For the superb chelsie fan to celebrate her and her birthday. With much love - for you, and for our friendship. xxx
Late January, post-proposal and pre-wedding
The butler drummed his fingertips on his desk. It wasn't like Mrs. Hughes to be late, yet there he sat, waiting. His gaze roamed the familiar pantry, finally landing on the two wine glasses and the full decanter, centered perfectly on the little table by the fire. He'd chosen a selection from his personal stores tonight, thinking it might be a longer visit than usual depending on the direction in which things turned.
Just then, her footsteps sounded in the corridor. He counted them, knowing precisely how many it took for her to get to his door; he smiled when she knocked, having counted two fewer steps than was typical and deducing that her tardiness was likely due to a household issue rather than any desire to avoid him. It wasn't a rational concern to have had, not with their engagement … but there it was all the same.
He rose from his seat just as he pushed down that uneasy thought, and the bright smile she greeted him with warmed him from the inside out.
Mrs. Hughes closed the door behind herself; after a moment, she turned to it again and twisted the lock. When she faced Mr. Carson once again his eyebrows were raised quite high, but she shushed him before he could protest.
"I don't need anyone hearing my darkest secrets, Mr. Carson, and I daresay neither do you."
"Your 'darkest secrets?' " he repeated slowly. "I'm thinking perhaps the questions I have prepared are insufficient now."
But Mrs. Hughes simply moved closer to him and rested her hand on his chest before taking a deep, steadying breath, standing on her tiptoes, and placing just a hint of a kiss to his cheek. She wasn't very well practiced in her aim yet, and he was quite tall, after all, and they both got a bit flustered when the edge of her mouth touched his.
She backed away quickly and turned to where the wine rested. "You've moved our chairs," she observed, and he nodded.
"I did. I thought it appropriate for them to be a bit closer to one another … Elsie."
Her name came out in a whisper. But it did come out of his mouth, and she gave him a brilliant smile. "Charles," she whispered back, and then she cocked her head a bit, examining him. "Or … Charlie?"
The eyebrows flew upward again. "You can't be serious."
He watched as she drew her lip underneath her front teeth, and before he knew it his hand was to her chin, his thumb loosening the lip. "I'm not cross about it. I just … Well, I haven't been 'Charlie' for decades. It doesn't really match what you see before you, does it?"
"Well," Elsie mused, somewhat calmed by his touch (a fact which, quite frankly, astounded her), "I think it does."
He left her side to pour the wine, and Elsie took her seat by the fire.
"It matches the Charles Carson that – that I know," she said, biting back the declaration of love for the time being. Not yet, she told herself.
Charles took his seat. "Charlie it is, then," he said, his voice low. "But please, not in front of the others. Not in front of any others."
"It'll be 'Mr. Carson' for everyone else," she reassured him, accepting the glass of wine. "Or Charles." For now, she added silently.
He raised his glass in her direction and she clinked them together. "To an informative night," Charles said, and Elsie smiled at him.
"Indeed. I'm rather surprised you agreed to do this, quite frankly."
"To answer your questions?" His brow furrowed.
"To answer any question that I may ask with complete and total honesty," she clarified. "Not that dishonesty is a trait I typically associate with you, of course."
"I should hope not," he agreed. "And I think it's a splendid idea. I didn't at first, when you proposed it, because I couldn't imagine there would be three things I'd need to know about you after having known you for as long as I have. But when I began to think of what to ask, I found I had a dozen or more."
"Well, perhaps another night we can continue." She sipped her wine, and he watched her intently. "Oh, this is good," she murmured, and he nodded his head in thanks. "I'm sure we can find another night to escape like this. We've got five months to fill between now and the wedding."
"And thirty years afterwards," he replied with a knowing smirk. "Let's see how this round goes. It's three a piece?" he then asked, and she nodded.
"Yes. I think you should start, and we'll go back and forth until we're done."
He paused, thinking. "No judgement on the calibre of questions? And no refusal to answer, provided that the answer is known?"
"Correct."
He took a sip of wine, sifting through the questions in his mind before settling on an easy opener.
"Alright, then. What's your favorite smell – and why, unless that is considered a second question, in which case I withdraw it."
