A/N: The inspiration for this Christmas one-shot is "Song for a Winter's Night." There are several artists who have recorded it, I am sure, but the Sarah McLachlan version can easily be found on YouTube.
Those of you who've read my other fic that involved the writing of letters will find some similarities here - but not, I am happy to say, any sad ones. It is Christmas, after all. :)
I hope you enjoy, and I wish you all the Happiest of Christmases!
ChelsieSouloftheAbbey
Charles stared into the dying flame of his oil lamp, his eyes trained on the flicker of the light but his mind out in the corridor, where he heard his wife's lovely voice as she was comforting Andy. The poor lad missed his family and hadn't been able to return home to see them for Christmas. Charles wasn't surprised that the young man, just like dozens before him, was finding his only solace in the words of the caring Mrs. Carson - or, rather, in this house, Hughes.
Charles knew that Andy wouldn't realize it, but Elsie was, in fact, in a hurry. There was a difference in the tone of her voice when she was in a rush, a slight alteration that only Charles could recognize. It was something he'd begun to notice long before they had married but something to which he was even more attuned now; since their wedding, the desire to stay home and enjoy the intimate closeness - both the physical and the emotional - that their marriage afforded them was often at war with the professional requirement to arrive at the Abbey on time. They'd never been late, but the same quality he could hear in her speech during those mornings (when they were rushing to dress and to eat a bit of breakfast) mimicked the hurried characteristic on which he was currently focused.
Charles was happy that Andy was feeling a bit better, but he had to admit that the sound of Elsie's harried tone did nothing to assuage the growing discomfort of her husband, the reason for which was quite simple: Tonight IS Christmas Eve, after all, he thought, and we should be together. The two glasses of port on the table, as yet untouched, were a stark reminder of his current loneliness, and only served to remind him of glasses of amber-colored punch from their most recent Christmas past.
He took a deep breath and leaned back in his chair as he attempted to be understanding of his wife's absence; after all, she was trying to complete her own tasks and those of Anna, who was currently at home awaiting the imminent arrival of a daughter or son. Even Elsie would have to admit that Lady Mary hadn't been too trying in her demands, anxious as she herself was for Baby Bates to arrive, but Charles knew that Elsie was, indeed, behind in her duties. Had those duties not all involved discussing bed linens with maids and dressing (and undressing) the Ladies, Charles would have been more than happy to have assisted her, to have been working by his wife's side rather than sitting alone in his pantry awaiting her arrival.
My wife, he thought lovingly, the now-familiar happiness and pride seeping into his chest. How did I ever get so lucky?
He longed to simply hold her hands for a moment; indeed, he had hoped to catch her in the hustle and bustle of the early evening hours, to clasp her soft hands in his and place a tender kiss to her temple - or her lips, perhaps - but there had never been time.
After they had married, this intensity with which he missed her when they weren't in the same room or, heaven forbid, in the same house, had come as quite a shock. He'd spent years being painfully aware of his nervousness whenever she was present - that fluttering in his abdomen that he would notice, the extra clenching of his hand; he'd been grateful for the times she'd been the one to speak when they shared a late-night glass of sherry, so that he could simply listen and not have to form coherent sentences. He recalled, too, the times they'd simply sit in one another's company, not speaking much but just being fortified by the presence of the other.
But now that they were married, now that he knew what it was like to have her by his side in every aspect of life, it was the lack of her presence that unnerved him.
The hands of the softly-ticking clock were approaching eleven, and Charles found himself growing drowsy as he pondered these feelings; he got up to move around a bit in an attempt to wake himself. He reached for his own glass of port and sat at his desk, having thought of a way to be close to his wife without her actual, physical presence: Her letters … of course.
Sitting in his comfortable, well-worn chair – his old friend, Elsie teased him once, yet they both knew it to be true – Charles reached down and pulled a tin out of the bottom drawer of his desk. From it he extracted two bundles of letters: one was tied with a frayed, blue ribbon (letters she'd written to him during the Season), and the other with a much newer, red one (which were only from the past few months, which he'd occasionally find stuffed in his coat pocket, or secreted away in a drawer).
It was the red-wrapped bundle to which he gave his attention, and he untied the bow and pulled the first note out of its envelope. He knew without looking which letter it was, because it was the one he always kept on the top of the small pile. Some were merely notes that read 'I love you,' but a few, like this one, were much more. He began to smile in anticipation of the cherished words he knew to be on the page. As he settled back, he began to read:
My Dearest Charles,
"I can never close my lips where I have opened my heart."
I never saw the truth in these words until you asked me to become your wife, your full partner in this life, and the woman who will feel so blessed to share all that you hold dear in the world, the one to whom I hope you will show all that you are, and all that you hold so deeply inside of yourself. It is not in my nature to be quite this effusive, as you well know, but I find that I cannot sleep until I place these thoughts of mine to paper, in a letter that will be written for your eyes only, the words of which I hope will be carried to your own heart.
