Okay, here we go! They wake. A day begins. All my love to Steph for beta'ing. A few notes at the end!


"The scattered tea goes with the leaves and every day a sunset dies."

—William Faulkner

Sunday | 5:35 am

The sun had just made its way above the horizon, casting an amber light against the side of the cottage. As it streamed in their bedroom window, Elsie turned toward its warmth still in half-sleep, the sound of a bird calling in the yard waking her sweetly.

She hummed, eyes still closed and indulged herself in a wide yawn. Her joints clicked painlessly as she arched her lower back, kicking a leg behind her. Her foot made contact with his shin and he grunted in protest.

"Sorry darling," she mumbled into her pillow, turning toward him as her eyes stretched themselves open. Facing him, she scooted over, nestling herself against his side. Even in sleep he responded, his arms embracing her and pulling her closer as if by rote. She sighed, tucking her fists under her chin. A yawn rose up in his chest but was cut short by his sputtering. Startled, she pulled her head up to look at him, now both quite awake.

"What is it?" she said, her voice hoarse with sleep.

"Your hair —" he said, reaching a hand up to wipe at his mouth, "I've just had a mouthful of it."

She pressed her lips together, turning them up into a sideways smile as she tried not to laugh.

He ran his tongue along his lower lip, touching his finger to it lightly, "I can't say I've ever had this problem before." he said, a smile tugging at his lips as his fingers plucked them, "If one considers the source, it's not an entirely unpleasant problem to have."

"I'm glad of it. " she said, laying back against her pillow. After a moment he slunk back down as well, placing his hand on her warm belly as he turned toward her.

"'tis but a small price to be paid to have the privilege of seeing you with your hair let down." He pet her middle in emphasis, "You know — all these years and I'd hardly ever seen it plaited."

"I should think not," she said, "There was never a moment where it'd've been practical. I hardly wore it loose when I was a lass; farm life wasn't exactly conducive to the latest hair fashions."

"Well, I should think not," he parroted, grinning at her as he leaned down to softly kiss her lips. "It's not nearly as gray as mine."

"Are you keeping score?" she chuckled, feeling the weight of his hand against her as her body reverberated with laughter.

He smiled down at her, cocking his head to one side. Outside their window, two birds were calling out to one another across the yard.

"I love that birdsong," he said, "It sounds like they're saying Phoe-be."

The sound of his high-pitched little squawk made her giggle. She listened a moment and, again, the bird outside sang.

"That's what they're called, right? — Phoebes?"

"Oh, no no!" he tutted, "That you hear out yonder window is, in fact, a Titmouse."

"I thought Titmice went. . . chickadee-dee-dee*!"

He shook his head and licked his lips. "Well, it's a bit like the Tit's call, but quicker. And Titmice go from one note to a lower one, but the phoebe — well, it's like this," and he pursed his lips, whistling a perfect imitation of the bird's song. Before she could speak, the birds in the yard responded in kind.

"Oh, look at that — you've made a friend."

"Must have been their mating call."

She gave him a lopsided grin and sighed, "Cheeky."

"Hardly! What would have been cheeky is if I'd done the mating call of the stodgy butler, roaming the halls of a grand house—"

"His natural habitat—"

"Precisely — calling out for his housekeeper —"

"Mrs. Hughes," Elsie mimicked, her impression of Carson's rolling baritone rather impressive*.

Delighted, he smiled — a pleased laugh escaping him. "Quite — to which the housekeeper responds, what is it now, Mr. Carrrrrson."

"You've got to roll your r's a bit more."

"How? "

"Curl your tongue and vibrate along your r's — you've got to get the Scottish burr."

"Oh, oh." he said, "Of course — without it the wild butler is not liable to respond."

She snorted, "Rrright you are, Mr. Carrrrson."

"I love that, you know."

"What's that?"

"Your accent — I suspect either it's relaxed because you've been away from Scotland all these years, or perhaps you felt as though you needed to dampen it when you took the job at Downton — but I rather like it."

"Well, thank you." she said, reaching up to stroke his cheek, "I think it was a bit of both."

"Both?"

"Well — I've been in England long enough. After a while you just don't hear it anymore, I suppose your mind just forgets. In some ways, though, I think I tried to ease off it a bit. Make my words clearer. A housekeeper must never be misunderstood, you see."

