"What's this?"
Elsie didn't need to look up to know it was Charles Carson who had just entered without bothering to knock first or check if she had company. She also knew his abrupt question was in reference to the parcel she'd left on his desk earlier.
"It's your costume," she informed him shortly.
"Costume?" he repeated, dumping the package unceremoniously onto the edge of her desk. She could see he'd made a wee hole in its brown paper wrapping, thus exposing a portion of red wool.
"You expect me to wear this?" he asked in that outraged tone she always tried her best to ignore.
"Yes. To Lady Mary's Christmas party." Exasperated, she placed her pen to one side, knowing she wouldn't be able to complete any paperwork when he was in such a mood. "Surely you haven't forgotten. You paced up and down the hallway until you received the invitation," she reminded him dryly.
"Of course I haven't forgotten. I just didn't think I'd be attending in a costume of such ilk."
"Well, Mr High and Mighty, read the invitation again." She rolled her eyes. "It says they're compulsory. But if you want to take the chance by not complying with Lady Mary's wishes…" She waved her hand around meaningfully. "By all means, go ahead."
Amusingly, he pursed his lips at that idea. Then, after a brief moment of contemplation, he flounced over and scooped the package back up from her desk, tucking it testily beneath his arm. "What time shall I call for you?" he asked.
She fiddled with the keys at her waist. "I'll make my own way there."
"What?" With that one-word question, his tone changed so dramatically that she immediately looked up and studied his features carefully. He sounded almost… Heartbroken? Surely not. She must be getting foolish in her old age. Charles Carson would never admit to needing her, hence why she had indulged and purchased their costumes. She needed to take the initiative, give him a prod in the right direction.
"I want to surprise you with my outfit," she eventually elaborated.
"You couldn't simply wear a coat?" His soft suggestion made her heart skip a beat. "I was hoping to discuss the new business venture…"
She closed her eyes. How many times would they need to go over this subject?
As she went to tell him just that, he held his hand up to silence her. "I know what you said, but surely we can find a way," he grumbled. "It's too good of an opportunity to let slip through our fingers."
"We don't need to go over it again," she said, irritated with herself for previously dragging the situation out for far too long. If she'd just been honest up front...
"We haven't really gone over it once. You always manage to change the subject."
"There are some subjects that shouldn't be discussed at Christmas," she hissed. "Religion." She used her fingers to tick each subject off. "Politics. Money. Especially lack of."
"We wouldn't have Christmas without religion, politicians always try and make it about them, and money, or lack thereof, is usually also a concern, with many people finding it a good time to be charitable."
"I don't need your charity, Charles Carson," she snapped. Or his pity.
"It's not charity when we-"
"I know you, Charles Carson." As always, she felt herself weakening where he was concerned. She needed to be strong, especially when he kept using the pronoun 'we'. "What sort of partnership will it be when I haven't put in any deposit? Every decision... I'll either yield to your wishes, or you'll railroad me. And you have that right, being that you're the only one who stands to lose financially in the arrangement."
"But-"
He didn't get to protest any further. They were interrupted by a third person and their nasally Northern accent. "What's this then? Christmas spirit in full swing?"
Peeking around Charles's large bulk, Elsie grimaced at Beryl Patmore, who stood in the doorway sporting a wide grin.
"Would you two like me to umpire the next round?" she asked.
….***...
Charles still only wore his normal attire when he arrived at the party. What if Elsie was having a little joke at his expense? Although, he would concede though she teased him mercilessly in private, she would never make a fool of him in public.
In public, they were an invincible team. In was only in private that he doubted himself in her presence. Especially of late. Their time working together at Downton was coming to an end. And he'd come to the realisation that after so many years working together, he didn't want it to end. It was why he suggested investing in Bruncker Road. He wanted to stay working with her. And more.
Stepping through to the ballroom, he found the party in full swing.
A jazz band was set up in one corner. Their apparently popular lead singer named Jack Ross was crooning out a traditional Christmas song. He immediately noticed no one as yet had taken advantage of the catchy tunes. Perhaps the potential dancers were worried they might waltz into the tree, which was a huge tower of tinsel and lights sprawled, in Charles's opinion, too far across the dance floor.
