A/N: Thank you Steph for your beta-love, especially for correcting the pathological comma problem I have. You are a superstar.

"Contrary to the nip in the air, spring is certainly here," Charles said as they strode along the path toward home. "Look at all the blackthorn."

Elsie followed his gaze to the thicket, taking in the sight of the dainty white blossoms.

"I wait for the snapdragons," Elsie said, "They fill the hedgerows with so much vibrant color."

"We could plant some in our garden," Charles said, "They like sun."

"Mm," Elsie said, tightening her grasp on his hand. "We could use something other than phlox."

"I happen to like phlox!"

"Well, so do I! But we have so much of it," Elsie chuckled, squinting as the sun peaked out from behind one of the trees sheltering the path. "I'd never have guessed you'd've such a green thumb."

"Well, my mother liked flowers."

"Liked them? From the sounds of it she practically had a greenhouse."

Charles smiled, "Her gardens were quite wonderous. Impressive when you consider how little time she had to tend to them."

"What were her favorites?"

"Flowers?" Charles thought a moment, "She planted a number of hydrangeas outside of our cottage. And there were chrysanthemums Queen Anne's lace in the yard. And she always had a tiny vase with forget-me-nots on her nightstand."

"Any particularly reason?"

Charles shrugged, "Maybe she was trying to remember something."

"Or someone," Elsie ventured. "I like forget-me-nots. We should plant some. And we have that little vase Daisy gave us for our wedding."

"Oh yes — the Mary Gregory-style*?"

"Mmm. I nearly fainted when I saw it. Beryl said she'd found it at a shop in Thirsk on her half day, it was a bit dusted up but she rather painstakingly set about prettying it up. Beryl said she spent no more than ten shillings on it — clearly the antiquary had no idea of its worth."

"I should think not! In London these would go for a pound or more!"

"I suppose we could sell it if we're ever truly destitute, but remembering how proud and excited the lass was to give it to us, I don't think I could ever feel right parting with it."

"It does deserve to have some fresh blossoms in it, however. Forget-me-nots would be nice indeed."

Elsie sighed wearily as their cottage came into sight. She very much wanted to take off her shoes and stockings and curl up with her book and a cup of tea. There was washing to do, and she should finish the jumper she was knitting for Grace, but her mind was still stuck in the sleepy morning she and Charles had shared and she wanted very much to hold on to it.

"I'm betting you're looking forward to curling up with a good book and some tea," Charles said, unlatching their front gate and stepping aside so that she could walk through.

"I'd say you know that because you know me so well, but I admit, my routines are quite predictable."

"What are you reading today?" he said, following behind her, turning to relatch the gate.

"Oh, another novel. Miss Willa Cather's* latest. O, Pioneers."

"Pioneers? How American of you."

She laughed, pushing their front door open. "Well, the family is European; Swedish immigrants. The main protagonist is a young woman who inherits her father's farm —"

"Ah, I'm beginning to see the appeal."

Elsie gave him a look as she bent down to begin unlacing her shoes, "I suppose some of it inspires some memories in me — though a farm in Nebraska can't be much like one in Scotland."

"Where is Nebraska?" Charles said, hanging up his coat, "Is it near where Branson is?"

"I don't think so," Elsie said, "I think it's nearer the other coastline."

"Oh."

"What about you?" Elsie asked, pulling off her shoes and sighing with relief. "Have you got anything planned for the remainder of the day?"

"Well," Charles began, stuffing his hands in his pockets, "I was contemplating doing some raking in the yard, but this talk of literature has me very much wanting to join you in the sitting room for some reading and repose."

"And what're you reading now?" she asked, standing and smoothing her skirts.

"I was actually hoping to continue forging my way through Ms. Post's etiquette book*. The one you gifted me for Christmas."

"Oh yes, I'm eager to hear your thoughts," Elsie grinned, padding through the hallway toward the kitchen. He followed, sauntering through the sunlight halls, straightening a picture on the wall as he passed by it.

