, a second too long perhaps, watching his own fingers tapping on her shoulder as if he's watching a stranger. It's too long. She senses something. A shift in the texture of their well-manicured lives. Like the day on the beach. Things shift and change, as slow as the tide creeping to shore.
Jimmy comes behind them, taking the stairs two at a time, doing his collar, he's late.
His hand leaves her shoulder, his fingers snatch in on themselves as if caught cheating on a test. His stomach curls.
Jimmy hasn't noticed. Charles should snap, bark, growl out a command. He watches the young man disappear into the room for breakfast unscathed.
"Mr Carson…" she says again, a whisper this time as she steps closer to him, becomes part of the air he's breathing. "Would you perhaps like to talk?"
He is silent. Embarrassed – he should be, or foolish – letting down his guard. But the truth is he's confused. What's broken in him? What's moved and altered the space?
"I was going to take a walk to the village this afternoon, would you… perhaps like to join me?"
He nods. Tongue dry in his mouth.
She reaches for his arm, squeezes it. He feels it as the earth might feel a lightning strike.
"After lunch?" He asks.
She slides her fingers down to his hand and taps the back of it with her index finger. It is a quick, fleeting touch; to him it feels like forever has just stretched out in front of him as he watches her lead the way from him into breakfast.