"It's fine," Elsie laughed. "Hmm … If I were one of the upstairs ladies, or someone a bit more experienced with this entire courtship experience, I suppose I'd say your aftershave."
"But that's not the truth, is it? You aren't allowed to lie."
"No, I'm not – and no, sadly, it isn't, although that's probably in the top three."
He watched her face as she turned within for a moment, watched as she relived some memory or other, tilted her head just so, and smiled softly. In those few seconds, he wondered if she had ever been so beautiful.
"Books."
"Books?" He considered that. "Truly?"
"For the last twenty-six years, yes." She watched him as the penny finally dropped.
"Ahh. That's when you began borrowing them from his Lordship's library, isn't it?"*
"The very year," she concurred. "You know, that gesture of yours – asking permission from his Lordship, bringing me up the first time and showing me the ledger and the organization of the entire room – meant a great deal to me at the time. It still does. It spoke of a trust we'd formed between us, and I wondered if that might someday become a friendship."
"You had conservative goals," Charles observed, and she laughed.
"Apparently!" She paused, sipping again at the drink. "You know, we had few books at home when I was a child. Each one was cherished, Da's acquisitions when there was a bit of spare money, and I devoured them. But the books here had a different smell. Crisp. Clean, never musty or worn. A bit smoky from the fires, mixed with the paper and the inks. Not a trace of my old home within. It was something entirely new."
"I think I understand that." He smiled sweetly at her. "It's a lovely answer to a simple question."
"Well …" Her voice trailed off as she remembered. "It doesn't feel that long ago, does it?"
"No."
Elsie looked into his eyes. "There you have it. Books. And now I wish I'd thought of that question, but perhaps another time."
Charles looked at her, expectantly. "Go on, then. Fire away!"
"What's one dream you always had as a boy?" she asked softly.
"Dream? As in, a sleeping one?"
"If you wish," Elsie said. "Or a dream for the future. I want to know what resided in the mind of Charles Carson before he became the most important butler in the land."
"Now you're teasing me."
He sat back and thought. "I have it." He grinned at her. "Although it would be more appropriate to say it resided in the mind of Charlie, though, and not Charles."
The logs shifted in the fire, drawing Elsie's attention from his face. When she glanced back, he seemed almost melancholy, and she reached over and gently touched the back of his hand where it lay resting on the arm of his chair; his thumb moved up to clasp her fingers, and he continued.
"I dreamt of horses. Both when I slept and when I was awake."
"It makes you sad to remember," she observed, but he shook his head.
"No, not the horses specifically. The horses were my joy. We grew up next to a stable, and on my way home from the schoolhouse I would stop and sit on the rail of the fence and just watch them for an hour or more. I gave them names in my head, and when I'd sleep I'd dream of fantastic things and they were always a part of it."
He squeezed her hand. "I didn't have many friends growing up, not really. They filled that void inside of me, I think – for a while, anyhow. I went from dreaming of them in my sleep to dreaming of working as a stable hand or even a trainer one day. But that wasn't in the cards for me, and when I had gone as far in schooling as I could, I went into service."
Elsie nodded, pondering the great man before her and trying to imagine him as the small boy enraptured by such graceful animals. It wasn't as difficult as she'd thought it might be.
"Your turn," she nudged. "Number two."
Charles reached for the wine and refilled both their glasses. "Tell me about your sister. I'd like to meet her one day, of course."
"Would you?" Elsie was shocked.
"Of course." Charles looked at her fondly. "I've no siblings of my own, no idea of what it's like to have that kind of family. What is she like? I know you didn't want to share anything about her out of … discomfort, perhaps, or something else I can't even imagine."
"Guilt," Elsie supplied instantly. "And perhaps shame, although I'm not ashamed of Becky at all, but rather my having kept her from you for so long."
She sat back in her chair and sighed heavily. "Becky is … complicated, yet simple. I know that seems nonsensical, but it's the truth. I've known her from the day she was born, yet it's difficult for me to put her into words."
Charles got out of his seat and added a log to the fire, giving her a bit of extra time.
