A/N: Almost a month ago, I tweeted for drabble prompts to kill time whilst I was in the world's most boring airport. Daniishep suggested 'how about the Carsons getting snowed in, in their cottage'. So here we are. As you can probably tell, it is far longer than a drabble. They just wouldn't stop being cute. And apologies for how long it took to get to you Dani! I blame my muse going on strike for a couple of weeks. The title is also rubbish, but you can't have everything.
It is their first Christmas season as a retired couple. One where they don't have the responsibility of catering to other people's happiness and where the only presents Mrs Carson has to deal with are the ones she has chosen, and are far more personal than any she wrapped at the abbey. She has enjoyed the freedom her marriage has brought in terms of giving him gifts these last five years. The cufflinks two years ago had been particularly successful, but she thinks this year will certainly top all the others.
She eyes the square flat package tucked at the back of their little tree, and is assured the seams of the folds are still quite straight. He's not taken a peek, and she'd be able to tell, because his wrapping skills leave a lot to be desired. It's strange, considering his careful training. In a way though, she's glad, because there's no way she can guess what might be hidden in the midst of that strange ball of paper and string that has been placed at the very front of the tree. She knows it is for her though, it's got a blue bow on the top.
She's been sitting by the fire in their living room for quite some time, trying to knit a jumper for Fred, the Bates's eldest, but not really concentrating, and she'll have to unpick half of it, because of all the dropped stitches. The reason for her distraction is her husband, or rather the lack of him. He'd gone out to run a few errands and said he might call in to the abbey on his way back (which she had taken to mean he definitely would). That was hours ago, and whilst she is sure he'll have been waylaid by a question of protocol from Mr Barrow, she can't help the small flutter of concern in her breast.
The clouds have been looming all day and it's grown dark even earlier than usual. The wind is blowing a gale too, she can practically feel it whipping about the house. She's sure it'll start snowing soon, but the angle of the living room window makes it hard to tell, and she cannot be bothered to move to the kitchen. She's not really that worried, he'll telephone if he is properly delayed.
Thinking of him seems to summon him, for it is only ten minutes later that she hears him enter the house. He's brought the North wind with him it appears, for it whistles through the house and makes the fire flicker violently.
'Little help!' he shouts from the hallway before she can chastise him for letting the warmth out, and she rushes into the hallway to find great snow flurries whipping about the door frame and her husband wrestling with the door as he tries to force it against the fierce winds. With her help, they finally get it closed and she is able to take a good look at her husband, whose nose is bright red and his overcoat it absolutely caked in snow.
'Thank you love.' He slumps against the door and blows on his hands to warm them. 'I think we'll be snowed in by morning.'
She rolls her eyes at this dramatic statement, the Argyll farm girl refusing to think a little Yorkshire sleet would curtail her movements.
'Take a look for yourself if you don't believe me!'
She hears the challenge in his tone and dashes up the stairs to their bedroom which affords a good view of the lane, barely hearing his chuckle as he climbs more slowly behind her.
She is standing at the window, peering through the gathering gloom, as he reaches the bedroom doorway.
'I think I can just make out the top of the bench in Mrs Jennings' garden' she says quietly, astonished the weather should have turned so quickly.
'I'm fairly sure it'll have topped the hedges by morning' he replies, coming to stand behind her, covering her hand on the windowpane with his own. He bends towards her, intent on finding that particular spot behind her ear, but his touch startles her and she whirls around to face him.
'Charles! You're freezing! And you've not even taken off your coat. You'll catch your death.'
Childlike interest in the snow changes to wifely concern in an instant, and she pulls the coat off him swiftly, casting uncharacteristically to the floor in her attempt to make him more comfortable. She is hardly even aware of what she's doing and it amuses him no end.
'Els' he says, chuckling as she attempts to pull his jumper over his head. 'Els … Elsie!'
She pauses at last, her hands still gripping the bottom of the jumper and stands in front of him, her eyes shifting to the wall behind his head. There is a look in them that he can't quite place.
'I'm sorry' she says quietly. 'I don't quite know what came over me. I suddenly had a memory of you laid low with the Spanish flu and it seemed imperative to have you warm immediately.'
