A/N: Hello my faithful and well-loved readers. (Side note: how many lovely new stories are there being written right now? It's brilliant!). Thank you to everyone who read and reviewed the last chapter, especially those of you I haven't replied to yet. This one fought me, but I think in the end, I beat it into submission. We're firmly out of the NSFW zone at the moment, but don't worry, I think we'll be back there soon enough...

Drabble Twenty-One: the first day (after the wedding)

_islands in the stream_

He supposes that he expected it to be strange after. Thinks it should be, that perhaps the House should feel different. That when he turns to her at breakfast and says; "Her Ladyship wishes to see you this morning, Mrs Carson" that something should happen, something more than her nodding and handing him his buttered toast.

But later, standing in the breakfast room while His Lordship and the young Ladies eat, he understands why it all seems so normal. Why he got up from his seat and did not lean over to kiss her. Why he did not stumble over her name or clasp her by the waist as they passed in the corridor.

They are married, he loves her, he would very much like to take her in his arms and not let her go, to pull her back to their bed, spend days with her beneath the sheets. He thinks that when the door closes behind them tonight he will do just that. But right now, in this moment and every one since they left their rooms, they are not Mr and Mrs Carson; newlyweds; they are Mr and Mrs Carson; staff.

Of course they have not floundered in their act today; they have been playing these parts for years. They come naturally.

It is the staff reactions that he is struggling with. He has been a man of honour for so long, has done nothing to warrant smiles and laughter in the servant's hall, but today...

He is happy, he is. He would not give up Elsie for anything, he did after all, consider that he might have to give up everything to be with her the way they are know, would have done so without complaint.

He might not have come back from France, he might never have gone and then not realised for a long time how much she has come to mean to him, he might have never told her at all. He is grateful for the way his life has gone, for how it has led him here to this day after his wedding. He is thankful that she loves him the way he does her, that in the privacy of their home he can show her.

But the servants are talking, the family are talking. Hide smiles as he passes, conversations quiet abruptly and then continue on loudly with new topics when he enters a room. When he and Elsie step into his panty before lunch to look over the guest list Her Ladyship has written for the party after Christmas, Mrs Patmore catches his eye and winks.

And Elsie, his dear wife, is no help, smiling back at the servants, joining their changed conversations, thanking Her Ladyship when she offers again her congratulations.

She is so calm, so steady, accepting the changes around her with an ease he cannot even envy because he does not understand it.

"They'll only stop when you stop reacting to it, Mr Carson." She says at lunch, cutting her sandwich into triangles.

He is not reacting, is spending effort in great amounts to keep his face straight, his movements fluid and unchanged by the whispers, the knowledge these people have of their activities last night - not all of them; he does not believe any of them have the imagination to guess it all. He tells her as much, sips at his tea and makes a point not to look at her, not to glare down the table either, where Thomas and Miss O'Brien are twittering at each other.

Her hand lands on his thigh, fingers curling around him as she squeezes and he tries not to drop his cup.

"If you were any more tense, Mr Carson I would worry you had turned to stone." She squeezes again and he tries to relax, to unwind his muscles, unclench his jaw.

"You're not helping." He whispers to her eventually, when he has failed to relax at all, her touch all he can focus on.

She brings her hand back up above the table to grasp her own cup, smiles at him, one eyebrow raised. "Sorry."

Her eyes sparkle; somehow he feels himself settling, steadying under her gaze.

Her knee knocks against his own and he bites back a smirk, takes a bite of his sandwich. Of course she is not sorry at all, his wicked woman.

Next time: the first pet