Slowly she lowers herself until her heels touch the ground again. And she bites her lip. And watches. Her breath is smooth, her heartbeat rapid. She waits.
After all, he told her once that he was disappointed in her.
Well.
Yes, alright, that was a completely different context, and she knows that. It's not as if she'd just told him she doesn't believe in his vision for the memorial. No, this is nothing so dire as that.
It might be worse. It's probably worse. Oh dear.
But something about the surprise in his face makes it seem like it might be alright (so endearing, those eyebrows higher even than the night she accepted him, just before he started battling his tears).
Or he might think her a woman of no standards again.
Ha. Not bloody likely.
One would hope not, because for one thing, it's cruel, and for the other, it would ultimately reflect badly on him. 'No standards' indeed. She suppresses the smirk that tries to make its way to her mouth, but she doesn't manage to conceal the bit of joy (or of mirth, yes, both if she's honest) that makes her eyes sparkle.
He tries to assemble his thoughts into something approximating words. If he's lucky he might utter sentences again one day.
All he knows right now is that she... she's just... um.
"Ahhh," he lets out about a quarter of a sigh before he realises to his mighty embarrassment that his breath is audibly trembling. How terribly uncivilized. He inhales again and shuts his mouth.
Her heart seems to be pounding faster and faster and she feels both intensely present and strangely removed. As if she could see the two of them from above, as if that might give her some insight into his response. Good Lord, but she's light-headed. All of her blood seems to have gone to... Never mind.
Then he clears his throat. Maybe it will be alright. They can read each other so well, even now when it's all new and they struggle without the words to name the things they've been silencing for all these years.
It's maybe even more than alright. She wonders.
He stares at her, still in a state of shock.
It's been a scant few seconds since she released his hand.
Five seconds since she unwrapped her arms from around his shoulders.
Maybe around nine seconds since her lips left his, which makes it eleven seconds since she kissed him. He'd said something awfully charming behind the closed doors of his pantry, and she simply stood up, strode over to where he stood, and planted a soft, slow kiss on his lips.
Twelve.
The clock has never seemed louder.
He blinks.
Thirteen.
Kissing him like that and no ring on her finger, he must think her a common —
Fourteen.
His stunned expression slowly turns to incredulous, terrified, tentative delight. It's impossible to read.
"Mr Carson?"
That tone shakes him right out of his trance and he steps toward her.
Sixteen. Seventeen. Eighteen.
She fights the urge to step back, to flee up the endless stairs to her room. She knows precisely which steps squeak, which ones to skip late at night so as not to wake anyone. As if any of them could be awakened like that, exhausted as they all are from long days on their feet — but ah, she digresses and now she has to catch her breath because he's coming closer —
He takes another step, his expression looking gloomy to her. Is he angry? She folds her hands together, loosely fidgeting, fingers weaving in between one another.
Twenty-three. Twenty-four.
"Mr Carson, I'm sorry, I — I don't know what came over me."
He stops. His head jerks slightly, showing his confusion. She thinks she's done something wrong? Oh dear. Oh no indeed. He's just so taken aback (thrilled relieved poundingheartjaggedbreathing with blood rushing through his body) and he never dared presume she would want him like that but he's ecstatic with it and he's got to show her but can't go too far or he'll embarrass them both.
"No, I —" He wants to protest, and thoroughly — but he can't, not without the risk of going too far.
They both hold their breath.
Twenty-seven.
She bites her lip and looks at the floor. Then she swings her gaze back up at him; he's too close, he's really much too close and she gasps as he puts his hands on either side of her head. His hands are cold. How is that possible?
Twenty-nine.
It feels wonderful against her overheated cheeks. He touches her so lightly — somewhere in her mind she remembers that thing she said not so very long ago about checking the looking glass and she wonders if he's trying not to muss her hair.
Thirty-three.
She bows her head in gratitude for his touch. Even though what she did was too much, he's forgiven her for it. At least it seems so because he's drawing her closer (she knows he's telling her as gently as possible that he's not interested in what she did a few minutes ago).