"She barely talks anymore," Elsie began, and her own voice was hardly a murmur. "She can read a little and write her name, but in the past few years she's lost so much of her shine. She was a bright spark as a child, always, despite her infirmities. Late to speak, of course, because her brain isn't fully developed – or at least that's how it was explained to us then." She smiled wistfully. "I taught her how to make her tea – milk in, then pour the tea, then one spoonful of sugar and three stirs of her spoon." She looked up at Charles again, and her eyes were misty. "It took me a month to accomplish that, but I don't think I've ever been prouder than I was the day she did it for the first time."
"She's five years younger than you, correct?"
"Nearly six, yes. But nowadays she's quite limited. The staff at the home have to help her to dress. On the days when she's speaking more, she dictates her letters to me so that they can write down her words. I get letters once a month, sometimes twice at a holiday. But if she's not up to it, her carer writes me directly with an update. And Becky can still read mine if I remember to write clearly and carefully, with larger letters than I normally do, and simpler words that I'd typically use."
Charles took her hand again, grasping it tightly before pulling it to his lips and placing a kiss to her knuckles. "I cannot wait to meet her. I hope she doesn't find me frightening."
"I don't think she will. She isn't afraid of anything, my Becky. It's the gift God did see fit to give her."
"Good."
They sat quietly for a moment, enjoying the fire and the wine.
"I didn't expect that one," Elsie said into the near-silence. "I should have, I suppose."
"Probably." He wished he could stall for a moment and let her gather her thoughts. And just then he remembered something and jumped up from his seat, startling her.
Elsie watched as Charles rushed to his desk and pulled open the bottom drawer. He withdrew a tin and brought it back to the table.
"You stole some biscuits for us?" she asked, incredulous.
"I asked for biscuits," he corrected. "Which Mrs. Patmore was only too happy to provide."
"I'm sure she was," Elsie muttered.
He cracked open the tin, revealing the chocolate shortbread inside – Elsie's favourite – and she happily selected one.
"Something to nibble whilst you're answering my next question," she told him. "So here you are: What's one thing you do during the London Season that no one else knows about? I'm sure there's something."
"Oh, there are probably half a dozen," he replies instantly, much to Elsie's surprise.
"Ohhh, do tell, Mr. Carson. Charles." She laughs almost nervously. "I wonder when saying that will come out naturally."
"Well, I'll tell you one," he said, "because that's what you asked. But just so you know, there are more."
She regarded him patiently until he selected the one to share that night.
"When the family weren't entertaining, I had a half-day every Monday to do with what I pleased."
Elsie nodded; she knew this, but she didn't want to rush him. Truth be told, she felt it a rather intimate way to share the evening, and she didn't want it to end anytime soon.
"So I'd leave the house and stroll down to the river. I'd look for the young boy selling steak and kidney pies – always the same lad, in the beginning, always on the same corner – and I'd purchase one. He'd fill me in on the local gossip, which was often informative because it tended to include tidbits about what he called 'important people.' They were, of course, often guests at Crawley House at some point during the Season. I learned quite a few useful things from that boy, and then later from his sister when he became old enough for a better job."
"And no one ever knew this about you? It seems such an innocent thing to not share."
"After the pie," he continued, ignoring her comment, "I'd continue to Hyde Park and have a rest on a bench."
"Looking in the direction of the castle," Elsie supposed. "Pondering the great Royal family, or cringing at the speakers on the corner."
"Ahh. You might think that, but you'd be wrong. No, I'd spend the time enjoying the relative quiet – the blowing of the breeze through the flowers, the occasional fox meandering about or a few birds fluttering around the bench." His expression grew tender. "But then a young couple would walk by hand-in-hand, and I'd wish I were back here."
"Oh, Charles," she whispered. "Even back then?"
He looked deep into her brilliant blue eyes. "Oh, yes, Elsie. Even then. Now you know why I never told another soul about my meanderings. It seemed that, eventually, they always brought me back to you."
Elsie's heart thudded in her chest. She raised an eyebrow at him. "Well, well, Charlie. That was rather romantic, even from you. No stranger to romance, indeed."
"Just answering truthfully – following the rules, you know."
"Just so."
Charles refilled her glass, then his, draining the decanter as she selected another small biscuit from the tin. He noted that her color was bright and her eyes a bit glassy.
