A/N: Thank you all for the kind reviews for Chapter 1! I'm glad you weren't scared away by a bit of angst. :) Special shout-out to the guest reviewers to whom I cannot personally send a message.

xxx,

CSotA

Elsie wakes with a start, wondering what on earth had her up before the sunrise. She thinks she heard something downstairs, and she manages to slip out of bed without disturbing Charles. She grabs her robe and stuffs her arms through the sleeves as she goes off in search of the noise, and it occurs to her halfway down that this may not be the safest course of action.

But when she arrives at the foot of the steps, all she notices is a great deal of darkness, broken up only by the flickering of the dying embers in the kitchen hearth.

Oh! There it is again!

She knows the sound now, of course, recognizes it in an instant, and she rushes for the telephone on the desk in their parlour before it can ring again and wake her husband. She curses silently, having stubbed her toe on the foot of the settee as she was rushing by.

"Carson residence?" Her voice comes out in a whisper, and she cannot make out what the person on the other end of the line is saying. His speech is slurred but fast, and she gasps audibly when it dawns on her that the voice she's hearing belongs to Charlie Grigg.

"Why are you calling us?" she asks when Grigg takes a breath. "Mr. Grigg? Whatever is the matter? I can't make out what you're saying." But just as he begins to answer her, the line goes dead.

"Mr. Grigg?" she asks again, despite her knowledge that he's clearly no longer listening at the other end of the line.

As Elsie replaces the earpiece on the phone, she notices that her hands are trembling. She'd been terrified upon answering, assuming that the call in the middle of the night would be from Becky's home, a nurse or carer on the other end of the line relaying some horrible news that her dear sister's cold had taken a bad turn. Still puzzled, and now wondering what on earth Grigg has gotten involved in that would necessitate a phone call at this ungodly hour - and to Charles, of all people, given that she doubts he was trying to reach her - Elsie glances at the clock on the mantle.

Four fifteen.

"Of course," she sighs, giving up any hopes of getting back to sleep now.

The embers in the hearth are barely burning, and Elsie grabs the bellows and crouches down to fan some air onto them in the hopes of perking them up before adding a handful of dry kindling to the pile. Her knees are weak from the adrenaline rush of the phone call, though, and she needs to reach for the mantle to help herself stand again. The fire begins to grow, and suddenly a piece of the kindling pops and shifts, rolling off of the rest and bouncing just near the edge of the rug.

"Oh!" As she reaches for the water they keep close by, she stumbles, falling forward and putting her hands out to steady herself. But she doesn't quite reach the wall; her head hits the corner of the mantle, and the world goes dim ...

"Elsie? Els, wake up!"

Elsie's eyes open quickly, and she's confused to see Charles's face, shrouded in darkness and shadow, looming over her.

"Ohhh, I think I hit my head," she says, her voice raspy as she reaches up to rub her temple.

"No, love. You're fine. Still safe in bed."

She squints; she can't be hearing this right. "In bed?"

Now Charles is concerned. "You're in bed, Elsie," he explains lovingly. "You were having a bad dream. I heard you scream, and then you reached out and hit me."

"Did I?" She sits up slowly, assisted by a rather worried husband. "But Mr. Grigg called, and then I fell …"

Elsie looks around her and verifies that she is, in fact, still in bed. Still in their bedroom, upstairs, far away from the fire downstairs ...

"Oh, heavens," she says, "You're right. I must have been dreaming. Except it was so real …"

"Grigg? Why on earth would he be telephoning us?"

"I've no idea. I ... I thought I woke up because I heard something, and I went downstairs and heard the telephone. I answered it, because I thought it was Becky's home- " She reaches out and clutches Charlie's arm, aghast. "Oh, I thought the worst, Charlie. A phone call in the middle of the night like that …"

"Except it wasn't a phone call, Elsie," he replies, his voice carefully measured and calm. "It was just a bad dream. I'm just not sure how Grigg figures in."

