Another compulsively written, barely edited drabble brought on by that BTS photo. I felt the need (and some urging - thanks, reviewers!) to add another drabble told from the perspective of Mrs. Hughes.
She knew this was going to happen – again. That exasperating man. It was just a simple request she was making, one worthy of simple acknowledgment. But it was never, ever that simple with him. It was his vexatious shock with every single unanticipated ripple in the highly controlled currents of his life that would set her temperature and blood pressure rising.
Despite her dubious nickname, implying fire and brimstone at every turn, Elsie Hughes usually was the guise of patience personified – especially when it came to Charles Carson. It would usually sustain her through these moments that somehow churned an unsettling undercurrent around him, upsetting him for no reason other than them signifying change, an altering of the 'way that things were done.' Her patience would usually win out, carried by trust and love that had developed over the years.
More often, she would will her temperature to steady despite his desperate manner in conducting himself - as if he were clinging to the last vestiges of tradition, embodied by the crisp confines of his evening livery. She wouldn't be able to back down, to let things lie, every single time.
Even when he would jauntily feign adaptability, as he did when Lady Rose sprung his lordship's birthday surprise on him, she could barely contain herself. She desired to roll her eyes followed by a crooked, loving smile as she looked down to her folded hands. But her desired reaction would be insubordination, after all, despite them being effective equals. She would never betray him that explicitly in the public areas of downstairs. As for less public areas, that was another matter entirely. He was fair game.
Properly provoked, she would advance with a bandy of words, sometimes with a step that would invade his personal space. He would sputter to a halt, his eyes and eyebrows moving comically high and wide to low and narrow. His hands would twirl at his sides, or even behind his back. But in these moments, where he wasn't quite boiling with anger – yet – she too could be on the verge of raised spirits. Like now.
He could do that to her – elicit conflicting emotions, one after the other, at the drop of a hat. She had entered his pantry tranquil and focused on the task at hand, and he had wiped those thoughts away with the stirring of worry and rage – and something else. No one else had ever come close to that exasperating honor – not Joe Burns, hopeful footmen, nor the odd noble house guest with a roaming eye.
Yet the others had taken and given and she had accepted and provided – willingly, wantonly – in the dead of night, secreted away in darkened sheds and spare bedrooms.
But she did not know Charles Carson in that way. She couldn't admit to never considering it in previous years, nor could she squelch the dreams that started when she thought she had cancer. They haunted her then, but they dominated her nights since wading in the sea together. She was haunted because she wasn't certain she would ever know.
In these moments as the air charged into an atmosphere in which her baser instincts would billow up, threatening to surface with abandon, she couldn't help but wonder. She wondered if their knowledge of each other's thoughts and fears, of how to listen and serve others with such fixation, would serve each other to delicious satisfaction. She wondered.
Her left hand itched to wander, and she balled it into a fist to fight back the compulsion to move it to its normal resting place at her waist. How close her hand would be to his own waist then, the edge of his waistcoat so tempting in its proximity. No, she musn't go there. But she could wonder – and wish.
She wished his large hands, led by uncomprehendingly graceful fingers, would finger and wrap around her belt where the chatelaine - her symbol of power and spinsterhood - was affixed. She would stumble forward as he tugged on it. His hands would find all of her parts free from the confines of her corset. She would rest her hands momentarily just above where his trousers disappeared beneath his waistcoat. Her fingers would follow the edging of his coat to that singular, affixed button in the center of his chest. How she wished she could use her strong yet soft fingers to undo it, causing his reserve to become unbuttoned along with it.
Or, perhaps he would begin to scowl at her plans, puffing up with righteous indignation as she failed to hold back a roll of the eyes. Instead, her thoughts would be focused on summoning her own formidable self-restraint to prevent more earth-shattering actions. She would need every ounce of mental focus to prevent her hands and lips from reaching to silence his inevitable, forthcoming diatribe with a searing kiss. Perhaps she would stop wondering. Perhaps she would lose herself to the atmosphere and begin the art of knowing.
But first there was the pesky matter of the door. At last, she could put her balled fist to use.
Sorting out the new blender could wait.
Thanks to Chelsie Dagger and deeedeee for the idea of the kitchen blender bit - he would argue over something that ridiculous. Exasperating man, indeed.
Drop a line (or even a happy or sad face) - I'd love to know your thoughts! And, please - write and share your own drabbles about the picture. Without them, September will feel soooo far away!