She really thinks this. Believes it. One, that it's been a few minutes (Five? Ten? Who can tell, but it's only been forty-five seconds and the ticking is so much slower than her heart that she can't even track it). Two, that he doesn't want this. And so when he pulls her close and kisses her forehead, she tells herself, alright, then. Let this be enough.
And they pull apart, her eyes shining with tears (his too, but they both try to control it; each thinking there's no need to embarrass the other with such overwrought emotion).
And they stammer and struggle and at last they say their goodnights and manage to go their separate ways, stepping carefully over the stairs that creak.
She's crying in her bed. It starts with quiet tears of — of what? It's not sadness; not exactly a broken heart. It's just that she's never felt so humiliated. Ever. He was terribly kind about it but it was a rejection all the same. A kiss on the forehead in response to the tender passion she'd offered him? It was like a slap in the face.
The pain of it clenches in her belly, in her chest. Her body curls around it and she is wracked with silent sobs. There's a noise — she goes completely still. It was the hinges of her bed, squeaking with the movement of her body.
A vulgar thought occurs to her at that sound. She knows it will never be that way between them. The cruel absurdity is that it's her weeping that's shaking the bed when it should be — ugh, she says silently. A hollow laugh sucks the air from her lungs as she presses her pillow to her chest, to her mouth to stifle the noises she's barely making. After a while she inhales desperately, the air wheezing in through her painfully tight throat.
He doesn't want her.
She knows he loves her. But he doesn't want her and that... that hurts. After all of these years, after he flirted with her, for heaven's sake. Didn't he? The smirk on his face after he said "Get away with you" told her he wanted her.
She's so disgusted with the whole situation.
No. Not disgusted, she tells herself, just so cringingly embarrassed and exposed and — rejected. None of it makes any sense.
She's never done that before, kissing a man so boldly. She would never have done it if she'd had any doubt.
Go to sleep, Els, she tells herself. It'll all look better in the morning.
It's a line she's used more times than she can count — with young maids and footmen and hallboys. She's truly believed it every time, but now it rings hollow.
Eventually she slips into an exhausted, dreamless sleep.
On the other end of the corridor, Charlie Carson looks at his reflection, dazed. He's glad he managed not to dishonor them both by giving in to the things he'd wanted to do. But good Lord, it was a narrow escape. He grins at himself. Charlie, you lucky old so-and-so, she actually kissed you!
He closes his eyes, puts fingertips to his lips, and remembers the way she smiled when he kissed her. He'd closed his eyes beforehand and he couldn't see her smile but by God, he could feel it and that was almost better.
He sighs, his face almost hurting from the stupid grin he's been wearing since they parted ways. His heart pounds — what will they be tomorrow; how will they act? Now that they know they want each other, how will their evenings go until they're married? He can't go kissing her every night, can he? Or maybe he can. He doesn't know. He wants so badly to kiss her again. He'd like to kiss her everywhere — on her cheek, her hands, her lips, her neck for heaven's sake and then where can it go from there but into the worst sort of impropriety?
No. They'll have to keep their evenings short and the doors open. He doesn't trust himself otherwise. Not that he would ever, ever push her into anything she doesn't want. His horror at that thought makes him glare at himself in the mirror as if defending her from his own reflection.
He shakes away that thought and finishes undressing. For sheer joy he'd like to dance around the room in his underwear — but as that would be beneath his dignity and far too noisy, he settles for sliding into bed with a blissful sigh. He turns out the light and smiles into the darkness, his heart thudding away again every time he remembers her lips on his.
Pale — with puffy, red-rimmed eyes, dark circles underneath. She can't go down to breakfast looking like this. Besides, the minute she sees him she's liable to break down again. She's feeling embarrassed enough for the two of them; no need to add his own to the mix. She sends Anna down for a tray, giving some excuse about not feeling well.
When the door closed, she crawls back into bed and covers her face. With a bitter laugh, she acknowledges the truth of her excuse — she is not feeling well at all. With time, this will heal. They'll be companions; they'll care for each other and they'll... Well, they'll have all they have now, won't they? And that will be enough, because it has to be enough.