He grunted in acknowledgement, "Do you suppose if you were to go back to Scotland your accent would grow thicker?"

"Maybe after a few days," she said, stifling a yawn, "Occasionally Dr. Clarkson can inspire a bit of a drawl in me."

The chirping of the birds in their yard had quieted, and other than the sound of their own synchronized breathing, the room grew silent. Elsie contemplated letting herself fall back asleep, but now that the sun had risen and was streaming in the window — directly into her eyes, no less — she figured she'd not bother, and instead allowed herself to drowsily curl against him, inhaling his scent.

"Are there any of those tarts left?" he yawned, stroking her hair.

"No, we polished off the last of them with our sherry last night."

He sighed, "Well, eggs for breakfast then?"

She hummed in agreement, patting his chest. "I'm not quite ready to get up. Is it so terrible to linger? The bed's so warm —"

"So long as we're not late to church."

"We're never late, darling." she said, letting her eyes flutter closed. He laughed low in his chest, and she wrinkled her nose at his vibrations against her cheek.

"It occurs to me — thinking of breakfast — that I don't even know how you prefer your eggs."

"After sitting next to me at the breakfast table for twenty some years I simply cannot believe that to be true," she said, "You notice everything, Charles."

"Well, I only know that we all ate what Mrs Patmore put before us. You'd've rather eaten a broiled rat than insult her cooking."

"Well, that's not entirely true — but I see your point."

"I'm just wondering about your likes and preferences. I don't have to make eggs the same way every time."

She thought a moment, "Well, when I was a lass my mother fried them every morning for my Da, and I suppose I liked that well enough. But I think if I had a choice, I rather like them poached."

"Poached?" Charles nodded, "Not hard-boiled?"

"Not especially, though I'll eat it if it's put in front of me."

"Poached, then." he said, "That can't be too difficult."

She giggled knowingly, "You've not poached an egg before?"

"Can't say I've had the occasion to."

"I should warn you it's quite an art."

"Oh?"

"Mm," she nodded, "You need a slotted spoon —"

"Do we have one?"

"Yes, Mrs. Patmore gave us one with the other cooking things."

"Alright, then. Carry on."

"Well, then you boil a pot. Add a bit of vinegar. Oh — and the eggs must be very fresh."

"So far so good," he said, stroking her back gently. "Then?"

"You crack the eggs into a small cup or dish —"

"Like a custard dish?"

"Well, I suppose if that's all we have, we'll have to make do."

"Alright."

"Then you sort of — well, you gently let it spill into the simmering pot, you see. Oh, but first you make a bit of a whirl, in the water, and it brings the whites around the yoke — it's quite pretty and very delicate."

"Sounds it."

"Yes. Um — well, then you just let it cook. I like mine rather firm. You lift it out with the slotted spoon. . ."

"I admit I'm intrigued and anxious to try my hand at it."

She sighed against him, petting his chest a few times before sitting up. "Well, I suppose we ought to rise and shine, then. All this talk of eggs has made me rather hungry."

He sat up as well, and they both lingered sleepily in the bed for a moment, smiling at one another as they stretched themselves awake. He leaned over and gave her a light kiss before he threw the covers back. She slid off the bed, reaching her hands up to give herself another long stretch before padding across the room to the bathroom.

Following her into the small washroom, he had to shimmy behind her to get to the linen cabinet. Opening it, he pulled out two washcloths, handing her one as she turned on the faucet, her fingers lazily dangled under the running water to test its temperature. She flicked her eyes up to check the small looking glass — it was just big enough so that they could inspect themselves one at a time, but Charles hardly ever used it. She was more or less his looking glass.

Reaching to run his washcloth under the faucet, he nudged her hand playfully.

"It's still cool," she warned, "tepid at best."

"I know," he said matter of factly, "I find it wakes me up more effectively when it's not warm. Besides, hot water is drying."

She gave him a sideways glance, "Well if you're at risk of drying up and blowing away on me you're welcome to some of my Pond's cream*."

He chuckled, "As much as I adore the scent of lemon and verbena on your skin, darling, I would not enjoy smelling it upon my own."