"Neither am I." She shakes her head, trying to clear it. "Sometimes dreams make no sense, you know? I couldn't understand what he was saying, but I was certain it was him. Anyhow, the line went dead, and so I went into the kitchen to build up the fire and make some tea. But a piece of kindling popped out of the pile. When I leaned over to reach the water, I stumbled. I tried to reach out for the wall to avoid falling but I hit my head instead - or so I thought," she says sheepishly.

"But instead of reaching for the wall, you reached for me. And rather forcefully, I might add," he chuckles.

Elsie had forgotten about that. "Oh, I'm so sorry, Charles. Did I hurt you?"

But he smiles at her, his eyebrows raised in amusement. "Hardly. I woke up is all. No harm done."

"Hm."

Charles fluffs up his pillows and leans against the headboard, raising his arm once he's settled so that his wife can tuck herself up against him, which she happily does.

"I'm sorry you were disturbed by such a strange dream," he murmurs, leaning over to drop a kiss to her forehead.

"I'm sorry you were," she replies, squeezing him around the middle.

They're quiet for several moments, but then Elsie adds, "I'm worried, Charlie. I can't believe we haven't heard from Becky's home. What if she's really ill?"

"Well, can we telephone them?" he asks.

"I suppose so," she answers. "I have all of their information in the book inside the desk drawer."

"Then that's what we'll do. After breakfast. Do you think you can sleep some more, love?"

"I doubt it."

"Well, it's nearly six," Charles tells her after reaching to check the watch on his nightstand. "Why don't we run you a hot bath, hm? Soak away the rest of the cobwebs from that blasted dream. I can manage a couple of eggs, and then we'll eat and give the home a call afterwards."

Elsie moves, shifting and sitting up a bit, and she reaches out and caresses his stubble-laced cheek in the palm of her hand.

"You're wonderful. Did you know that?"

"Hardly," he replies, turning his face and kissing her palm.

She stretches up and places several more kisses to his lips, and then one to the tip of his nose.

"You are," she insists before breaking away and getting out of the bed. "And I love you for it."

Half an hour later, Elsie is emerging from the now-tepid bath when she hears the crash from the kitchen. She bites her lip, forcing herself not to call down with a concerned question or offer of help. Charles is managing the tremors as well as he can, and the best help she's been able to give him has been to back away and let him sort things for himself, stepping in to assist only when he requests it.

But it doesn't stop her from worrying.

Last month, there had been the dirty bowl that had slipped from his hands into the water, where its fall had been cushioned and no tragedy had occurred. But the week after that, he'd dropped a knife, which luckily had fallen to the floor a few inches to the left of where he'd been standing and not on his slipper-clad foot.

Two weeks ago, however, it had been the razor. That had been the worst, even though he'd assured her time and time again that a little nick bleeds quite a lot despite not being a long, deep gash. Thinking back now, she muses that it was the sight of the blood droplets on his shirt that made it so awful - his always pristine shirt, which seemed to be mocking her with its garish, red stains. The look on her face made Charles turn to peer at himself in the mirror; the look upon his face when he saw the damage to the shirt nearly did her in. Charles Carson, who'd lived a life of exacting standards that once made him dress down a footman for half an inch of unstitched livery, was nearly brought to his knees in shame from the sight of some blood staining his own immaculate clothing.

"I can't do a damned thing with this tremor," he'd grumbled, and Elsie had reached for his hand.

"Then I'll do some of those things," she'd replied, resting her head on his shoulder. "And you can ask for help, you know. There's no shame in that. Not with me."

And so they forged ahead with a new plan, one that she was doing her level best to maintain.

But at times it was hard, times like these when her husband was downstairs cursing and she had sworn not to simply pop down there and fix things for him. Her concern wasn't misplaced, but during these times it did nothing to help, either.

Elsie dries off quickly and rinses the tub once it's fully drained. Donning her clothing, she's halfway through pinning up her hair when she realizes they've got nowhere to go anyhow, and so she leaves it down to dry. Charles has commented several times that he finds it attractive when she wears her long hair down and unplaited, and while she'd never dare to leave the house in that state, she wonders if it might serve as a welcome distraction to him now.

