Chapter 8

A/N: For Tarafru, who asked.

Elsie spent the remainder of the afternoon with her attention divided between performing her routine tasks and considering the extraordinary turn of events her private life had taken. She was in love with Charles Carson, but of course she had been aware of that for quite some time. But to think that Charles returned her affection! She had long wondered, hoped even, and yet she could never be absolutely sure of his love. That she had his regard, his esteem, there could be no doubt. But love? She had seldom even dreamt of such a possibility. Perhaps he might never have declared his feelings, perhaps never even acknowledged those feelings to himself, had it not been for the attack upon her. She thought angrily of that man, and of the injustice that he should be allowed to go free after what he had done to Anna. She'd had a fright, of course; it had been decades since a man had tried to force his attentions on her. She'd been unprepared for that, which had allowed him to gain the advantage of her. Thank goodness Charles came in when he did. But poor Anna. How awful, how violated she must feel, not to mention the additional burden of knowing that her husband, were he to discover the true culprit, would take certain steps, she thought delicately, to see that Anna was safe. Not that I don't think steps should be taken, she thought darkly. It isn't right that he has his freedom, while Anna must pretend that all is well even though we all can see she's suffering. But brooding about Mr. Green wasn't the answer to anything. She'd made a mistake by confronting him, and yet she couldn't wholly regret doing so, because it had prompted a confession from Charles, a confession that had made her so happy, yet terribly guilty as well. It wasn't surprising , then, that the good that had come out of that awful scene was tainted by Anna's desperate unhappiness. Elsie had spent nearly an hour last night in reflective, meditative quiet, giving thanks for the blessings in her life and asking forgiveness for her sins. She spent a long moment praying for Anna and Mr. Bates as well, asking for His many blessings upon them and for God's will to be done.

She had always been a practical woman; of course she attended church, learned her catechism by heart and believed in the Almighty, but she did not consider herself overly pious. She believed God had endowed his creations with sufficient intelligence and character to live quite well on this earth without pestering Him overmuch, so she was as surprised as any to find herself kneeling at the edge of her bed. She wondered idly what Charles' spiritual beliefs were. Of course they attended church every Sunday, and while he was no doubt attentive, she couldn't be quite sure that he didn't occasionally inventory the wine cellar during a particularly dull sermon. She laughed in spite of herself. Here was a gift then, a gift to them both, and no matter how it had come about, she was determined to savor the ineffable pleasure of at last loving and being loved in return.

*CE*

Charles spent the afternoon almost solely devoted to brooding over Mr. Barrow and the question of how to proceed. He wanted to court Elsie properly, yet he wasn't ready to reveal their new understanding to the household just yet. It was true what he'd told Mrs. Hughes several weeks ago. He wasn't a stranger to romance, and it saddened him to think that she of all people would have difficulty believing that. He had played the role of Carson the butler so thoroughly that he thought there would be very few indeed who would not be surprised by the butler openly walking out the housekeeper.

Their feelings had ignited so quickly between them that he'd had no time to consider, to plan. He had taken their intimacy much further than he would ever have dared had their courtship begun in a more traditional manner. The fault lay solely with Mr. Gillingham, Green- I will never forget the name or face of that man.

But how to pursue Elsie, to woo her in such a way as to leave her in no doubt of his esteem for her and yet protect her reputation while concealing the truth from prying eyes. He had been polishing the silver, the only occupation which never failed to soothe his troubled mind, but he stopped abruptly. He'd always paid particular attention to what she read; he always had done. It was one of the earliest commonalities he'd discovered between them. He had never cared for the Bronte Sisters, but he noticed that she had read and re-read The Tenant of Wildfell Hall many times. Wasn't that a novel written in largely epistolary form?

Letters. He would write her letters. He couldn't send them through the post, too risky and too expensive, but he could deliver them personally. And demand a kiss in lieu of postage; he grinned mischievously. That wouldn't do at all, but it certainly would be nice. He would conduct their courtship in epistolary form. He smiled broadly. Of course he would indulge in other forms of communication as well, but for now, a series of letters would do well to woo his housekeeper and divert the suspicion of his under butler. A good plan indeed. He felt very smug, and vowed to write his first letter that very afternoon.