He knows full well the root of her concern. They have revealed all their hopes and fears to each other in the last five years. She confessed that her declaration of thirty years together in that memorable argument before their wedding had been a number plucked at random, but it is what she wishes for in the depths of her heart. They both know that they are already growing old and living to their nineties will be a miracle. Not everyone has the Dowager's constitution.
'It's alright love', he says, loosely putting his hands on her waist. 'I understand, but it's nothing a few hours sitting beside the fire with my beautiful wife won't fix.' He pauses, delighting in the slight blush and small smile which light up her face. Even now, that word is still special to her. 'I'd better go and check there's enough wood inside just in case though.'
He pulls her away from the window and together they walk downstairs to the kitchen door. The snow has started to bank up under the windows, but the step is protected by the wood pile roof so it's easy enough to move about. The telephone rings as he gets the first stack in and he can hear snippets of Elsie's side of the conversation as he moves back and forth.
'Yes, he's back …. Really? Gracious, he was lucky …. Well, I hate to waste …. Don't you dare Beryl Patmore! …. Alright, well I'll phone again tomorrow. Goodbye.'
He is in the kitchen, cutting great chunks of Christmas cake, two glasses of rich red wine already poured as she finishes the call and stands in the doorway, content to watch him.
'Beryl says the snow is deeper at the abbey and you left just in time. Looks like we won't be able to walk up tomorrow for lunch, although she did suggest sending Mr Branson for us.'
'She would as well.' He gives a short laugh as he places the food and drink on a tray and carries it out to the living room. The fire is roaring with replenished logs and the room is comfortably warm.
'I don't mind it being the two of us. Our first retired Christmas should be special.' He sets the tray down and sits on the sofa, pulling her towards him.
'I thought you wanted to go to the abbey!' she exclaims, surprise at his lack of concern evident.
'I suppose I did, but only because everyone was so eager for us not to be left out. Now I get to be alone with you.'
She smiles, but doesn't remind him that they are always alone now. It is cheering to know he values it even as it has become the pattern. They settle back into the depths of the sofa, Elsie drawing her feet under her whilst Charles winds his arm about her waist. Periodically one of them reaches for their wine or makes a comment about the weather or the abbey, but mostly they are content to watch the flames. The silence wraps about them, even as the snow folds about the house.
After a while, Elsie's attention is drawn to the Christmas tree and an idea comes to her. She stretches and unfolds her legs, wincing as the blood returns to her feet, pins and needles tingling in her toes. Quick as a flash she finds her feet in Charles's lap as he massages them, working the pain away.
'Oh!' she laughs, 'Thank you love. Oooh – ow!' A sharp pain runs the length of one leg and she wiggles her toes to try and dispel the pain quicker.
'Well, that'll teach me to sit still for so long! I did move … ow! … with a purpose though. I thought I might give you your present.'
'But it's not Christmas day yet' he muses.
'It hardly matters' she replies, laughing. 'We'll be snowed in by tomorrow so we may as well spread things out a little. You'll have other things to unwrap at the proper time, don't worry. Besides, now I think of it, this is more appropriate for tonight.'
He is intrigued and follows her movements with his eyes as she crosses to the twinkling tree and, carefully crouching, reaches around to the back. Having found the item she is looking for, she stands and turns to face him. He is surprised to find a look of apprehension in her eyes and he notes how quiet her 'I hope you like it' is as she passes over the package.
She resumes her seat, but is too nervous to do more than perch on the edge of the sofa. Her hands run over her skirt and absentmindedly reach to twitch her chatelaine, before she remembers she has given that up weeks ago. She gives an internal sigh and forces herself to focus on the man in front of her who sits turning the parcel over in his hands.
'Hmmm – is it a new silver tray? No … a tie perhaps? A history of Napoleon? No, it's a bit thin for that.'
'For heavens sake Charles!' The sharpness of her words is belied by the humour of her tone. 'Just open it!'
He looks at her fondly, glad his teasing has put her back at her ease, and undoes the ribbon before starting to peel back the paper. It is a picture, of that he is certain as he reveals the frame, but it is not until the paper is completely remove that he understands what he is looking at. It is the Abbey, captured in mid autumn, from the top of the hill west of the property. Shards of sunlight warm the brick, making the windows glint.
