A/N: This is something very, very different for me. This is based on a song sung by the late Sarah Vaughn. You can find it on your platform of choice. Though a jazz standard of the mid-twentieth century really doesn't fit the tone of this piece, its words and the sentiment they convey are timeless and that is the inspiration here. If you wish to listen to it, go do so at some point long after reading this piece. That aside, this has been something that has been stuck in my brain since the pictures of a certain someone as Pope Boniface VIII came out recently so I really needed to put it to paper and get it out. This is an AU Chelsie piece set in Reformation-era England at Downton Abbey, a literal Abbey. My hope is that everything about the characters rings true and familiar amidst the backdrop of religious turmoil. Until this little idea took root, I hadn't given much thought to the fact that after all, being in service was akin to living life in a monastic way if one was truly devoted to it as Carson and Hughes were until things began to change after the War. Moreover, those clergy who lived during the time of the Reformation and wished to marry amid the division of the Church would have faced the dilemma of sticking with the tradition of not marrying or marrying amidst the ever changing eccelsiactical and social mores of the time, especially considering that in England, the politics of religion changed clerical marriage and its legitimacy with some regularity before the upheaval of the Reformation finally settled down. At most this will have 3 chapters, most likely 2. Thanks for taking a look. Please pardon any errors.
The Lonely Hours
When you must do without him
But your dreams are still about him
You'll begin the lonely hours
Downton Abbey. Yorkshire. England. 1530.
"If you love him, you will let him go."
The Abbess's words sting as they play over in her mind drowning every other thing, every other thing that has been spoken to her or spoken by her this night. If her heart had been pierced with the sharp tip of the swordsman's dagger she could hurt no more painfully than she does now. What grieves her even more is that she knows the words to be true. There are rules to this way of life and for years she has abided by them. She has set the finest example; no one can accuse her otherwise. She has fed the hungry, tended the ill, clothed the poor. She has lived an exemplary life.
Until him.
She looks down at the plain gold ring that sits upon her finger and the pangs of guilt well deep within her breast as tears fill her eyes; she and he, apart and together have broken the vows they made long ago both to others and to God. While they've not broken the vows they made to remain chaste, they've been intimate nonetheless. Their's has been an affair of the heart and for them it is so much more dangerous. She wonders if there is any redemption if they stop now what they are doing? Will a lifetime of service and devotion be squelched by one black mark? But then she remembers how he makes her feel and she questions herself: will she be damned of what she feels, because of what this man makes her feel? And will she be condemned because she feels that she's done nothing wrong? Because she feels that she's doing nothing but finding some happiness for herself?
When your romance is ending
And your heart has stopped pretending
You are in the lonely hours
He knows that it's right that they let go of one another; that they agree not to see one another, that there can be no more rare late nights meeting in the dark hours when the earth is sleeping, when they try to snatch a few moments for themselves. All they want are a few desperate, stolen moments with one another, but it can be no more. In a few years, she will likely be the Abbess herself and he has ambitions.
He tries to forget her, to forget the feel of her, of the soft skin of her cheek pressed against his, of her hand pressed into his; of her sweet voice and the kind words she speaks. He knows that warm body pressed against warm body and whispered words will soon lead to much more and he would never sully her reputation, never mark her out as a fallen woman. He's cloistered himself away with his prayer book and his beads, the rich velvet of his robes warm against his skin and he prays. He prays that he will be strong enough to forget her. That he will be strong enough to forget the days and nights that they've shared and that when they next see one another, they can simply carry on as they did most of the fifteen years they've known one another instead of the last five.
Oh, how slow the moments go
When your love disappears
Oh, how slow the moments go
Every minute is a thousand years
Her's has been a life of service, a life cloistered away in this great stone edifice. She has devoted her life to the well-being of others and to their eternal happiness, to their eternal security. She attends the births of babes, is a mender of linens, broken limbs, and broken spirits. She does her job with an efficiency and ease that comes with years of practice and true devotion. She loves what she does and she loves her people. But her heart is broken and who is there to mend it? Who is there to tend her? To take her confession? Surely, she cannot go to him with the pain that she feels; she cannot slip into the confessional booth and admit to the nights that she lies awake and dreams of his voice; of how the years of innocent talks and then these last years of not so innocent words they exchanged but never acted on haunt her nights; of how she misses the kisses he placed on her lips and neck; how electric it all made her feel and left her yearning for more. How can she confess these things to him without causing both of them to sin yet again? Who is there to offer absolution?