Could it be the wine? Or perhaps I shouldn't have put that extra log on the fire. It occurred to him that once they're married, he'll likely be able to distinguish between all the reasons her color might be heightened-
"I feel like I should go out of order and ask my last question now, as it pertains to the topic at hand." Elsie looked intently at him. "Are you alright?"
Charles shook his head gently as he tried to force his thoughts back to the task at hand. "I'm fine. Yes, as you wish. Go right ahead."
Her eyes narrowed, suspicious of his evident unease a moment ago, but she forged ahead. "When did you decide that we should be married?"
Clearly he hadn't been expecting that question. She smiled softly as she watched a variety of emotions and reactions cross his face – starting with surprise, then happiness, then a look of utter confusion.
"Well," he said, sitting back in the chair and resting his hands on his knees, "truth be told, I'm not certain how to answer that."
"Surely you remember, Charles. It couldn't have been that long ago."
"Oh, I remember. It's just that I came to that decision on three separate occasions, and I'm not sure which to tell you about."
Her shock was nearly palpable. "Well, then. Perhaps I should be privy to all three." She raised an eyebrow in challenge. "Because unless you've misspoken, there are at least two times prior to last Christmastime when you thought to propose but did not. So I'd very much like to know why we aren't already wed."
Her voice remained calm, nary a reflection evident of the near maelstrom brewing inside of her. He saw it coming, and raised a hand in defense.
"I suppose I do owe you a hearty explanation," he acquiesced. "And please rest assured that it was never that I didn't want us to eventually be married. It just didn't seem the right path at the time. It just didn't seem possible."
Elsie pursed her lips, waiting. "Go on."
Sigh.
"The first time was during the war," he said.
"The war," she repeated. "The one that began a decade ago?"
"That's the one," he agreed sheepishly. "I'm sure you remember that I fell a bit ill during the time – all we had to do, and no men left to do the heavy work. It was the day I collapsed during dinner service." He paused. "I wasn't sure I'd ever been so embarrassed in all my life."
Elsie sat back and listened, wondering where he was headed.
"As I was falling, one of the young ladies – I have no idea which – reached out for me, a hand to my back and another to my arm."
He raised his gaze to meet Elsie's. "And in that instant, all I wanted was for it to be you helping me to sit, guiding me from the room."
"I ran up as soon as they called for me," she reminded him, and he nodded.
"I know you did, and you have no idea how grateful I was. But you were the only one I wanted – the only one I could trust to see me in a state of complete collapse and not judge me harshly for it at all. You've always been the one to care for me, haven't you?" He swallowed down the emotion that was building in him. "You've been my dearest friend for so long that I can't remember when it began, but it was more than mere friendship that I felt for you in that instant. That's the first time I wondered if such a thing as marriage might be possible in the future."
"But then you discarded it," she said, nodding in understanding. "Because at that point, this house had never considered the possibility of married members of staff."
"Exactly."
Elsie took a deep, cleansing breath. "You dear man, Charles Carson. I wish you'd said."
"Bah. You'd have told me to get the cotton out from between my ears and to concentrate on getting well."
Her sad smile wrenched his heart. "I wouldn't have, though," she whispered. "Not at all."
"Well." He took another swallow of the wine as Elsie looked into the roaring fire, watching the flames dance.
"And the second time?"
"Soon after - when you were the one with the illness."
Her eyes closed briefly; she'd known that would be the response. "I had hoped you were going to say it was when that dreadful Haxby business was happening."
"No. Although that's when I suspected you might feel the same as I did."
"It ended up being nothing," she mumbled. "The lump, I mean."
"I couldn't have done anything then, of course, either," he was saying. "Could never have approached you with any sort of offer, because I wasn't supposed to know. It was a reversal of the first time – except that I wanted more than anything to be your caretaker, but it was impossible. But if we were married, I could have."
Her mind drifted momentarily to that precious memory, the one she'd kept tucked in her heart since the day she'd received the wonderful news that the lump her breast had carried wasn't cancer. She opened her mouth to tell him, to confess to having been lurking in the corridor and spying on him – which is exactly what it was, and she's never tried to convince herself otherwise. But it was a story for another time, and this was his turn to be the one telling stories.
"I'd have married you then, too," she said aloud.
Charles held out his hand, and she placed hers once again inside of it.
