Upstairs in the bathroom Charles Carson prepared for bed in a euphoric state. He hummed to himself as he wet his head and toweled some of the pomade from his hair. He couldn't believe his good fortune. Mrs. Hughes loved him. She would soon be his wife. Could life be any more perfect?

When he was down to just his shorts and vest he considered his reflection. He stepped back so he could see more than just his shoulders and face.

Admittedly, he wasn't what he had been in his youth, but he didn't think he was too far gone. His shoulders were not as broad as they had once been but they were still broad. He'd acquired some girth but he carried it with dignity. The mussed hair on his head was as much grey as black but at least he still had a full head of hair.

Not bad for your age, Charlie boy, he thought, sucking his gut in a little and turning to the side. Still, he wondered that the years had done this to him when they'd only made Mrs. Hughes more beautiful.

The thought of her, his fiancé, made him smile. Instantly, the man in the looking glass looked twenty years younger. He even saw a little spark of the rebellious spirit that had caused him to stray from service for a time. He saw the cocky confidence that had made him the ideal footman when he'd returned from the stage. His confidence had waivered in the years since the war. The world seemed determined to leave him behind. All the changes, coming in quick succession had unsettled and frightened him, but the constancy of her friendship had seen him through every crisis.

Now, her promise made the future something for which to yearn rather than something from which to run. She awakened feelings and dreams in him that he'd long thought dead.

And what do you do for her? His conscious asked. He frowned in answer.

She'd agreed to marry him. There must be something he offered her that no one else could. Charles hoped that she felt that she'd received similar support from him through the years, but it was hard to imagine. What had he done for her over the years that could compare to all she'd given him?

He sometimes took her side when Mrs. Patmore was being unreasonable. More often than not, he acted as a neutral observer. Much less often, he acted as reluctant mediator in their conflicts. He'd been caught between the hotheaded cook and the fiercely resolute housekeeper more times than he cared to remember. No, he'd not been much help on that front.

He'd tried to lessen her load when she was dealing with her potential illness. He'd only succeeded in upsetting her. A chill passed through him. Charles did not want to dwell on memories of that time.

Recently, he'd offered words of encouragement as she worried about Anna and Mr. Bates, but he couldn't be sure how much comfort she'd derived from his empty platitudes. Charles felt ashamed for not being more caring towards her. She deserved better than a gruff curmudgeon for a husband. Comforting and nurturing were not words Charles would ever use to describe himself, but it was not beyond his power to change that.

He locked eyes with his reflection resolutely.

He'd held back his feelings and his affection for too long. If he wasn't too old to find love, he wasn't too old change for the woman he loved. How long had she pressed him to be kinder; not just to her, but to everyone?

She agreed to marry you and Mrs. Hughes does not suffer fools, so you can't be completely hopeless, he reminded himself. She must see something in you, mate. Prove her right.

He would start tomorrow by apologizing to Mrs. Patmore.

As he passed the bathtub on his way out of the bathroom, he smiled to himself. Even though he would have to eat crow in the morning, he was rather proud of having put Mrs. Patmore in her place by reminding her of the bathtub incident. If he lived to be a hundred years old, he would never forget that morning.

A frightened hall boy had been sent to wake him before six. Unable to discern what the lad was saying, Mr. Carson had allowed himself to be led to the bathroom. There, he found all the hall boys and footmen standing around the bathtub. As he approached, he saw that the newly promoted cook was sleeping cozily in the tub. She'd made a nest using what looked like every towel from the hamper.

Surrounded by the hall boys, she'd looked like a scene from a Christmas panto featuring Snow White. Or she would have if Snow White snored like a hibernating bear. Or if they'd woken Snow White by poking her with a shoehorn and she'd awoken with a bloodcurdling scream.

Mrs. Patmore had panicked as several of the boys attempted to hold her down, fearful that she was likely to hurt herself getting out of the tub in such a state.

At a loss for what to do, Mr. Carson had been grateful when he heard the door between the women's and men's corridors unlock.

'I heard a scream,' Elsie had said, bustling into the men's bathroom without a second thought. Taking in the scene in an instant, she'd put her hands on her hips and frowned down at the confused cook. 'Ah, there she is. Thank goodness she's alright.'

'That's a rather optimistic assessment,' Mr. Carson had grumbled. Elsie ignored him.

'Poor Candice has been looking for you since five, Mrs. Patmore.'

'No need to shout,' Mrs. Patmore had winced and covered her eyes.

'She can't stay here,' Mr. Carson had pointed out. 'My lads need to get ready for their day.'

'Of course. If I could have a moment with her in private, Mr. Carson, I believe I can get her out of your way.'

With one gesture, Mr. Carson cleared his lads from the room. 'Please be quick about it, Miss Hughes. Much more delay will disrupt everyone's schedule.'

'Understood, Mr. Carson,' she'd nodded as he closed the door.

Thirty seconds and a few loud splashes later, Miss Hughes and a wet-headed Mrs. Patmore had emerged from the bathroom.

'Thank you, Elsie,' he'd said as she passed by supporting most of the weight of an angry and still disoriented cook. He was genuinely impressed by her calm and efficient demeanor. She'd been head housemaid for less than five months. She was only standing in as housekeeper while Mrs. Curtis visited her ill sister, but she was acquitting herself very well. 'I don't know what we would have done if you hadn't come to help.'

'What are friends for?' she'd answered back with a quick smile. He wasn't sure if she was saying she was his friend or Mrs. Patmore's. 'Happy Christmas, Mr. Carson.'

Over twenty years later, he could still picture it. It probably wasn't the first time she'd smiled at him, but it was the first time he noticed her dry wit and sparkling eyes.

He reached his room and climbed swiftly into bed. The hour was late and he did not want to be tired and cranky tomorrow. After pulling the bedclothes up to his chest, Charles ran his thumb across his cheek where she had touched him earlier. His skin felt icy and hot at the same time. His lips felt very much the same as he remembered pressing them to the softness of her hand.

As much as Mrs. Patmore's interruptions had annoyed him, she had probably saved them from crossing the line of propriety. He took a deep, steadying breath. Today's events had been overwhelming on so many levels. He'd been hopeful in the morning, but actually securing her promise and exchanging pledges of love with Mrs. Hughes had exceeded his every expectation.

The immense relief and joy that he felt had been nearly impossible to contain. Maybe tomorrow he would be more accustomed to the passions rising up within him. Maybe tomorrow he would have better control over his impulses to touch her, his need to kiss her. He doubted it very much.

TBC...

AN/ Just a short one from his POV. Next update, her POV of the night after.

Also, I've added a little more to the Beryl bathtub incident (since you guys seemed to like it). I'm done with it for now, but I'll flesh it out in an epilogue after we're done with our two old boobies.