A/N: Thank you, thank you, thank you. Hopefully this chapter is sufficient reward for all of your lovely comments and reviews! This is set two Christmases on from the Beth chapter of Five Names.

Three: Beth

She watches him from the doorway, leaning against the frame, fingers still curled around a tea cloth.

He has Charlie in the crook of one elbow, Bethany in the other, his head dipped down while he whispers into their sleeping ears. Last year the season had been shadowed; Jamie still away fighting and their darling girl trying so hard to stay strong, two new babies to care for and a husband who had not even seen them.

They have tried, this year, to make it twice as special. Charles insisted the whole family be together today, taking as much time away from the Abbey as he could; she isn't sure who was left to take over for him, doesn't honestly care, not when her family has been together for the first time in too many years - not even on Jamie's return had Maisie made it down to them.

The dinner has been cooked, eaten and enjoyed, the presents opened and carols sung. Her children {the ones born to her, and the one who married into her heart just the same} are all settled around the fire in the sitting room, glasses of sherry and hot mulled wine passed out and half drunk. Only one man and two little angels are missing and she really hadn't needed to look far for them.

Charles shifts in his seat, tips his body so that each child could see the tree, if they hadn't fallen asleep on him some time ago. Still, he tilts them towards the tree she insists each year that he put up in his study, and names each decoration in turn; the stars and cherubs, the little glass sleigh that is this year's addition, the dark haired angel that was last year's.

With his voice pitched low he tells their grandchildren the story behind each one, which member of the Crawley family gifted them, what they mean {she remembers the stories well, smiles even as she rolls her eyes at him; he is so proud of the Family, of the young Ladies that slipped into his heart all too easily. She supposes she could have been jealous, could have been angered that he would devote even a portion of honest devotion to these people; his employers and perhaps once she was, but then he came home with the first decoration cradled carefully in his hands, a paper snowflake little Miss Mary had made him and she couldn't bring herself to resent the happiness in his eyes, not when he placed Maisie's paper stocking on the tree and Miss Mary's snowflake hung from a shelf alone in his study. A few years - and several more decorations - later, she put the tree up in his study before he returned home one evening. The smile on his face had her heart beating hard in her chest, her blood tingling as it raced through her. It had been a good evening, a great night.}

He looks at her when he gets to the last decoration, his voice fading down to nothing.

"They haven't heard a word you've said, Charles."

He smiles at her, then back down at the babies. "They have." He says, and she pushes away from the doorframe, steps up close to take Charlie from him. The little boy smiles in his sleep, hardly stirs as she reaches out and lifts him into her arms.

He smells of talcum powder and cinnamon, the spices in the house seeping into his hair.

Charles lays Bethany into the crib beside his desk and then takes Charlie back, settles him beside his sister and tucks them in close.

She remembers this Charles so fondly, the one who told their daughters stories each night, who never failed to be there at bedtime, even though it meant returning to the House after. The father who would tuck them each in with a kiss on their forehead, leave a candle burning in their rooms that he blew out when he returned later in the night, before climbing into bed beside her.

She leans into him when he steps back, his arm wrapping around her waist and drawing her closer to his side. "You're a good grandfather, Charlie." She whispers, feels her eyes tearing up as she looks down at what their daughter made.

"Grandfather. Where have the years gone, Beth?"

He doesn't whisper, her husband, his voice too deep, too strong, but he lowers it as much as possible. She turns in his arms, feels his hands come to rest against her back as she curls into him, her ear against his chest. She can see the window like this, the snow piling up on the sill outside. She watches a flake melt against the glass, wonders at it's shape; unique in all the world and gone in an instant.

Some days she feels as young as she was when they met, sometimes when she spins about the house or he pulls her close in bed, wraps her up in his arms she feels like no time has passed at all. But then she will see the grey creeping into her hair, her knees will click and crack when she kneels for too long or she'll look at her baby, their Katherine; a wife and mother herself now and she remembers every year, every decade of her life, their lives.

"Are you calling me old Charles Carson?" She pokes his side with a finger, hides her smile in his coat. The white beard he's wearing tickles her neck as he leans down over her, presses his lips to her head.

"Never." He clasps her by the waist and pushes her away, looks down at her and she smiles up at him, in his red coat and hat. "You haven't aged a day since we met." He can't keep his face straight, the daft man.

"You're a hopeless liar, Charles." She reaches for the beard, twirls it around her finger; coarse and catching at the little nicks in her skin. "But then you aren't looking so young yourself I'm afraid."

"I'll show you young." She can't help the shriek as he lifts her, sweeps her around and drops them both down into his arm chair. A quick look to the crib assures her they haven't woken the children and she shifts around on his lap, hooks her knees over his thighs.

A hand circles her waist again, the other strokes his beard as he watches her.

"And what would you like for Christmas, young lady?" She laughs, giggles before catching herself. {He has always made her laugh, even as a chorus girl when there was little enough in her life to smile about. He makes her happy every day, no matter that things might be at their worst; she fell in love with him for it. For that, and a hundred other ways that he makes her feel complete in a way that she never could before he came along. She cannot imagine how different she might be without him here like this.}

"Oh, a gentleman, please Father Christmas. Tall and handsome, with strong arms and a voice so low it rumbles when he sings."

He smiles, leans in for a kiss. She brings a finger up between them, pretends to think. "And young," she adds, "very young."

He growls, she feels it travel through them both, and clutches her close. "You're a naughty girl Beth Hughes, a naughty naughty girl."

"But you'll love me anyway?"

"What would your husband think?" She winds her arms around his neck, links her fingers behind his head. The others will wonder where they are soon, but she doesn't mind; it won't be the first time her girls have walked in on them like this.

"Since he just put me back to my maiden name, I don't think he'll mind at all. He's very understanding."

"Not that understanding." He disagrees and his lips touch hers, she leans up into the kiss, pushes harder, deepens it.

"Merry Christmas, Charlie." She says when they separate, his mouth trailing down her jaw to her neck. She tips her head back, curls a hand into his hair.

"Merry Christmas, Beth." He sucks at her collarbone and her blood pounds inside her veins. He pulls away eventually, presses a soothing kiss to her reddening skin.

They'll go back to the sitting room soon, she'll heat more wine and they'll watch the lights twinkling, later she'll make sandwiches for supper and they'll tell stories of the Christmas Maisie tried to help with the cooking, filled the goose with chocolate when Beth wasn't looking and they had to make do with only a few slices and cold cuts for dinner. Or the year that Katie was so determined to meet Father Christmas she set up wire about the sitting room and her poor father tripped no less than four times trying to slip the presents beneath the tree, while Katie slept on in her bed, too tired to stay awake after all.

She leans back into his chest and his hands meet across her stomach, his chin resting atop her head.

Little Bethany turns over in her sleep, curls into her brother's side with a sigh, her tiny hand fisted over his heart.

Charles's arms squeeze her once and she drops her hands over his, tangles their fingers together.

"Thank you." He says suddenly and she thinks she understands, might have said it herself in a moment or two. She raises their hands to her lips, kisses the knuckle of his ring finger, the band skin-warm against her mouth. Dropping their hands back down she smiles and breathes deep; cinnamon and ginger, and that little something Charles Carson that never fails to excite her.

They'll tell stories, yes and then she'll send the young ones to bed, slip into her latest purchase from Ripon. Be the naughtiest Mrs Christmas that Charles deserves.

I think she could be very naughty, don't you? And half the excitement will be trying to stay quiet...