A/N: "Do you ever wish you'd gone another way? Worked in a shop or a factory? Had a wife or children?" Well, here is their other way. For this one, we are going a little AU. I hope that you enjoy.

Christmas Eve, 1897

Elsie Carson hears the bell that hangs on the front door jingle one last time and the bolt turn as he turns the key in the lock They have been busy, this Christmas Eve, as people are preparing for the holiday tomorrow, picking up last minute items. Wrapping paper, ribbons, and bows. Some candy sticks, biscuits, and tea. Tobacco and pipe cleaners. Notions. Odds and ends. She hears the heavy tread of her husband as he climbs the stairs to their quarters above the store. She knows that he is tired. His step is slow. She hears him sigh every now and then. His day has been long but she smiles. She is immensely proud of him. He has done well for himself. For them. He has two employees and a delivery boy. His village shop also serves as Downton's post office and she as the postmistress. They live comfortably, fashionably. Their home is tidy, she sees to that. Her training as a housemaid having not been wasted. She never regrets leaving the Abbey for him.

He toes his shoes off, picks them up, and places them near the door. He always keeps them polished to a mirror finish. A perfectionist, he dresses immaculately and is well groomed. She reaches up, the errant curl that refuses to stay in place falls to his forehead, she brushes it back. Gives him a welcoming kiss. Helps him off with his coat and hangs it on the coat tree nearby. "Your supper is in the oven. I'll get it," she says softly as he sits at the kitchen table.

"I hope that you didn't wait," he says kindly. She shakes her head. No. He sighs. "It's been a busy day. That Mrs. Patmore sent a footman down from the Abbey with a list a mile long. Last minute things that she needed for tomorrow," he remarks as she places his plate and a glass of beer in front of him. "Something about the housekeeper not ordering the right stores and self-raising flour." He hungrily tucks into his supper. Elsie is a fine cook and he always appreciates what she places in front of him.

"I don't miss the rows between those two, I'll tell you that," she laughs softly. "If I were housekeeper, I'd not tolerate any of her cheek."

"I dare say you wouldn't," he agrees, with a mouth full of food.

The house is warm, a fire roaring in the fireplace in the sitting room, the candlelight soft. Charles looks across the table at his wife and counts himself lucky. Wonders how he caught the fiery Scottish lass that had footmen and that farmer buzzing about her skirts. His blood boils every time he thinks of Joe Burns (even after seven years of marriage). But there she sits, beautiful as the night he first saw her at the village dance, smiling at him.

"Donal, Catriona, and the children will be here for luncheon tomorrow," Elsie says matter of factly. "So much for peace and quiet." The words are out of her mouth before she realizes it and she wishes that she could take them back. Sees the look of hurt on his face though he tries to hide it. Charles often becomes melancholy at Christmas. He never mentions it; she does not push, as she is wont to do. She reaches across the table and takes his hand. Rubs her thumb across his knuckles. I'm sorry. She says with the gesture. He gives a little smile in answer. It's all right. It's not your fault.

They've not spoken in some time about the little ones who have never been born. That they are getting on. He is forty-one and she is thirty-five and they long for the pitter-patter of little feet dancing through the house. Tiny, excited voices waking them before daybreak to tell them that Father Christmas visited while they were sleeping. That he left little Charlie a toy train or little Margaret a doll.

xxxxxx

Changed into their nightclothes, Elsie sits on the floor in the sitting room with wrapping paper and ribbon scattered round while Charles draws from his pipe and nurses the last bit of fine whisky; Donal has promised to gift him some when he arrives in the morning. "Goodness," Elsie exclaims, "I didn't realize that we had quite so many gifts for Moira and Fiona."

"You spoil them," Charles laughs easily. He thinks of how they would spoil girls of their own. "But, that's as it should be I suppose," he adds wistfully. Elsie looks up to him. He is a good uncle. Plays with the girls when they visit, lets them help with the store. Slips them candy sticks and biscuits when their parents are not looking. Elsie finishes with the last of the packages and places it under the tree but takes pause, picks another up, runs a hand across it, and makes her decision.

She moves toward her husband and he pulls her into his lap. When he grunts, she swats at his chest but cannot help to smile a bit. "What was that grunt for Mr. Carson?" she teases.

"Oh nothing," he lied. He does think that she might have put on a stone.

"I thought you might like to open this present tonight, before everyone gets here tomorrow."

He takes the box from her. It is not terribly heavy. His experience tells him that it might be a shirt or scarf something that she has made for him. She shifts so that he can open the box. He pulls the ribbon away, draping it playfully about her neck. The paper falls away easily and he opens the box, mystified.

He handles the contents of the box carefully, reverently, and then looks to his wife. She is worrying her lip, as she is wont to do when she is upset or worried. He notices the mist that covers her very blue eyes. He asks a question with his eyes. Does this mean what I think it means? She nods. Yes, darling. It does.

"When did you find the time?" he asks quietly.

"I think that we found the time together," she laughs through happy tears.

"That's not what I meant," he says leaning up to kiss her deeply. "I meant when did you find the time to knit the little gown, the cap, and the booties? They're lovely."

She strokes his cheek, behind his ear. "A woman has her secrets."

"When might we expect…."

"…in the spring. Dr. Black thinks at the end of May," she finishes. "Happy Christmas, Charles."

"Happiest of Christmases, Elsie," he rejoices.

We may revisit this little AU at some point in the future if you think that we should. Perhaps with a reading of Twas the Night Before Christmas? Let me know what you think if you are inclined. I appreciate all of the Tumblr love, reblogs, reviews, favorites, follows, etc. Happy Chelsie Christmas.