"I'm impressed that you were able to discern the scent — it's not the cold cream, though. You would be smelling my perfume; but you've missed one ingredient."

"I have?" he said, furrowing his brow.

She nodded, wiping the cloth along her neck. "It's lemon and verbena, yes – and something else. I admit it's more subtle but —"

"I'm usually very keen on subtle scents."

"I know," she said, "So you'll have to have another whiff."

She wrung out the face cloth and hung it on the small hook next to the sink. Turning, she headed back into their bedroom to her wardrobe, opening its doors.

He took his time, lathering a bit of soap onto the face cloth and running it over the skin of his face and neck. He knew that after she'd laid out her Sunday clothes, she'd lay out his as well. They'd never discussed it, and he'd certainly never expected her to. It was just one of their little kindnesses to one another.

"Is that green dress of yours pressed?" he called as he turned the faucet on again to rinse his face cloth.

"You'll have to be a bit more specific," she called back.

"It's — um, dark green. Moss colored."

"Oh, yes. It is. Why?"

"I — I like it, is all. If it's pressed perhaps — perhaps you'd wear it today?"

She didn't respond and he looked into the sink, afraid to lift his head. He heard her padding across the floor toward him and he hoped he hadn't upset her.

"Why?" she asked, hovering in the doorway. Her voice was small, uncertain but not offended, he didn't think. He looked up slowly.

"Well. I. . .I think you look quite fetching in it. I mean to say, you always look fetching, but this dress is one that I think is particularly so and —"

"We're only going to church, Charles. I don't think the Lord cares a lick about what I'm wearing."

"Perhaps not but I . . .I enjoy looking at you. Always, I do but —" he shook his head, "It's silly, you should ignore me."

She smiled, putting a hand on his arm, "I didn't mean to make you feel silly, Charles. I shouldn't tease you. I know what you mean to say and I'm flattered. I admit I'm relieved to think you find me attractive, being that I'm an old trout."

"You're very beautiful," he said, his voice wavering. "Perhaps I should tell you that more often."

She squeezed his arm. "I'll wear it."

"Yes?"

"Why not," she said, returning to the wardrobe, "It's clean and pressed. . ." she yanked it from the closet and held it up, "And I suppose it is a rather nice garment."

"Is it fairly new?"

"No," she laughed, pulling her shift over her head, "I've had it since I came to Downton but it lived in my trunk for a few decades. I never had much occasion to wear it, I suppose, or I forgot about it. When I gathered up my things to come here, with you, I found it. It only needed a bit of mending but it felt like a new dress." she smiled, looking over her bare shoulder at him, "And now that I know you like it so much I'm feeling particularly affectionate toward it."

He hung up his face cloth and stepped into the bedroom. She was sitting on the edge of the bed in her shift, putting her stockings on. He stood a moment, unmoving, and watched as her nimble fingers worked the nylon over her calves, up to where she'd fasten them at the thigh. She reached for the other, flicking her eyes up at him.

"I laid out your gray suit, will that do?" she asked, returning to her work.

He nodded, joining her at the foot of the bed, "Yes, thank you."

They sat back to back on their bed, she fastening her stockings, he putting on his socks. There was a companionable silence between them as they dressed. The bed creaked as he rose, reaching down to pull on his trousers. He looked up just as she stepped into her dress. They stood facing one another, the bed between them, she with a zipper that needed doing up and he with a shirt that could stand to be buttoned. Without speaking, they both came around to the foot of the bed. She turned, lifting her hair, and he took the zipper between his fingers and pulled it up gently. Turning back to him, she began to button up the front of his shirt as he fussed with his cufflinks.

"It's odd," she said, her fingers popping buttons into their holes, "You spent years dressing other men, I've occasionally played ladies maid — and now, here we are, dressing one another — I can't imagine I'm as good at dressing a man as I am a woman."

He leaned down and kissed her cheek, "You do a fine job. Marvelous. My buttons have never been straighter."

"I'll take the compliment — even if I know that statement to be patently false. You, esteemed butler of Downton Abbey, have never been seen with so much as a dangling thread on your livery."

He smiled, his chest puffing out a bit. "I was once rather a handsome man, you know. When I was young and first footman, I looked rather smart serving."

