I sense this may be going somewhere, though I know not whither. There is another chapter of The Merry Wives in the works, but it's a bit sloppy and jumpy and doesn't feel funny at all, so I did some more of this instead.
Good things come to those who wait. Yes, she acknowledged- remembering the words her mother had repeated to her over and over again through her earliest years- and sometimes they just turn up out of the blue without having to waste the time. But the chances of the Season being completely cancelled, as seen as they were going through the ridiculous charade of having one in the first place, she had to admit were almost non-existent. Waiting it was, then. That kiss had been simultaneously one of the best and worst ideas they'd ever had.
She hadn't forgotten that he was the silly, silly obstinate man living somewhere in the last century. He was still that; only now it felt as if he was something else as well, more even than the dear dear friend she'd known for all these years. She had suddenly found herself ardently attracted to him. She wished that he hadn't gone away the very day after he'd lain there with his head nestled in her lap; she had never felt more at ease with physical contact as she had then. It was a bad idea to sit in the same position now, without him there. They needed to re-establish things between themselves, the lines had been blurred dramatically and there hadn't been time to clarify them again before he'd gone.
And then- wonder of wonders!- he came back a day early. She hoped the raw delight didn't show too obviously when Anna peered around her sitting room door and told her "Mr Carson's back", but she suspected it had. For a second, before she remembered quite where she was, she felt the happiness flash clearly through her face. She left her desk immediately she was sure that her legs would support her properly, and followed Anna out and down the corridor.
She found him by the back door, an island in a sea of cases- only one of which was his own. He had obviously brought some of the family's things back with him to get a head-start on the move.
"How on earth did you manage to get from the station with all of those?" she wanted to know, deciding it was best- with other people present- if she went for the most impersonal topic to hand. It was better at any rate than what she'd have said if she had the choice; something along the lines of: "My sitting room. Now."
It appeared that he was in something of a bad mood.
"Very badly," he replied grumpily, "It took be an age to find anyone who would let me telephone for the motor. The old standards have gone completely to pot."
Well, she thought, there would be a reason for that. But she did not say anything, it was not worth getting cross over herself; especially when he was already upset.
"Come here," she told him, taking the handle of one of the cases, "Let me help you."
"No, leave it," he told her, "One of the footmen will see to it."
He had apparently completely forgotten that they only had one single footman now. She wondered how she could remind him of that fact without implying that their own standards were also declining.
"William's got enough to do," she told him, "I'll manage."
"Put it down," he told her, now sounding irritable, "You'll put your back out of joint; they're to heavy for-..."
For what, she wanted to say, For a woman? He had stopped very abruptly, clearly sensing danger, confirming her suspicion. Wordlessly, she put down the handle of the suitcase and headed towards the kitchen, suddenly in a thoroughly bad mood herself. It was far from the glowing reunion she had allowed herself to picture. Perhaps she had been foolish to do so.
…...
She wandered around for the next few days, wondering if she'd managed somehow to get the wrong end of the stick. She considered once or twice that she might have dreamt the entire encounter up. But no, she could remember it far too clearly for it to have been a dream. Here they were for the first time in over two months in the same place, acting as if it hadn't. They met up in the evenings as usual but that was it. They sat in the same room and then departed. She waited, waited almost tremulously for him to say something. But nothing came, and finally, she found herself taking the matter into her own hands.
"Charles," she began uneasily, sensing that they had quite exhausted the matters of household business that might want attending to, "While you were away did you think at all about what happened the night before you went? What happened between us?" she clarified, as if it might be unclear what she was talking about.
He was back in the armchair as opposed to beside her. It was harder that way, for her at least.
"I did think," he replied at last, "I thought rather a lot, to honest with you."
"I see. And did you reach any conclusions?"
He did not speak. But the look on his face spoke volumes. She bit her lip, hoping she wasn't getting things the wrong way round. He seemed to be having great difficulty finding words, or which order to put them in. Typical, really. After the uneasiness of the past few days, even this was a wonderful change.
"Why didn't you say?" she asked him, rather incredulously.
"I was waiting for you," he looked moderately uncomfortable, "I realise I made something of a hash of things when I got back on Wednesday. I was waiting to know that I was forgiven."
"I was waiting for you," she told him, feeling foolish.
He smiled a little.
"You said you would be. I haven't forgotten, you know."
"Charles. Get over here."
He got up, a smile- perhaps of relief- spreading across his features and sat down beside her with an air of gratitude. She leant in towards him, inviting him to put an arm around her shoulders. He did so and held her tightly for a while. That made her feel much better.
"Elsie?"
"Yes?"
"Might I... might I kiss you again?"
She raised her head from his chest.
"What on earth would make you think I might refuse you?"
He smiled softly down at her.
"I only wanted to make sure you hadn't changed your mind."
"Silly man." Sitting up, she kissed him on the mouth. Good things come to those who wait, Elsie. She could feel herself smiling against his mouth.
It was nice to nestle her head under his chin, resting on his neck and chest as she sat almost in his lap this time. His arms wrapped snugly around her.
"I'm sorry I've been so foul during the past few days," he told her, "I'm just... trying to find my feet, I suppose. And having a bit of difficulty. It's a poor excuse."
One of her hands left his chest and smoothed across his cleanly shaven face, silencing him.
"You don't need an excuse for me, Charles. I understand."
"Do you?" he asked, not testily but as if the notion would be a great relief to him.
"Well, I understand most of the time," she clarified, "And when I don't, I find I can forgive you. Especially when we're like this."
She was quiet for a moment.
"Charles, do you think you'd like to lie down? Like... like before? I've rather missed it," she added, blushing furiously at the confession.
He complied; lying on his back, his eyes open; smiling at her sleepily. Her hand played with his hair, smoothing over is skin. Caressing him, even, though she hardly dared admit it to herself. She wondered how something she'd done twice in her entire life- sitting with this wonderful, obstinate man on her legs- could feel so much like coming home.
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