Elsie absentmindedly wound her watch. It hadn't stopped in the night, she noted, so one would assume the time was correct. Charles was already awake? And was… Whistling a tune?
She could hear him in the kitchen, the whistling mingling with the clatter of crockery and cutlery, indicating he was busying himself with some sort of meal preparation.
Since they'd retired, they'd fallen into a routine. He would fetch a newspaper from the Abbey while she cooked breakfast. They'd eat together when he returned. Apparently not this morning…
Instead of going to investigate, she allowed herself to relax back into the pillows. If Charles was going to give her the morning off, who was she to complain. After all, she no longer had to jump to the will of a ringing bell.
"Dashing away with the smoothing iron, she stole my heart away."
Elsie sat up, alert. The whistling had been replaced by singing that particular song? News of benign cysts aside, Charles was not the cheery singing type as he worked, despite his before service occupation and obvious talent for it.
Intrigued, and now a little jittery, she threw back the bed's covers, but before she could don her nightgown, the bedroom door opened and her husband, the breakfast-making once-music hall entertainer one, entered balancing a tray.
"Breakfast is served, milady," he announced formally.
"What on Earth…"
He nudged and manoeuvred her, still holding the tray, until she was reclining comfortably against the wall at the head of the bed.
"Lady Mary chided me recently. The fate of a single woman or one in service is to dine at a table for breakfast. A married woman gets to enjoy the comfort of breakfast in bed. Especially today."
Her mouth twisted. She wasn't sure if she was comfortable with him discussing their bedroom activities with members of the Crawley family.
From his suddenly awkward stance, he noticed her change of mood. His jaw visibly tightened and, without another word, he shuffled from the room.
Exasperated at his sudden exit, and disappointed that she'd allowed her own nerves to find fault in his most innocent remark, she stared at the stitching on the bedspread, grasping for something suitable to call out as a request for his return.
She was still contemplating the correct way to word an apology when he was once again in the room. Before she could find her voice he presented her, with exaggerated flourish, a bunch of pansies.
The posy wobbled in his outstretched grip; the small stems almost unable to hold up the multi-coloured petals.
She knew he must have picked them from where they grew, along the lane a few yards from their cottage. No one bothered to tend them, meaning they sprung up erratically and without human assistance or interference, and also meaning everyone could claim ownership if they wanted.
"Not exactly the Dowager Countess's prize roses, I know-"
"They're lovely," she stressed. And they were. The last moment grab of flowers from the side of the road was just as romantic as a green house's carefully grafted prize winning blooms when it came from this distinguished man.
She reached out and cupped his cheek.
"And…" He placed an envelope onto the tray. She eyed the envelope hesitantly for a moment before removing the small card which was enclosed within its faded white paper.
"To the one," it read. Other than those words written in his familiar sloping script, the card was blank.
"One what?" she asked softly.
"You know."
She bit down on her bottom lip. Then, she reached over to open the small trinket box she kept by the bedside. She plucked an enveloped card of similar size and shape as the one Charles had just gifted her and shyly presented it to him.
His large capable hands turned the envelope over and over, but he made no movement to open it. Instead he jutted his chin towards the tray. "You should eat, before it gets cold."
She lifted the upper plate which was warming the aromatic food. "Scoot in next to me and I'll share."
To her surprise, he never protested and, after he slipped the unopened card into his coat's pocket, he did just that.
"This is nice," he noted sometime later when they'd both appeased their appetites somewhat.
"Breakfast in bed? I feel quite the lady," she smoothed their unspoken argument completely.
"I am quite certain I am not currently acting in a very gentlemanly manner, however. One does not romp beside the lady of the house, pilfering from her plate."
She laughed even though the word 'romp' was filling her head with all types of ideas.
"Do you want to go back to the kitchen then?" she teased.
"Yes, I think perhaps I would," he admitted.
She made a move to clear the tray, but he brushed her aside. "Tomorrow," he said, settling the tray on his side of the floor by the bed, out of their way.
"Tomorrow?" she repeated, raising an enquiring eyebrow.
He cleared his throat, and she quickly grasped his hand, putting the poor man out of his misery without any further ribbing.
After nearly six months of marriage, he still had never openly asked her to share intimacies. An unhurried look, a touch that lingered upon a person for just that moment too long, a suggestion of tiredness, and they could both easily guess at each other's desires when they formed. The actual words would be too crude, too obvious.
"Charles," she murmured as his lips at that moment found the inside of her wrist.
"Mmm?"
"Perhaps we could indulge in breakfast in bed once a week?"
"Yes, Sunday's before church would be nice," he agreed, his fingers untwisting her hair from the plait she'd placed it in for sleeping.
"Maybe Saturdays. I'm not sure I could stifle my blush in front of the vicar."
His chuckle was muffled against her skin.
"Thank you for the flowers; they're perfect," she added.
A few moments later she managed to gain his attention by addressing him again by his unfamiliar title. "Charles..." Her voice sounded husky and low even to her ears. "Open the card."
His hands trembled and his tongue found the pulse at the base of her neck, deliberately attempting to distract her, she believed.
"Charles," she gasped out, adding just the right amount of authority, it seemed, as he leant back and removed the card from his pocket.
"Elsie, I-"
"Why are you so afraid?" she asked, even though she knew the answer. Charles would always think he loved her more than she loved him. It was an insecurity which paradoxically endeared him to her even more.
She forced herself to give him a stern look. With a resigned sigh, he opened the card and read the message.
"Fancy you remembering this year," he said, recalling their joke from last year. Last year when they were still the butler and housekeeper.
This year, gloriously, they were husband and wife and a Valentine's Day card was not a pornographic piece of scandal as it would have been in the past.
"So…" He looked up and held her gaze.
She smiled. "So…" Her smile turned into laughter.
He allowed himself to chuckle too, before giving her a mock scowl. "Where were we?" he asked, bending down so that their lips met, her bubbling laughter smothered by the wave of desire that swept through her.
Expertly, her fingers found his coat, forcing it off his shoulders and onto the floor, beside the tray.
Falling next to those two items was her card, forgotten but not. The words she'd written could easily be read if they chose to tilt their heads. "To the one."