She keeps herself to herself, diligently trying to avert her gaze from him when they are in the same space. She tries in vain to close her ears to his voice when he leads the prayers or the hymns, but his voice floats above all the others and rests heavy on her heart.
He revels in the grandeur of it all. This edifice of stone, brick, and marble that he calls home. Every morning as the sun rises just above the horizon, he sits, alone, and drinks in the majesty of this place. He marvels at the work of the stone mason who knew exactly where to place his chisel and exactly how hard to strike the anvil fracturing the stone in just the right way so that thousands of stones were cobbled together to fashion walls, alcoves, and vaulted ceilings. He never ceases to be amazed at the skill with which the glazier set the colored glass into place to create the mosaic that became stories that anyone man or child could read.
He tries to focus on these things rather than the deep and never-ending pain that rises in his chest with every breath.
He stands before all of them and wonders if they know how much his heart breaks. Wonders if they know that his heart is divided between duty and faith and the woman who sits just before him in front of the them. He thinks of her, standing there in all black, the clarity of her voice ringing above the others as they sing the hymns, but her voice hangs just there, above all the others like the thorn of a delicate rose pricking at his heart creating a most beautiful, exquisite pain.
You'll say he doesn't want you
But his lips will stay to haunt you
When you know the lonely hours
She has tried to convince herself that he doesn't want her; he's not come to her since that last night they shared together. The last night when she told him that if he ever wanted to exchange the vestments he wore for the rich red ones of a cardinal that they would have to give one another up; that he had worked too hard and been too diligent and that she would not stand in his way. She remembers the feel of his linen tunic against her hands as she slipped his robes over his shoulders, tied the sash at his waist, and kissed him one final time. Her lips still burn with the sensation of that night. Perhaps, she reckons, that it her punishment for loving him; that he will always be with her, no matter the pain that it causes her.
Lowering her head to her pillow, she pulls the covers over her shoulder, then snuffs out the candle. When darkness engulfs the room, she wonders if he feels what she does; if he feels completely void; simply going through the motions of life; all rote and repetition. She counts through the beads, her lips moving silently; she prays every night for wisdom, for direction; that God's will be done; that her broken heart will heal.
You'll swear that you cannot hear him
Even though you're nowhere near him
When you know the lonely hours
She tries to close her ears to his voice but he is Christ's vicar on earth and every stone, every corridor of the abbey rings with the dulcet echoes of his voice. Every birth, death, marriage, every homily, and consecration carries his refrain and she is there for each of them lending her support. She cannot shake the man wherever she goes. She wonders if, after all this time, he still feels the same about her.
He cannot rid her from his mind. In every woman that crosses his path, he sees her. In the mother whose child he christens, he imagines her, the beaming mother holding their sparkly blue-eyed, fair-skinned, round-bellied babe. In the woman in the village, he sees her; going about her business, fetching the goods that she needs for their family. He sees her everywhere, in every woman.
And yet you know that love
Can make your broken heart mend
'Cause love began it all
And only love can end the lonely hours
His feet chill against the stone floor yet he barely notices; he's alone as the sun rises on a cold winter's morning and it has been months since he's visited her. He's come to pray as he does every morning and finds that the well of his words has run dry. He's sought absolution for both himself and her, for what they've done, what they've thought of doing, and that his heart is still torn between two loves. He begs for an answer as to how he can love this woman, yet minister as he's been called.
He's heard of other men, other men of God who in their rebellion, in this age of reformation have left the Church and joined up with the Reformers; clergy who've married women; good and noble women. These men, who, like him are versed in the Holy Scriptures, who've searched them through, passage after passage, line by line, word for word, looking for the face of God have rallied against tradition but he has resisted the new teachings, resisted the allure of discarding of hundreds of years of tradition because if anything he is a man of habit and he is frightened. Perhaps if she were by his side, if only he could speak with her, if she could guide him through this, guide them through these deep waters they could break away. But he cannot; his heart, the heart that beats for her is shrouded in what he's stood for all these years, what he has taught his people and how can he go back on it all now. Perhaps, it is for him to suffer.
And together his suffering is hers.
And for him to cause her suffering makes him suffer all the more.
And yet you know that love
Can make your broken heart mend
'Cause love began it all
And only love can end the lonely hours
1548
She has watched him grow older; silver filament streaks his hair and only makes him more handsome to her; his cheeks are fuller now and his belly rounded, but his chest and shoulders are still broad and his voice is still strong and commanding. He's still gracious to his parishioners, to her when they meet, when they have the business of the parish to discuss. But they are careful not to linger; they are careful to always have another in their presence. She doesn't trust herself with him, not even all these years later. The wound in her heart is still there, still festering. Perhaps a whisper, a touch, a press of his lips to hers would heal her.