"She speaks quite highly of the housekeeper," he says, taking the book from where he'd left it on the table earlier. He opened to a passage he'd clearly marked and cleared his throat, "A good housekeeper is always a woman of experience and tact, and often a lady; friction is, therefore, extremely rare."

Elsie guffawed, "Friction amongst whom, I wonder."

"Certainly not the butler."

"Oh no," Elsie teased, "Never the butler."

"Ms. Post has quite a bit to say about allowing maids to have suitors in the house."

"Does she?" Elsie said, turning to look over her shoulder at him as she lit the stove, "Like what?"

"Well — first of all that it would be ridiculous to forbid them to bring their gentleman callers round. That it would be ill-advised to have them going out in the dark of night, sneaking around to meet up with them." He leafed through a few more pages and read, "Because she wears a uniform makes her no less a young girl, with a young girl's love of amusement, which if not properly provided for her "at home" will be sought for in sinister places."

Elsie sighed, "Well, now that I've run off with the butler I suppose I could hardly begrudge them a beau of their own."

"I think it's all terribly American," he said, closing the book. "Although I did find the chapters on Southern hospitality rather intriguing. Apparently, the women of the South are quite . . ." he opened the book again, licking the tip of his finger before beginning to flip for the passage, "Ah — here, listen to this: 'The reputation of Southern women for having the gift of fascination is perhaps due not to prettiness of feature more than to the brilliancy or sweetness of their ready smile. That Southern women are charming and "feminine" and lovable is proverbial. How many have noticed that Southern women always bow with the grace of a flower bending in the breeze and a smile like sudden sunshine? The unlovely woman bows as though her head were on a hinge and her smile sucked through a lemon!' "

The tea kettle whistled over the sound of Elsie's giggles, "Goodness — smiling like sudden sunshine?"

"The word blinding comes to mind," he said, closing the book. "Are there any of those chocolate biscuits left?"

"The ones with almonds or plain?"

"Do we have both?"

"No — only plain."

"Well, I'll have a plain one then."

Elsie smirked, opening the cabinet. Reaching for the biscuit tin, she paused, shaking her head as she laughed quietly. For a person bred of such high standards, Charles Carson could be an incredibly easy man to please. Balancing the tin against her hip and threading her fingers through the handle of two teacups, she lifted the kettle from the stove and made her way to the table.

"You should have let me help!" he said, rising quickly to take the steaming kettle from her hand.

"I was a housemaid before I was housekeeper," she said, "I can manage."

Easing himself back into his chair, Charles winced as his knee popped loudly. Pouring their tea, Elsie shot him a look. He'd been avoiding bringing it up, she knew, but she rather had him cornered now. If he didn't offer up any complaint, she'd ask.

"I think I'm beginning to thaw from the winter," he chided, though his face was still in a tight grimace. "My bones seem to creak more and more every winter that passes."

She gave him an empathetic nod, "As do mine — I've a wrist that aches something awful from time to time."

"Do you?" he asked, lifting the lid of the biscuit tin, "You've never mentioned it."

She shook her head, lifting her hand dismissively. "Well, it's nothing to worry yourself over. Just years of overuse, that's all," she self-consciously reached for the lame wrist, squeezing it gently. "Surely you've got an Achilles' Heel?"

"I've a knee that bothers me on occasion," he said, taking a bite of a biscuit.

"We're a pair, aren't we?"

He brushed the fallen crumbs on the table into a neat pile with his finger, "I don't feel quite so old, you know. Not in my mind, anyway."

Reaching for a biscuit, Elsie nodded, "I know. I don't feel it either, really. In my imagination I'm still a sprite young woman. One peek in the looking glass will set me right, however."

Taking another biscuit from the tin, Charles sighed, watching as she delicately touched her fingers to her lips, pushing stray crumbs into her mouth.

"You know all the words to the hymns without even looking at the lyrics" he said, more of a statement than a question, "How do you do that?"

