A/N: This little fic is a day late for ChelsieSouloftheAbbey's birthday, but not too late for a New Year's theme. Here's my "toast" to you, dear friend, and with it, my good wishes for a happy and healthy year for you and yours – and plenty of Chelsie fics and feels to enjoy.
Cheers!
Late December, 1926
One small sip of water caused Charles to cough. He was glad to put down the glass safely on the bedside table, despite his shaking hand.
It wouldn't do to drop it and give Elsie more work on his account.
She came in as he coughed again. "Oh dear," she sighed. She set down a tray that held a bowl of soup and his medicine. Putting her hand on his forehead, she hummed to herself then kissed his hair softly, rubbing his silver curls. "I did hope your cough would go away. At least your fever's gone."
He opened his mouth to answer her, only to have the air sucked into his mouth cause him to cough anew. "Wish – this – cough – go - away – "
"You do sound a bit better today. Dr. Clarkson said once your fever broke, the rest of the illness would pass in another day or so. Like it did with me." She poured out some of his medicine into a spoon and offered it to him. He swallowed it obediently.
"I hope so," he grumbled. "If I'm feeling better by tomorrow evening, I insist you go up to the Abbey-"
"Charlie, I won't change my mind." Her tone was firm. "I am not going back to work until you are well. Entirely well." She raised her eyebrows, reminding him that she was just as stubborn as he was.
"But you already missed your last Christmas as housekeeper on my account," he protested. He sat back as she settled his tray on his lap. "To miss your last New Years' Eve would be intolerable!"
"Not for me," she sat down on the bed, tucking the blanket in as he ate his soup. "I am retiring on the first of January. Whether or not I am there for the holidays or not. The family has been very understanding, as you know. Besides," she smiled at him, "If it comes to it, I would rather spend the last night of the year with my husband."
I would MUCH rather be with you.
She would miss Mrs. Patmore, Miss Baxter, and the others if she did miss the annual ritual. Even Mr. Barrow, who she had grown much closer to over the last year. But none of them compared to her Charlie.
She had missed his constant presence at the Abbey all year.
Before he had caught cold a few days before Christmas (which, she thought with some chagrin, she had given him), they had planned on him joining the staff downstairs both on that day, and at midnight on New Year's Eve. Everyone was used to having the former butler pop in from time to time, and, as Mr. Barrow so magnanimously put it when he had extended the invitation, "The holidays just aren't the same without Mr. Carson."
In that, he, Lady Mary, and I, are in complete agreement.
How odd life can be.
Elsie had worked only a half-day at Christmas – she'd rushed home at noon to take care of her husband, missing the servants' luncheon for the first time in years. A part of her had been disappointed, but she really would not have been able to stay at the Abbey that afternoon knowing Charlie wasn't feeling well.
At times over the last year she had had the sensation of half of her missing while she was at work. Despite Mr. Barrow's taking over the role of butler rather well, and the rest of the staff doing their best.
It is not the same without him.
This year's holidays were decidedly scaled down from the previous year; of course, there was no wedding to prepare for. The Hexhams had stayed home at Brancaster. The Marchioness would have gladly accepted the invitation to come to Yorkshire, had she not been expecting a child just after the New Year.
The only guest at Downton other than the Dowager and the Mertons was Lady Rosamund.
Elsie was glad. As much as she relished being busy and throwing herself into the swirl of holiday preparations, she was ready to retire.
And if her retirement began a few days early, so much the better.
Charles smiled at his wife. How could he be upset with her, when she was so open in her preference to his company? Setting down his soup spoon, he reached out and took her hand. "There is no one else I'd like to be with on New Years' Eve. But love, I wouldn't mind if you wanted to be at the Abbey…you'd be with friends there. I know Mrs. Patmore would miss you."
"Not very much, I think," she smirked. "Mr. Mason's going to be there. She'll hardly notice if I'm missing!"
Other than Daisy and Mrs. Patmore herself, no one was more excited than Elsie about the cook and Mr. Mason's recent engagement.
"Maybe," Charles admitted. Despite his keenness that his wife have a proper goodbye at the Abbey, he was becoming excited about the prospect of them spending the last night of the year together alone. Still, he wanted to give her a chance to make the decision herself. "It would be very quiet here, just the two of us."
