A/N: Thank you everybody for being so kind about the previous chapter! The 'Mr Hughes' remark won't be quite resolved this chapter, but we are making a lot of headway on this road towards happily ever after!
Dee, thank you for beta'ing. And, as is my usual plea: reviews are terribly appreciated!
After the recessional hymn he gets up from the pew and is about to turn to Elsie, to give her his hand, when there's the voice of local postman Fred ringing clear through the cloud of murmuring voices around them:
"Good morning, Mr Hughes! Good of you to join us! Fancy watching the boys play cricket later? Just some of us playing five or six runs."
"S-sorry?"
"I said: Mr Hughes, do you fancy coming along to the cricket later…"
He looks at her - not knowing what to do or say and she smiles at him (a shy little quirk of the corner of her mouth and she is blushing a faint pink).
"Well?" the young man asks. More lads have joined Fred, looking at Charles and Elsie with great curiosity.
"We'll be there," Elsie says to Fred and then turns to Charles. "Won't we, Mr Hughes?"
He nods slowly. "Alright. A five runs game, you said, Fred?"
"Yeah, practicing for the match - the village against the house."
He nods again. "We'll be there."
"Are you alright?" she asks. She is making their lunch and packing it in a basket. There are cucumber sandwiches and some slices of cheese. There's a flask with sugary, milky tea and she's put slices of the cake she bought in a tin.
"Yes, I'm alright."
He's taken his jacket off - it is terribly warm already and he's watching her movements, sitting by the table, his elbows on his knees, his hands clasped together.
"You are very quiet."
She puts the food and the flask in a wicker basket. They'll take a blanket with them to sit on. She is looking forward to watching the lads play. Not that she understands a single thing about cricket. He does, though. She used to watch him play for the Abbey - strong arms bare to the elbow in cricket whites; a schoolbook example of sportsmanship. He cut a striking figure on the pitch. She remembers watching the first innings and thinking how nice it would be if she could just sit with the other spectators.
Today she can.
"I just keep thinking about what Fred said…" Charles's voice is quiet and contemplative.
"Do you?"
"You don't mind that he called me 'Mr Hughes'?"
She turns around and leans against the counter, wiping her hands on the dishcloth thoughtfully. Truth of the matter was that she had not minded it at all. In fact: she had rather liked the way Fred had given them a cover - a veil of respectability to hide behind.
But she doesn't want to hide. She never did when she was still… working and she certainly isn't starting now.
She sighs.
"I didn't mind. No. It's very odd to hear you referred to as Mr Hughes, but I suppose the same would go for me if someone were to suddenly call me 'Mrs Carson'."
His heart hammers against his breastbone as a blush appears on her cheeks and run down her neck.
Mrs Carson.
He's thought of Elsie as his bride a few times now, but to hear her say those words…
Maybe that is what struck him so - the 'Mr Hughes'. It's the same, but in a different order. It makes him part of her life. It makes him belong.
He swallows hard and lowers his head into his hands. He knows what he wants to ask, but he doesn't know how to form the words into a sentence. Doesn't know how to get the request out - the storm of their fight so fresh in his mind.
Maybe after the cricket he'll know what to say.
He closes his eyes.
Her hand is on his shoulder then.
"Do you want to go now or do you think we should wait?"
He looks up into her sparkling eyes and smiles. "Let's go now. The day is too beautiful to spend cooped up inside."
She laughs - a beautiful, twinkling sound. "I am glad to see you so excited."
He shakes his head at her. "I'll carry the basket," he offers.
"Naturally - why do you think I am letting you come along?" she teases.
He gets up from his chair and kisses her cheek. "Good to know I have my uses," he jests and she looks at him, suddenly serious.
"You do…" she says, quietly. "I wouldn't know what I would do without you."
She takes the blanket and shakes it out, the air trapped underneath making it billow. The purples and browns stand in stark contrast with the green of the lush grass. They are close to the other spectators - mostly parents of the young ones who are getting warmed up.
"Is that a girl?" Charles points at a tall girl - she must be fifteen or so.
"Looks like it."
"Looks like a fast runner."
She glances at him. She expected him to be narrow-minded about it, and here he sits on the blanket, being all easy-going and progressive.
