Chapter 25

Uncharted Seas

A/N: Thank you, dear readers, for your lovely comments and PMs on the last chapter. This chapter was written in fits and starts; I really wanted to try and get it "right". Loving, lovely, awkward, a dance forwards and back for both of them, especially her, I think. Also, laughter. Sex is funny, let's be honest; if there's no humor in it, we're doomed. I hope you enjoy it. ~CeeCee

He watched the grass and farmland rolling by slowly change into sea cliffs and dunes with tall reeds in the late golden afternoon light. The first class car his lordship had arranged for them was tranquil, empty but for the two of them since the last stop, when the only other passenger on the car got off, a sharp contrast to the noise and the revelry of the wedding reception.

He and Elsie had been hustled out of the schoolhouse with great fanfare, to a waiting car bedecked with ribbons and tin cans. A bit ridiculous, he thought, with a wry smile, but I suppose being a first-time groom past your seventieth birthday is also a bit ridiculous.

But…it was also a bit wonderful. And exciting. And terrifying. He glanced down at his dozing wife.

Elsie's head rested heavily on his arm, and he could smell the roses Miss Baxter has placed in her hair, slightly wilted but still fragrant, now pinned to the brim of her hat; he could smell those things that to him were ultimately feminine, the fragrance of things women rubbed or sprayed or splashed on themselves: lavender, talc, vanilla. And mingled with these scents he could smell Elsie herself, the sweat from dancing, her skin, her hair, smells that were hers alone.

He bent his head closer to hers, and sighed. He didn't know what tonight, or this trip, would bring, but the scent of her was driving him to distraction.

"How much longer, do ye think, until we arrive?" She spoke quietly but clearly, startling him.

"I thought you were asleep," he replied, trying to compose himself.

"I was…in a way. I thought I drifted off, but I could still feel the train moving, and my head on your arm, and every time you moved a little..." she lifted her head off his shoulder and shook it, as if to clear it. Her face looked dreamy, but her eyes were bright. "I feel more tired and more awake than I've ever been. Which is utter nonsense, Charlie, but there you have it."

She reached over and took his hand, and smiled shyly up at him. "Thank you for the song. I've not been serenaded before, certainly not publicly."

There was something so dear about the way she looked, completely free of pretense, that he acted before he thought. He leaned over and kissed her, not as he had at the church, or at the wedding reception, a polite kiss for all to see, but as he had the night of the Bateses' celebration, at the closed door of his pantry: with abandon, and wanting, not just of the kiss, but for everything else that could follow. And she responded, her hand reaching up to stroke his cheek, and he sighed, and her mouth was opening ever so slightly…

She pulled away, glanced around as if there was anyone else to see in the empty car. She was taking air in gulping breaths, still squeezing his hand. Her other hand was at her lips, which were distractingly and attractively swollen.

She finally spoke, "That certainly wasn't first class car behavior." She grinned playfully at him, and then burst into tears.

"Elsie?" He was mortified. He had kissed her, and she was sobbing, publicly, on a train car. On a first class train car. He handed her a handkerchief.

"I am fine¸ ye old booby," and he could see she was smiling through her tears. She leaned close to him, whispered. "I'm nervous, my dear. More nervous than I've ever been in my entire life. Afraid, almost, by how nice it feels. By how nice you feel." And her words, and her warm breath in the shell of his hear, sent thrills in every direction in his body.

"As am I. We are in this together, Elsie," he replied shakily. He was glad they had a few minutes before Scarborough. He didn't think it would be appropriate to stand at the moment.

"Ah, but Charlie, you are a man, 'tis different."

"No, I am not 'a man'. I am your man, your husband. Whatever happens, happens at the time that suits us both," he grinned a little at her, as her face was relaxing. She leaned against him again. "Preferably not in a first class train car, on second thought, do you think?"

She laughed, and squeezed his arm, all traces of tears dried from her face. They watched the sea towns come into view, with their lovely, pastel-colored cabins dotting the beach and the cliffs.

"Next station, Scarborough!" The conductor's cry made them both jump.

They looked at each other and grinned.

"Here we go," she whispered.

oooOOOooo

It was beautiful, she thought, but she always loved the sea, and this town was particularly charming. The sun was just dropping into the western sky when they pulled into the station, casting lovely pinkish and purple tones across the faces of the buildings. She looked up at the grand sepia-colored hotel dominating the seaside, feeling intimidated. It was "grand" in actuality and name – The Grand Hotel Scarborough. She didn't want to appear ungrateful, knowing full well that their entirety of their honeymoon had been gifted by the Granthams, but even the sight of it made her jumpy and uncomfortable; the idea of rubbing elbows with posh people for the next several days. She was looking for a bit of a break from posh people, thank you very much.

