This chapter is filled with angst, realizations, a little confession, and some cuddles too. It deals with people who have a limited emotional vocabulary, who try to find ways to talk through problems without revealing too much yet revealing everything. It is a missing scene and I hope that I've done the characters some measure of justice. TW: Discussion of attempted suicide.
Of all the things that married life has changed for her, things to which she has had to grow accustomed, sharing a bed has been the easiest of which to adjust.
He does not know it but she covets this time with him when the house is quiet except for his gentle snoring and the tapping of the tree branches against the roof of the house. This is the time when she can look at him and study him without feeling awkward.
The weather is slightly warm out, but they are snuggled under a quilt that her mother had patched together. It is not so thick anymore, a little threadbare in places, but it's one of the only nice things that she has left of her mother's. He has one arm tucked under his pillow crushing it into submission, while his other hand rests in the space between them, fingers curled in tightly against one another.
Sleep usually smoothes the frown from his lips, leaving a contented look of peace playing across his features. But not tonight. Tonight his brow is still furrowed. His are lips pressed tightly together and his hair is all-askew. The bryclcreem is never completely washed out and it causes his hair to ruffle and jut out in all sorts of strange directions. Lying here this way, vulnerable, it doesn't take much for her to see the insecure young man hidden beneath an aging man's façade.
She turns a bit more and reaches out to touch him as if she can smooth away the frustration from his features, as if her touch can melt away his pain. If she can help him she must even in the smallest of ways.
She slides a hand along his forehead and down his cheek, her fingers lovingly glide along the cleft of his chin, but his features do not soften. So she repeats her pattern over and then again. Softly, slowly in the vain attempt to heal him.
It is an exercise in futility.
Then suddenly, just when her fingertips leave him, when she turns away, pulls the covers over her shoulder, and attempts to chase sleep, he reaches for her. His free hand finds purchase along her hip then across the plain of her stomach. And he is pulling her closer.
The warmth of his body next to hers, the way his fingers once gripped tightly unto themselves are now wrapped around her, and how she can feel his steady breath rise and fall against her back brings her comfort. Before long, she is fast asleep.
"Come back to bed," she calls softly. She gently caresses his cheek, runs her fingers over the soft shell of his ear, down his neck, and over his shoulder.
"You've had a shock. You need to sleep. Go back to bed," he replies quietly.
"And you haven't had?"
"I didn't mean to wake you. I couldn't…I couldn't find the tin of cocoa." His voice trails off; he's tired and there is a hint resignation in his voice, the brokenness of a man struggling with what he's seen.
She gently squeezes his arm, remembering another time she saw him like this. Sad and far away, lost in thought. She releases his arm and quietly moves across their modest kitchen, fetches the tin from atop the metal cupboard near the sink. She wonders if he'd even looked for it. The tin has been in plain sight the entire time.
She scoops coal from the box near the backdoor, then thrusts it into the stove, and takes a match to it. Closing the coal compartment's door, she then busies herself, filling the kettle with water and placing on the burner. She hazards a glance toward her husband, his shoulders are slumped, and he is fidgeting with a torn spot on the corner of the tablecloth. Of course, he would notice the flaw she thinks. She has not had time to mend it and she half expects him to ask why. But he doesn't seem upset by the little tear, the fraying edges. His thoughts are elsewhere.
"Thank you," he says suddenly, his voice piercing the silence that has fallen across the room. He looks up and catches her gaze. He hopes that she knows that he's not speaking of her preparing his cocoa or even sitting up with him but so much more.
She sees the tears in his eyes and knows that he will not let them fall because that is not who he is. He is still so buttoned up, so self-contained and she does not expect him to be anything else. After all, she is not much better. There are still many things she doesn't say; she is learning to open up, learning to share fully her thoughts as well.
Placing the tin of cocoa on the counter and dusts her hands across a cloth. She places her right hand to her hip and rubs it in little circles. Often she is a little a sore during the night, at the end of a long day; getting older means she is feeling her age in all sorts of little ways.
Moving to him, she pulls the chair away from the table and sits beside him, takes his fidgeting hands in hers and stills them. She wonders if he will say anything, how much he will say. She will not press him to say anything at all.
The warmth of her hands brings him instant comfort. She has always had that effect on him. Nothing has changed in that respect. But so much as changed. Changed with the house, changed between them. He loves her so much it frightens him sometimes.
"You shouldn't have had to see that. Let alone clean it up." He sounds sympathetic and angry all at once.
She sighs.
"I thought Miss Baxter should stay with Thomas and I couldn't very well ask Anna to clean the bathroom now could I?" She releases his hands and drops hers into her lap.
He has noticed that Anna has filled out but he has not asked about it. He has assumed that Elsie will tell him if there is anything that he needs to know. But she hasn't yet and so he presses a bit.
