A/N Deviating just a tad here… In my story, Carlisle hasn't asked Anna to spy on Mary, thus taking away a much easier decision. (What fun would that be?) Bring on the Spanish Flu…
Store Cupboard Spies – Chapter 21
Charles sat at his desk, futilely attempting to review the books. Lists were the only form of order in his life as of late. If he didn't have his mind on processing mundane facts and figures, it was thrust into a state of torment fueled by impossible decisions that had to be made and soon. That compounded with all this outrageous business with Lady Sybil and Branson and the upcoming wedding of Matthew Crawley and Lavinia Swire had his anxiety soaring. His chest was in a constant state of ache but the heat, well the heat in his head was certainly new.
He couldn't take it anymore, he started to rise, but was gripped by an overwhelming wave of dizzying nausea. Chalking it up to nerves, he braced himself on the corner of his desk with one wavering arm as he tried to compose himself and his beleaguered thoughts. "This is ridiculous," he thought to himself as he heard the door start to creak open.
"Please don't let it be her," he silently prayed, sending up all hope that Elsie wouldn't have to see him this way. He knew how it would affect her, even if she refused to let him in enough to see it.
Elsie's heart lurched as she entered to see Charles struggling to stand at his desk. His face was reddening quickly and sweat poured from his brow. She was immediately taken back to the night he had had his attack at dinner. This time nothing would stop her from going to him.
Before he could blink, she was at his elbow, providing the best scaffold he could imagine, serving to help him stand and lift his spirit all at once. He could hear her distantly, telling him that she would take care of everything and then his own voice answering as if from a different room… something about Mr. Molesley… no, not the maids, Elsie… Doctor Clarkson… straight to bed…
"Only if you're there with me," he managed to choke out with a chuckle before his vision failed and the world went black.
"Anna," Elsie screamed out in an effort to get help. She couldn't hold his dead weight on her own. They had only managed to make it to the middle of his pantry before he collapsed onto the floor, forcefully taking him down with her.
The door flew open to reveal a concerned Tom Branson. Charles had just spent a portion of the last hour berating him over his boldness concerning a marriage with young Sybil, but when he heard Elsie's impassioned cry, he had to come. He had always admired Elsie Hughes's frankness, ignoring most of it, but honoring the fact that it always originated from a place of care and concern.
"What's happened," he asked hurriedly as he helped her sit up on the floor and quickly moved to lift Charles's shoulders and torso into a sitting position.
"He just collapsed. I was trying to tell him that I would manage…" Elsie found herself unable to continue. She fell silent as she reached out to mop Charles's brow with her handkerchief. He wasn't warm to the touch; he was boiling.
Sarah O'Brien had reached the door, witnessing the scene unfolding inside. Without hesitation, she went to fetch Thomas. The wheels in her mind spun furiously. What better way to get Thomas back in decent graces with Mr. Carson and Mrs. Hughes than by having him help in such a precarious situation? You can't plan better than fate.
Thomas and Branson managed to get an unconscious Charles on his feet and began the difficult process of getting him up to his room. Elsie had hurried to the telephone, only to find that Ms. O'Brien was already phoning for Doctor Clarkson. Though all she wanted to do was be at his side, she wouldn't let him down. She sent for Mr. Molesley, informed Anna and Jane of the situation, and had everything set for a successful dinner in a matter of moments. This she could, and would, do.
As the dinner progressed, it began to become increasingly obvious that something grander than an attack of nerves was unfolding with the walls of Downton. Elsie had noticed that her Ladyship looked quite frail as she supported herself on the banister of the grand staircase; Ms. O'Brien confirmed that she had felt unusually warm when dressing for dinner. Before they knew it, her Ladyship excused herself from the table under the complaint of not feeling quite right with Miss Swire soon to follow. Even Mr. Molesley began to falter when pouring the wine, excusing himself, leaving Anna to the task. The ill women retired upstairs, leaving the rest of the party searching for answers. Thankfully, Doctor Clarkson was already on his way for Charles.
Elsie kept herself busy by roaming the house, gathering every bit of information she could about what was going on. She had to piece it all together to prepare herself. Whatever this was, it was spreading like wildfire throughout the house.