Charles was smiling up at the building, however, and she supposed she could deal with her own insecurities and doubts for the look on her husband's face.

"'Tis a lovely hotel, and well-located," she finally spoke, pushing her own desire for a quiet, unassuming place to rest and relax out of her mind.

"That it is, and his lordship says they have magnificent dinners, which I am certain we'll sample at some point in the next few days," he paused, grinned at her. "But we're not staying here, Elsie." He nodded at a capped driver who'd greeted him by name and began loading their luggage.

"We're not?" She was truly shocked.

"No, we are not," he replied as they got into the waiting car. "Believe it or not, I can admit when I get things wrong, like I did with the wedding reception. And, yes, we were booked at The Grand, but his lordship and I came up with another idea," he finished as the car turned out of the station, and they drove past the large hotel and down the main road for about a mile.

She sidled up to him. "My, my, you are full of surprises, aren't you, Mr. Carson?" She looked out the window over his shoulder, at the expanse of sand, and the deep blue sea beyond. Even at this late hour, and early in the season, there were groups of twos, threes and fours walking along the water's edge.

"You somehow make that sound more familiar than when you call me 'Charlie,'" he responded teasingly.

"Aye, it is more familiar, I've been addressing you that way for thirty years, at least," she replied, and the car turned down a smaller path, towards the water. Suddenly they were amidst a dozen or so small, pretty cabins, like the ones they had seen on the train ride here, all pale shades of blue, teal, green, and violet, each with a small outside seating area facing the sea. Elsie could see The Grand in the near distance, down the beach, as all of the hotel's external lamps came on at once. It seemed less daunting from the vantage point, somehow, more maternal, watching over the lingering crowds on the dunes.

The car stopped in front one of the cabins, a pale blue one, and the driver opened the door for them. He explained that these were owned by the hotel, an outpost of sorts, for those wanting a more casual but private experience, and that someone would leave a breakfast basket at their door each morning, and, when they returned in the afternoon from sightseeing or taking in the sea air, housekeeping would have straightened things up, and there'd be tea waiting. Anything else they needed, they were welcome to take at the Grand, including use of the telephone – there weren't any in the cabins.

Elsie stood gaping, trying to sort it out in her mind, while Charlie graciously thanked and tipped the lad. She followed her husband into the sitting area of the cabin, which was simply lovely inside: whitewashed wooden walls, the furniture in pale blues and greens. She could see the bedroom was done in a similar vein, and her heart sped up when she caught sight of the massive bed she'd be sharing with Charlie in a few brief hours. As she removed her hat and jacket, she took it all in: the small table was set with two places, a bowl of fresh fruit, a basket of pastries nestled in a folded napkin, a bouquet of wild flowers and beach reeds. A bottle of champagne was chilling in the ice box, according to a hand-written note, along with cold meats and cheeses.

Charlie was coming back into the sitting area after leaving their bags in the bedroom. She turned to him, not sure how to express the deep gratitude she felt right now: he understood her, really, truly, saw her, knew what she wanted from this trip, from this break from the usual. This beginning of their life as a couple, rather than two complimentary cogs in Downton's wheelworks.

"Well? Is it alright, then?" He was standing there, worry creasing his forehead.

He'd taken his jacket off as well, and stood in his shirt sleeves. He looked concerned and unsure and just so very dear, so very handsome, that she was across the room before she realized it, before she had time to think, or feel nervous or self-conscious, and she reached up and pulled his face towards hers, and he'd responded immediately, lifting her off her feet. She made a small, whimpering sound as their mouths met, and she felt everything, her body reporting back to her from all directions: one of his arms pressing her firmly against him, his fingers tracing along her cheek, down her nape, and lingering at the neckline of her dress; her own hands, one hand brushing through his sweaty hair, the other around his shoulder tightly, lest she fall; but their mouths, his mouth, what was happening there sent wild, wonderful shivers in every direction, various parts of her body calling out for more, more, more in a grand cacophony: these kisses had no order, no control: his mouth was open, and so was hers; their tongues met, and if her mind was thinking at all, it would have thought how amazing it was that something so strange, so intrusive, could feel so wonderful, so right, so thrilling, so perfect.

He broke the kiss before she did. She gasped for air, panting in a way that reminded her of the farm she grew up on, of the animals in rutting season, and she let out a watery laugh that was one part embarrassment and two parts desire. She felt dizzy with all of the nerves and sensations still firing off in her body.

He was staring down at her with hazy eyes, his arm still around her waist, pressing her close against him. She could feel him, hard against her, and it terrified her, oh yes, but there was a responding warmth radiating from her own groin. There were parts of her that weren't afraid, at all. But she needed a moment to get herself sorted, she felt.

