For sensitivebore. Of course. In return for one of the same name. Finally.
According to stage directions in the script books, JF intended for Carson to smoke a pipe. I've always enjoyed the smell of good pipe smoke, even though allergies and asthma have for the most part relegated it to the world of blissful memory.
She'd seen it when she went to retrieve a list for him from his pantry. It was sitting in an alcove of his desk. Old and well-cared for, it had certainly been used in the past, but not recently. It looked like it had just been cleaned.
"I didn't know you smoked, Mr. Carson."
"Hmm?"
It is late, his pantry is cozy and dim, and the warmth of the sherry is closing in on her.
"Your pipe. I saw it when I was at your desk earlier. I've never seen you smoke."
"Ah." He reaches behind to his desk and pulls it out. Considers it. "I don't, not really. Well, not much. Not any more. This was a gift from his Lordship years ago."
It really was a lovely old pipe.
"But you used to? More, I mean."
He makes a non-committal grunt. "When I was younger. Never a lot, but I enjoyed it occasionally. Got out of the habit after I became Butler."
She looks at him quizzically. Takes another sip of sherry. The taste of it clings to her lips and tongue.
"I found it to be more of a social activity," he explains. "An evening pipe is more enjoyable when I have company and conversation. Having a drink with friends, in the pub or after a show…" In the dressing room, trying to ignore Grigg and whatever tart he'd conned into accompanying him backstage that night… "You of all people know there's not much opportunity for those in our position to socialize here."
"Ah." She does understand. "But surely in London, during the Season? You've mentioned you meet up with other butlers on your days off…"
"Well, yes, a bit." He looks over the dark pipe and chuckles quietly. "Though most of the time I forget to take the blasted thing with me when I go out. Out of the habit."
Her eyebrows raise and he recognizes the sign of incoming teasing. "You don't care to step outside for a quick nip with Thomas and Miss O'Brien, then? I can't imagine why not."
He makes a face at that and snorts derisively. "God, those horrible-smelling things they smoke. Should I ever find myself so desperate that I would resort to those, I'll know I've fallen far beyond redemption."
That gets a laugh from her, then, and he smiles, sets the pipe down on the table between them. They both sip their sherry in comfortable silence for a moment. She seems to be considering something. She breaks the silence suddenly.
"Well, you have it with you now. And you have company, drink and conversation. Have you got tobacco?"
He blinks in surprise. "Really, Mrs. Hughes. I couldn't smoke in the presence of…"
"… a Lady?" She tilts her head in admonishment. "Well, it's a good thing I'm no Lady, then, any more than you are a Gentleman."
He colours a bit and looks down at the pipe. "Actually, I did pick up a spot of a new sweet blend that I thought looked interesting last…" He looks up at her guiltily. "A new tobacconist recently opened in Ripon."
"Ah, yes, I noticed that last month." She looks away demurely. "I wandered in for a moment when I was last in town."
His eyebrows shoot up so high she wonders if they'll take flight. "You-? Mrs. Hughes!"
"Oh, goodness. I don't smoke, Mr. Carson. I just…" her cheeks flush pink and she reflexively smooths a non-existent wrinkle from her skirt. "I like the smell of good tobacco." She takes a small sip of sherry, feels the warmth burn more than usual. "Okay, I admit it. I love the smell. Both the leaf and the smoke." She reddens a little more. "I told the shopkeeper I was considering a gift for my brother."
"I didn't know you had a brother."
"I don't," she replies, eyes merry. "Well, I have a brother-in-law. But he doesn't smoke, as far as I know." She takes another small sip. Is it warmer than usual in his pantry tonight? "The shopkeeper encouraged me to smell a number of different blends." She sighs wistfully. "It was heavenly."
"You never cease to surprise, Mrs. Hughes. And is there someone to whom you owe this… predilection, hmm? Anyone we know?"
She scoffs and rolls her eyes at him over the rim of her glass. "Ridiculous man." She studies the amber liquid for a moment and her face softens. "My grandparents. The smell reminds me of them. My mother's parents. He smoked."
"Ah." He relaxes. Sits back further in his chair. "Good memories?"
"They are, yes. Some of the best. I adored them. My sister and I spent some summers there as children, before…" she stops. "…well, when we were young."
"In that case, entirely understandable."
"My grandmother once told me she wished she could smoke a pipe, but since it wasn't something proper women did, she and my grandfather had devised a… solution."
"I'm afraid I don't follow."
"I couldn't possibly describe it. It would have to be demonstrated."
"Well, now I must know."
"I'm afraid you'd find it rather… forward of me, Mr. Carson."
"I'm sure you could never be too forward, Mrs. Hughes."
"It's very silly." A pause. He is watching her curiously, one eyebrow cocked. Goodness, it was warm. "Oh go on then. Pack yourself a pipe."
Charles Carson prepares his pipe like he does everything else; efficiently, expertly, and with almost artistic conservation of movement. He spreads out the tobacco, trickles some in, tamps it lightly, tests the draw, repeats until the pipe is full. She watches him, trying not to stare too much at his hands — those large, well-manicured, graceful butler's hands — and feels as though she is intruding on a private ritual. It was very nearly akin to watching a man shave.
She can't look away.
He chars it, tamps again, then lights it, taking several quick draws to get it going. He closes his eyes briefly, sits back and draws in, letting the smoke rest in his mouth, not inhaling, sipping from the pipe, tasting it much like he does the wine. A small cloud drifts up around him.
"Mmmm," he exhales. "He was right, that is rather nice."
He opens his eyes. She is still watching.
"Now then. Your grandparents'… solution?"