A mischievous glint appeared in her dark blue eyes. "If you are recovered enough, it might not be quiet." Her fingers danced across the back of his hand.
In the time they had been married, he never grew tired of her increasing boldness. She hasn't gone off me, curmudgeon that I am.
He was inclined to get well on the spot. "Elsie Carson," he murmured, capturing her wayward hand and kissing her palm. His heart lifted when she shivered. He made sure to lower his voice in just the way she liked. "I don't know how, but you managed to make that sound a little risqué."
"And if I did?" She tilted her head, smiling, her eyes sparkling. She enjoyed their back-and-forth just as much as he did.
Recalling fond memories was one of their favorite pastimes.
Charles could not think of a suitable response, except for one. He leaned forward across his tray and kissed her. She sighed against his lips.
"I love you too, you old booby."
They would have kissed longer, except for the kettle that sang insistently from the kitchen.
Reluctantly, Elsie got up from the bed. "I'll be back in a moment. Finish your soup before it gets cold."
"I will," he said, picking up his spoon again. "I want to get well by tomorrow…maybe not entirely well."
He grinned when she glanced over her shoulder in a rather fetching manner. "I'll be the judge of that."
She smiled to herself when he chuckled.
New Years' Eve dawned clear and cold. Despite a good night's sleep and feeling much better, Charles still felt weak.
"The fever took a lot out of you," Elsie said as she pulled on her gloves. "You'll still be recovering for a few days."
"At least my cough is gone," he sipped his tea. A small cough tickled his throat, and he let it out. "Mostly…"
"It's much better, thank heaven." Elsie bit her lip as she stepped towards the hallway. Though her husband was clearly on the mend, she did not like to be away from him. But it couldn't be helped. She had to go to the Abbey and make sure everything was running smoothly for the evening.
I'll be back here soon enough.
"There's some soup and bread left from yesterday," she reminded him. "And sandwiches for later, if you want them. I will be home as quick as I can get away."
"I know you will." He got up and set his empty plate and cup in the sink to soak. "You didn't have to run the bath for me – I could have done that."
"You did it for me when I was ill." She raised herself on her tiptoes and kissed him on the cheek. "You often do it even when I'm not ill. Anyway, the less you have to do, the faster you'll recover."
"And the sooner you leave, the sooner you'll be home," he followed her to the front door. The cold air whipped by his ankles, making goosebumps rise on his skin. "Please give everyone my best wishes. When Mr. Barrow asks what my opinion is on which wine he should choose for tonight…tell him I have none. The choice is his. His Lordship and the family will be pleased with whatever he serves."
Elsie's eyes softened. "I'll pass on your message."
It was a lovely gift for Charles to give to the younger man: his trust in Mr. Barrow's own judgment. The two had often conferred in the wine cellar throughout the year. Mr. Barrow was growing in confidence, but he had specifically asked Elsie for Mr. Carson's opinion regarding the wine selection on New Years' Eve.
He can do it on his own.
She was equally pleased with Miss Baxter's progress. The chatelaine would be in good hands.
Steam shimmered above the water as Charles lowered himself into the bath. He sighed, relishing the hot water.
He stayed in the bath until the water was tepid. Heeding Elsie's instructions, he did not exert himself much – though he was tempted to tidy up the sitting room further. He did finish washing the dishes, and made sure there was plenty of wood for the fire.
I don't want either of us to have to go outside again.
He wondered if it would snow again, seeing the grey clouds covering the sky. After eating some of the sandwiches Elsie had mentioned, he sat on the sofa to read.
He woke to the sound of his name.
"Hmmm?" He murmured, still wandering half in dreamland. Her hand was warm, and blessedly familiar, on his shoulder. Blinking, he saw her standing there smiling down at him. It wasn't something he was used to. "Hello, love."
"Hello."
"I didn't mean to sleep so long," he muttered. "I should've put the kettle on…you must be frozen."
