Frost tints the windows of the cottage on a grey Sunday afternoon.

Inside, it is warm.

Charles dangles a string from Elsie's sewing basket, pulling it up as Poirot swipes at it. The cat's frustration makes him laugh.

"Stop teasing him," his wife calls from the kitchen.

He fists the string and bends over from his chair, rubbing Poirot's ears. "Who says I'm teasing him? He's a cat, he does funny things-"

Coming into the sitting room carrying the tea tray, Elsie rolls her eyes. "You are a hopeless liar, Charlie Carson. I know very well you're dangling that yarn so he can't reach it." Steam rises from the teapot as she fills their cups.

He feels like Sybbie, caught taking another biscuit from the plate. "How did you know?" He asks. He tosses the string back into the sewing basket. "Really? I was still writing to Mr. Bates when you went into the kitchen!"

His befuddled expression makes her mouth twitch, and it is her turn to laugh. "My dear man," she sits down, leaning over to touch his knee, "Have you forgotten you were doing that very same thing yesterday morning? More important, have you forgotten that I know you?"

"I would never forget that," he smiles. He cuts the corner of his cake with his fork. "But I don't understand – I know you too, but I can't know with any certainty what you're doing when I can't see you."

"We women have our ways of knowing these things," she says with a mysterious smile that makes his heart skip. Her eyes dance. "As for not knowing what I am doing when you can't see me…last night, you seemed to know very well what I was going to do. All while the light was off, of course."

Her reply is so unexpected he drops his fork. It clatters onto his plate. It is not that he is embarrassed; they have been married long enough that he knows how they both enjoy certain aspects of their life together. Nor is he angry with her.

It is just that at times he is still awed that this is his life – that he did, finally, propose to Elsie Hughes, long-time housekeeper at Downton Abbey; that they fudged their way through wedding planning and married on that glorious day in front of the family and their friends. That they overcame several bumps in their early days together as man and wife; that despite his sudden retirement and her more anticipated one, that she, she, is the woman that he gets to share his days (and nights) with.

I am the luckiest man in the world.

She has grown bolder with him when they are alone. Her talking of intimacy openly - though always when they are alone at home - is still new.

He realizes he has not answered her. "Fortunately," he raises his eyebrows, "You had no objection when I kissed you first." He picks up his fork again and takes a bite of his cake, closing his eyes in bliss at its sweetness.

Elsie smiles at him over her cup. "I never do." These quiet moments alone, when it is just the two of them, she relishes over nearly everything else.

When we were in service we hardly had a moment alone.

They sit, enjoying their tea and discussing various things. A planned trip together to Ripon during the coming week; their neighbor Mrs. Neely helping Elsie sew new curtains; Charles's meeting with Mr. Barrow on Tuesday to discuss in detail changes – in particular, what to do about the wine cellar. Lord Grantham has never returned to drinking alcohol regularly, and he likely never will. Mr. Talbot and Mr. Branson both drink wine, as do the women, but their tastes are different. And times are moving on. Mr. Barrow has to shoulder more duties that his predecessor never had to.

Lady Mary wants to keep the cellar as it is.

"For Master George's sake," Charles says, setting down his cup. "She says it would be lovely for him to have an established wine collection once he inherits Downton."

"Which will be no time soon, God willing," Elsie is tempted to roll her eyes. "She wants to keep it as a memory of you, never mind her son!"

"It's not about me," he protests. "Wine is integral to entertaining. They can't very well have dinner parties, without it. Mr. Barrow agrees with me."

She can't help but laugh. "How often does that happen?" She sighs, shaking her head. "Well, I'm sure between the two of you, a solution will present itself. But try to remember that he does not have as much time as you did when you were butler."

"I know." He gathers the empty dishes and sets them back on the tea tray. His hands are not shaking today, so he picks it up and carries it into the kitchen.

When he returns to the sitting room, he finds his wife with Poirot on her lap. The black cat purrs, rubbing his head against her leg as she pets him.

"Doesn't he know he's not allowed to do that?" Charles says gruffly, putting on his best stern butler face. As he hoped, Elsie looks up at him with her eyebrows raised.

"He can do as he pleases." A smile grows on her face as she cuddles the cat. "As can you. It's always nice to know one is loved."

Charles sits down rather precariously on the arm of her chair, slipping his arm around her shoulders. "You are, you know. Very much. And it costs me nothing to say it." He rumbles in the voice he knows she loves and kisses the top of her head. Poirot meows. "Oh all right, you too."

Leaning into him, Elsie sighs happily. "I love you, Charlie."

Her heart is full. Hearing her own words, spoken at a time when she never thought she would be able to speak openly, brings tears to her eyes.

They are happy ones.

My husband loves me, as I love him.

I am the luckiest woman in the world.