AN: Reposting from Tumblr.
AU warning; sentimentality abounds.
This is the third year she is decorating the house. Her husband - this big, burly man who courted her so properly, who had laid his heart bare to her, who told her she had healed it as it was broken - has stepped out to get the tree. It's the day of Christmas Eve and she is keeping an ear on the bell of the door in case someone comes to collect their last cards or wishes to send a telegram.
They've learned this is a quiet day and they are glad of it, for they've not yet hired someone to help them with the work. There's been no need - they can manage it well between them. Elsie has a girl from the village help twice a week with the works, the rest is well in hand: she's been Head Housemaid before she became a wife and the house isn't big.
Which doesn't mean there aren't any rooms left empty.
Elsie takes a box of Christmas decorations from the table and puts it on the chair next to it, pulls baubles out, the little clamps that keep the candles in place. The little figurines she's bought herself the previous two years (a little house and an angel - she's not bought anything this year). There are spools of ribbon in red and gold and green, the pomander she's made last year - which has to be thrown away.
She might have time to make a new one. She has a couple of oranges and a jar full of cloves and it will make the house smell like Christmas. It might even help her get a little more in the mood. She fetches the jar, finds a good solid needle and takes the orange and sets to work.
With every prick, she puts a clove, with every clove her heart feels heavy. Outside twilight is setting in, the fire is burning away merrily in the grate. The smell of the orange is all around her. She tentatively starts humming a tune, then tries singing her husband's favourite - humming the melody first and as she is adding the words, she hears the door open. There are the telltale signs of a tree being dragged in, the door closing. She hears him wipe his feet, take off his coat.
He is humming the same song and it makes her smile, she gets up, puts down her handiwork and goes to him, singing harmony to his deep, vibrating baritone.
"Ah, there you are," he says and he is looking very satisfied as he points at the tree.
"You asked for a small, full tree. I hope I've done you proud."
She reaches up to his cheek - chilled by the wind - and caresses it softly. "You always make me proud," she says. She doesn't add that she doubts she makes him very proud, that she feels rather a let-down as a wife. She is thirty-four, he has stopped celebrating his birthday and they are very happy together, so lucky to have found each other, but something is missing, something is lacking in their home and he never says it, but she sees it when he gives a child a peppermint when they accompany their mothers to the Post Office and she sees it when he helps the boys holding the cricket bat just right when they play on the village green.
She feels her heart sink every time there's a new pram being pushed out of the general store across the road.
Charles picks up the tree and follows her directions; it's looking perfect standing next to the fireplace. She pops into the kitchen, heats milk, makes them hot chocolate, takes out the mince pies that Mrs Patmore has gifted her the day before (she sometimes visits with her old colleagues, when she is getting too gloomy, when she is getting too melancholy and she cannot face the silence of home anymore - and Mrs Patmore never throws her those looks, never asks those obvious questions {how are you feeling? is everything alright? are you… well?}, simply makes her a cup of tea, just has a lovely chat).
"Hmm, that'll warm me," he says and grabs his mug with both hands.
"Is it that cold outside?" she asks in return, her mug on the mantle as she pick up the small house from the table, places it on the mantle as well.
"Smells like snow," he replies and she turns to him.
"Really?"
"Not that it smells like snow, but I ran into Mr Mason and he said he was certain it would snow before it's time to go to the Christmas service."
"My mother always said that you should make a wish on the first snowflake," she tells and she goes into the hall, steps into her boots, laces them, ties them, slips into her coat, puts on her scarf.
"Come on then!"
He follows her with her mug and they stand in front of the Post Office (their Post Office) and sip their drinks and wait.
Ten minutes pass and fifteen. A half hour and she feels Charles getting impatient. Another ten minutes.
"I'm going in, Els'. Come, I don't want you to catch your death out here."
And then she feels it, a stilling of the air, the wind dies, silence falls upon the town and there it is:
The first tiny speck of snow falls on her cheek.
She closes her eyes and wishes with fire and conviction the one wish she has held the past three years.
Then she follows her husband inside and together they decorate the tree. They hang baubles and sing - he has a lovely, steady voice - and she checks on their dinner from time to time. They dance to their own carols, have their intimate dinner by candlelight. Afterwards they sit by the fire: he reads to her as she darns until it's time to leave.
She listens to the sermon, the choir. They talk to their old friends and new ones. Elsie congratulates Mrs Mason with her blessed news (oh, she knows she shouldn't, but it's obvious now and a farmer's wife cannot afford to start her confinement as soon as she starts to show).
Elsie sees the tight set of Charles's jaw as she speaks with Mrs Mason and he only cheers up again when little Lady Mary asks him something.
She sighs deeply. While she has wished upon her snowflake, she doubts it will make a difference. All she can do for her husband is make him happy in other ways - by looking after him the best she can.
They leave the congregation and head home. Her hand is in the angular crook of his elbow, but they don't speak. She is being pulled close to him and his lips land on her temple repeatedly. When they step inside he hardly waits for her to take off her hat before kissing her softly, insistingly.
He helps her out of her coat, she gets rid of her boots, hangs her hat, pulls her scarf from her neck. They don't light the gas lamps in the hall, instead he takes her hand and she follows him upstairs, to their room. It's cold, there's snow outside on the windows and his warm hands leave a trail of goosebumps as he undresses her slowly, kissing every bit of skin her reveals.