"Smells wonderful," she says as she enters the kitchen. "May I do anything?"

"Not at all," Charles replies. He turns to smile at her and notices her hair. "That's a nice surprise."

"Well, we aren't going anywhere," she tells him, reaching for the teapot and pouring them each a cup. "Not now, anyhow. And it's rather warm in here now you've got the fire going, so I thought I'd leave it down and let it dry a bit."

Charles comes up behind her as she's stirring her milk in and wraps his arms around her waist, pulling her towards himself as he leans over and buries his face in her long tresses, inhaling the scent of her hair before moving it aside and placing a few gentle kisses to the side of her neck.

"Lavender," he murmurs, and she giggles as his words and lips tickle her.

"Nothing new there," she replies. "Although I am starving, Mr. Carson, and I fear if you keep doing that then we might never eat."

He nips playfully at her earlobe before returning his attention to the stove. She sits, nervous with anticipation about the trek their plates of food are about to take between the stove and the table.

But the tremor has disappeared for now. Charles serves up their breakfast with flair, and Elsie manages to devour not only her eggs but over half of the bacon he'd heated as well.

"I can't believe how hungry I was," she chuckles.

"That was your worry making you hungry," he comments, nodding toward her plate. "Are you sure you're all right?"

She looks up at him as she reaches across the corner of the table for his hand. "I'll be fine once I hear Becky's sweet voice," she says, refusing to voice her knowledge of his difficulties in the kitchen this morning. She'd learned years ago, well before being his wife, that where Charles was concerned, some things were better left unsaid.

They finish their meal, and Elsie insists on clearing the dishes and doing the washing while Charles retrieves some wood from the shed outdoors. She steals a peek at him through the window from time to time, but there is no evidence that he's struggling with the logs.

"Getting cold out there," he says upon returning. "I fear we'll be having yet another storm in a day or two."

"Yes, I could see your breath steaming when I peeked out at you. Go warm yourself by the fire, and then we'll call the home."

He complies, and Elsie finishes putting away the breakfast dishes before fetching the paper with the home's information.

She sits quietly as Charles gets the operator to connect them, and he reaches out for her hand, which she readily places in his.

"Hello? Yes, this is Charles Carson. I'm calling to speak with my sister-in-law, Becky Hughes … Oh? … Yes, that's correct, two nights ago. A cold, yes … Oh, I do wish someone had called to let us know ... No, no, that's all right ..."

Elsie watches her husband as he closes his eyes and nods. "Of course," he says. "We were worried, you see. My wife- … Yes, she's right here."

Charles drops her hand to pass the phone to her. "She'd like to speak to you," he tells her quietly, and she nods as she takes the phone.

"Hello? … Becky! Oh, darling, we were worried about you!" She chuckles, rolling her eyes, and Charles - who already got the full story - smiles in understanding. "I can hear that now, petal … Of course you did … Yes, of course it's all right … Don't you worry, dear. Perhaps you can write? … Yes, I'll be on the lookout … I love you too, my darling. Take care … Of course you can, he's just here …"

She hands the phone back to Charles, listening in amusement as he attempts a fairly difficult conversation with their beloved Becky.

Laryngitis, Elsie thinks, chuckling to herself. The poor lass. But she's on the mend now, which is all that matters.

oOoOoOoOo

Elsie gasps as Charles's fingertips ghost across her abdomen that night, trailing down the side of her thigh and lifting her nightgown.

"Does that tickle?" he asks, but she shakes her head.

"You know it doesn't," she whispers, reaching for his head and pulling it down so that she can kiss him.

He moves onto his back eventually, encouraging his wife to straddle his body, and she removes the gown from her body in one fluid motion.

"Gorgeous," he breathes, caressing her skin - all of her skin - while she unpins her hair once again and leans forward, letting it cascade down over them both as she captures his lips in a deep, fevered kiss.

No bad dreams tonight, she thinks. It's the last coherent thought she has before turning herself over to her husband completely, her worries at bay … for now, at least.

tbc

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