"It wasn't as though I stopped thinking about it between then and last year, but every time the thought fluttered through my mind, it just seemed an impossibility. The third time, as I'm certain you've deduced, was the day we were in Mrs. Patmore's new cottage. I decided I wasn't going to pass up the opportunity again, and the rest is history."
"It took quite a while to get here, didn't it?" she teased gently.
"Well, I don't like to rush into things without examining all the sides, do I?" he mused, his face the picture of seriousness.
"No, you don't."
"I prefer to say I took many, many months to examine the situation until the moment presented itself."
She placed her empty glass on the tray. "I believe you have one more question that I owe an answer to, and then I think the two of us need to get a bit of sleep before the morning arrives."
Charles glanced at the clock: A quarter after midnight.
"Don't say it," Elsie warned him, and he laughed.
"I won't. Alright, then – the last question for the 'evening.' " He cleared his throat, suddenly a bit shy to ask it.
"Charles?" There was nothing but kindness and encouragement in her voice, the same sweet things he so often heard in it, and they pushed him forward.
"What are you most looking forward to about moving into our cottage?"
Her jaw dropped. "Oh." She couldn't help the speeding up of her heartbeat, nor the slight tremble of her fingers, and most certainly not the deep flush that crept up from her chest and spread up her cheeks. "My goodness."
Charles felt his breath catch. "You are looking forward to it in some way, I hope?"
"I'm looking forward to it in many ways, Charles. So don't you worry about that."
Elsie stood up, replaced the stopper in the wine decanter, and rearranged the glasses on the tray. Charles watched her silently until she turned to face him and extended her hand. Rising, he grasped it - and without thinking, he pulled her into an embrace, smiling when she turned to rest her head on his chest.
"This," she said quietly. "This is what I'm looking forward to. Being able to touch you, to feel your arms around me, and to hear your heart beat whenever I want to. All of the things that are virtually forbidden here, save tonight I suppose."
He dropped a kiss to her head. "Like that?" he murmured, and he felt her smile against him.
"Precisely." She rested her hands on his waist and leaned far enough back that she could look into his eyes. They were tired, as were hers, but they were filled with love.
As were hers.
"I love you, Charlie," she whispered. "But when we're here, it sometimes feels that it isn't enough. I want to be your wife – to share a quiet meal with you, or a sofa. For us to be able to care for one another without shame or worry, as you've said, and to be able to have a private conversation without worrying someone will walk in and interrupt us!" She smiled. "What I'm most looking forward to about moving into our own cottage is living in it. With you, and only you, and not a houseful of maids and footmen to worry about."
"And cooks," he added.
"And cooks!" she laughed. "Exactly. Although I owe that woman a great debt, and make no mistake."
"She's a good friend," he agreed sagely. "Although she's taken quite a lot of credit for this."
He leaned down, slowly, in case she wished to remove herself from their current situation; Elsie, however, stood on her tiptoes to meet him halfway.
"May I?" he whispered.
"Please."
Their lips touched, and they held each other steady for a long, tender moment.
"We should go up," she murmured against his mouth. They broke apart, each instantly feeling the loss of the other in a most tangible, painful way.
"We should."
He took up the tray and left her to lock the pantry door behind them, then waited soundlessly beside her as she rinsed the glasses and decanter and left them to dry on the kitchen counter.
"I'll grab them in the morning," she said, taking his hand and leading him to the stairway. "It's late."
He squeezed her fingers as they ascended the servants' stairs together, nearly side-by-side, each looking forward to the day when it would be the steps to their bedroom in the cottage that they're climbing instead.
Charles pulled her to a stop four steps before the top, leaned over, and brushed the curve of her ear with his lips.
"I love you, too, Elsie," he whispered. "I think I always have."
The smile she gave him – brilliantly happy and full of wonder – stayed in his heart forever.
I hope you enjoyed it, and I'd love a review if you're so inclined. xxx
*We really have no idea, do we?
This story comes from the following prompt, thanks to tumblr's love-me-a-good-prompt blog: Imagine if Person A and Person B could ask each other 3 questions each and they both had to answer them 100% honestly. What questions would they ask each other? How would they answer each other's questions? How would they react to each other's answers?