She watches him closely, can pinpoint the moment he understands and is reassured by the soft smile that plays about his lips before his eyes reconnect with hers to show a deeper thanks. He swallows a couple of times and looks back down at the painting, a forefinger running over the glass as he traces the turrets of the building.
'I love it' he says, completely unnecessarily, because it is totally evident to her. 'And I love you'. Placing a reverential kiss to her cheek he hears the exhalation of her breath, which tells more of relief than any erotic stirrings and he leans back frowning. 'Did you think I wouldn't like it?'
She gives a wry smile and a little self deprecating huff of laughter as she fiddles with the cuff of his jacket.
'I hope I know you well enough to know what will please you Charles.'
Her eyes flick up to his and they share a low laugh as both their minds hear the double meaning of her seemingly innocuous statement.
He leans forward to kiss her lips, but keeps it chaste. He wants to hear how she brought this beautiful, and fitting, present about. If he gets to feel the cavern of her mouth or hear her delightful moan, that will be it in terms of conversation. He is suddenly mindful of the snow building up outside and the warmth of the fire, and all sorts of delightful plans of what their snow bound selves could get up to fill his head.
She know nothing of this, and leans her shoulder into the back of the sofa, now at ease enough to make herself comfortable again. She takes his hand and runs her fingers over the top of it as she speaks.
'I've been feeling a little guilty you see. You agreed to retirement, but I did stop and wonder now and then whether I'd made my own feelings too plain, that you didn't argue because you saw it as a lost cause. I know how much the abbey means to you and when that gentleman came to paint the children it gave me an idea. It turns out he does landscapes, so it all fell into place very nicely.'
He is beaming now and raises her hands towards him, covering them in tiny kisses, whilst he strokes her wedding band with his thumb.
'I confess I thought to haunt the abbey when I died, but that was before I realised.'
He takes a breath, always slightly unsure of how best to explain his feelings. He has been gifted with a certain way with words when it comes his work, but the language of romance still sometimes sticks between his mind and his throat. Sometimes he feels far to English to express all he holds in his heart. At times he isn't even sure if there is a word for a particular emotion, even as the sense of it whirls about his brain or sings through his blood. She is sitting there, patiently waiting to hear whatever it is he wants to tell her, and the squeeze of his hand tells him she will not think any less of him if he gets a touch sentimental.
'I realised some time ago that the keeper of my heart was made of far softer materials than the abbey and would reciprocate my feelings if I dared voice them. I dedicated myself to you when we married Elsie, and whilst I freely admit I was sad to leave the abbey, I see my life when I look in your eyes. You are my home and my family, and if I'm going to haunt anything after death, it'll be your soul. If that doesn't sound too macabre?'
She shakes her head at that last question, her lips pressed together as she takes in what he has said. Even after five years of marriage, where they have both grown so comfortable with sharing their feelings and their lives, she still occasionally gets overcome by the power of his emotions, and the utter lack of flattery he uses. He tells her she is beautiful or compliments her in a million other small ways because he believes it to be true, can see no other alternative.
The blue eyes he has just so eloquently described as his life are bright with the light of the fire and unshed tears as she leans forward and whispers 'thank you my love' before closing the miniscule gap between them and kissing him fervently, her hands carding through his hair as she pulls his face closer. He tastes of the fruitcake he had taken a bite of as she got his presents and she quite unconsciously nibbles at his lower lip as the essence of currants tempts her taste buds. The action elicits a deep groan from her husband and she repeats the action deliberately.
His arms wrap about her, and he pulls her closer, so she is almost in his lap so that her chest is pressed right up against his. Their lips meld against each other for a few more moments before he breaks away and blazes a hot, wet, trail up her cheek to the corner of her eye. Suddenly the only sound she can hear is his breath roaring in her ear and then he speaks, lowly and with a certain hitch to the cadence that assures her he is quite as affected by passion as she is.
'I think you should have your main present early too. Indeed all this talk of eyes might suggest I'd planned it this way.'
He draws back, but makes no move to stand up. There is a quality to their passion this evening which, whilst not new, is certainly rare. He thinks it has something to do with the new freedom of their retired state. It is similar to the intensity of their honeymoon. They are accountable to no one. He is pulled back to her, and sees she expects to feel his lips against hers, but he surprises her by placing them at the base of her throat. She can feel him smile against her skin as she gasps with surprise and desire.
