She is sat at the vanity when he comes in, elegantly there, demure, with her dressing gown draped around her, as pale lamplight falls on pretty features. Carson is taken aback, stunned for a long moment, watches as skilled fingers twine and come apart, form the thick braid over her shoulder. Stands silently there against the doorframe, is quietly conquered by the lovely spectral in the mirror, by the shadows and highlights of her. By the striking image of her there, just this way, in their home and ready for bed.
"There you are, Mr Carson," she says then, a quick, sudden thing. Startled out of his reverie, he jerks his head upward. She is smiling at his reflection, turning around to greet him. "I was worried you'd gotten cold feet."
"Ah, no." He pinches the drawstring of his robe, fumbles. "No, a little late for that, I should think."
Carson clears his throat. Means for it to be offhand, droll perhaps, but the words fall short somehow, mangle in the hollow tenor of his voice. (And to think, he'd believed this morning would be the most trying part, that it would all come easily after the securing of vows, the tentative brushing of lips against lips). He is bristling now, restive as she rises from her seat, approaches him with open palms and reaches for his things. With some consternation, he lets her take them and watches as capable hands fold his suit neatly, place his tie on top of her scarf, in a tidy little bundle, as she sets his cufflinks down, there beside her hairpins. All balance and poise, all crisp, calm movements, Carson considers her, wonders not for the first time how it is she acclimatises so smoothly, how she can possibly take it all in her stride. (He's been coming apart at the seams since this morning, since they'd stood outside the registrar office in Ripon, and he saw her there, amongst the falling leaves, amongst the chestnuts and golds and harvested things).
She moves her gentle bustling to the bed then, starts turning it down, peeling back the covers, the duvet. The very picture of domesticity, she looks every bit the reverent wife, with those small bare feet pushing into plush carpet, a coy smile gracing her lips. Carson feels a knot of panic rise in his chest. He is loath to admit it, but he is uncertain (shy, even) of her, of this, their first night together as man and wife. There is no reason for it – this is a marriage of convenience, after all, of friendship and mutual respect, for him and her, he is sure (almost, he is almost sure). But she is different now; there is something altered in her, sweeping through her steps, streaked through the carefully waved hair, dangerous even, in the curve of full hips. And he doesn't know, but he thinks that maybe her dressing gown is new – he's seen her old one, white and worn cotton, and this is anything but – this is ivory and lace, and it falls about her knees, gathers around her breasts. (Fleetingly, he wonders if she has bought it for tonight).
His face suffuses with heat. "How – how do you like the house?"
"Oh, I like it very much. Very much indeed." She walks around the bed, begins arranging the pillows, rearranging them to her satisfaction, doesn't look up from her task. "Well, it needs a bit of work done yet, but nothing we can't manage between us."
Carson twists the drawstring, winds the cotton painfully around thick fingers. Nods once, twice, as he bandies about, goes to stand behind the armchair (his bedroom chair, a piece of their old home) and leans against it as he searches for the words, for some common ground. It shouldn't be this hard, really, not when they've done this a thousand times, when they've run a house together seamlessly, flawlessly for years now, decades. But then, they've never been alone together, not like this, not even after the ceremony. Darkness had fallen by the time they left the Abbey after all, once the merrymaking and champagne was done with, after good wishes and shaken hands, after Lady Mary had kissed his cheek and Anna had promised to bring young Billy Bates round for tea. (And he had been hiding after all, once they'd arrived at their little cottage, gave her use of the bathroom first before locking himself in there to change, to sit at the edge of the porcelain tub and collect his scattered thoughts).
He clears his throat. "About that – I thought I would look in the village tomorrow, to place an advertisement in the post office."
She does glance at him then, with a pause, her eyebrows knitted together. "Whatever for?"
"For a maid, to help you around the house."
"Oh, that won't be necessary, Mr Carson." It is an immediate dismissal, a light shaking of her head. "And anyway, I don't think we need to talk about it just this minute. It's late."
She turns now, toward him, looks up at his face quietly, (expectantly, even) teeth biting down on her lower lip, hands folded in front of her. Carson swallows heavily. He isn't sure what she means by that, what she's trying to insinuate with that shy smile, (he's seen it before, he's sure, at the seaside perhaps, some years ago) illusive and mysterious as she already is. Tells himself he's imagining it, of course he is. There has never been anything improper between them, and rightfully so, and there's certainly no need to start now. (But oh, she's looking at him so intensely, staring up at him with bright eyes and flushed cheeks, and he doesn't know what to do, isn't sure where to look).
"Yes, of course," he says, finally, after what seems to be an age. "Forgive me. You must be tired."
"That isn't quite what I said." Her face turns serious, earnest, and her brogue is heavy, thicker than he's heard in years. "Only I don't see why we must discuss it now."
She gives a final brush to the covers, a pat and then without preamble, reaches for her dressing gown, makes the slightest of tugging motions at the knot sitting on her waist. Carson gapes at her, widens his eyes. Tries desperately not to notice; veers his gaze carefully to her face, only to be drawn down again to those fidgeting digits, the sliver of glossy fabric becoming unveiled. She's simply undressing for bed, he thinks, there's nothing forward about it, he tells himself, she is not a presumptuous woman, (not really, not too much). It would be wrong of course, to be intimate at this stage in their lives, (to take those full lips between his, or worship her with his big hands, to touch her until she is moaning beneath him, crying out for more), would be so terribly misplaced, and she knows that, surely she does.
Carson stumbles, stutters over his words. "Well, I just thought that we should be comfortable here, and considering your lack of experience in –"
"Lack of experience?" Another soft tug, the slightest raising of her brow. "I am perfectly capable of running a household, as ye very well know."
One last pull and he watches, stricken, as the gown comes loose, reveals to him a satin nightdress (and it's new, brand new, he's sure of it now). All pearl and tulle and gentle tucks, all curve and dip and unhindered motion, she removes it slowly, slides it down her shoulders with purpose, with meaning (and he can't go on like this, can no longer ignore the question that is posed in her eyes, the challenge in the set of her chin, can't pretend that he doesn't know exactly what it is she is asking for, everything she is offering). His heart is hammering in his ears when he swallows deeply then, when he squares his shoulders, tightens his jaw. "That being as it may, I must insist –"
"Really, there's no need, Mr Carson." She shakes her head at him, doffs the gown completely.
He chokes. "There is every need, Mrs Hughes!"
And suddenly, he is shouting. Suddenly, without meaning to, he is frowning at her, balling his fists at his sides, has turned this into an argument, a dispute about household affairs, where he is butler and she, the housekeeper. But she is not that, she isn't Mrs Hughes, not anymore, she is his wife and whether he wants it to or not, things have changed between them. She is not fighting back, after all, doesn't rise to the challenge as she might have before (even a month ago, a week). Instead, her eyes are wide, brimming with hurt (hurt that he put there,) with tears, and she is backing away from him and crossing her arms, biting down hard on that lower lip. Carson looks at her face in shock, in horror, his chest aching now, his heart is raw and red and burning with regret, feverish with shame.
His eyes press together tightly. "Mrs Carson," he corrects.