Elegy
He felt a curious mix of elation and dread upon concluding his remarks at the dedication ceremony. Though quite accustomed to being on display in his role as butler, it was quite surprisingly nerve-wracking to be on display as Charles Carson, who was only a man, after all. Dread because the man whose persona he had carefully constructed and ruthlessly tending was dying, after all these years. Dying an ignominious, embarrassing, protracted death. Elation, because he suspected that a similar awakening was occurring in close quarters and that perhaps his own awakening was the cause rather than the result.
He rather liked besting Mrs. Hughes at something. It so seldom happened. In truth he loved to see the self-satsified smirk on her face as she persuaded him to see things her way. He found he enjoyed even more the sensations that she elicited in him those few times he'd been able to get her off balance. He fought the beginnings of an embarrassing and inappropriate grin as he thought back to one of their most delightful conversations.
"It puts us back in agreement, Mrs. Hughes. I'm not comfortable when you and I are not in agreement."
"You're very flattering. When you talk like that you make me want to check the looking glass to see that my hair's tidy."
"Get away with you."
"No, I mean it."
He had very nearly said, "I love you," but his long years of discipline and restraint were still too deeply ingrained. And yet, he hadn't been able to keep himself from imagining a life outside service, a life with her outside service, a life as her husband. Lately, he'd been soothing himself to sleep with lovely musings of a small cottage, a whistling tea kettle and a shiny metal toaster. He could feel another grin threatening to slide across his face and shook himself mentally. This is not the time, man! A quick glance at the crowd returned his sense of decorum and gravity. He could see Mrs. Hughes, Elsie, wiping away a few tears as his Lordship concluded his remarks.
*CE*
"There you are, Mrs. Hughes," he panted. He was slightly out of breath, having had to fight his way through the milling crowd in order to reach her. He was desperate for a moment alone with her. Fortunately, the churchyard was very nearly deserted. He cleared his throat when he realized exactly where they were standing, and he removed his hat. "He was a good lad, our William."
Mrs. Hughes glanced at him sharply. Our William? Whatever could he mean by it? Then again, he'd been different lately; she felt her cheeks flush at the curious surge of hope she felt thrum through her veins. After their day in Brighton, she'd taken certain liberties. After all, he hadn't disagreed when she'd said they could afford to live a little. And lately, lately, it seemed he had taken her at his word. All this business with buying a cottage together. Whatever could he mean by it? She shook herself hard. This was neither the time nor the place to indulge in foolish fantasies regarding Mr. Carson and a cottage. Today was meant to be a day of remembrance, and she thought again of William and his gentle smile. She sniffed and reached for her handkerchief.
"Allow me, Mrs. Hughes," and Mr. Carson offered his handkerchief.
It was a moment suspended in time. Her face, tilted up to his, so close he could see the tears, beading and sparkling against her lashes. His breath caught, and rather than allow her to reach for his handkerchief, he grasped her chin gently and began to wipe her tears himself.
She was rooted, absolutely rooted to the spot. The feel of his strong fingers on her jaw, the smell of the pomade in his hair, the faint scent of his aftershave, it was all too much. And the kindness and love she saw in his eyes made her want to turn her face and hide, but she would not. She would not flinch now, especially if he meant to declare himself.
"Will you?" he asked softly.
"Yes."
He let out a long shuddering breath that he hadn't known he'd been holding. "You understand that I'm not talking of rental property now."
"I do."
"You should know that I've wanted this for a very long time."
"I know."
"You should know that I love you."
"I do."
He studied her face, so calm and lovely, her nerves betrayed only by her slightly shallow breathing and throbbing of the pulse in her neck. He wished he could bury his face in her neck. Later, and the thought only heightened his desire.
His hands were trembling; she could feel them through the thin sleeves of her coat. It was the only sign of his…what? Fear, anxiety, anticipation? She looked into his eyes, and realized, heart pounding, that he was going to kiss her. Nervously she licked her lips and her eyelids closed involuntarily.
He studied her face; this was a moment he wanted to remember for the rest of his life. In the brief span when their eyes met, they had both agreed that he would kiss her. His knees almost buckled when her small pink tongue wet her lips and she closed her eyes. Could she perhaps want him? It had been so long, so very long, since he'd been in any way intimate with a woman. Would he remember any of it? Was it wrong to be thinking of this now? Oughtn't he…and then she leaned into him.
He kissed her, clumsily, across her cheeks, her jaw. He tasted the salt of her tears and thought perhaps his own face was wet. His nose bumped into hers; she leaned back, readjusted herself, then she tilted her head in a way that made it impossible for him to resist the urge to kiss her. He placed his lips against hers gently, lightly, but when she pressed herself closer, he forgot about duty, propriety, obligation. There was only this…the feel of her soft lips against his, the smell of her, fresh and clean, his hands moving awkwardly across her arms, the fabric smooth and light beneath his fingertips, grasping her elbows, pulling her close, so close he could feel the stiff breastplate of her corset and he smiled against her lips, smiled to think of this astonishing woman and what she could accomplish in her armor of whalebone and ribbon.
She held on to the lapels of Mr. Carson's Charles' suitcoat and gave herself up to the feeling of his lips against hers, moving gently, then roughly across her cheeks, her jaw, her mouth. She hadn't meant to press herself so firmly against him, and her face heated at what he might think of her, but she quickly realized that he was as lost as she. She allowed her arms to clasp the back of his neck and she kissed him firmly, leaving him in no doubt of her feelings toward a mutually beneficial partnership.
*CE*
Mr. Mason watched the pair from afar. He felt quite…quite proud, almost, that the two of them were embracing at William's grave. Young William had often spoken of Mrs. Hughes and her kindnesses to him. Mr. Mason had seen it for himself as the young lad lay dying upstairs in the big house. Ever since, Mrs. Hughes had occupied a special place in his heart and he was right pleased to have confirmation of what many in the village had suspected for years. Mrs. Hughes held the keys to the Abbey, but she also held the key to Charles Carson's heart.