He can never know, she decides. She'll never tell him how she suffered knowing they weren't to be like that.
It makes no sense for her to be this crushed. She'd never expected ... Well. She'd never expected to expect more than this. Lovely, Els, now you're thinking gibberish too.
She cries a bit more before slipping back into dark, merciful sleep.
He must have heard wrong. He strides into the kitchen and his booming voice fills the room.
"She's not well? But la—"
...last night what, Charlie? Shut your mouth or you'll embarrass her even in her absence!
Anna has flinched at his sudden presence and he frowns slightly, wondering why. He looks at her kindly, but she ducks her head and seems to gather her courage (which he finds a bit strange) before meeting his eyes.
"That's what she told me, Mr Carson."
Abruptly, he changes his tone.
"I beg your pardon, Mrs Bates. I don't mean to shout."
Anna shakes her head but says nothing.
He turns to Mrs Patmore with a gentle, questioning look and asks her if she wouldn't mind preparing a tray for Mrs Hughes.
"Daisy's already started it. We'll send a kitchen maid up with it when it's ready."
"I'd like to —"
He stops because Mrs Patmore is looking at him with a conspiratorial half-smile that makes him more than a little nervous.
"Unless you think I shouldn't —"
"No, no," she replies innocently, "I'm sure she wouldn't mind — a visit from you." She quietly but emphatically whispers the last few words, making him blush and smile all at once. He mock-frowns at her, but smiles again as he turns away.
He's got maybe an hour before upstairs breakfast and there's nowhere he'd rather be just this minute than holding a tray and trudging up the stairs — on the women's side! Truth be told, he's rather nervous. He feels quite young, like a schoolboy wanting to steal a kiss from some imaginary sweetheart. He smiles at that, she's real, though, not some adolescent silliness, and then drops his features back into a carefully neutral expression. There's certainly no need for anyone to see the butler grinning like that.
Anyone else, that is. He's quite ready to show it to her.
He balances the tray on one hand and knocks. No answer. He knocks again. Still nothing, and rather than announce his presence to anyone who might be about, he carefully opens the door.
Oh.
Oh my, but she's right there, sleeping. Oh Lord. Her hair is trying to escape its braid and is curling wildly across her pillow. She's facing away from him and he can see the rise and fall of her chest. Her hand is lightly curled on the blanket.
Immediately he realizes his mistake and makes to set the tray down and leave before she wakes, before he has to look into those eyes and try to resist kissing her.
Control yourself, Carson, he scolds himself.
He's set it down as carefully as he could, but the sound wakes her.
She inhales quickly. She hasn't yet opened her eyes because she's waiting for the kitchen maid to leave. She's got no appetite but she'll try. Maybe she'll be able to choke down some toast.
Whoever it is isn't leaving.
Determined to give the maid a scolding for lingering (if she can muster the energy), she opens her eyes and turns her head.
Her eyes go wide at the sight of him. She gasps, more shocked than anything else, pulling up her blankets — and then she remembers last night and sinks into her pillows with an uncharacteristic groan, a hand over her face. She won't cry. She won't. She refuses.
He's looking at her with an expression she can't quite figure out.
"Mr Carson, you should go."
"I… I'm sorry, I just… I suppose I just wanted to see you. I'm sorry to hear you're not feeling well."
His voice is too gentle, his tone too much; it's all too much. She looks at him, her hand still over her mouth. Despite her efforts, her eyes fill with tears, and she turns away again.
He's no fool; he's acutely aware that something is terribly wrong. Why is she crying? What did he do wrong? He takes her hand and she quickly pulls it away, covering her eyes as she takes a deep, shaking breath.
He'd thought to sit on the edge of her bed but that seems entirely too dangerous. So he finds a chair and brings it close to her bed so that he can sit down.
"Won't you tell me what's —?"
Abruptly she sits up, her back straight against her headboard. Her legs are folded up close — a protective move. She's picking at a string on her blanket and avoiding his eyes.
Now his eyes have gone wide; she seems to be afraid of him and it makes no sense to him. Unless he scared her off last night? But — no, that's impossible; she kissed him.
