A/N: A bit of angst in this one. T/W for background character death. Please forgive any errors contained within, as I was in a bit of a hurry to finally post this (well behind schedule).
Thanks to all of you for your tremendous support for this fic. I promise to get you to Argyll soon. xx
CSotA
Elsie is pulling the last of their clothing from the line in the kitchen when she hears the knocking on the door. Charles has gone into the village for a few last-minute items at the food market, just enough to get them through the next two days before they leave for Argyll, and she can tell immediately that the person on the doorstep is definitely not her husband. The knocks were too many and too soft … and the door isn't even locked to begin with.
Grateful to have gotten their underclothes into the basket prior to having to let someone in, Elsie leaves the basket in the corner and hurries through the parlor and to the front door, where the knocking has recommenced with more gusto than before. She pulls it open swiftly, and her heart thuds when she sees who the knocker is, the condition he appears to be in, and the woman standing behind him.
"Hello, Mr. Branson … Lady Mary. Please do come in," she manages, stepping aside and whisking them in from the briskness of the afternoon. "Whatever has happened?" She worries for Charlie for a moment, that perhaps he took a turn in town and somehow the family was notified before she was. But that makes no sense, and her mind then turns to Miss Sybbie, Master George … Tom Branson tries for a smile, but it's forced and Elsie knows it; Lady Mary, meanwhile, seems paler than usual and her eyes are rimmed with redness. It's the last bit that tells Elsie precisely what their visit is regarding. To be honest, she's surprised the younger woman was able to make the trip to the cottage, but she's certain that she now knows the reason behind it.
"I'm afraid Charles isn't at home," Elsie says, and at her insistence they all sit in the parlour. Her use of his Christian name is intentional, a way of establishing the familiarity that she's certain Lady Mary has come here seeking out - a bridge of comfort.
"She's gone," Tom says without preface, knowing Elsie well enough by now to realize she's figured it out. "About an hour ago."
Elsie nods, and she feels a lump in her throat that she'd never have expected to be there. It's been a week since the Dowager Countess had fallen ill. Pneumonia, like the strain Becky had, Elsie thinks. They had been told by Dr. Clarkson that she may very well die from it, and he'd given her a week or so to turn it around. If she didn't manage to, he'd said, then she'd likely not survive the illness. That had been two days ago, so while Elsie is surprised that the woman slipped away as quickly as she did, the entire event was not entirely unexpected.
She clasps her hands in her lap, glancing at the door and hoping Charles would walk through, even though a look to the clock on the mantle reminded her that he'd not be home for close to another hour yet. She knows the others will wait for him, will want to tell him in person - it's why they're here, after all, because Charles's relationship with the Dowager over the past many decades deserved more than a simple telephone call. That it was Lady Mary who arrived to pass along the news isn't a great surprise, either. She's here for a bit of bolstering and comfort from her steadfast supporter, and Elsie can hardly begrudge her that. She just isn't sure her Charles will be able to give it. Not this time. He'd refused to accept the inevitable, insisting that the Dowager would be fine.
'She always makes it through,' he'd said. 'I see no reason why this time will be different.'
"I'll make some tea," Elsie says, and she leaves them in her living room to go and put together a tray. She makes a mental note to call Becky's home as soon as possible. Becky won't be happy about it, but their trip will most definitely have to be postponed.
oOoOoOo
The morning of the funeral is warmer, and the sun is shining brightly. Elsie and Charles have danced around the entire topic of the Dowager's passing - he didn't want to talk about it at all, and she didn't really press him to try. She brought it up only once but made no headway, and so she's steeling herself for the condition she thinks he'll be in upon their return home after the funeral and reception.
"Becky called when you were in the bath," she tells Charles as he's doing up his necktie. "She said she loves you and asked me to give you a kiss on the cheek, and she wanted to confirm that we'll see her in a week."
"We certainly will," Charlie replies with a smile, and he leans down for his kiss, which his wife dutifully delivers to his cheek. "We could have gone tomorrow, if you'd agreed."
Elsie steps away and busies herself with straightening the corner of the bed's counterpane. "I stand by my original opinion, Charlie. It'd have been too soon. Better to have a few days to grieve."
He finishes with the tie and lays his hands on her hips as he slips behind her and toward the bedroom door, not bothering to reply.
She lets him go, cognizant of the time and the fact that, any minute now, the driver from the Abbey will arrive to bring them to the funeral. While they won't be riding with the family - an option which neither of them would ever have accepted had it been offered - they've been told that the family would like them seated just behind them in church, in the third pew, and that they'll be part of the motorcade to the chapel and back again after the services are over. Charles had initially wished to decline all of it, but Elsie had shushed him. It was another sign of the high esteem in which the Dowager Countess had held the butler, and Elsie helped him to see that refusal would have been insulting.
The ride to the church is silent, with Charles spending most of it looking out the window at the passing trees and small houses. Elsie, not content to let him completely withdraw into his labyrinth of a mind, lays her hand upon his thigh just behind where his own fingers rest. His hands are trembling slightly, but her touch soothes him as it so often does, and just as the car pulls up beside the chapel, he gives her a sad smile.
They take their seats as instructed, and the service progresses. It's hardly the first time they've been at a funeral together, but it's the first time they've been seated with the family for anything. Elsie expects to be uncomfortable, and for Charles to be fidgeting the entire time, but she's shocked on both accounts. She's seated beside Isobel Merton, and when Elsie notices that the woman's husband seems oblivious to the comfort his wife so desperately needs, she reaches out tentatively and squeezes her hand. Isobel turns to her and nods her thanks, unable to speak. Elsie then glances at Charles, but his eyes are fully trained on the casket at the front of the aisle, and she can tell simply by how he's looking at it that he's miles away in his mind. She can almost feel the weight of his thoughts. He's cracking, she can see it, and it's that even more than the funeral that makes her heart heavy. She's consumed with sadness for her husband, for the ache she knows he's trying to hide.
