A Little Unsteady
A/N: I don't really know what this is going to be, or where I am going with this. It kept tickling at my mind as I planned the Brighton chapters for A Yorkshire Summer, so I finally stopped ignoring it.
I kept thinking of this, and what they may have said and felt, as they stood by the sea on that fateful summer day in Brighton. I've written the moments leading up to their frolicking in the surf, and ones later that day, as they each muse upon it, that day on the beach that changed it all, in the end. What did they say to each other? More importantly, what didn't they say? How were they feeling, right then, in those moments?
I was trying to answer my own questions, I suppose.
~CeeCee
Brighton, Summer 1923
It had been a rather fine day, and he wasn't ashamed to admit it, at least not to himself. He'd caught Elsie Hughes' rather satisfied countenance several times during the outing by the sea, as she surveyed the happy, frolicking staff or shared a laugh with Beryl Patmore. And though he could see "I told you so" dancing in her blue eyes, she'd not actually said the words out loud. To him, at least. Yet.
And now, though he wasn't entirely sure exactly how it happened (was he sure how he'd gotten to Brighton in the first place, anyway? Likely not) he was standing in the freeze surf, his toes curling instinctively around the wet sand, furrowing his eyebrows at her. She was holding her skirt up, smiling at him encouragingly.
"Suppose I fall over?" In front of everyone, in front of the staff. In front of you.
She laughed, and her heart pounded heavily in her chest; because something had occurred to her.
"Suppose a bomb goes off, suppose we're hit by a falling star? You can hold my hand, then we'll both go in together." Had she just said that? Offered it? It seemed so. Part of her felt like running up the beach, to the safety of Beryl Patmore's knowing gaze and the staff's rowdy conversation. The other part of her wanted to stay right here, exactly where she was, next to him.
And then, he surprised them both: "I think I will hold you hand. It'll make me feel a bit steadier."
"You can always hold my hand if you need to feel steady." Her heart thumped more quickly in her chest. There was too much naked sincerity in the words. It off-put her. But she steeled herself. What are you on about, you ninny? There's nothing to this, unless…unless, at last, there is. Ye'll find out soon enough, Elsie.
His eyebrows went up, in that gesture she'd found both endearing and infuriating, with all emotions in between, over the past two decades or so. "I don't know how, but you managed to make that sound a little risqué." His heart pulsed in his neck, a roaring sound that matched the incoming surf.
Laughter bubbled up in her chest, and suddenly, she felt like herself again, but bolder. It was she, her knowledge of him, her understanding of the staff, that lead them to this moment, together, wasn't it?
"And if I did? We're getting on, Mr. Carson, you and I. We can afford to live a little." Something in his face loosened and they waded into the sea together, until it reached nearly to her mid-shin, and above his ankles. The bottom six inches of her skirt danced heavily on the water's surface, and she raised it a little higher.
They stood there for a few moments in silence, each very aware of the other's hand folded over his or her own. Because, no matter what either of them said, this grasp wasn't necessary, except in some fundamental way they each understood, underneath all of the teasing, and raised eyebrows and rolled eyes and the weightier formalities that governed their days, all these long decades.
It was simpler, for a few moments, to say nothing; to stand and let the sea dance around their legs, to let the sand pull gently at their toes. To listen to the plaintive cry of the gulls circling overhead, to glance over at the younger staff members, bolder and freer than they were, splashing each other several yards further out.
A wave playfully lapped against them, and he wobbled a little. She squeezed his hand, and somehow, found her voice.
"You do realize, Mr. Carson, it's more likely than not that we'll both go down into the drink if ye lose yer balance?" She grinned up at him, her cheeks flushed with the sun, the day, and the closeness of his body, in this casual situation. She felt adrift, with little to anchor her roiling body save their clasped hands and the sticky sand.
"I suppose, Mrs. Hughes, we best keep our footing, then," he replied, squeezing her hand tighter, hardly hearing the words he spoke. The didn't matter, not right now. Something was happening, inside of him. Though he was standing, braced against the foamy current swirling around his ankles, against the salty sea breeze, he felt, deep inside the center of him, something essential falling, falling, falling. Something letting go right in the center of him.
It felt terrifying. It felt wonderful.