As I sit writing on this, the eve of our wedding, I cannot help but be reminded of all the other letters we've written to one another over the years, letters that contained mere trivialities in which we might tuck opinions, friendly sentiments, perhaps, but never anything more personal than wishes for good health and for happiness during the Season. Those wishes were rather futile on your part, my love, for my happiness was never as absent as on those days when you were so far away. Indeed, those many weeks and months spent apart from you were, at times, most unbearable, and it was during one of those long Seasons when I finally accepted the depth of feeling I have for you, something that I can assure you comes from a far deeper place than where collegial friendship and professional respect reside.
I've never told you, but I still have each letter you've ever written to me tucked away in a box in the back of my wardrobe. You'll think me a sentimental old fool, I am sure, and I would have to agree. Of course, thoseother letters are vastly different from this one, are they not? Those start off addressed to "Mr. Carson" and end with a closing written by "Mrs. Hughes." It is with great anticipation that I look forward to closing this missive with something entirely more personal, the name that I've only heard fall from your lips in my dreams, dreams which I am not ashamed to say are coming true tomorrow. It costs me nothing to admit this to you, the man to whom I shall soon vow in front of all our friends and family to commit the rest of my life. "I can never close my lips where I have opened my heart," and I hope that I shall never waver from that sentiment.
What a blessing to be able to give words to just a fraction of that feeling here, with this ink and on this paper, both of which you gifted to me last Christmas. Did it occur to you, I wonder, that the first time I would put them to use would be to write this letter to you? Did you ever think that I would use the gift from that most special Christmas Eve to convey my innermost feelings? I imagine not, and yet it seemed so important to me that this would be the very first letter to come from that gift. I think of this letter as the first of many firsts for us, and I can assure you that I am looking forward to them all with equal heartiness and anticipation.
I must thank you, Charles, for bringing the fullness of your heart to me at last. I feel as though I am a new person, as though your love has reached into my very soul and caused to blossom something I'd thought long since buried, and it will be my goal as your wife to ensure that you realize the same happiness that I, myself, am now feeling.
With all my heart – which you've unknowingly held captive for so long,
Your Elsie
He must have sat there and read it at least half a dozen more times, his heart touched once again by her boldness in putting her innermost thoughts down on paper. He looked out the window and saw that it was gently snowing - a most perfect symbol of Christmas, indeed. He remembered looking out the window on their wedding day and seeing the brightly-shining sun, remembered being awestruck by the beauty of it, as though the angels themselves were smiling down upon their wedding day.
Elsie wasn't the only sentimental fool, it seemed, for he remembered the whisper of paper on wood as she'd slid the letter underneath his door, the soft sound of her slippered feet retreating hastily back down the corridor, the click of the lock and the jangle of her keys as she shut herself away from him for the last time. He'd thought then that the sentiments in the letter were surely things she'd never say in person, and yet time together had proven him wrong; they were merely sentiments upon which they had both expanded in the many days - and nights - since.
The clock chimed midnight, and pulled him out of his reverie, back to the pantry and the comfortable chair, the now soft-edged letter in his hand, and away from the memory of his too-small bed in his old room, upon which he'd sat as he'd clutched this letter - then crisp - for the first time in his slightly-trembling hands.
Charles folded the letter and placed it back in its envelope, replaced it under a hastily-reformed bow, and deposited the packet back into the tin, and the tin into his desk, where it would reside until the next time he needed to feel her love during a brief absence. Thus fortified, he stood from his desk and made his way to the door, for he could hear her quick footsteps approaching at last. He opened the door just as she was arrived at it, then backed away and indicated with a wave of his hand that she should pass through.
"Oh, my darling, what an exhaust- " she began, but the words were cut short by the gentle, loving touch of her husband's lips upon her own. She felt his hands caress the sides of her face, ever so gently, as they'd done in this very spot months ago, when she'd felt his lips on hers for the first time; she smiled tonight as he deepened this kiss as he'd not dared to do that day.
Charles broke away at last, and took Elsie's hands in his own. He looked down at them, caressing them as he felt the weight of his love bursting in his chest in an almost unbearable way. He turned a tear-filled gaze to her own eyes, and they were both instantly transported back one year in time.
"Oh, my darling man … I still want to be stuck with you, you know," she said softly, reaching up to wipe his tears as she swallowed her own. "I always will."
"Even knowing what you know now?" he asked, his brow furrowing, his eyes almost pleading. "That I can sometimes be a stuffy old curmudgeon, and at other times a sentimental old fool?"
A smirk that she could not withhold appeared across her mouth as she grasped his lapels in her soft hands.
"Especially knowing what I know now, about the kind, loving, passionate man that can be found beneath this livery." She nibbled on her lip again, and he reached up to free it gently, receiving a kiss to his fingertip for his trouble.
"Elsie Carson," he rumbled, "how very risqué of you."
She tossed her head back and laughed softly, then pushed forward to wrap her arms around her man.
"Happy Christmas, Elsie," he said into her hair, inhaling the scent of her as he was often wont to do.
"Happy Christmas, Charles. Let's go home."