He's looking at her with such tenderness; she can't lie to him. Out with it, then. She's horribly embarrassed, but she's got to get through this.
"I'm sorry about last night, Mr Carson."
He stares at her, his face full of pain and confusion. His mouth starts to form the word "what" but she stops him.
"I pushed too hard, and now I understand that that isn't what you want from… from us."
She swallows hard; this is taking all of her courage and she's nearing the end of her ability to speak.
Before she can continue, though, he stops her.
"Mrs Hu — " He shakes his head, furrowed brow, closed eyes for a second — "Elsie."
She whips her head up. He said he didn't want to call her that here, at work. So what is he on about now?
He nods once, feeling more than a little unsteady.
She's just watching him, but good Lord, she looks miserable. He gathers his courage and sits on the edge of her bed, surprising her.
She wants to shrink away from him, to protect him from knowing the agony she feels. It's stupid anyway. Stupid schoolgirl stuff, more about her wounded pride and her expectations than anything real. This is what she tells herself.
He leans forward to take her hands and kisses one, then the other, and lets them rest in his hands on her knees.
"Elsie," he starts again, and her eyes slide closed. Two tears run down her cheeks and he releases her hands to wipe them away.
It's the second time in two days that he's held her face in his hands. WIth rapt attention he absorbs all the sensations — the warmth and softness of her cheeks, the vulnerability (that almost makes him weep like a child and he doesn't know why) of that tender skin below her eyes. The way she tilts her head, allowing him to tuck some unruly lock of hair behind her ear.
"Don't," she protests at last, shaking his hands away. "Don't — don't touch me unless you mean it."
"Unless I — what?"
Suddenly annoyed and impatient for this harrowing conversation to be over, she replies, "You heard me, Mr Carson."
The name sidetracks him momentarily. "Won't you call me Charlie?"
She blinks. None of this makes any bloody sense.
"Charlie," she whispers. If that's what he wants, she'll call him that. But she must decouple that in her mind from the idea of an intimate marriage.
"Elsie, when you kissed me last night —"
She's heard somewhere of spontaneous human combustion, and just now she wishes it would happen to her. She holds her breath and accidentally lets out a minuscule squeak that embarrasses her even more.
" — it was all I'd ever wanted."
She snaps her head up and stares at him.
He nods and reaches forward to try to touch her face again, this time with the backs of his fingers.
"I love you. Did you think I didn't want you?"
Unable to speak, she nods, pushing away another tear with the heel of her hand.
"Oh, Elsie, no. No. I'm so sorry. I needed to get away because I was afraid I would be the one pushing us too far. We're not married yet, so we can't do… ahem. The things that married people do."
"But you want —?"
It's too much, too intimate; she can't finish the question. But he's nodding. Oh good Heavens, he's nodding, and she thinks it's a good job she's sitting in her own bed because she feels as though she could faint.
"Yes, I do. Very much. If you…?" His voice is barely a whisper.
"I —" she chokes on a laugh that's half sob. "I've been so stupid. I thought after last night — after the way you k-k-kissed me that you didn't want— didn't want… to, er…"
He's shaking his head and he reaches for her again, his hand gentle on her face as he leans in to kiss her, really kiss her. Stunned, she doesn't move for an instant. And then, as if realizing that he is, in fact, kissing her, she inhales sharply and kisses him back. She touches his face with tentative fingertips, assuring herself that this is real.
Relief flows through her — and joy, yes, after all of this pain she's finally able to believe that he wants her for his wife as fully as she wants him for her husband.
She pulls at him and he comes to lie down with her, fully clothed and on top of the blankets. He won't dare stay more than a few minutes, kissing and caressing her hands and her face. Once he ventures to touch her shoulder. It's still chaste, as proper as it can be when he's alone with her in her room, lying almost in bed with her.
But it's enough. That thought brings a small smile to both of their faces as they adore one another with lips and hands. Soon he'll have to get up and leave her, but it won't be so very long until they never have to leave each other again.
For now, it's enough.