"So Anna is….?"
Elsie looks down, fidgets with her hands, smoothes her nightgown. "Yes, I think so. It is becoming quite obvious, but she's not said anything yet."
He hums noncommittally.
"I suppose that means that she'll leave service when the time comes. Lady Edith doesn't have a lady's maid but Lady Mary has different expectations," he muses scrubbing a hand through his hair.
"I suspect that Lady Mary will make due." Elsie sounds a bit harsher than she means to and she offers an apologetic smile when his head snaps up sharply. She doesn't mean to argue with him
She rises from her chair and steps close to him, places a kiss to his forehead. He pulls her close, wrapping his arms around her waist for a moment before she tells him that she must fetch the kettle.
She busies herself preparing their cocoa and he moves to the settee. Charles doesn't switch on the light that sits on the table nearby; the light from the kitchen is enough.
"Here we are," Elsie says, offering him a steaming mug as she sits beside him.
"Mmmm," he hums taking a sip. "Just like my mother used to make," he smiles wistfully.
Elsie fights the urge to tease him, resists the urge to revel in the fact that he has finally conceded that she has done something up to standard. But she doesn't because he has stopped complaining about her cooking, eating every morsel now, with an appreciative smile. And if she were to admit it, her culinary skills have improved, just as everything improves with practice.
They sit in silence for a long while until they hear the wind begin to rustle outside, rain begins to fall, and then the drops begin to crash into the windows with more force. Charles instinctively places his arm around his wife's shoulder and draws her close against his side.
"I never thought Thomas was capable of….."
"Do we ever know what anyone is capable of?"
"Perhaps I might have handled things differently," he muses. "I could have written some letters. Inquired of some butlers I know."
Elsie snuggles closer into him, covers his hand with her own. "We all could have been kinder," she answers. "I know we may not think it, but Thomas has feelings just like the rest of us."
"Do you think Mr. Molesley will make a go of it as a teacher? I'm not sure that I can see it," Charles asks her. He reaches for her left hand, fidgets with her wedding ring.
She knows that he is avoiding talking of the thing that worries him most. She knows because she does the same. Buying houses. Becky. Marital expectations and wifely duties.
"I think that he wants to succeed very much and that's something," she answers. "And Miss Baxter is on his side so that is a great incentive I imagine."
Charles places a kiss to her hair and lingers a moment.
"Did you know that Lady Mary took Master George to see him?" The words hang heavy around them and she knows that he does not mean Mr. Molesley of whom they have just been speaking. She knows that he means Mr. Barrow, Thomas, the under butler whose bloodied and lifeless body she helped to drag down the men's corridor and into his room hours earlier.
"Mrs. Patmore did mention that she gave Master George an orange to take to Thomas. The boy is quite fond of him," she answers quietly.
His silence says everything.
"The boy needs someone to show him fatherly attention and I must say that Thomas seems to adore him. Master George brings out the kindness in him," she finishes.
Charles knows this, has heard it among the other staff. He has heard how Thomas takes time with the boy, how the under-butler is kind and gentle with the lad. How he smiles more and how Master George laughs.
"I imagine Thomas might feel about him the way you feel about Lady Mary."
At this, she feels him stiffen. He doesn't move away, doesn't release his hold on her, but realisation begins to dawn on him that Master George doesn't darken the door of the butler's pantry. The boy does not come to him to play with toy soldiers or for the sweets that he keeps tucked away in the tin in his desk drawer. He had chalked it up to his being too busy, but he knows it is not that. It is not that at all.
He is no longer the father figure, not even the grandfather figure. Because George has a grandfather. Charles knows that his time is fading, that he is of another generation and that his Lady Mary is growing older herself. She does not need him as much as she once did. She is the estate agent now. A career woman in her own right. And she will remarry – one day – and be happy and need his reassurances less and less.
"Do you think that anyone….that Lady Mary might blame…." he does not finish his question because there is no need. Elsie turns and looks him square in the eye.
"I don't presume to know what Lady Mary thinks, but don't go borrowing trouble. Thomas has been unhappy for a long time despite what anyone may have done or said. The only thing that we can do now is to treat him with the respect that we owe any man."
He knows that she is right, but the sting of guilt still niggles at him. He wonders if His Lordship feels much the same. He manages a small smile and nods, pats her hand with his.
"Come on now, let's get back to bed. We've to be at the house in a few hours," she says as she tugs him up from the settee.
As they walk across the room and he switches the kitchen light off, he wonders how it might be to have their days to themselves.
"Perhaps, we could visit our house tomorrow," he offers quietly. "The workmen are finishing and we could begin planning the future."
TBC… Thank you for reading. Reviews are most appreciated.