"Never mind. The kettle's on, and tea should be ready soon," she gave him her hand, helping him up. "Mrs. Patmore sent a basket home for us to enjoy – it's all cooked," she hastened to say. Neither of them wished to bring up memories of their early married days. "And Mr. Branson was very kind, and gave me a ride home. It started snowing when we were leaving."
"I'm very glad he did." Charles took a small breath. In rough weather, he usually walked to the Abbey himself (if he wasn't already there helping Mr. Barrow) to escort his wife home. It had been weighing on him while he was ill that she walked back and forth alone. The roads were icy…
She's home now. Safe and sound.
And she can stay.
Not just tomorrow, but every day.
Though it was dark outside, the day seemed much brighter. "What's in the basket?"
"You open it and see," she said, setting cups and saucers on a tray. "I thought we might sit in front of the fire instead of in the kitchen."
"I was going to suggest that myself," he grinned. The firelight gave the whole room a rosy glow.
They sat on the sofa, their knees touching, while enjoying Mrs. Patmore's basket. There was cottage pie and fresh bread, along with lemon meringue pie and apple tart.
Elsie looked at Charles in surprise when he got up, leaving his apple tart uneaten. Her mouth dropped open when he re-emerged from the kitchen with a decanter.
"Where did the wine come from?"
He suspected that the bottle tucked innocuously in the bottom of the basket had been placed there either at Mr. Barrow's instruction, or by the butler himself.
"The basket," he handed one glass to her. "It's the Pinot. I set it aside earlier. I thought we could toast the New Year by tradition at midnight, or now, if you thought you wouldn't last until then."
"Will you?" She asked. "You're the one who's been ill."
"I think I'll stay up…I slept this afternoon." He settled back onto the sofa and devoured his dessert. He did not want to miss a moment of their first New Years' Eve at home in the cottage.
God willing, we'll have a few more.
They sat and talked about their friends, and what they thought the New Year would bring. They both thought Mrs. Patmore would not stay at the Abbey for long, after her marriage. Elsie was certain there would be a second Bates baby, and Charles agreed with her.
"1927," he murmured. "It seems like only yesterday it was the end of the war." He held out his arms as Elsie cuddled up next to him, her head beneath his chin.
"Mmm." She fidgeted with his shirt for a moment, relishing the chance to be near him. "Time does fly. But let's just enjoy now, shall we?"
"Indeed."
Outside, the wind picked up. Snow came down like powdered sugar sprinkled on a cake.
She drifted to sleep, lulled by the sound of the crackling fire and the steady beat of his heart.
He glanced down at her, smiling, rubbing circles on her back. Their empty plates and dishes littered the table. The butler in him would have wanted to clean them right away, or at least carry them into the kitchen.
But he had not been the butler for a year.
And in a few hours, she will no longer be the housekeeper.
She will be my wife only. My Elsie.
He kissed the top of her head.
Taking a deep breath, she opened her eyes. "There I go, thinking you'll be the one to fall asleep, and I'm the one who does," she whispered. She shifted a little, feeling constricted by her corset.
Maybe it's finally time to get rid of it. The New Year, retirement…either excuse will do.
He pulled her onto his lap. "I didn't mind. I never mind holding you. Besides, you're the one who's been bustling everywhere, preparing for tonight." Kissing her gently, he reached up and moved aside a stray tendril of hair. His finger brushed the warm curve of her neck. His eyes flickered from hers to her lips, making her belly clench with anticipation.
"I love you," she breathed. As their lips met again, she loved the way his hands moved from her shoulders, up to cradle her face, then down to rest on her hips. Humming into his sweet mouth, she felt a warmth that had nothing to do with the fire.
'To love and to cherish'. My husband. My Charlie.
For a long time there was no sound in the sitting room except for an occasional snap of the fire, and the ticking of the mantle clock. Once he grunted, breaking apart from her, catching her wandering hands.
"Ticklish," she giggled, amused. She laughed when he wagged her eyebrows at her, but then squealed when he tickled her back. "I suppose I deserved that-"
"Mmm-hmm," he rumbled. They scuffled for a few moments before she grabbed his hands and kissed him deeply again. She did not break away until they were both gasping.
By silent agreement, she got to her feet. He got up after her. He took her hand and led her upstairs.
The clock continued to tick away the minutes, counting down the old year.