She is stretched out on the blanket - her head resting on Charles's lap. The sun is beating down on the cricket pitch and they've polished off the sandwiches and cake. There's a cup of tea left in the flask for later. Sounds of leather and wood, the umpire's voice, the rustling of the wind through the trees: it's all summer and happiness.
Behind her she can hear the women talking. Gossip about those not attending, reflections on the game (she's never understood the rules, doesn't think it matters at all) and then the conversation is about 'the newly arrived Mr Hughes'.
"He's sixty-five at least!" a voice declares.
"Must be retired," another answers.
"Do you know what he does?"
Silence falls.
"Your Fred must know something," somebody inquires.
"He'd never say anything." Elsie recognises Fred's mother's voice.
Elsie fights to keep her smile from spreading.
"Oh come now, Agnes, don't keep us in the dark!"
Shuffling feet, a lowering in tone: "Well, he did write her every single day while he was away," Agnes says.
"Well I never!"
"They do look devoted." There's the first voice again - excited and slightly breathless.
"You can say that, but I know that cake they shared was definitely shop bought."
"How does that matter, Florrie?"
That is something Elsie wants to know too.
"She is not so devoted she bakes a cake for him."
More silence.
"Now Florrie, not everyone is talented in that area," someone starts, but is interrupted.
"And she is not in any of the church committees!" Florrie is obviously appalled.
"She's not been in the village three months!" It's Agnes who comes to Elsie's defence.
"Still. I call it very feeble."
Charles gently wipes away some wisps of hair that have come undone from her coiffe.
"Aww... "
"He is in love with her and no mistake." The excited woman says.
"Have you seen her get comfortable against him? She's as in love as he is."
"You don't expect it, do you?"
"She's not wearing a ring," someone remarks and Elsie's heart starts fluttering uncomfortably.
"Maybe she forgot to put it back on after the dishes. Or maybe they never had one - you know she's Scottish. Perhaps they eloped when they were young."
Elsie lets out a shuddering breath.
"They're a right pair of lovebirds though, look at them, all cuddled up together." Agnes must have turned around for her voice sounds closer now.
"She is still wearing a corset, so she's respectable enough."
"Florrie!"
The women laugh.
"I will say this though - there's been a lorry with a garguantuan shipping of boxes a couple of days ago." Agnes offers.
"Where from?" the excited woman asks.
"I don't know. Up North somewhere."
Elsie bites back another smile as she hears the women speculate what the contents of the shipment were.
The living room full of wine crates: the talk of the town. It reminds her of Charles's excitement that morning. She opens her eyes, blinks against the sunlight.
"Charles?"
"Hmm?"
"What was your idea for the wine?"
"Hmm? What?"
"The wine, what do you want to do with it?"
"Oh! Erm... I'll tell you later. This should be the last run. That girl is a splendid bowler."
Elsie snickers and pushes herself up from his lap, kisses him quickly on the lips.
There's a smile in his kiss back.
She is walking next to him, her arms folded - the blanket pressed between arms and chest - and he is explaining his idea. The sunshine and cricket make him feel better. Sitting on the grass with his Elsie makes him feel like he's where he is supposed to be and the people in the village are treating him with kind apprehension.
He can see a future for himself here. For the both of them.
"We can set up shop," he says and glances at her. She is frowning.
"A few afternoons a week. Not make it a full-time business, just on Monday, Wednesday and Friday afternoons. And not sell by the crate, like is usual, but by bottle. Make wine more approachable for the…" he trails off, a little worried by Elsie's silence.
"... the common man?" she fills in for him.
"That is not what I mean," he says, frowning himself now.
He hears her sigh deeply. He wishes he could put his arm around her shoulders, pull her close against him, but he is carrying the basket and he finds that when he can smell her perfume, it inhibits his ability to think.
"But all these people coming in our home, Charles… I don't know…"
He nods.
"You worry it would be like The Grantham Arms?" he asks. He doesn't understand what would be so objectionable about having a small group of people coming in a few afternoons a week.
If anyone would come at all, that is. There's every chance they'd not get any customers whatsoever.
"No, The Grantham Arms was obviously very different to a regular shop. But… We'd not have a moments' peace."
"You're right…" He thinks about the ways she would seduce him in the afternoon - how she'd pull the pins from her hair and unhook her dress, letting it pool at her feet, giving him the most enticing look at her underthings. "Maybe we can come up with another solution…"