The graveside service is blessedly short, and when the Carsons arrive at the Abbey afterward for the reception, they're greeted by Daisy. Charles had sat by the family in church, had accepted being transported about by the family's motor, but he drew the line at entering through the front door.
"Hello, Mrs. Carson. Mr. Carson," Daisy says, taking their coats. "I'll hang these for you. Everyone is already upstairs, I think."
"Is there anything you need?" Elsie can't help but ask.
But Daisy just shakes her head. "All under control. It's good to see you both, although we're so sorry it had to be for something like this."
Elsie squeezes the girl's arm, then takes Charlie's hand and leads the way upstairs. They're greeted once again by the family and spend about half an hour chatting to both family and staff alike, with several of the guests stopping by to say hello as well. While the new butler and housekeeper are keeping Downton running as smoothly as it always has, its former heads of staff are missed by many, and Elsie is touched that so many people come over to deliver greetings and kind wishes to them both.
It is much later when Lady Mary sidles up to Charles, whispering something in his ear, and Elsie nods at his inquisitive, silent look before watching him disappear with the Dowager's eldest granddaughter. They leave the room and Elsie peeks through the doorway, watching as Lady Mary leads Charles into the library. She's curious, but not concerned, and knows she'll get the full story later.
When they emerge from the library ten minutes later, Charles has something she can't quite identify clutched tightly in his hand, part of it seemingly tucked up his sleeve. Elsie has stayed by the door and she smiles as he joins her, but her smile disappears quickly when she sees the dampness on his face.
"I think it's time for us to go," she says in a murmur. "I've already said our goodbyes while you were in with Lady Mary."
Charles only nods, and Elsie takes his arm and leads him to get their coats, then out to where the car is waiting to whisk them back to the cottage. It's been a long day, and Elsie needs to get her husband home, fed, and comforted.
oOoOoOo
Charles climbs into bed after his wife settles herself. She's propped up extra pillows to rest against, and he lays his head on her chest, finally willing - in the semi-darkness and quiet of his most cherished place on earth, their home - to let his tears fall. His heart shatters at last, the force of it racking his body with sobs, the tears large and copious and soaking through the front of his wife's nightgown. Elsie, for her part, remains silent, her hands soothing him by gently rubbing his shoulder and carding through the hair at his temple, as she allows him to openly grieve.
"It's all right, Charlie," she murmurs after a while, and she wipes at a few of her own tears before returning her hand to his shoulder. "She's at peace now."
He nods, unable to speak, and Elsie glances over at their bureau. Sitting atop it, at the center, is a beautiful fan, opened and on display. It's not unfamiliar, but Elsie is still completely stunned that it's in her home at all. Years ago, she gleaned enough of what was happening between the Dowager and Prince Kuragin to have put together most of the pieces, and one night - quite late - she'd mustered up the courage to ask Charles about it. He'd answered the questions he was able to answer, swearing her to secrecy; it had been wholly unnecessary, however, for Elsie had known immediately that she'd be taking that particular story to the grave. What she'd found curious then was how Charles had not only known of the transgression but seemed to have supported it. She never did ask why, and she supposes now it doesn't even matter.
Charles's sobs eventually subside, and true to form, he apologizes to his wife for them. She, in turn, shushes him.
"It's all right," she says again. "You're supposed to grieve when you lose someone so close to you. It's unhealthy not to." Her mind catches on the words, remembering something. "They are your family, Charlie. I accepted that long ago."
He sits up, facing her, and she scoots up and back against the headboard and takes his hand in hers.
"You're my family," he whispers, and more tears escape. "Thank you for being here for me. Silently, supportive, knowing I wasn't ready to accept or discuss this."
Her thumb brushes the back of his hand.
"I always have been," she whispers back. "Here for you. Your family, now, but not your only family. The fan now sitting on my dresser is proof enough of that."
"I couldn't believe when Lady Mary handed that to me," he admits. "I refused to take it, but she said her grandmother insisted … that she'd willed it to me."
Elsie looks over at the fan once again, seeing now that she's sat up straighter the note tucked underneath it, the one Charles had withdrawn from his coat pocket when they got home earlier that night.
"And the note?" She'd not asked before, but wants to know.
"You're welcome to read it, you know," Charles says with a bit of a smile. "She mentions you, actually. Says you're good for me."
"Well, she was ill when she wrote it," Elsie teases gently, but Charles shakes his head.
"She always thought highly of you, Elsie. Very highly. She had a sense that you didn't have the overwhelming love for them all that I did - that I do - but she felt comfortable in how we ran the household, and that her family was often left in the care of your very capable hands."
He looks down at his own hands, rendered rather incapable, and laughs harshly. "How ironic."
"Don't," she chides, leaning forward and tugging on his arms. "Lie down with me, Charlie. We've had a long day, and I think we could both use a cuddle."
He obeys, drawing her into his arms this time and placing a few gentle kisses to her lips before she tucks in and rests her head over his heart.
"Thank you," he whispers.
"For what?"
His hand trails up and down her bare arm, beginning to lull her to sleep.
"For always knowing how to put me back together when I need you."
"That's love, Charlie," she says, yawning.
He sighs. "Indeed, it is."
tbc