He glanced across at the staid guests gathered, instantly recognising a racing car driver, a writer, and a land developer amongst them. Clusters of pretty young women mingled excitedly, clutching drinks and in some cases, cigarettes. Their sophisticated London styles were clashing with the theme Mary Crawley had insisted upon.
A young man wearing black tails slid up to him, a silver tray balanced upon his outwardly turned palm. "Cocktail?" he offered.
"Goodness, no!" Charles quickly refused, probably far too rudely. He could not tolerate the latest trend for American cocktails. Nothing could never taste better than a nice decanted red wine.
Besides, he thought it best to stay sober. He considered tonight to be work, not pleasure.
"There you are!" Mary Crawley was suddenly greeting him enthusiastically with an air kiss and hand squeeze. "I'm terribly pleased you're here. I need your help."
He bowed formally. "Anything."
"Well, you shouldn't agree so quickly. It involves my mother."
…****...
Elsie searched the crowd from the ballroom entrance, eagerly seeking out Charles Carson's lofty figure.
She quickly grabbed a glass of champagne from a passing waiter when she did finally spy her business partner. She hadn't expected him to be in such a position. Perhaps she was too late for her plans with their outfits.
"Elsie." She turned at the familiar Scottish accent.
"Joe," she greeted the man who'd once been her fiance with a polite kiss on the cheek.
She wasn't surprised with his first topic of conversation. "When are you coming to work for me, Elsie?" he asked.
Joe had swept back into her life almost six months ago. They'd met for dinner twice, under the guise of catching up on old times, before he'd made his offer. She'd said no, but Joe was not to be easily deterred. He called, emailed, or texted with the same question at least once a month.
Elsie looked over her ex-lover's shoulder to where Charles was still smoothly guiding a woman around the dance floor.
Following her gaze, Joe noted, "He's graceful for a man of his size, isn't he?"
Elsie nodded in agreement. As was the dark haired woman, younger than Elsie but old enough to cause a rush of jealousy to ripple through her veins, who partnered him.
Joe offered his hand. "Shall we then?"
…****...
Out of the corner of his eye, Charles saw Elsie step onto the dancefloor with Joe Burns. It wasn't that he was jealous of the shady Scot, as such, but he had wanted to be the first man Elsie danced with tonight.
She looked beautiful, he noted. Red suited her more than he thought possible, given her pale skin and colouring.
Then, he immediately stumbled and stopped dancing when Joe Burns stretched out and swung her around, meaning he got to see the full view of her Christmas jumper.
"Are you okay?" his partner, Cora Crawley, asked.
"Yes, I just…" He looked down to the gaudily patterned jumper he had dutifully donned a short time ago.
"The ugly Christmas sweater theme was not my idea, I assure you."
"I had wondered. Given your accent." He winced, hoping he wasn't sounding too patronising. Mrs Crawley was, after all, a director of Crawley Cosmetics and the wife of its CEO.
Luckily, however, she just laughed and leaned back to get a clearer look at the faux Santa looking rather forlorn on the front of his jumper. At the same time, Charles was gazing across at Elsie's Christmas jumper, and reading again the garment's wording.
He was wrong earlier. Business could wait, and pleasure was inescapable.
….****...
"Is now a good time?"
Elsie shivered at the words urgently whispered near her ear.
"Yes, I suppose," she agreed, letting Charles lead her out of the ballroom, where Robert Crawley was giving a speech. The CEO had just arrived that morning from his London office with his wife, whom Elsie had learnt was the woman Charles had been dancing with earlier. All their dealings up to tonight had been with Mary Crawley, the head of Lady Mary's, a subsidiary company specialising in hair products.
"Wait…" Elsie snatched up two more glasses of champagne from one of the wait staff. They'd help her to celebrate or commiserate, depending on what Charles was so keen on discussing.
Once in the hotel foyer, Charles shuffled them to a discreetly placed low table and chairs.
"Whatever is the urgency, Charles? It's not like you to skip out of a party before the speeches are complete."
As an answer, he dug around beneath his Christmas jumper and drew out an envelope from his shirt's inside pocket.
"For you," he said, passing it to her with an exaggerated flourish.
