A/N: Warning - sexual content
She is soaked. Her wrap is heavy and dripping, her hat is a mess. Her shoes make sopping noises as she makes her way from the hall to the scullery. It won't do go into her sitting room, getting her nice carpet all wet and muddy.
She doesn't often get caught in the rain, she has a keen eye for the clouds that drift over their part of Yorkshire, but today the weather turned as quickly as it could in the Highlands when she was a girl and she remembers it all as she takes big steps, hurries into the scullery.
First you take off your wet things while Mother prepares your bath and while you soak to get warm, she hangs your nightgown in front of the fire so it is all toasty when you pull it over your head. She brushes your hair, braids it and all the while she sings you songs in the language that is as much part of you as the rugged landscape.
There is no tub in the scullery, only the overlarge sink and it only serves the purpose of filling buckets for mopping, cleaning dishes after dinner. She fills a small bucket, thankful there is hot water in this part of the house. She leaves it standing in the sink, starts peeling away the layers of waterlogged garments, rids herself of her hat and boots. Carefully unpins the brooch she has pinned to her chest: a family piece, her mother left it to her, gave it to her when she left home, on her way to a better life.
As she unhooks her dress as steadily as she can - she is shivering, shaking, the rain was cold, the wind has blown against her so fiercely, her skin is red, the tips of her fingers hardly feel anything - she thinks how it had been better, her life compared to her mother's, but not by much. She has always had to do another woman's bidding, though she was lucky to have stumbled upon a kindly woman of dignity and strength.
You have to be strong if you want to make it in another land, away from your family. She knows all about that. You have to change your ways, your voice, the way you speak, have to lose the mannerisms that are part of you, your upbringing. But Her Ladyship has done all that, has learned to cope with the demands and pulls of the class she has married into, just as she has learned to mold herself to the demands of houses that aren't her own. They understand each other well.
She stands in her stockinged feet on the cold slabs and wonders how she will ever get warm again. She drops a cloth in the warm water, pulls it out, starts rubbing her arms first. The redness remains, but the skin tingles and she feels how her blood is starting to stream again. She peels off her stockings, checks behind her, there seems to be no-one there. She unhooks her corset, lifts her chemise over her head, pulls her knickers down, steps out of them.
The sink is large, large enough for her to sit on the side and have her calfs in warm water if she wants. She takes the bucket out, sets it beside her, puts the stopper in the drain and turns on the hot water as she climbs on the side and starts to pour water all over herself with the bucket. She looks at the doorway again, but it is still empty - she has come home late, she knew everyone would most likely have gone up - and she kneels in the sink. It's a tight fit, her toes are a bit scrunched up, but she doesn't mind. She doesn't much care she is splashing a bit over the sides as she drops bucket after bucket over her shoulders, back and chest, she will mop it up later. Right now all she is interested in is getting warm.
Tomorrow she will ask Anna to help her wash her hair, she cannot manage it alone, it is too long, too difficult to handle, but she pulls the pins from the coiffure, heavy as it is with the rain, it falls on her back in wide tangles and she slowly tips the bucket over her head, the warm water sliding down the auburn locks.
She doesn't hear him approach. He has been in his pantry, waiting for her, waiting for her to be safely indoors, close to him even though they are separated by corridors and walls. He doesn't like it if she stays out late. He knows she is allowed her day off and that she is allowed to take a train and spend the day elsewhere, but he doesn't like it. He worries about her. The world is a dangerous place for a woman alone. Dreadful things happen to women who walk home alone in the dark.
He has heard the backdoor open and close and he has heard her turn the lock, he has heard her take steps so out of her ordinary tread, heard the door of the scullery open and the water being turned on. She didn't come through the Servants' Hall to put away her hat - she doesn't leave it by the door, they are expensive, her only luxuries he believes, her hats, her coats - though she wasn't wearing one today -, the little embroidered handkerchiefs she has tucked into the sleeve of her dress.
Five minutes pass. Ten. A quarter of an hour and he worries again. The water is still on, the hot even, he hears the boiler storm. He gets up from his comfortable chair, puts his book on the side table. He doesn't bother to straighten his tie, do up his two top buttons, she has seen him before like this, when they share leftover wine and a last piece of Stilton. She tells him to get more comfortable, not to work so hard, not to worry so - she knows him so well, better than anyone has ever known him.
