A/N A Chelsie beach one-shot. This one had been languishing on my computer since just after the Christmas Special, and I finally finished it. I hope you enjoy it. Please leave a review to let me know what you think. Thanks for reading!
Charles Carson was not a man who took risks. "Never leave anything to chance," he was fond of saying. He was the type of man who checked and double-checked his account books before he was satisfied that the numbers balanced. The type of man who tallied the wine bottles at least three times to be sure his inventory was correct. The type of man who counted and re-counted the silver and repeatedly checked for blemishes before he put it away. The type of man who always called ahead of time to confirm important appointments; who always had spare supplies on hand; who always had things ready well ahead of schedule; and who spent far more time than necessary checking and re-checking every lock on every door, every night. Charles Carson carried an umbrella everywhere he went, even on the brightest of days.
It was no great wonder, then, that while the rest of the staff were enjoying a carefree day by the sea, frolicking happily on the sand and splashing about in the water, Mr. Carson stood, prim and stiff, simply observing. He could never permit himself to loosen his bearing enough to behave in such a frivolous manner. He was certain that before the day was out, there would be some major catastrophe: a serious injury, the loss of some important item, or a sudden downpour in which they would all be caught. Consequently, he found himself rather ill at ease, just waiting for someone to come running to inform him of a crisis. Try as he might, he couldn't quite shake off the feeling of impending doom. All of this cavorting and romping about could not possibly end well.
As he stood barefoot in the shallows, trousers rolled up, water lapping at his toes, he continued to fret. What if he cut his foot on a rock? Twisted his ankle? Soiled his clothes? Lost his wallet? How she'd convinced him to remove his shoes and socks, roll up his trousers, and step into the water was still a marvel to him. But then, hadn't Elsie Hughes always been able to persuade him to do things he wasn't inclined to do? He smiled inwardly at the thought, though his outward expression remained stern.
"Come on," prompted Mrs. Hughes, standing several feet away in deeper water. "I dare ye!"
"But … if I get my trousers wet … " he worried.
"If you get them wet, we'll dry them," she assured him.
"Suppose I fall over," he protested, wriggling his fingers nervously at his sides.
"Suppose a bomb goes off. Suppose we're hit a by a falling star … You can hold my hand," she offered. "Then we'll both go in together."
"I think I will hold your hand," he decided as he waded in deeper and approached her. "It'll make me feel a bit steadier."
"You can always hold my hand if you need to feel steady," she told him.
"I don't know how," he said, eyeing her uncertainly when he arrived next to her, "but you managed to make that sound a little risqué."
"And if I did … " she chuckled. She held out her hand, and he took it. "We're gettin' on, Mr. Carson, you and I. We can afford to live a little."
They waded deeper, stopping when the water was past their ankles and half-way up their calves. Mr. Carson stood there, looking out to sea, holding Mrs. Hughes's hand. Though he was completely unaccustomed to being out of his depth, he felt happier and more secure than he ever had before. He really did feel remarkably steady while holding her hand.
After a few minutes, emboldened with new confidence, he suggested, "Shall we venture out a bit deeper?"
She eyed him suspiciously. "Don't you think we've gone far enough for today? What if you get your trousers wet?" she teased.
"If I get them wet, we'll dry them," he answered evenly.
"Suppose you fall over," she countered.
"I'm holding your hand," he pointed out. "If I fall over, we'll both go in together. Come on. I'm feeling daring."
Captivated by her brilliant smile, he tugged gently on her hand and led her deeper into the sea. Soon they were standing knee-deep in the water. The bottoms of his rolled-up trouser legs had indeed become soaked, but he couldn't have cared less. The hem of her skirt was now drenched, as well, but she didn't seem to mind, either. They both gazed contentedly out over the water, up at the sky, and occasionally at each other, smiling when their eyes met.
And so, with no prelude and no fanfare, he said it. Didn't move at all. Didn't embrace her. Didn't turn towards her. Didn't look at her. Never even moved his eyes from the horizon. Placed no special emphasis on the words, nor spoke more loudly or quietly than he otherwise would have. Simply mentioned it, as casually as if he were commenting on the weather.
"I love you, Mrs. Hughes," said Mr. Carson.
She stood just as still and silent as he, neither moving nor changing her facial expression, but looking placidly out over the ocean.
"And I love you, Mr. Carson," came Mrs. Hughes's reply after a moment, spoken in the same matter-of-fact manner that she would have used to inform him that Mrs. Patmore had decided upon apple tart instead of peach cobbler for dessert.
His initial declaration must have surprised her as little as her response now surprised him. They had both known for years – decades, really. It had been an implicit understanding, never openly acknowledged until now – unspoken, yet undeniable.
Mr. Carson had always imagined confessions of love to be passionate encounters: a man sweeping his woman up into his arms, making fervent proclamations, kissing her madly - a violent storm of emotion with thunder and lightning, howling wind, driving rain, roiling seas, and crashing waves. But this was none of that. It was quiet, calm, and comfortable: the sun shining brightly, a warm breeze blowing, gulls calling in the distance, gentle waves lapping at their legs.
Maybe, though, this assertion was not so much the first admission of love as a verbal confirmation of hundreds of other tacit proofs of their mutual devotion and deep affection. They were not callow, young sweethearts, surprised and swept away by the ferocity of their newly discovered passion for each other. They were seasoned lovers, certain of their reciprocal fidelity, an implicit commitment that had strengthened and deepened during a score of years together.
He'd known before he voiced his feelings exactly what her response would be. He'd had no fear of embarrassment or rejection. He'd been convinced beyond any doubt that Mrs. Hughes would gladly accept and return his profession of love. And yet, actually speaking the words and hearing her echo his sentiments had made Mr. Carson inexplicably happy.
After several minutes of contented silence, Mrs. Hughes remarked, "We should probably be getting back now."
"I'm not ready to go back. Let's go out a little farther," Mr. Carson implored. "Just a bit."
"My, my, Mr. Carson! That's a rather bold suggestion, coming from a man who was so concerned about getting his clothing wet and falling over."
"As it happens, I'm feeling a bit steadier now. Besides, we've already gotten wet."
"I do think we've gone far enough," she observed. "If we keep going, we'll be in over our heads before we know it."
"I think we already are," he said seriously.
He moved so that he was facing her, and she turned towards him, as well. Squeezing the hand he was already holding, he reached down to grasp her other.
Looking earnestly into her eyes, he continued, "Mrs. Hughes, I've been mucking about in the shallows for far too long. I'm prepared now to brave the deep, but I would feel steadier with you at my side."
She favored him with a glowing smile. "And where else would I be?"
He raised her hands to his mouth and kissed them tenderly. "Shall we, then?" he asked, beaming back at her.
And so Mr. Carson and Mrs. Hughes ventured out, hand in hand, into deeper waters.