'I love the noises you make that only I get to hear. Have I ever told you?'
She is too delightfully shocked by his admission to answer properly, indeed the fact he has spoken these words right into her throat reminds her of other intimacies and elicits another breathy sigh. He laughs at his own words, the daring in them that he would never even have admitted to himself in the past. Marriage has changed him. Love, to be more exact, has changed him.
He shifts to the very edge of the sofa, unwilling to fully leave her even for a moment, and reaches out a long arm to pluck the badly wrapped package she had rightly guessed to be hers from the floor. Having achieved his goal, he is immediately back in his place, facing her, and without any preamble, he holds out the present to her.
She laughs aloud at his wrapping skills, tutting at the waste of string, which is so tightly knotted it won't undo, meaning she has to manoeuvre it off the ball of brown paper whole. Like a flower coming into full bloom, the paper instantly unfurls to reveal a box. She snaps it open.
Her mouth falls open in a round O, but no sound comes from her lips, and her eyes lift to his for a moment before falling back to look at the treasure in her hands.
It is a ring. The simple silver band loops up twice to twist into an almost Gaelic pattern, whilst the blue stone (she supposes it to be a Sapphire) stands proudly, held by three small clasps so that its edges are free from constraint. She has never possessed something so beautiful or fine, the few trinkets she owns have been chosen for their practical ornamentation.
She remains silent, but he is not worried by this, nor does he misconstrue it as he might have done in the past. He knows she does not trust her voice not to crack and so he gives her time to compose herself and begins his explanation so she can do just that.
'I never gave you an engagement ring, and whilst I know it wasn't an issue, that you said it would just get in the way, retirement seemed to nullify that reasoning. I was in York a month or so ago and my attention was drawn by this. It reminded me of you.'
'How?' She is still looking down at the box, has not dared to life the ring from it. She is content to look in this moment.
'For one, it is the exact colour of your eyes. That deep and clear blue that I see everyday and sometimes in my dreams. That drew me into the shop, but what decided me absolutely was what I saw when the assistant showed it to me.'
He reaches out and pulls the ring from its box, twisting it this way and that so that the stone glints wonderfully in the firelight.
'You see – it is the exact copy of your eyes. The way they glint and flare with whatever emotion you feel. You may be adept at keeping a straight face, Elsie, but anyone who loves you knows they only have to look into your eyes to see your true feelings. You don't need jewels to accentuate your beauty, but this ring seemed such an extension of you that I couldn't leave it for someone else.'
It is not often that Elsie Carson is rendered speechless, but the beauty of her husband's imagery strikes her quite dumb and she looks between the jewel and his own eyes, trying to fathom precisely what she has done in her life to deserve this man who, whilst mightily set in his ways, loves her more than she ever imagined possible.
Without breaking eye contact, she feels him raise her right hand, the touch of his fingers sending sparks of electricity whizzing through her. She is the first to look down at their entwined fingers and smiles at the way her hand is almost lost in his. She watches as he places the ring on the middle finger of her right hand and then flexes her wrist so they can both see the sparkle of it. She brings up her hand to rest by her eyes and, laughing even as she flirts, she asks 'is it a good match Mr Carson?'
'Hardly' he murmurs, running a hand up the column of her neck, 'jewellers should take lessons from your eyes.'
She tuts at the flattery (although she's evidently pleased by it) and returns her hand to rest in her lap. 'I suppose it was fitting to have me open this tonight. After all, it is six years to the day that you proposed to me.'
They share a smile and he tilts his head to rest against hers as he asks 'And how have you liked being stuck with me?'
'Very much. I wouldn't have it any other way.'
He has felt her breath tickle his face as she speaks her heart, and the nearness of her causes his skin to break into goose bumps. He shifts slightly so he can kiss her ear, his hands busy with the pins holding up her hair. He has become adept at this tricky procedure, can almost do it blindfold, as he proves now.
The fire crackles and snaps, providing a soundtrack to their own desires. Elsie can feel her hair tumbling down around her, even as she feels his lips on her neck and his breath in her ear. It is moments like this that she sometimes has trouble believing the last few years are real. They have spent so much time focussing on the needs and wants of other people that when they do get time to themselves it is precious, sacred almost, and now that retirement is a real thing, they are relearning how to be about each other.
