A/N: Things are better for everyone after that last chapter, but will they remain that way? Thank you everyone for being so awesome about this fic. Really, it is you guys who rock though! Thank you all for reading! WARNING: SMUT AHEAD


"Have you found anything to help Miss Matthews?" Elsie asks that night, her wineglass heavy in her hand.

"Not much. Well, I've found she isn't very good at mathematics."

Elsie quirks a questioning eyebrow. Charles blushes. "Oh!" Elsie suddenly understands. "Oh dear."

Charles looks embarrassed. "I was no longer at that particular theatre when… you know."

"I do." She smiles at him, takes a sip of her wine. "How did she manage to get that wrong?" She wonders out loud.

"I've not asked." Charles picks up a cheese biscuit. He chews thoughtfully. "You know, June sent her to several schools, mostly run by nuns, none of whom were very loving it seems from the stories Beatrice has told me today and from the entries in the diary. June did care about her daughter, but I don't think she knew how to show it."

He takes another sip and Elsie listens attentively, not interrupting. "I remember that she was a workhouse child, or at least that she had grown up in a workhouse and she was proud of how she had struggled to make something of herself. She was very lively and always looked to me like she was a rather happy person, all in all. Not the person Beatrice made her out to be. I think I know why…" He pauses. "There was an entry in her diary that made me very uneasy. I think Beatrice disregarded it because she had her dates mixed up, but…" He sighs, pain evident in his face.

"What did it say?" Elsie scoots closer, chair legs scrape over the tiles and she puts down her glass to readjust her skirt. She puts her hand on his leg. "You don't have to tell me of course. I know it's private."

She can see him thinking and deciding, before he starts to speak. "I don't recall the exact wording. Something about physical pain and utter shame. That trying to push away memories was impossible when she was being reminded of it permanently. She wrote about worries and about a lack of money, about losing her friends and that she didn't know what to do."

"Well." Elsie says. "That does explain it all, doesn't it."

"Yes. I thought so. But I don't know if I should tell her."

"I doubt she'll ever find her father now." Elsie feels it's the least the girl deserves for her perseverance and her strength.

"She is so kind-hearted, but she is not weak. Though of course I've only known her for less than a day." Charles adds as an afterthought.

Elsie looks up sharply. Has it only been a day since she cut into a madeira cake to share with the rest of the staff? Only a day since she almost started singing 'For he's a jolly good fellow' when there was a knock on the door? Only a day since doubts settled so sharply and were laid to rest again?

"Weak she is definitely not." She agrees with him.

"You like her." She states. She doesn't mind, not much, just a bit, a needling feeling that prickles her neck now and then.

"She reminds me of someone. She is so practical and plain-spoken and she goes after what she wants and she is so curious." He looks at her and Elsie's breath hitches. She sucks in her bottom lip and bites it, hard.

"You know she does that too?" He asks, leaning over to touch her lips with his thumb.

"Does she now…" She softly kisses the pads of his fingers.

"I think you'd like her too." He offers and she finds he is almost shy.

"I think you're right. She is very upstanding, isn't she? She looks like she always knows what to do and when and how. Yes… she reminds me of someone I know too." And she isn't speaking of the girl's height or the colour of her eyes or her dark hair.

They sit together quietly, neither saying what's on the tips of their tongues, unable to get the words out. They cannot change the past now, even if they wanted to. It's Elsie who breaks the silence by squeezing Charles' thigh and getting up from her chair.

"Come…" She says, putting the half empty glasses on the tray with the plate of biscuits.

"Where are we going?" He asks.

"Upstairs. You can show me how clumsy you are…"


Mr Carson eventually leaves to serve lunch to the family and Mrs Hughes comes in to tidy his pantry. She moves with such ease, knowing exactly where everything goes and she only asks Bea if she is alright, doesn't pry. Perhaps she knows Mr Carson - Bea almost thought 'her husband' - will tell her all she needs to know tonight when they are alone. Bea is to catch the 16.54 from Ripon and she'll be falling into the waiting arms of her fiance who had been very kind and sweet to her while they briefly telephoned. She had not told him much, except to meet her at the station and that she would like to have dinner somewhere.

She isn't quite ready to go home. Her rooms are bound to be chilly and musty, her thoughts will swirl and she will be laying awake, wondering what to do next. She knows her nightmares will return. She'd rather not sleep if she has to endure more blurry beatings and muffled shouts.