"We always do, don't we, Mr. Carson?" She retorted, and she grinned up at him, the sun creating a shadow across her eyes. He wished he could see them, read what was just under the surface of the words in them. She turned her face back towards the sea, and he spent a long moment gazing at her profile. She looked very well today, though, if he admitted it to himself, he was hardly an unbiased observer.
The curve of her cheek, the lines of her mouth, the twist of her neck, bent over her ledger as she sat at her desk…it was these things that formed the language his heart spoke to him, late at night, when he could no longer ignore what it was whispering to him.
What it had been whispering to him, for nearly three years now: he loved Elsie Hughes, in a way that didn't entirely fit inside of their relationship at Downton. This beach, however, felt big enough for it. Or, at least, the sea, stretched to the horizon, could fit all of the things he felt about this woman standing beside him.
"We all fall sometimes, Mrs. Hughes," he responded, at last, quietly. He felt himself blush, but glanced over at her, trying hard to read her face. The sun shifted behind a cloud, and suddenly her gaze was direct, her blue eyes holding steady on his dark ones.
Her heart fluttered at his words. Yes, we do. We all fall, sometimes. It's the landing, I think, that's important, in the end. "No life is without its slip-ups, Mr. Carson, wouldn't you say? I may even go further, and boldly state that our falls, even if we get scraped and bruised, help us, in the long run."
She paused, then continued, "As you said to me once, Mr. Carson, what would be the point of living, if we didn't let life change us?" She pressed on, despite the surprised raising of his eyebrows, the distractingly pleasing way his hair was dancing in the breeze. It felt like admitting something, to present his own words back to him. They were proof of how much she paid attention to him, tucking his words away inside of her, unfolding and smoothing out their conversations in her head, like rereading lines from an old, faded love letter, tucked inside a drawer.
"You remind me of who I am more than I do myself, sometimes, Mrs. Hughes," he answered, and again, his mind and body tugged at him to focus on the place where their bodies were joined, palm to palm, warm like smooth stones in the sun.
"I certainly call you up on your foibles, Mr. Carson, which you usually bear with rather well," she laughed, kicked her feet in the surf. The water felt warmer now, more comfortable. Less shocking. So did holding his hand.
"Less often than I deserve, most likely, Mrs. Hughes," he answered, and looked over at her again. Though, again, how well she looked, how relaxed.
"And yet, more often than I am sure you'd like," she laughed, then bent, still grasping his hand, and traced her fingers across the surface of the water. It felt cold against them, in contrast to her feet and ankles. They've gotten used to the sensation. Like you've gotten used to holding his hand, standing here for a quarter of an hour. You'll have to let go, and soon, you ninny. Then what?
"This was a fine idea, Mrs. Hughes, and it took me too long to get to it," he responded, looking hard at her. Knowing, as he had earlier on the Pullman ride here, that she'd somehow gotten them all here, by steering him towards this outing, towards the sea.
"Nae, Mr. Carson, you got here just in the nick of time, wouldn't you say? Here we stand, our legs splashed by the ocean, our toes wiggling in the sand," she grinned up at him, and his stomach rolled lazily. Seeing her bare feet next to his, along the damp shoreline… "It's not too late, not really." She considered him, wondering. Had she meant anything, anything at all, as she cajoled him into the water? It had begun as teasing but didn't feel funny anymore.
They stood there for a few minutes, not speaking. They're hands were still linked; neither of them wanted to be the first to let go. The wind tugged at the brim of her hat, and she pressed it down lest it cartwheel along the shoreline. He sighed, feeling the small weight of his pocket watch pressing against his ribcage, a reminder that this day would come to an end, eventually.
"It really was a fine idea, Mr. Carson, spending the day here," she finally spoke again, and her voice was small and steady.
"And not entirely mine, Mrs. Hughes," he glanced down at her and smiled.
"Perhaps not, Mr. Carson, but it turned out so well, you ought to take full credit for it, anyway," she teased, and then slipped a little as a waved rolled in. His hand tightened on hers for a moment, bracing her.
"Are you alright, Mrs. Hughes? Oughtn't we go back towards the blankets?"
"I'm fine, yes, though I'm not sure I'll keep upright once the tide comes in. Let's not go up quite yet, Mr. Carson. Unless you're ready?" He shook his head. She pressed on, given his hand another squeeze. "Then let's stand here, for a few minutes longer. I can live with a little thrilling uncertainty, at least for the moment, can't you?"
"I suppose I can, at that, Mrs. Hughes."