He has adapted much quicker than she has, but then he is still needed at the abbey, for Mr Barrow regularly has questions for the man who used to be his adversary but is now his biggest supporter. No mention is ever made that Thomas should know the answers to some queries, and indeed would had he not spent so much time skulking in corners whispering with Miss O'Brien. In the years since his attempted suicide, Thomas has done much to mend relationships and prove himself a suitable butler. Elsie left her role in the capable hands of Miss Baxter (Mrs Molesley as she will become in the New Year) and there has been no need for her to provide assistance. She busies herself with indulging her literary passions and the care of her own little home. She even finds she enjoys cooking now that she has the time to focus on it properly. She had wondered if having him constantly near in this small space would send her mad, but to her surprise she is never happier than when they are quietly sat in their chairs, reading their books and sharing a happy smile when their upwards glances coincide as they turn a page. Which is often.
Well … perhaps there is another example of when she is happier, she thinks as he kisses her neck again and whispers 'I love you' in her ear. He pulled off his jumper some time ago as the fire warmed him, and her hands grab the back of his shirt as he continues pressing kisses down her neck, across the base of her throat and up the other side. There is something urgent and languid about their embrace. They are both caught in the passion but mindful of the fact they have all the time in the world to remap the bodies they have come to know so well. He is speaking now, slowly, between kisses, so she has to really concentrate to understand what he is saying.
'If I were twenty years younger Elsie, I would make love to you in front of this fire.'
She would laugh at his desire to claw back the yeas if she couldn't suddenly see the two of them engaged in the very activity, bodies gleaming with sweat from the heat of their exertions and the fire. The image sense a jolt of excitement spiralling to her core and causes her hand to clench at the back of his neck. Oh yes, if her limbs were as willing as the rest of her body, she would be on the floor quite readily.
Feeling her reaction, he runs a hand up her leg, underneath her skirt and squeezes her thigh, just above her knee, smiling into her neck as he hears her sigh. They have not drawn the curtains, and beyond the window pane, the snow continues to fall, although they have not spared the outside world a glance in quite some time. The wind gusts the icy flurries against the cottage and there is the occasional faint tap as it hits the glass, punctuating the crackle of the fire and their own heavy breathing.
They are surrounded by warmth, desire and the snow and Elsie is newly overwhelmed by the fact that all she needs, all she will ever need for the rest of her life, is right here in this room, and she seeks out her husband's lips, pulling him as close as possible in order to convey her deep love and desire. The long rumbling moan he gives as she nips his lips in her urgency tells her she has succeeded.
Feeling his hands clench her thigh and waist, she can tell he wants her even nearer, but like him knows her body is not limber enough to fully succumb to passion in their present position. Reluctantly breaking their embrace, she stands and pulls him up with her. She does not say a word, just stretched to press a lingering kiss to his cheek before moving out towards the stairs. She pauses in the doorway for a moment, looking back at him and inclining her head slightly, and then whisks out of the room. He lingers only long enough to make sure the fire guard is in place and then follows his temptress of a wife to their bedroom.
Outside, the snow continues to blow about, marooning the cottage in a sea of white, and it will take three days to melt to a passable level. Inside the cottage, Charles and Elsie are similarly stranded in a pile of white cotton sheets and blankets. They are sleeping now, completely naked, having reconfirmed their love through the passion they have for each other. Charles lies flat on his back, his broad chest rising and falling in the steady rhythm of a contented slumber. His wife's right arm is draped over his middle and Elsie herself is on her side, as close to her beloved man as she can possibly be. Through a chink in the curtains, the eerie light that bounces from the snow filters through, and on occasion sparks off the ring that Charles requested she continue to wear even as he removed the rest of her clothes.
When daylight breaks and the couple finally awaken, the same spark is evident in their eyes – proof, as if it were needed – of all that their hearts hold for one another. It is a Christmas to remember, as are all the Christmases they share and when, finally, they are no longer there to see the snow fall or hear the fire crackle, the painting and the ring serves to bring their faces to the minds of those that remember them.
A/N: Well. What started out as a drabble turned into the longest one shot I've ever written. I hope you like it, because I'm so sick of it now, I've been wailing to anyone who will listen that it's rubbish. Pictures of the gift inspirations are on my tumblr.
A review would appease my muse, and she might let me write other things now!