The wind howled against the windows. The very sound of it was cold, Elsie thought.
She, however, was blissfully warm.
Whenever he holds me, I am warm.
"Are you all right?" She asked hoarsely, turning her head a little. Charles hugged her closer, her back against his chest. He nuzzled her neck, kissing a freckle that sat at the spot where her neck met her shoulder.
"Perfectly so. I always am, with you like this."
She smiled, but pressed on anyway. "I thought you might have exerted yourself too much-"
He snorted, blowing air onto her bare skin. "No. By the sounds you were making, my girl, I was under the impression I was exerting myself too little for your taste."
Though it was hardly the first time they had been intimate, she blushed. "You were lovely, as you always are. I just wanted to be sure you felt all right. You are still recovering."
"I am fine. I am quite sure of it." He kissed her cheek, glad when he felt her relax once again. "Are you all right?"
"Never better." She ran a finger down the side of his face, feeling his stubble.
He sighed, content. "Maybe we should just stay in bed. The dishes will wait until the morning."
"It's tempting to stay," she laced her fingers through his hand that rested on her belly. "I don't care about the dishes either, but you did decant the wine."
"The wine!" He sat up fast, the quilt slipping down his torso. He ran a hand through his thoroughly tangled hair. "I'm glad you reminded me. I'd forgotten all about it!"
"How on earth did you forget about that?" She fumbled for her nightdress, ignoring her clothes strewn on the floor.
He pulled on his pajamas and robe. "You know very well why I forgot. A certain woman kissed me until I forgot everything else."
"Who?" She grinned at him in the mirror as she braided her hair.
"My wife."
In the sitting room, he built up the fire while she cleared the dishes from the side table and carried them into the kitchen.
"Bring the glasses," he called after her. "It's almost midnight now."
She poured the wine. For a minute, they stood in silence, watching the clock.
"They want to have a party for me," she said. "The staff, and the family. After the New Year. Mr. Barrow made sure to tell me before I left today." She shook her head. "I don't want any fuss, but it seems one's going to be made whether I want it or not."
He squeezed her shoulder. "You deserve a fuss. They love you. Everyone, upstairs and down." He blustered a moment when she raised her eyebrows. "Lady Mary is very fond of you, you know."
Not as much as you, she wanted to say, though there was no need. "I am grateful, but a part of me is very glad I got to spend this evening the way I wanted it. With you."
"I'm glad too," he said, his heart full. As nice as it would have been to be at Downton with their friends, it felt right for the two of them to be on their own.
Just us. Our little family.
"Ready?" They counted down the final seconds, saying "Happy New Year!" when the clock chimed, its hands on the twelve.
They shared their first kiss of 1927. "Happy New Year, Elsie," he whispered, rubbing his nose against hers.
"Happy New Year, Charlie." She began to sing, and tears filled his eyes. The sound brought back memories. Of standing in the servants' hall the year before, and so many years before that.
She had been by his side then, as she was now.
"Should auld acquaintance be forgot, and never brought to mind?
Should auld acquaintance be forgot, and auld lang syne?"
He joined her on the chorus. To his surprise, she continued on singing each verse of the old favorite, her Scottish lilt filling the room. He smiled as she sang of pint-stoups and wandering, of paddling from morning sun till dinner.
Her eyes met his as she raised her cup. She knew they both were remembering the day they paddled in the sea. Holding hands, feeling steady.
She held out her other hand, and he took it.
"And there's a hand, my trusty fiere!
And gie's a hand o' thine!
And we'll tak' a right gude-willie waught,
For auld lang syne*…"
He was her husband, she mused, her oldest and most trusted friend. There was no one she would rather be with – on this night, or any other.
Both of their voices joined on the last chorus. They drank to the New Year, and their new life.
Their home glowed with warmth and love. It would welcome friends both old and young later, but on New Year's Day, 1927, it held the Carsons as they toasted the beginning of the rest of their lives.
A/N: *The last verse of "Auld Lang Syne", in Burns' original Scots. (From Wikipedia, for what it's worth)
"And there's a hand my trusty friend!
And give me a hand o' thine!
And we'll take a right good-will draught,
for auld lang syne."