She bites her lower lip, takes another sip to bolster her courage. Puts down her nearly-empty glass and rises to her feet. He immediately makes to stand as well, but she motions him to stay seated, walking over and standing close beside him. Very close, in fact, but careful not to touch him. He looks up at her curiously.
"Take a draw, and face me when you exhale."
He blinks, and his eyes widen. "Mrs. Hughes." He swallows. Blinks again. "I couldn't possibly exhale smoke into yo-"
"Come now, Mr. Carson." She is speaking quietly now, rolling over his name with a stronger burr than usual. She quirks an amused look at him. "You wanted to know." The words come out, thankfully, steadier than she feels. Thank God for sherry.
"I assumed…" he trails off. Can't really say what he'd assumed. Yes, he'd been able to see where this conversation was heading, but he hadn't thought they would get to here.
He meets her eyes. Well. Maybe he had hoped a little.
"…Yes?"
"I-" he stammers. Lets his gaze travel briefly from her eyes to her mouth and back again. "Alright then."
He draws in the sweet smoke slowly, eyes never leaving hers. Tilts his head ever so slightly away from her — not much, but enough to give her room, if she wants it.
She shakes her head, touches his jaw lightly and coaxes him back to face her. Looks at him coyly. "Go on."
He exhales slowly, somewhat shakily, still trying not to let it flow directly into her face. She dips her head, though, and deliberately inhales from the tendrils of smoke drifting from his lips. Closes her eyes, tastes it. Lets it roll off her tongue. He can feel his heart pounding as he watches her... it was so... sensual — God help me, this woman —
She opens her eyes and steps back from him just a bit. "Goodness. You're right, that is a lovely blend."
He takes an unsteady breath and manages to recover his voice. "I see."
"Yes."
"Interesting… solution." His voice is a soft rumble.
"Yes."
"Very…" He searches for the word, but finds himself uncomfortable saying it.
"…intimate," she finishes for him.
He clears his throat at that and nods. "Creative woman, your grandmother."
"That she was." She returns to her seat and retrieves her sherry, taking a grateful sip. It mixed well with the taste and smell of his pipe. She wonders if she should be embarrassed at her own boldness, but finds she can't muster it. After all, he had insisted.
And thank God for sherry.
He tries to relax again. Sits back in his chair, takes another draw, taps his fingers on the arm. It's a nervous tick of his, he knows. "So, your grandmother told you about this method, did she?"
She sits back and smiles fondly. "She and my grandfather were a rare breed, I think. Married for love and were still besotted with one another more than 50 years later. They were the most openly affectionate couple I'd ever known." She laughs. "Even my mother was sometimes embarrassed by them. Especially when they held hands in church."
He holds up the decanter of sherry to her and raises a questioning eyebrow. She nods, and he splits the last of it between them. He continues to puff in silence, then, and she sips her sherry, both of them apparently lost in thought. After a few minutes, he puts down the pipe. It isn't finished but it has gone out. The quiet click of the wood on the table seems to break into the silence that has descended.
"I told you you would find me too forward," she says gently. "I've made you uncomfortable, Mr. Carson. I am sorry."
He seems to come to himself at that, finally. Appears to have reached some kind of conclusion. He waves her concern away with a gesture. "Oh, no, it's not that. And I did insist, after all." He leans forward in his chair, hands steepled in front of him. "I was just thinking that it seems rather… inefficient, that's all."
"Oh?"
"Mmmmm," he nods, seriously, gaze fixed on his hands, the pipe on the table. More silence.
"How so?"
He looks up at her, distractedly. "Hmm?"
"In what way is it… inefficient?"
"Oh." He regards her for a moment, then takes a deep breath and sighs, leaning back in his chair, still looking ever so serious. "Well. I believe you would find me extremely forward if I showed you, Mrs. Hughes." The corner of his mouth twitches upward slightly. A less observant woman would miss it. He knows she won't.
Was he… teasing her? Good Lord, he was.
"Oh, I'm certain you could never be too forward, Mr. Carson."
"Hmm. Well, then."
He stands suddenly, picks up the pipe, strikes a match to relight it, comes around the small table between them and holds out his free hand, offering to help her to her feet as carefully and as properly as he might have done for her Ladyship. She can feel the blush creeping up from her neck.
"I-"
"If you'll indulge me, Mrs. Hughes."
She allows him to help her to her feet, and he guides her to stand facing him, no closer than if they were about to waltz. He takes a draw from the pipe.
Gently, so very gently, he tips her head up to face him with a hand under her chin.
He leans down to her, and his thumb brushes her lower lip, parting them ever so slightly. When he presses his lips to hers it is with the lightest, barest of fluttering touches and then he breathes out and her eyes drift closed because her head is spinning, soaring as she breathes him in.
When she doesn't pull away he becomes bolder — his tongue flicks against her lips to part them further, and the rest of the sweet smoke passes between them. He feels her clutching at his jacket, holding tightly, and his heart soars.
They part, and he is still holding her face tipped up to his when her head falls back more and the smoke drifts from her lips. He thinks, wildly, for a split second, that she looks like a witch, a sorceress, a wild woman frozen in time with steam or the morning fog rising off of her, out of her, and he is awed, unable to move or break the spell. He shakes his head to clear it, to steady himself.
When her eyes open, she is still gripping his jacket.
"Oh. My. Yes, I see what you mean. That is much more efficient. Perhaps smoking is more of a social activity than I realized."
He smiles down at her. "And I think I would have liked to have met your grandparents."
She reaches up and rests a hand against his face, letting her thumb trace his lips.
"More, please, Mr. Carson."
"As you wish, Mrs. Hughes. As you wish."