She opened the envelope and slowly unfolded the letter it held. Its letterhead was embossed with Murray and Sons, Solicitors.
"I bought Bruncker Road!" he announced excitedly before she could read any further.
"Oh! That's wonderful news." She swapped the letter for a glass of champagne and held it towards him. "I'm sure you'll make a great success of it," she said, gulping down a long settling sip from the glass when he never accepted the alcohol himself.
"We will make it a great success."
She frowned, confused. "You're offering me a job?"
He plucked the glass from her hand, setting it down upon the table before again picking up the letter. "Read it," he ordered, pushing it towards her until she reluctantly accepted the missive.
Biting her bottom lip, she perused the letter properly. Surely she couldn't be reading all its legal jargon correctly?
"I've put the purchase in both our names."
She swayed in her seat, overwhelmed.
It had been Charles's idea to branch out, and when Bruncker Road, a well-known ladies apparel company, came onto the market he'd wanted to immediately seize the opportunity.
Against her better judgement, Elsie had become totally caught up in the proposal. It was her idea to change the focus of the company to exclusively target the over forties age group. Charles had thought of adding cafes and book sections to the stores. They'd planned out a full marketing strategy, as well as what locations they should close and where new stores should be opened.
She didn't tell him there was no way she could afford to go halves in such an ambitious scheme. Elsie had kept it all a secret, weaving the fantasy simply so she could spend time alone with Charles out of business hours. He'd felt it necessary to 'talk Bruncker Road shop' at restaurants, and pubs, and coffee shops, often into the wee hours of the morning. She'd been blissfully happy. And fallen totally in love with the man.
Finally, she'd had to take a needle and burst the bubble. About three weeks ago she had made her confession about Becky Hughes's career as a high flying stockbroker.
After his disappointment, she'd been humbled that he'd agreed to keep working with her until their contract with Lady Mary's was finished next month.
"Charles," she said now, her Scottish accent deepening in her distress. "There are so many things that could go wrong. So many variables for such a venture. You need someone with capital you can tap into. Not someone who will just add to your burden."
"I need you, Elsie."
For a brief moment she thought he was speaking of something altogether different. Something much more basic, more personal, less professional. But she knew Charles well. He would keep such things separate. Business was business, and pleasure was not on the agenda until afterwards.
Weepily, she picked up her glass, raised it. "If you want me to work for you, I will. For a salary that is the current going rate. But, I'll not accept half the company as some sort of…Bribe."
"Bribe?"
"You saw me talking to Joe Burns and wanted to stitch up my services-"
"Elsie, I already made the purchase long before you and Joe Burns danced tonight," he reminded her gently.
"Oh."
"Why did you choose these ugly jumpers?"
"It was the party's theme," she informed him stiffly, the idea of advertising her feelings via corny clothing now seemed immature and inappropriate.
"And there was no hidden meaning behind them at all?" he probed.
She opened her mouth to immediately deny such a thing, but as per usual, found it difficult to lie to him. "I want you," she whispered.
"Want me…" He tilted his head, and reached out to grasp her hand. "How exactly do you want me?"
She snorted and slid her finger along his palm, hoping he understood the suggestiveness of the move. He manoeuvred his chair closer to hers, filling her with confidence. "The usual way, you old fool," she gently chided.
"Then, Elsie Hughes, I propose we do go into Murrays and change the contract. It will need to read Elsie Carson."
"Charles, surely..."
She forgot whatever it was she was intending to say as he rested his hands upon her shoulders before unhurriedly lowering his head. Then, his mouth was gently sliding across hers. As his hands crept up to cradle her face, she obligingly parted her lips to deepen the kiss, allowing his tongue to taste the champagne she'd consumed a moment ago.
"I'm asking you to marry me," he confirmed as they parted to catch their breath.
She shook her head dazedly. Only her man would be so old fashioned that he'd want to marry before they slept together.
She leaned forward, placed her palm upon his chest, and stared down at the jumper she'd deliberately bought last week. She was only distracted from its pattern when Charles began to trace the words printed upon her ugly one.
"Are you saying yes?" he rasped.
She fisted the wool on his jumper and dragged him closer until his lips hovered enticingly. "Obviously, you old fuddy duddy."
The End