She strokes his neck, his back and shoulders with light skimming fingertips, places gentle kisses on the shell of his ear, the top of his head, wherever her lips can reach him. Holding him in her arms like this fills her in some way that she doesn't quite understand (she does, of course she knows, it's just that she doesn't like to dwell on it). Holding him after they've lain together is another special joy; she can feel the small tremors of his muscles as they begin to relax from the exercise they've just taken. Rubbing small tight circles along his back calms her somehow, regulates her breathing and settles her pounding heart. Just being able to touch him freely is such pleasure. It was so rare to touch or be touched in a life of service. Willingly, at any rate. Her illness had sharpened her perspective, forced her to examine her life dispassionately, to acknowledge all that she lacked, all that she had sacrificed over the years. But he's given it back to her tenfold. She sees love when she looks in his eyes, feels it when he touches her (and he cannot keep from touching her, which gives her an awful smug air, something she always hated about married women but now understands perfectly). Their life together is like a dream, something hoped for but wholly unexpected. And he is a revelation. She never thought he could unbend so far as he has. Never thought he could unbend period, but she thought she could live with it, with his fixed rigidity, and be quite content, quite happy. But this she had not expected. She had seen some tenderness in him from time to time, certainly, but seeing him in love (and that is what it is, he is in love with her) has astonished her. Whatever had taken them so long?
He's playing with her hair; he's fascinated by it, like a child really, and a small, satisfied smile plays across her lips. She stretches, catlike.
"Elsie?"
"Mmh?
"Are you…that is, I mean, have you any complaints?"
Complaints? Whatever is the man on about now? He's beginning to tense a bit in her arms; he's becoming uncomfortable. "Complaints? What sort of complaints?"
He ducks his head further into her shoulder. "Complaints. About being married. About…"
"And when have you known me not to speak up about something?" She laughs, that beautiful rare lilting laugh.
He chuckles uneasily. "You never did conceal the sharp edge of your tongue from me, but…" he trails off. He wants to know for certain whether she is pleased with his attentions or (here his heart seizes) whether she would prefer fewer of them. She has never refused him, indeed, she seems eager, but would she just be trying to spare his feelings? He knew she often concealed things from him in the old days to buffer him, to protect him. Could she be doing it now? Would she?
"Charles?" She shakes him gently. "Charles, wherever did you go? You're off gathering wool now. I've no complaints, if that's what's worrying you. None at all," she says emphatically, squeezing him to her for emphasis.
"It's just that when I was speaking to Dr. Clarkson" he begins.
"What?" Elsie sits up a bit; now she is beginning to feel uncomfortable.
"Well," he sits up now, tugs on his ear (a sure sign of distress she thinks), "I was having my annual, you remember, and well, I just wanted to be sure that everything was alright, everything was normal, and..." He looks at her; she's fixed him with another of her piercing stares. Why oh why can't he keep his damned mouth shut?
"And?"
"Well…it seems as though, I mean, of course I've never been in this situation before and I wasn't sure so I thought I should check and…"
"Yes?" She is growing impatient; what in the world has he taken into his head to fret about now? Their lives are nearly perfect as far as she can see. Whatever could be the matter with him?
"Well I wondered if perhaps we weren't, I mean if I wasn't, I mean we are frequently…"
"Charles, whatever you are trying to say, just say it and have done. We are frequently?"
"Here, like this." Gods, she usually understands him with fewer words. He doesn't have the words to talk about this with her, that's part of the problem. He's not even sure it's proper to bring it up, even between a married couple, but it's been troubling him ever since Clarkson mentioned the word complaint. He wouldn't force his attentions on her, he could restrain himself. He certainly did it often enough before. Of course now that he knows it will be more difficult, but.
She sits up quickly, gathers the sheet to her. "You spoke to Dr. Clarkson about us? About this?" She is flushed with embarrassment. She had thought there was something oddly familiar in the doctor's manner toward her when she stopped to chat with him in the street just the other day, but she had had no idea that Charles would have confided in him about their…she'll never be able to look Dr. Clarkson in the face again. "Whatever possessed you to talk to him about this, you daft man?" She is full on angry now; nothing, save him, means more to her than her privacy. A life in service taught her that all she owned were her experiences and they were hers alone, not to be chatted about by all and sundry, doctor or no.
"Well, I just thought, that is to say I was wondering whether, you know, given our age, my age," he corrects himself quickly, angrily, here he has spoiled a lovely moment between them. He should never have brought this up, or at least waited for a more opportune moment, such as when they were out of bed and clothed. "I just wondered if the frequency was normal," he spits out in a rush. Just get it over with man. Take your punishment and hope it's not sleeping on the sofa indefinitely.
"Frequency?" Her voice rises at least an octave and quite possibly a decibel or two. She can feel her face suffuse with shame. Of course he would assume there was something wrong, improper about their private life, something she had taken such delight in. But does he think there is something wrong with her? Her heart clenches briefly; but then how could he think that, she reasons, when it is nearly always he who approaches her? And whose idea was the kitchen, eh? Certainly not hers. And now it becomes clear. He is afraid, the silly git, afraid of his desires (still!) and perhaps afraid that she does not share them. "Oh, Charles," she shakes her head. "When will you learn to trust me?" He opens his mouth to speak, but she shushes him. "It's different now that we're married, I understand that, but I'm not all that different, am I?" She's speaking more softly now, kindly, and he is beginning to relax. Maybe he's not cocked it up too badly.
"No," he says shyly, softly.
"And will you trust me now, when I tell you that I've no complaints? None whatsoever?"
He nods his head, unable to speak.
"And will you agree that there is nothing wrong or improper between us?"
Another nod.
She pauses here; the words are so difficult to say. It's easier, like, when they are laying together, but she's got to tell him in a calmer moment and perhaps then he'll truly believe it. "I love you. I've always loved you. And I'm very happy, very content with our life together. I've no complaints, Charles. Truly." He looks up and smiles at her.
"When you say it like that, I suppose I've no choice but to believe you."
"Good, you great bleeding idiot! Promise me you'll talk to me first? Don't go telling tales on me, even if it is only the doctor, alright?
"Alright." He reaches for her, kisses her, a long lovely kiss that contains all the words he cannot bring himself to speak. I love you, I want you too much and I'm afraid, but I understand now, a bit. It's alright, we're alright.