A/N: Taking this story off hiatus. Serious in front, party in the back (first half is serious, with a TW for blood, second half is smut.) Hope you enjoy.


Saturday afternoon

She's restless. Ever since she left the cottage in the early morning, she's been thinking about how to get the conversation started. She can't very well waltz into the kitchen and ask the poor girl outright. Obviously Elsie has had to deal with her fair share of girls getting into trouble (Ethel comes to mind and she sends up a quick prayer for her and little Charlie. Who is not so small anymore, of course. Time seems to be slipping by almost unnoticed until you are pushed to see it) but today is different. Daisy is different.

Elsie takes another turn around her small parlour - walking from her desk to the door and back, her hand planted on her side towards the small of her back. She can feel her corset under her fingers, stiff and unrelenting. A reminder of times gone by. Times have changed so much since she was a young woman, though some things remain the same. Girls will carry the evidence of love and they will be condemned for it.

Since her wedding and her honeymoon Elsie knows more about lying with a man, she can understand how a woman can give herself in that way and not think about the consequences. There are nights when Charles's hand on her skin sets her core alight with want. A hunger that can only be stilled by being wrapped around him, by feeling his weight on top of her. By the coming together of their bodies.

She no longer judges the girls who fall prey to this passion.

But what will she tell Daisy? That it is vital that Andrew marries her as soon as can be arranged? Well, of course. She wants to protect Daisy from gossip and cruelty and seeing Daisy settled at the farm would absolutely help with that. Her mind is going in overdrive when she thinks of what Daisy might tell her: that Andrew doesn't want to step up to the plate? Or, what if Daisy tells her it's not Andrew's.

Her thoughts are interrupted by a quick, almost nervous, knock on her door.

"Mrs Patmore sent me. She said you wanted a word."

Elsie nods and offers Daisy a chair with an elegant gesture.

"She's told you, then?" Daisy says, not a tremble in her voice or her hands to be noticed.

Elsie nods.

"I see."

The old housekeeper and the younger assistant cook both take a deep breath.

"What is that you want to do?" Elsie asks.

Daisy shrugs. "There are not very many options," she says and runs her hand through her neatly bobbed hair.

"Is there any of them you are considering more than the others?"

There is no answer.

"Daisy… you have told… the father… haven't you?" Goodness, why must it be so difficult speaking about these things?

"Not yet."

"Don't you think you should?"

"At first I tried to deny it had happened. I thought it might be a bout of 'flu. Or something I ate - even if I only eat what I make myself and I haven't killed anyone with my cooking yet."

A feeble joke that makes Elsie smile softly. "Have you seen anyone, to confirm that you're…?"

Daisy shakes her head. "It can't be anything else. When you know, you know, Mrs Hughes."

Running both hands over her face, Elsie answers: "I'll take your word for it."

She wets her lips before continuing, practical as ever: "Alright. First things first. You tell… well. Him, I suppose. Consider your options carefully. Don't do anything stupid."

"Yes, Mrs Hughes."

Elsie has seen it happen all too often. Mostly to girls her own age when she started out in service. Forced to please the men of the house - mostly against their will - and taking desperate measures. Forty year old memories, once carefully locked in a little compartment in the furthest corners of her mind, overwhelm her suddenly. Memories of cleaning blood out of sheets and off floors flood her consciousness.

"Promise me, Daisy. Promise me." Her voice sounds shrill and forceful. Elsie's heart pounds forcefully against muslin, cotton and whalebone. Her hands ball into fists, the knuckles whitening.

"Promise me," she pleads through gritted teeth.

Daisy nods. Then she says with a feeble voice. "I promise. But I am going to have to leave and this is my home. I have never had a home until I came here. I grew up here. Mrs Patmore taught me everything. As you did and Mr Carson.. About hard work and ambition and trust and about love. About family."

A tear runs down Elsie's cheek.

"Maybe you can have a family of your own, Daisy. If you know who... "

Daisy nods. Elsie can see the long journey Daisy has made from the day she first started as a scullery maid, sent straight from the workhouse. Timid, almost afraid of her own shadow. These days she is self-assured and much more confident Elsie could have hoped for.

"I'll tell him. He'll probably want to do the right thing."

"I hope so," Elsie says.

Daisy gets up from her chair. "You'll lose two of your staff, Mrs Hughes."

Elsie suppresses a sigh of relief, putting two and two together, then shrugs. "Let's not put the cart before the horse."

She gets up, too and guides Daisy to the door. She briefly puts her hand on the young woman's arm.

"Be careful," she says.

She then realises it's advice given a too late.


Saturday night

They have enjoyed their sherry and talked about their days. Charles relayed the conversation he has had at the mobile library verbatim and Elsie has given him an abridged version of what happened at the house. She's conveniently left out her conversation with Daisy.

