I set out on a narrow way many years ago

She has a book open in her lap when he comes in that first evening, has not yet read a single word of it when her husband folds back the blanket, settles sedulously beside her in their new bed.

"What are you reading?"

Elsie turns the page with a committed hand. "It's a book of sonnets."

"Ah." He nods.

She nods at him in turn, continues to stare at the print.

And she is blushing despite herself, biting down hard on her bottom lip; he is twiddling his thumbs on his stomach, looking carefully down at the blanket.

Decidedly, she is waiting, wondering if he might make some sort of advance, and possibly, quite possibly, she is hoping that he will.

"Are they nice?" he asks then, a quiet rumble. "The sonnets, I mean."

Elsie smiles down at the page, shakes her head.

She almost laughs; at herself, at him, at the state of them on their wedding night. "Yes, Mr Carson. They're very nice."

"Good, good."

He clears his throat.

"Mrs Hughes?"

She turns.

"I wonder — that is, I hope —"

He inhales deeply, she does.

"Mrs Hughes, may I hold your hand?"

Elsie looks up at her new husband, her oldest friend, looks at him in surprise.

And she smiles then, after a moment, smiles with a full and brimming heart and shifts closer to him, close enough that their shoulders are touching and reaches to take his large warm hand in hers, brings it gently to rest on top of her book.

"Mr Carson, I've told you. You can always hold my hand."

Hoping I would find true love along the broken road

He wakes up to the wafting smell of bacon, of eggs and the whistle of a kettle downstairs. The room is already lit up when he opens his eyes, finds himself alone in that large bed; sunlight is pouring in, streaming through the windows as he shrugs on his robe, pads softly down the steps in socked feet.

"You've made breakfast." This is what he says to his wife when he finds her that first morning.

There is a tone of wonder there to be sure, because he is captivated by her, absolutely enchanted in discovering her in their little kitchen, in the sway of her dressing gown round her ankles and the delicate curve of her wrist as she turns over the rashers of meat.

She turns to where he stands at the doorway, smiles at him warmly, amusedly. "As you see."

They eat breakfast together with easy affinity, her to his right at their square table. She pours his tea, stirs in the milk, the sugar; he opens her toaster with careful fingers, puts two slices onto her plate.

They talk of this and that, of not much at all, he reads aloud news of the wretched labour government running again; she laughs at him, shakes her head, considers what to cook for their dinner.

"I thought I might try a veal and egg pie," she muses. "I know it's one of your favourites."

"It is, at that."

She is worrying her bottom lip. "I'm no Mrs Patmore of course, but –"

"No, indeed," he says and folds the paper into four, places it onto the table. Looks at her squarely in the eye. "You're Mrs Carson."

And he smiles at her with such fondness that she begins to blush.

But I got lost a time or two

They are getting ready to leave, Elsie is pinning her hat to her head in the mirror, is just about to call when he comes in, scarf in tow, extending his hand towards her.

"Before we go," he says, and she looks down to see what he is holding, then at him in surprise, protest.

"Five pounds, Mr Carson? Surely—"

He raises his free hand, stops her. "I thought we might dip in a little, treat ourselves."

Her lips press together at his grin. "This is hardly a honeymoon, going to Ripon to run some errands."

"No, perhaps not, but there's no harm in celebrating."

He proffers the money again and she takes it with a roll of her eyes, puts it in her handbag, allows him to help her into her coat.

He is the most attentive husband it would seem, careful, so careful that she always has some money on hand, and that she never feels sustained by him, dependent — had given her the key to their till the very week they were engaged, said to her that it only made sense that she keep it on her chatelaine.

Oh, certainly he expects dinner prompt on the table, and her to pour his tea, but then which man didn't? And anyway, she enjoys it, looking after him. She's been doing it for years now, after all.

But for all his skills, his talent in dressing a table, putting on a good show, of his graceful hands and quick mind, it has come as a great surprise to her and no mistake, the very last thing she expected that he would excel at, but there it is.

"What is it?" he asks.

Elsie flinches, realises she has been staring.

Smilingly then, laughing quietly, she shakes her head, tucks her hand at his elbow and pulls him out the door.

Wiped my brow and kept pushing through

The cufflink falls with an irritating tinkle onto the ground, and Charles swears under his breath, squints and fumbles in the dark in a vain attempt to spot it.

"Such language, Mr Carson."

He scrambles, straightens up immediately. "I do beg your pardon, Mrs Hughes."

He looks sheepishly from under his brows. "I suppose I'm not in the habit of dressing and undressing myself, anymore."

She waves him off with a smile. "Here, let me."

And his mouth is dry as his wife steps nearer to him, as she makes quick work of his other sleeve and stands on her toes before he can protest, stretches to unknot his tie, to pull loose the length of it.

And how pretty she is, he thinks, standing in front of him in her nightdress, with her hair worn in a braid, how soft and everything womanly, how gently she cares for him.

He is staring now, knows he is watching her eyes and her lips and the rises and fall of her chest, and he thinks maybe that he wants to kiss her and –

"There."

She has found the missing clasp from the ground, holds it up for him between her thumb and forefinger and Charles swallows heavily, takes it from her.

"Thank you, Mrs Hughes."

I couldn't see how every sign pointed straight to you

Then one evening after dinner, almost one week into retired life, she shows him her shopping list, says she's off to the market tomorrow, early, and that she'd try to be back before he wakes up.

Only Charles doesn't sleep that night at all, tosses and turns restlessly and watches her gentle breathing beside him, instead.

Certainly, there is no need for him to be upset, be as listless as he is. Certainly, it would be their first time apart since they married but that does not excuse his childishness at this moment, the petulant voice inside him saying he doesn't want her to go.

And when she does wake, he sits against the headboard with heavy eyelids, watches blearily as she bustles in and out of the room, dresses herself for the day.

"I'm just off."

She is standing at his bedside now, in her coat and hat and gloves, and she speaks quietly to him, touches a gentle hand to his shoulder to get his attention.

He mutters in frustration, pushes the covers off even after she insists that he go back to sleep, that she only wanted to remind him where she'd be.

Still, he follows her down the stairs, grousing sleepily, unintelligibly, and when she's collected her basket and is ready to say goodbye, he surprises them both by bending down, pressing a sleepy kiss to her cheek.

"Just come home soon," he grumbles.