But he cannot help worrying now and he makes his way to scullery and stops moving as soon as he sees her.
She is every bit as beautiful as he has imagined, night after night, alone in his bed, his cheeks flushed, his hand tightly around himself, moving without uttering a sound. Her skin glistens with droplets of water and she has found a small bar of soap and she works up a lather, washes herself with the practical movements of a woman who does not bathe for luxury. He hair is so long, it falls as far as the curve of her bottom and he cannot help but being drawn to the swell of her breasts, the taut nipples as they react with the cool night air and the water.
He swallows, hard and he somehow stumbles, falls against the doorpost and she turns in surprise, covers herself with her arms.
Neither speaks as they try to find their bearings, try to find out what to do. Finally he moves, comes closer to her, bends and opens the cabinet, pulls out a large towel they keep there in case they need to dry off Isis. It's not a the prettiest, but it is clean and he holds it up for her, but she doesn't move.
"Mr Carson... I..." she says and she looks down.
He already knew she was completely without clothes. He has watched her as she poured water from the bucket over her breasts, her shoulder. He has seen how she rubbed her skin with the soap and washed it away again. He has seen how wet her hair is and how her eyes shine in the flickering light of the lonely bulb in the corner, there where the ironing board is, where the scullery maids iron the dish cloths, where the Lady's Maids take care of their Lady's finery. He will never look at this particular room the same way.
"What is it?" His voice sounds foreign to him. Soft, gentle.
"I appreciate your concern..."
She hears how her accent intensifies with each word and she shakes her head.
Funny how she isn't all that embarrassed.
Well, she is, but not about her nakedness. She is embarrassed because she needs a hand to help her up. She is stiff from sitting on her knees. She is not a young maid anymore, she doesn't clean the grates in the morning, doesn't mop the floors. She oversees all of that, will demonstrate if need be, but it has been a long, long time she has sat on her knees and she chuckles slightly.
"Give me your hand Mr Carson." And she reaches out, revealing herself to him again.
He takes her hand and she turns into his touch, moves so his arm supports her and she carefully lifts herself out of the sink, sits down on the edge.
"Oh!" She lets out a surprised little squeal. "It's cold..." She explains.
He just stares at her, wipes his hand on his trousers, looks and looks and she doesn't quite know what to do.
No-one has ever seen her like this and she is intensely glad it is him who came to check, not Thomas or one of the young footmen. She might have scarred them for life, but not him. He is just in awe, lets his gaze wander of her collarbones, her smooth upper arms and he picks up the towel he had dropped and puts it around her back, closes it in front of her, lifts her hair from under it.
"I am not quite sure how to do that..." He mumbles and she smiles, reaches out to his cheek, touches it briefly.
"We'll need another towel..." She says and he grabs one.
"And we need to pick up these clothes and quickly mop up this mess I have made."
He nods and hands her the towel, which she quickly wraps around her hair and she is on her knees again - it's painful, but necessary - and has the floor as good as dry within moments. He has picked up her clothes, her soaked through dress and undergarments and he stares at them in disbelief.
"Come, we'll take them to my sitting room. We'll hang them up to dry there."
She takes his free hand and leads him to her room. He has kept her fire burning so it's toasty and the soft lights casts shadows on the wall as she busies herself with her things for a moment. He stays behind her, not knowing what to do, it's impossible to turn away. He has seen her, all of her: the softer flesh of her belly, her strong legs, her feet - so much smaller than he had thought before. Now she is putting her corset out to dry, shakes her head, mutters something to herself, but he doesn't hear.
The towel is not quite covering her, he sees her bottom as she moves from side to side and he tries everything to stop himself from getting aroused: counts the silver in his head, thinks of his first school teacher, of the fish Mrs Patmore had Ivy clean today, but none of it works. His cock strains painfully against the fabric of his underwear.
When she turns to him he cannot help but make a strangled noise. The towel drops.
Her hair is still wrapped up, but she undoes it, dries the strands with a smile curling around her lips. She stands before him, unassuming, but he knows she has noticed. She takes a step closer to him. Another. Yet another. She is so close to him now, he can feel her warmth, if he moves, he'll touch her. The thought both delights and scares him. He lets it all be in her hands.
She gladly takes it.
Will they remember the brooch in the scullery? Will she explain to him why she is not bothered by him seeing her? Find out next time!
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