A/N This is an extremely belated birthday gift for the lovely chelsietothenorthern, who has been incredibly supportive of me and everyone else in the fandom. It's three weeks late, and she probably thought I'd forgotten or given up, but I hope she'll forgive me. Despite the delay, this story comes with many thanks and much love.

Chelsietothenorthern requested a happy, married, fluffy Chelsie, perhaps on their anniversary. I tried really, really hard, but after several different attempts, I still could not come up with anything along those lines. However, what I did come up with is happy, fluffy Chelsie, so I hope it will suit.

I'm sure we all have the Chelsie proposal scene from canon practically burned into our minds and hearts by now, but this is a slightly different take on it. This picks up just before the canon proposal, and you can assume that everything from canon is exactly the same up until the point at which our hero and heroine sequester themselves downstairs with the punch. Enjoy!

December 24, 1924

The housekeeper and butler left the sights and sounds and activity of the party above them as they descended to their own domain. Once they'd sequestered themselves in the Mr. Carson's pantry, Mrs. Hughes held out one of the two cups of punch she'd carried down with her.

Mr. Carson declined her offer. "I don't think I should."

"Go on!" she urged. "It's Christmas! Let's toast your new house."

"Maybe … I should mention one thing," he said.

"Oh? What is it?" she wanted to know. "Judging by your expression, it must be quite serious."

"It is. Very serious, indeed."

"I'm listening."

He gestured towards his two chairs, and they sat. She set the cups of punch on his table and gave him her full attention.

Drawing a slow, deep breath, he began as if he were delivering grave news. "I don't know if I've ever told you that my middle name is Ernest."

Mrs. Hughes wrinkled her brow. "No, you haven't. Well, not until now, anyhow." She wondered why he felt it was important to impart this piece of information right now, and she hoped he would enlighten her. But when he didn't elaborate immediately, she felt compelled to add, "It's a fine name, Mr. Carson. It suits you."

"Sometimes, Mrs. Hughes, but not always."

"I'm not sure I follow."

"I mean … the name may not suit me so well. You see, when I suggested that we buy a house together, I wasn't being completely earnest with you, I'm afraid."

Mrs. Hughes still couldn't make sense of it. She scrunched her nose and narrowed her eyes. "If you didn't want to buy a house with me, then why did you ask?"

"I did want to buy a house with you. Only … it wasn't simply a business venture. It was never really about the house," Mr. Carson confessed.

"I don't understand," she responded.

"Weeks ago, when you told me about your sister, you said, 'I can see there's no escape, and I must tell the truth.' You said, 'I don't lie, but there are things I don't say.' Well, now it's my turn to tell the truth. There are things I haven't said yet that I must tell you now. I haven't been as forthcoming with you as I should have been, and for that, I'm terribly sorry." He slid forward in his chair, moving closer to her. "The truth is that I asked you to invest in a property with me because … because you make me happy. I enjoy being with you, and I want to be with you always."

Her jaw went slack, and she rasped out a weak, "Mr. Carson, I … "

"Don't say anything yet. Please." He stood, went to his desk, retrieved a folder, handed it to her, and sat back down again. "Open it," he implored.

She did as he requested, and her eyes widened when she examined the document she found inside. "It's the deed to your house, but it's registered in both of our names!"

"Yes," he confirmed. "I do want to be your business partner, it's true. But as I said, I don't want this to be only a business venture. When I asked you to … well, to throw your lot in with me … I meant it as a more of a personal venture. I was too frightened to ask what I really wanted, but I hoped the house might lead to … something more. I never wanted your money, Mrs. Hughes. I wanted you." His voice cracked, and he barely whispered the last words.

Her hands shook as she held the folder with the deed; her eyes filled with tears; and she found she couldn't speak.

He cleared his throat and continued. "And so now, I shall be painfully, desperately, helplessly earnest. The house is my 'earnest'* to you. It's my pledge – a token to show that I am sincere in my intentions, that I am ready to enter wholeheartedly into the bargain. No more pretenses, no more flimsy excuses, no more hiding behind artificial constructions. From this day forward, I will be honest and open – utterly transparent. When I want to hold your hand, I'll not make up some nonsense about being afraid to fall over or needing to feel steady. I'll tell you frankly, 'I'd like to hold your hand.'" He held out both of his hands, and she put the folder down to slip her hands into his. "When my heart is overwhelmed and aching and ready to burst, I'll not say, 'You've done a wonderful job with the garden party,' or 'The ball went off flawlessly. Well done.' I'll say, 'Mrs. Hughes, I love you with all of my heart.'" He looked her in the eyes quite seriously before he went on. "And when I want to marry you, I'll not ask you to buy a house. I'll ask … " And he slid from his chair and dropped gracefully to one knee, still holding her hands and looking up at her with adoration shining in his eyes. " … Elsie, my love, will you do me the honor of becoming my wife?"

Though she was sobbing, she smiled, nodded her head, and said, "Yes. I love you, Charles Ernest. My earnest Charles. Of course I'll marry you."

He smiled, too, and he rose, drawing her out of her seat to stand with him. She slipped her hands free of his, threw her arms about his neck, pressed herself tightly to him, and buried her face in his chest. He held her closely, resting his chin on her head.

"What's your middle name?" he whispered as they stood embracing.

"May," she told him. "Elsie May."

"Elsie May," he repeated. "It's lovely. You're lovely." He drew away just enough to look her in the eyes, his face only a breath away from hers. "There's something I've wanted to do for a very long time. Only I've never been able to think of a suitable pretext. It would have given me away beyond a doubt. But now that we understand each other, I think I can come right to the point, which is … Elsie May, may I kiss you?"

"Oh, yes," she breathed. "Please do."

And he did so – quite earnestly.

A/N *The title of this one-shot has only a very little to do with Oscar Wilde's play by the same name. The general theme – that false pretexts only make things more difficult and it's probably better to be sincere from the start – is the same; but the plot, setting, and characters are not at all similar. And the play on words between the name "Ernest" and the adjective "earnest" is borrowed from Mr. Wilde, too, I suppose.

And in the story, when Mr. Carson says, "The house is my 'earnest' to you," he's using the word 'earnest' as a noun. It's a less common meaning for the word, but it refers to either money or something else of value that's given as a gesture of a person's serious intent to enter into a deal or contract – a sort of "good faith offering." (You may have heard of "earnest money" in the sense of a business deal, but just "earnest" can be used more broadly in other contexts to refer to something similar.)

Also, Happy Thanksgiving to all of my American friends. I wish you a joyous day with your loved ones and bountiful good food!