Mrs Hughes takes her into the Servants' Hall, indicates she should sit. It's not as full of people as dinner or breakfast had been. Thomas Barrow is missing and it changes the atmosphere completely. Mrs Bates pulls her into a conversation and Bea finds she chats comfortably with the Lady's Maid, who is roughly the same age.

She is enjoying herself. Sitting here, tucking into her bread and cheese, it's nothing like it had once been in school. She is not being made to prove herself, when she laughs there is not the back of a hand on her cheek. Mrs Hughes pours her a second glass of milk as if it means nothing to have seconds.

If she'd had known this feeling before, she would have identified it as belonging, the obvious care and warmth as being with family.


He has her out of her dress, her corset, her shift in record time, his coat and shirt and trousers pooling on the floor. They kiss frantically, pushing up against each other, their lips plump and hot. She pulls away long enough get rid of her shift and presses herself against his naked skin. His arms wrap around her tight, he kisses a path from his cheek to her neck, tickling and driving her slightly crazy. His faint stubble is scratching her chin and cheek, his hand is suddenly on her bum, his erection poking her insistently. They turn, stagger, fall on the bed that protests loudly and they still for just a second until they are certain no-one has awoken.

They do this (she doesn't name it, by naming it she would have to address it and she doesn't want to, she doesn't want to admit she is a hypocrite - telling her girls never to let a man touch them unless they are married (and look how well that turned out for Anna, her Anna, her girl - she swallows hard, tries not to dwell on it, what's done is done, she is here with Charles, who is kind and would never do such a thing) in his room, always, figuring men sleep deeper, thinking that they have less of a chance of being caught in his bed.

He lets her fall back on his bed and runs his hands up her shins, cupping her knees and then lets his fingertips dance over the soft skin of her inner thighs. She lets her legs fall apart, allowing him to brush against the damp cotton of her knickers. She puts her hands on his sides, trying to pull him towards her - she wants to kiss him so badly, to have him closer to her.

She needs him to hold her, to be close. She doesn't need the lengthy foreplay he enjoys (alright, she usually enjoys it too), she just wants to be sure of him again, of his love, of what they have together. He seems to understand as he hooks his fingers under the elastic of her knickers and slides them down and then deftly touches her between her folds before hovering over her.

He doesn't enter her yet, but kisses her cheeks, her mouth and looks into her eyes. He softly strokes her cheek and smiles and she smiles back, nodding almost imperceptibly.

"I love you…" She murmurs and he plunges in before responding in kind. "I love you too… God, I love you, Elsie…"

They strike up a frantic rhythm and she clings to him, tears falling off her cheeks on his pillow and he massages her breast firmly, much firmer than he normally would, but nothing is the same as it once was. Elsie's thoughts flit from Anna's ordeal to Beatrice who was in a room on the other side of the dividing doors yesterday and neither girl is hers and Bea is not Charles' and Elsie arches her back, catching his thrusts, wanting him to chase the painful thoughts away.

More tears follow as she cannot focus on him, on the way he expertly touches her, instead thinking back on how she was young once - or perhaps not young, but young enough and how they had decided that such a life was not for them and how she had been wrong, god how wrong she had been. She reaches up to him, taking his cheeks between her hands, kissing him again and again, almost aggressively. He lets her, simply adjusting the tempo of his thrusts before gathering her up in his arms, pulling her up, her legs wrapping around his waist until they are tangled in an embrace, unable to get any closer.

"I love you…" She says again, her crying spilling over into her voice.

"I know…" He holds her, rocks them gently, not for friction, not to stimulate them, but to comfort in the only way he can right in that moment. "I love you too. So very much. I love you, my Elsie…"

"We made a mistake." She mutters into the softness of his neck. "We could have had this, we could have had…" Her crying increases with each words, she is flooding his shoulder with tears. He strokes her hair as it's come undone, falling down her back and it's so comforting, this tender care that she knows is all for her, always.

"Elsie… Elsie, won't you look at me?" His words sound soft in her ear.

She looks at him, the dim light of the bedside lamp reflecting in his eyes. She manages a soft smile. "What is it, my love?"

"Elsie Hughes… we cannot change the past, but we can change the future… please do me the honour of becoming my wife, so we can make a start together?"