Just a very short update today, but I thought it was a lovely little scene and it does offer Charles' perspective for the first time.
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He studied her covertly from behind his newspaper. To any outward observer she'd appear the epitome of calmness as she sat there on her settee in their living room embroidering a cushion. He wasn't just anyone, though. From the way she tugged the thread through the fabric with just a little too much force to the way her eyebrows were drawn together just a little too closely, he was able to tell that she was displeased about something. She suddenly began muttering angrily under her breath and he had to hide his amused smile by putting the newspaper further up in front of his face. He wondered whether she was aware of her delightful habit of muttering in the face of frustration.
He was worried about her. She didn't seem to adapt to retirement half as well as he had expected. She was at times both listless and fidgety. Their little cottage was by far the cleanest place in all of Britain. She thoroughly cleaned it at least once a week (most of the time twice or more). Their windows were so spotless that the constantly feared birds would crash into them because they didn't see them. He'd have absolutely no qualms about letting even young Mr. George eat from their kitchen floor because it was cleaner than most tables he knew.
His heart clenched almost painfully when he considered the implications behind her displeasure with retirement. Their marriage was far from the comfortable arrangement he had expected. They suddenly had difficulties stringing up a conversation. While they were still working together, they had had no problems to talk for hours. Often he had been disappointed to have to put a stop to it because otherwise they would have gotten no sleep. Now, though, they could hardly find a common topic, she sometimes seemed downright uncomfortable with being close to him – even if it was simply sitting together. God knew there wasn't any aspect of physical closeness in their marriage.
He had once prided himself in knowing her well; being able to read her every mood but now he was often left wondering what she was thinking, feeling.
He tried to give her some freedom, was pleasantly surprised by how much joy he derived from being active in the community. He knew that he was hardly home but he had the strong suspicion that she preferred it that way. She certainly hadn't complained about his frequent absence from their cottage.
"Ouch!" He looked up when he heard her exclamation of pain and saw her sucking on her right index finger.
"What happened?" he asked, putting the newspaper onto the side table next to his chair.
"Nothing, I just pricked my finger. I'm sorry for disturbing you."
"Nonsense, here let me see." He leant forward.
"It really is nothing, I just…," she stopped talking when he gently took her right hand and cradled it between his two larger hands, closely inspecting her finger. A tiny drop of blood formed on the injured digit. He quickly pulled out his handkerchief and wrapped it tenderly around the tiny wound. When he looked up again, he found her studying him intently. He didn't break eye-contact as he brought her hand up to his lips and pressed a light kiss to it.
"Better?" he rumbled softly. She nodded mutely, not trusting her brain to form a coherent sentence in this situation. He squeezed her hand gently before letting it go again.
"I'll have a quick wash before bed. I need to leave early tomorrow morning and I don't want to wake you when I boil the water." Again she could only nod.
When he had left the living room, she cradled her injured hand close, closing her eyes as she remembered the feeling of his lips on her finger.
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