She shrugged, "The same as memorizing anything else, I imagine. By rote, mostly. I sang many, many hymns as a girl, then as a maid,," she swallowed, "Surely you must know most of them by heart by now. "

He shook his head, "I suppose my mind just doesn't work that way," he reached for his tea cup, but paused before bringing it to his lips. "There is one that I do know — I'm not sure you'd have heard it. I don't think it's Scottish."

"I've sung more English hymns than I have Scots ones, darling*."

"Well, it was written by an actor* — he had a troupe, in Spain I think — anyway, I first heard it when Grigg and I were living in London. There was a pub-turned-theatre on St John Street, the Old Red Lion*," he shook his head nostalgically, "And I met a young woman there — she was Spanish*, very tall and exotically beautiful. Like no woman I had ever seen — or have ever seen since, quite honestly. There was something almost ethereal about her. If Grigg and the other actors hadn't confirmed her presence, I may have thought she was nothing but my dizzy imaginings. Anyhow, she sang the hymn to us. I didn't realize it was a hymn, at first, until maybe the second or third time I heard it and I was sober enough to really listen to the words."

Held in rapt attention, Elsie leaned forward across the table, "What was her name?"

"Hm?"

"This ghost of a woman — do you remember her name?"

Charles blushed, "Ophelia."

"Ophelia!" Elsie breathed, "Like the ill-fated heroine of Hamlet."

"Yes, well — she was traveling with a ballet, I think. I don't recall, but I do recall the song."

"Sing it."

"What — now?"

"No, darling — Wednesday next," she giggled, giving him a naughty grin.

"If you give me such cheek I'll never sing it and you'll have to wonder —"

"Oh, go on — I'm sorry. I won't tease."

"Very well," he said, "On one condition."

"What's that?"

"I'll sing you the first verse, so you can get the tune — and then you'll sing the refrain with me."

"Oh, Charles."

"Say you will."

"I can't learn it that fast!"

"Yes you can too! For heaven's sake, you used to walk by the nursery once and by the time you got downstairs you'd be humming Master George's nursery rhymes."

"I'll try," she conceded, brushing the crumbs from her lap.

"That's all I ask." he said. He took a sip of tea, set his cup down carefully on its saucer, and cleared his throat. He let his eyes flutter closed and hummed a pitch, then lifted his voice atop it to sing, "There's a land beyond the river, that they call the sweet forever, and we'll only reach that shore by faith's decree —"

"One by one, we'll gain the portals, there to dwell with the immortals—" Elsie sang quietly.

Charles eyes opened brightly and his mouth hung open, "You know it?" before she could respond, he leaned back in his chair, laughing. "Of course you do, I'd be a fool to think otherwise."

"We sang it at my mother's funeral," she said, "It was very dear to her."

He studied her a moment, "I'm sorry I —"

"Charles," she whispered, reaching across the table to take his hand. "When they ring the golden bells for you and me.*"

* These vases would have EASILY been a pound or more. They actually have a very interesting history and would have been a very nice little thing to have. Daisy would have likely seen it in a shop, thought it quaint, but not realized its worth. But Carson certainly would have, and Elsie too — the Crawleys probably had a few around.

* Headcanon alert: from time to time, Tom writes Mrs Hughes and recommends American authors he thinks she might enjoy.

* Emily Post's Etiquette would have simultaneously delighted and horrified Carson, and I'm sure Elsie would know that upon flipping through the book herself. Again, something that may have come at the suggestion of Tom Branson ;)

* Given that she's lived far longer in England than she ever did in Scotland, I presume this to be true.

* A real place.

* It really was written by an actor — may I suggest, however, Natalie Merchant's version of it? (When They Ring The Golden Bells)

* Just a historical aside: it was still an intense struggle for dancers of color to join companies and ballet would remain a predominantly white art form. . well, even now I would say it's still largely dominated by caucasian dancers. In my mind, imaging this woman (Spanish because the writer of the song was from Spain, so she'd have heard it and brought it to the rest of Europe with her) is loosely based on the brilliant Katherine Dunham — who founded the first African American ballet theatre in the US, the Ballet Nègre.

* It's also like — ringing the bells of service, ya dig? #LayeredMeaning #SeeWhatIDidThere