Molesley sat at the servants' dining table, head in his hands and green as new spring grass. Ms. O'Brien and Elsie stood far enough away to dodge any ill effects of whatever this might be, but close enough to keep an eye on his ever slumping form. Doctor Clarkson soon entered the room, determining that Molesley was, in fact, simply drunk whilst the others had contracted Spanish Flu.
Dear God. Drunk? Honestly! Ms. O'Brien seemed to find this little tidbit quite hilarious and made sure to file it in the back of her mind as fuel for future ribbings; Elsie could have died. How completely unprofessional! She would have to deal with that later.
The second diagnosis began to push through to the forefront of her mind. Spanish Flu. She hadn't heard much about it as of late, but would resign herself to taking Doctor Clarkson's advice on how best to treat her newly acquired patients, taking comfort in the fact that Isobel Crawley was most always close at hand to be of further assistance. She could be a pushy woman, but she had a good heart and certainly knew her business. Of that, Elsie was sure.
Communicable or not, Elsie was determined to go to Charles. They had been at odds for far too long now. She wouldn't let him be ill without her by his side, regardless of their current state of strain. He may be leaving her for a sense of obligation towards Mary Crawley, but she wouldn't give him any more cause to do so.
Charles awoke to darkness. He seemed to be doing that quite often as of late. His thoughts never seemed to rest, breaking through any dreams that might have been had, furiously ripping him back into a life where he had shamed his wife and faced a decision that could ultimately lead him away from her for good. He always awoke in his empty room, his empty bed, void of Elsie, void of happiness, void of hope.
The only proof he had that their marriage ever existed was the ring he continued to wear in the night, always hoping that it might serve to keep the demons away. It never did. Awakening to it glinting on his finger only made things worse, but he refused to remove it. He was never one to forsake a promise.
Tonight, he found himself drenched in sweat and chilling rapidly. He fought to remember how he had gotten to his room, his last memory being Elsie at his elbow talking about… Mr. Molesley? Was he losing it already? Why did he feel so ill? His mind was swimming but nothing made sense. All he knew was that he needed a change of pajamas and an additional blanket if he were to ever regain a sense of comfort.
He began to rise when the smallest sound bent his ear. A tiny sigh came from behind him. Sitting on the edge of the bed, he turned his head to find a sight that would serve to stop his heart.
There was Elsie, precariously perched on the very edge of the bed, sound asleep.
Charles seized the opportunity to take in the sight he thought he had long ruined and removed from his life. In sleep, Elsie's features always went soft, all traces of worry and concern lost in dreams and slumber. His eyes roamed over her lithe frame. She looked so small lying there; it was easy to note that she had dropped a bit of weight since their argument. Since his betrayal.
He longed to touch her, an affordance he had not allowed himself since the day he exposed her actions towards Ethel to her Ladyship. He would give anything to reach out and stroke her brow, her cheek, the back of her hand. He allowed his eyes to wander down to find what he so longed to seek.
She was wearing her wedding band.
Charles's eyes began to fill with tears. He knew that he should wake her and order her back to her room. Enough sense remained in his head to tell him that he was not well, and he could possibly spread whatever this was along to her. Above all else, he would do anything to keep her safe from harm. Whatever illness this was, it had been powerful enough to erase his memory of an entire day; it could not be something as simple as a case of cold.
All he wanted was to wrap her in his arms, kiss her senseless and beg her forgiveness.
He toyed with the idea of retiring to the armchair, but he couldn't bring himself to do it. He needed to be near her; she had chosen to be near him. If she were to wake to him sleeping in his chair, she would feel abandoned. Worst of all, she would know that he had known she had been here. He would grant her the dignity of knowing that she hadn't been found out if indeed she chose to slip out in the early hours.
Charles quietly changed pajamas, never taking his eyes off Elsie. He started to return to his side of the bed and paused, turning on his heel. He couldn't risk kissing her properly, but he'd be damned if he wouldn't kiss her at all. Charles knelt behind her, and using the bed frame for support, leant forward and kissed the crown of her head. He took a minute to smell her hair, resting his cheek upon it for a moment before he returned to his side of the bed and resumed lying faced away from her beautiful face.
The last things he registered before succumbing to sleep were the slight little breaths she released upon his back. He realized, in that moment, that living one day without her would be impossible.