She pulls back the covers of the bed and he lays her down. The sheets are like ice, but she knows he'll warm her soon and he sidles up against her, clad only in his underwear and he is lovely - his touch, his scent, the way he kisses her, the way he pulls the pins from her hair, the way he runs his hands over her sides, over the tops of her arms, her shoulders.
She wraps her arms around his neck and pulls him on top of her, kissing him, her nails digging into the softness of his back through his vest. Outside the world is quiet under the thin layer of snow and they move together to rid him of his vest, her of her shift -
He presses inside slowly, and she arches under him, her lower back coming off the mattress, a moan stifles in her throat. His hand palms her breast, her nipple hardened by cold and lust. He rocks her, takes his time, doesn't rush this sweet feeling of being in love and loving each other so deeply. They kiss and she widens her legs that bit more, wraps her legs around him. His hand is under her bottom now, his fingers kneading her flesh and she cries out, words of love, of pleasure. He murmurs his devotion to her, tells her that he could never love her more, could never imagine his life without her, that she is perfect to him.
Tears spill onto her cheek and she holds on as he tilts her just so. She cries out once more in bliss and a rushed flying and satisfaction. He comes without a word, shuddering above her and she cradles him between her legs, kisses his thick waving hair as he rests upon her breast. They fall asleep still entangled, the sheets and her inner thighs a little sticky - but it doesn't matter. She'll clean everything up in the morning.
By the time Twelfth Night comes rolls around, Elsie has forgotten all about her Christmas wish and she and Charles indulge in a fruitcake she's baked (neither finding the bean, until Elsie finds it lying (?) on the kitchen counter and they have a good laugh over it). Their lives return to normal, the Post Office nearly runs itself, with its rules and regulations and Charles always being good at observing them. Elsie visits with Mrs Mason, knits a little cardigan and some tiny little booties.
She can feel her husband staring at her when she works on them. It's a relief when she finally casts off and she can go back to her regular darning and decorative embroidery.
Pancake day - the 27th February 1894 - is one Elsie isn't likely to forget as she stirs the batter for pancakes in a big glass bowl and she has trouble breathing in the smell of milk and eggs as it makes her stomach turn upside down. She drops a ladle full of batter in the pan and watches the edges brown slowly, the back of her hand pressed against her mouth and her husband is behind her, pulling her close and she has to push him away, has to run to the sink, where she vomits violently.
Not that she's managed to eat anything today.
"Good heavens!"
Charles is by her side, quickly filling a glass with cool water and she takes a sip, rinses her mouth. He leads her to the kitchen table, helps her sit.
"Whatever is the matter?"
"I've been feeling so queasy the past week. Perhaps I've caught something or other," she says, though she is feeling a lot better now she's rid of what wasn't in her stomach.
"Do you want me to get the doctor?"
"No, maybe I'll just need an early night."
He is watching her with a worried face, intently, a tiny smile quirking his lips. "You know, you don't look ill."
"I don't feel ill now. It sort of comes and goes in waves. But you might want to take the pan from the hob before your pancake is burnt to a crisp."
"I've already done that."
"You think of everything, don't you." She gets up and kisses him before going back to the stove.
"Do you want yours with lemon and sugar or only sugar?"
"Are you sure you should be doing that?"
"Yes, you know it's funny, but I'm suddenly completely starving."
So she bakes them pancakes and she eats three and afterwards they do the dishes together, standing very close and she loves how he radiates warmth and makes her feel so safe.
The bell of the front door rings and a man is calling out. Charles hurries to the counter and Elsie follows him, recognising the voice of Mr Mason.
"How can we help, Mr Mason?" Charles asks, all business.
"It's a boy!" Mr Mason answers and Charles shakes his head, frowns.
"Oh, congratulations! How is Mrs Mason doing? Did everything go well?"
Mr Mason is smiling wide. "She's come through and so has the boy, we're naming him William, I want to send a telegram to her mother, she's been asking for her mother."
"I understand, we'll get you sorted," Elsie smiles back and leaves Charles to it, goes back to the kitchen, puts the plates and glasses in the cupboard. Outside it's drizzling, rain mixed with snow and…
Then it clicks.
The first snowflake. Her wish. She's not come on in weeks, in over month and she is tired and a little achy.
She sits down slowly.
It defies belief.
Of course it all adds up and any doubt is quenched when she feels a twinge in her breast (that she had before blamed on her corset needing replacing - and now she thinks that perhaps it doesn't, that it's her who's changing).
The bell rings, the door closes, his footsteps come closer.
"What's wrong?" he asks and Elsie looks up.
"I think I'm pregnant," she blurts out, without any explanation or regard for how he'll take this news. She finds she is laughing and crying at the same time. He is just staring at her.
"What are you saying?"
She gets up them, hurls herself against him, her arms around his waist, her face pressed against his broad chest and she sobs: "I think… I'm positive...I mean… It's… Do you remember that I wished upon that snowflake?"
She can feel him nod.
"I think it stuck, Charles… I think…" She pulls away again, takes his hand, puts it there where she knows their child is growing.
"I think we've been granted our Christmas wish."
AN2: This was supposed to be the end, but a lot of people were asking for a follow up, so I am working on that - though I cannot promise when I'll be able to write/post. First I have some serious reviewing to do!
AN3: This fic was inspired by: "For unto us a child is born, for unto us a son is given" (The Messiah, Handel)
AN4: The timeline is off, I am very sorry, but maybe you can forgive me since it is an AU? Or because it's Christmas.