She wonders sometimes if she should have left all those years ago. Perhaps she should have gone back to her parents' farm and tried to lure a suitor when she was still young enough, still pert enough, and could bear some man strong, healthy sons. Perhaps she could have accepted the advances of the Burns' lad from the next farm over and married. Perhaps she'd have been a mother to a brood of strong, ruddy cheeked lads like their father and pretty girls with dark hair and a hint of mischief in their eyes like her. By now perhaps she'd even be a grandmother with a fat little bairn to hold and kiss his rosy little cheeks; but there is no need to look back on something that never was, because she is where she wants to be – with him in whatever way she can be. Maybe things will change one day. She wishes she could either change things or forget him.
She wishes she were stronger.
In his eyes she has grown only more beautiful as the years have passed. He sees little but her face and hands, but it is enough. It is enough to see the porcelain silk of her cheeks, the plump pink satin of her lips, the sapphire of her eyes, eyes that hide a sadness that only he can see; sadness that he placed there. Sadness that only he can take away. She is beautiful and after all of these years he still wants her. He wants the late night conversations, the companionship, the things that were hinted at, and the things that haunt his dreams. If he had been stronger they could have married, had a cottage filled with children.
If he were stronger.
He's heard that Parliament has overturned the rule that has bound him to this miserable state for so long and his heart leaps with joy, before he sucks in a sharp breath and drops his head into his hands. Now that he can offer himself to her and continue in God's service, will she want him? So many years have passed and she has been her own person for so long. What does he have to offer her now? He's an old man, paunchy and graying. He cannot offer her anything but himself. His heart is broken, but it will surely be irreparably damaged if she were to refuse him.
Perhaps, he daren't ask her now? Perhaps she doesn't love him as he still loves her?
'Cause love began it
And only love can end the lonely hours
She's heard the news of Parliament's decision, but he's not come to her; he's not come running through the stone corridors of the abbey, across the courtyards, and to her rooms to ask for her hand. She's waited a month, stood at her door listening for his footfall, for any sound that foretold his approach, yet she's been denied. She feels a fool for believing in a dream that is never to be; perhaps she's been holding on to something that is more a fairytale than ever was reality; the cruel tricks of an aging mind.
The letter from her sister isn't the solution that she's hoped for, it isn't the balm that will heal her wounds, but at least it will cover them from further injury. Becky and her husband have been receptive, welcomed her to their home with open arms, assured her that there is a place for her on the farm. They've a nice place and it'll be nice to be sisters again, to catch up on all the time they've missed. And Becky's told her of the little village church where she can be helpful if she likes, there is an orphanage attached. Becky suggested that she can devote some of her time there; after all the poor wee bairns need some cuddling. She's already told the priest of Elsie's impending arrival. Becky writes that he's thrilled to have someone of Elsie's talents in the parrish. No doubt that she'll be kept busy, Becky writes.
So in the lonely, still hours of the early morning when the sun sleepily rouses from its slumber, she packs the few possessions that she owns; for a lifetime devoted to others she is little more than a pauper but such has been her life and she doesn't regret it.
After she's packed the last of her things, she takes one last glance around her room, a final goodbye to the place that's sheltered her, haunted her, been her respite and her torment. She will miss it, miss the memories that these walls hold, but she cannot endure this any longer; she has served her penance.
Her last act of love, will be to free them both from this hell that they are in.
The morning's air stings against his face and burns his lungs, but he doesn't much notice as he trudges through the courtyard past the rose bushes that hang heavy with dew. He has trod the same path for eighteen years of mornings hoping to see her, hoping that she will be there, a shadow among the shadows. If only she were there for a moment he might believe she feels as he does; that their hearts are still entwined. His steps carry him past the courtyard and into the open field where he looks off into the distance and catches sight of a lone figure, satchel in hand, talking with a man who's dismounting from a horse. The priest scrubs a hand through his hair and then wipes a tear from his eye. His eyes narrow in concentration just before realization dawns; he's waited too long.
She's leaving.
To accept it is the last thing that he can do for her, for them. Because he has tarried, stood too long on the cold, unforgiving stone of tradition, she's taken the steps to redemption. She's given them absolution.
TBC…