Gosh, this was difficult to write and I have no idea why. If it's terrible I blame the History exam which frazzled my brain yesterday.
Despite his initial misconceptions about the idea- thinking that they would be exhausted the next day- he concluded that had he not spent the late evening in the kitchen with Elsie, he would have been even more worn down, albeit in a different way. Her assurance that at least she would remain kept him going through the turbulent few days that followed, and for that he was grateful. Remembering the dismal feeling of thinking he had been too forward when talking to her- though her reply had been kind- he was careful not to push himself too much towards her in the next few days. He simply watched, on occasions with some amusement, as she held the household together below stairs like some inimitable lynch pin.
Not that there was nothing to distract him; far from it. All of a sudden there was the great difficulty of having to work out how he was going to manage to continue to run the house smoothly, without knowing how many people he was going to be left with and the added complication of not knowing what the state of affairs upstairs would be. As well as most of the staff seeming to have their thoughts occupied elsewhere to the extent where it was difficult to get them to do any work, though that was only a minor deviation from the norm.
But even though he should have been rushed off his feet, perhaps because he should have been rushed off his feet, he was drawn predictably back towards her like a particularly faithful homing pigeon. One evening after supper he found her at her desk in her sitting room bent over what looked like paperwork.
"I can come back later if you like," he told her. She seemed distracted as she looked up.
"No, don't be silly," she gestured him into the room and to the seat facing her, "I'm sorry, I must seem a bit away with the fairies. I've just been talking to William."
This did not surprise him; he knew Elsie had made it her business to keep an eye on the boy ever since he'd arrived. It had been well nigh invaluable before he'd managed to shut Thomas up. She leant back in her chair, surveying her visitor.
"It was a rude awakening to see him on the front step of the pub singing his head off," she remarked, quiet a sentimental look playing across her features, then, not without a hint of irony, "I sometimes forget how much he's grown up."
Charles smiled slightly.
"I'd rather he'd gone for something classical," he told her.
The corners of her mouth twitched.
"He's nearly made up his mind, I think," she told him.
He could see her watching his expression carefully as she did so.
"Staying or going?" he asked, not without some trepidation.
Almost as if by instinct, she put her hand to her temple to rest her head a little and he knew it would not be good news.
"Going, I think. He's almost sure of it."
He sighed at the inevitability of it all.
"You don't want him to go, I take it?" he asked.
"Don't want him to? I even went as far as to try to persuade him to stay for Daisy's sake!" There was a bitterness in what she said as well as an almost amused reflection on the unusual lengths to which she was willing to go.
"And what did he say to that?" Charles wanted to know.
She shook her head almost dismissively.
"He seemed to think that he wouldn't be enough of a man if he didn't go and fight," she told him, "I don't know if he hasn't still been letting Thomas get to him a little bit."
They were quiet for a few moments, both staring into space a little, lost in their own thoughts. The expression on her face seemed to mirror his sentiments perfectly.
"It's such a bloody waste," she stated quietly, looking at the table. There was an unnerving, stabbing conviction in her tone.
He blinked heavily.
"Yes, yes it is," he agreed, "War is such a waste of a lot of things, but especially of life."
Her eyes rose a little and she contemplated his face carefully. The futility of their position seemed to dawn on them both.
"Why are we the only ones who realise it, then?" she asked.
And the worst thing for him, even worse than having to see her helplessly plagued by the incomprehensibility of it all, was being completely unable to give her any kind of reassuring answer. While she knew exactly how to sort him out, he sat pathetically as the wonderful, beautiful woman before him had to baffle through her confusion by herself. However, her own resolve- so much more optimistic than his, by nature- brought her back to herself. She smiled humourlessly.
"How about you?" she asked, "I assume you didn't come to find me with the purpose of allowing me to depress you?"
He shook his head at the remark. But then, why had he come to see her? He couldn't remember a definite reason.
"I just wanted to see you," he confessed, not really thinking and then being taken aback alarmingly by his own honesty, "I mean, we haven't had much chance to catch up this week... being so busy."
He had a feeling that she saw through his rather hasty attempt at an explanation, and so decided to dig himself into even more of a hole.
"I do rather depend on seeing you from time to time."
His tone was light, thankfully barely conveying an ounce of the weight with which he really meant the statement. But it made her smile, so he was glad of having said it, no matter how much of a fool he felt besides. However, he then found that he had nothing more to say than that. Thankfully, she seemed to realise that this was the case and swooped in to save him.
"I suppose this is the first time in about twenty years that I haven't been envious of those younger than me," she reflected.
Sometimes her ability to be optimistic add the oddest of times was startling. But there was something more to her statement, he perceived. Something in her tone that hinted at the antithesis of optimism. He titled his head a little, wanting an explanation. She sniffed.
"Do you never wish you had the chance to live your life over again, Charles?" she asked, biting her lip.
He had no idea what to say to that for a moment. And then he knew exactly what he'd like to have said, but had no idea how to. So he said nothing, waiting for her to continue. But she did not, so he asked, feeling brave:
"What would you have done differently?"
"Oh heavens, I don't know: something," she told him sadly, "Probably got married. I would have very much liked to have a child of my own."
And in one motion it suddenly felt as if his breathing apparatus had been tightened. Though he knew it was probably foolish of him, seeing the hurt in her expression as she made the confession, it struck him that he had failed her. Had he let her know how he felt years ago, he could have spared her the regret she now felt, he could at least have let her know that... that she had an option. But it was too late now by far.
"I'm sorry," she apologised, obviously thinking she had made him uncomfortable, "That was probably too forward of me."
He shook his head.
"It was honest," he corrected.
Her eyes returned to the surface of the desk. He was thankful for the wooden barrier between them: had it not been there he knew he would have not been able to stop himself taking her into his arms with great force and flatly declining to let go until he had held her for long enough to undo a fraction of the damage that had been done by time. For all his praise of her honesty, it wasn't something he excelled at himself.