It's on the forefront of her mind. She wonders when she'll see the changes in Daisy. With Anna she had been so preoccupied with her own personal affairs (for the very first time something personal had taken all her attention to herself, her insecurities and her worries) to notice the signs. Of course black clothes are very forgiving. She has to tell herself that. Can't allow herself to think she had lapsed in her duties as Housekeeper.

"You're very quiet."

Elsie smiles at her husband.

"My first moments of peace of the day," she says by way of explanation.

"You look…"

"Yes?"

She can see him flush slightly. His cheeks pink up, making her bite her lip. She can tell what he is thinking when he doesn't answer her. When he colours like that. Her breath catches.

"Look… what, Charles?"

"Very pretty," he says after a few moments of silence.

It's Elsie's turn to blush. "Ach, go on with you," she says, unable to control her brogue.

"Very pretty," he repeats and he takes her hand. Kisses first the back then the palm. Without much thought, Elsie leans in against him, kissing his cheek.

"I've missed you today," she says.

His arm steals around her. She kisses his cheek again and then his mouth. His lips are soft and supple and move with hers. His hand runs up and down her arm.

"Upstairs?" he asks, his voice making her tremble with need.

He holds her hand as they move through the room, turning off lights and kissing. They are both well versed in the undressing of people and they have honed this art on one another. His knitted spencer is already lying on the floor and Elsie's blouse has been untucked from her skirt. Shoes are scattered around the room and she feels so small when pulled against him, but powerful knowing it is her who makes his breath hitch.

The stairs lead to the landing and there are two rooms there: a small bathroom (oh, luxury of luxuries) and their bedroom. Where their neatly-made bed resides. Where the eiderdown is turned down for the night and where the curtains need drawing.

Charles doesn't waste time making sure they won't be seen through the small windows that look out on the street. The night envelopes them, giving them the permission they somehow feel they need before baring themselves. Their kisses are heated and hungry. Elsie loves pushing his shirt off his shoulders and feeling the soft skin of his upper arms under her palms. She loves him undressing her equally. Feeling his fingertips dart along the edge of her corset, teasingly stroking the tops of her breasts as they are still confined.

She doesn't turn on the light on her night stand; there's no need. She can feel him coming towards her. She can hear him drop his trousers and the buckles of his suspenders hitting the floor. When he is right in front of her, she puts her arms around his torso. Lets her hand wander. His bottom is firm and soft at the same time. Ideal for a little kneading. He nips at her earlobe.

"Minx," he says, more breath than voice.

He presses her sides to undo the fastenings of her corset.

"Rogue," she whispers back.

There they are, in their unmentionables. She is in her muslin slip and cotton pants, he in his cotton vest and smalls. She can feel the heat radiate off his body. She reaches out for him, taking his hand, pulling him with her on the bed. He is beside her, his hands gentle and purposeful. Every touch of his is making her need him more. Every kiss spurs her on to move against him, delighting in his attentions.

She loves this part of their marriage. She loves making love to this man who can be gentle and forceful. Who listens to her, and who learns with every next time they try this unexpected joy. Charles doesn't give her much time to contemplate any more: he is pushing up the hem of her slip and skims the softness of her belly to cup her breast.

In one swift movement she is on top of him, only cotton separating them. She pulls her slip over her head, his hands steady her. He is so firm under her and she can feel the damp of her underwear against her skin.

"I want you," she says between shallow breaths.

He flips her then, takes off his vest and smalls and he is between her legs, solid and everything she never knew she missed until she married this beautiful, strong man. She can feel the slight shaking of his hand next to her on the pillow, but pays it little mind: he is in no pain and there's no danger he will hurt himself or her.

Carefully he removes the last barrier between them, stroking her legs. She wraps her legs around him and briefly checks if today is a good day.

It is. A very good day.

Together they move as one, sounds of happy connection fill the room. All her senses seem heightened: every touch, every sound, every breath there he is: her man. She pants as he rocks her and moans every time he changes the angle or when he changes their position altogether. They experiment: often exciting and successful, sometimes not so much, but tried with giggles or laughter. Tonight, everything is working out fine.

His hands are on her bum, his lips on a nipple. She grabs his hair, holding on as she is climbing that silvery, mercurial thread towards completion.

"Don't stop," she asks with a thin voice.

"Never," he answers and she believes him.

As they lie together, him fast asleep after his exertions, and Elsie wide awake, she thinks about Daisy. How she understands the moment to say 'no' is too fraught with emotion and sensation. That there must be few people able to stop when it gets to the best part. Would she have had such self control? Would she have been able to deny herself this pleasure time after time?

She puts her hands just under her navel. If she had been thirty years younger and if she would have been married to Charles then, she would have gladly carried Daisy's burden, she thinks.

But that isn't how this works. This stamp of shame and worry has been placed upon Daisy and her mistake. So as Elsie turns over, putting her hand on her husband's chest, caressing the sparse hair there, she decides to stand by Daisy.

No matter what she chooses to do.