There was naught to envy the young. Love? They'd get with child, sacked, poor, or dead. She lived in comfort, the elite of servants.
She'd not risk that for the touch of a man.
No matter which man.
No matter how good he smelled, how solid his frame, how strong he was, how gentle.
She loved him as a friend, as he loved her. It was enough. But at night, when Mrs Hughes was put to bed and Elsie remained, when she could hear him through the wall, she'd reach out a hand and imagine he was doing the same.