"No doubt you did," she said, sitting down on the edge of the bed so that she could begin to fix her hair, "I'm afraid I was never much to look at and I can't say the maids uniforms ever did much to help it."

Charles furrowed his brow, "Really?"

She popped a pin between her teeth and began working her hair into several tight plaits, "I 've always been plain," she said, "Becky was beautiful - she still is. I think my mother always thought it rather cruel that Becky was — well, the way she was — because she was so beautiful, certainly if she'd been — if things had been different, she'd have been able to be married." Her fingers worked assuredly, folding her hair into a bouquet of braids at the nape of her neck. "There was never a chance for me. My father used to tell my mother they should have tossed me out and kept the afterbirth*."

Charles winced. "That's a wretched, despicable thing to say."

Elsie shrugged, "I'm afraid there was never much evidence to the contrary."

"Elsie," Charles said, taking a step toward her. She popped one final pin between her teeth as she finished the last plait, the tendril flipping over and under her long fingers. "It's a wretched thing to say about anyone — but most of all a child, your own flesh and blood. That was a very cruel thing for your father to say."

Reaching for the pin Elsie just shook her head, "My father was uncouth at the best of times, worse when he drank—" she looked up at Charles, his eyes almost glowing with anger. "Charles — don't be cross. I shouldn't have even said it aloud —"

"I'm not cross with you," he said , standing. "I'm angry at your father."

Finishing her hair, she rose to check the looking glass, giving a small chuckle, "Lot of good that'll do you — he's long dead. Fell out of a hay loft when I was seventeen," she scoffed under her breath, looking down at her hands, "stupid, drunk bastard, he was."

"Elsie," Charles said quietly, but he stopped short. Unsure of what he even wanted to say.

"I'm sorry — shouldn't curse him on the Sabbath."

"It's not that," Charles said, taking a step toward her. He gently cupped her face between his hands and dipped down to kiss her. It wasn't a forceful, aggressive kiss — but tender, sweet, affirming. He pulled away when he felt his cheek dampen and realized she'd begun to cry.

"Now, now," he said softly, wiping her tears with his thumbs, "Do you want to come watch me attempt to poach you an egg?"

She smiled, reaching up to wipe her eyes. "I would love to," she said. She made to move past him but he reached out and took her hand, pulling her back into his arms.

"You're not plain — and I highly doubt that you ever were."

"Oh, Charles." she said, wiggling out of his embrace. He held her tighter.

"Listen a moment, please,." she calmed in his hands, looking up at him through damp eyelashes. He sighed, registering the hurt. "You are lovely. The women I've known in my life have been lovely, yes, many of them — but only dancing in London's great halls, draped in fine silks with jewels sparkling on their hands. They carefully coif and style, they primp, they rosy up their cheeks — and then they only sit or stand propped on someone's arm to be gazed upon. Like statues." he sighed, shaking his head slightly, "But you, you are lovely when you wake. You are lovely when we have our tea and your hair is lopsided, falling out, and you reach up to set it right. You're lovely with muddy knees and your hands deep in dirt in our garden. You're lovely when you have flour all over your smock, and a dab of it on your nose, baking me a rhubarb pie because you know how much I adore it. You're lovely when we're walking back from the village and you reach down and take my hand;y. Your hands are always warm. You're lovely when you take a long swig of wine and reach up to wipe your mouth—" she blushed that this.

"Not very ladylike, I admit."

"You're lovely. Elsie you are the loveliest woman I've ever laid my eyes on precisely because you are not some paragon of what I always was taught a lovely lady was supposed to be. All of that is just for show, it's hollow and empty and cold. You — you are so full of life! And you're so warm and soft and — lovely," he implored, reaching up to stroke her face gently. "Those ladies might have a spark but you — you have a fire."

She pulled her lip under her front teeth, grinning as her eyes welled up with tears. Charles hummed softly, leaning down to kiss her forehead. "Now that we've got that sorted — how about we poach an egg?"


* In New England we call them Chickadees, not Titmice.

* We don't even need to imagine this because we have PL saying it in that interview, ha!

* Indeed, Pond's skin cream existed then — and here we are, years later, and it's what I use as a cold cream!

* A grandmother of mine who was displeased with my arrival actually said this, it's part of family lore. I can't think of a worse insult.