She stepped away reluctantly, and he let her go with regret on his face. She then mock-primly answered him, "Yes, I think it's quite alright, Charlie."

He raised an eyebrow at her, and she stepped back towards him, wrapped her arms around his waist. He held her face in his hands, and she gazed up at him. "I shan't tease you about it. It's lovely, it's perfect. I am a bit overwhelmed, honestly, right now, about all of it. Not in a bad way, mind, just tryin' to catch up with meself."

"Well, we have time, dare I say it, for once in our lives," he replied. "So take what you need; I'll be waiting oh-so-impatiently for you," his smile softened the words, and he stroked her cheek. She pressed her lips into the palm of his hand. "Perhaps I'll take myself outside, and contemplate the sea, while you get settled."

He turned to walk outside, where the sitting area was. The sky was a riot of color, a breeze blowing as he opened the door.

"Charlie," she said, quietly. He turned. "Thank ye, for finding this place. For knowing me enough to know how much I'd love it here, rather than at yonder grand hotel. Thank ye, for loving me, as you do."

"And as I shall endeavor to do, all my days," he grinned at her, and went outside. She moved towards the bedroom, to ready herself. It was her wedding night, after all.

oooOOOooo

Charlie….Charlie….Charlie….

There was a voice, and he knew it; there was also a breeze, lifting the hairs on his head and arms, and flavored with salt and sea; the regular, sonorous static of the surf; but mostly, the voice….

Charlie….Charlie….

In the deep recesses of his dozing mind, he knew answering the voice was important, but he wasn't exactly sure why; he had such a sense of peace and contentment at the moment. And now, there was a soft hand stroking his face, and it smelled of lavender and vanilla and something else unique, a scent that only belong to one person, and he suddenly remembered where he was, and who he was with.

He opened his eyes.

And wondered, still, if he was actually awake. Elsie was standing there, in a long, white cotton nightgown and dressing gown. Her hair was in a simple braid over her shoulder, tendrils of it blowing in the sea air. Her feet and ankles were bare. She looked elfin and ethereal and beautiful.

"There you are," she grinned down at him, clutching at the front of her robe. "Are you going to sleep out in the elements on your wedding night, Mr. Carson?"

"I thought you were a dream," he said, and stood. She looked like a dream to him, the white fabric blowing against her body, showing him contours of her shape in such a way he knew that there was just those two thin layers of cotton between him and her skin. "Queen Titania."

"Puck the Sprite," she retorted, but she was smiling up at him. "Waking you from slumber, rather than casting a sleeping spell on you."

"Impertinence, thy name is –" and he scooped her up off her feet, and she yelped in surprise and delight, and he was cradling her in his arms, and she slung her arm around his shoulder, gripping tightly, "thy name is Elsie Carson."

And he carried her inside their honeymoon cabin, towards the bedroom.

oooOOOooo

When she had come upon him, sleeping so peacefully on the white deck chair in the setting sun, she wasn't sure what to do. She was reminded forcibly of Christmas Eve night, when she'd found him, deeply asleep in his pantry, when she tenderly kissed his forehead, but only because he'd been sleeping so soundly.

Only a half a year later, and there she was, standing in the sea breeze, with very little fabric between her body and the rest of the world, including her husband. She couldn't, and didn't, want to leave him sleeping, tonight of all nights. She was still very, very nervous, but her body was helping her mind along: it wanted him, his touch, his closeness, very badly. Perhaps, it's best not to overthink these things, and with that, she had begun whispering his name.

And now she was in her husband's arms, being purposefully carried into the bedroom, and she looked up at him, and realized what a very big man he was, especially in comparison to her. He laid her gently upon the bed, next to a window with the gauzy curtains drawn, where the last of the day's light was filtering through in a haze of orange. Despite Beryl Patmore's previous teasing, she'd kept one of the bedside lamps on low. She pushed herself up against the headboard, watching him do the mundane routines of an evening: taking off his vest, and setting the watch she'd given him on the nightstand; sitting on the edge of the bed, removing his shoes and socks, tucking the latter neatly into the former.

And though she was woozy with lust and fear, her heart also filled with love at the sight of these things, these little things, these small intimacies, that they would share from this day forward, until one of them was gone forever. He sat there for a minute, on the end of the bed, about three feet from her. He then moved forward, and stroked her hair, the length of her braid.

"I've never seen you without your hair pinned up," he spoke in that voice she was now thinking of her private voice, the voice of Charlie, not of Mr. Carson, butler of Downton Abbey and respectable figure of the village. His hand began unwinding the plait, and it felt so lovely, but she grabbed at his fingers.

"I am so very nervous, Charlie, which doesn't mean stop, it just means…slow."

"Your words have always been important to me. I am listening to you now more than I ever have in my life. You are my wife, and I cherish you," he rested his head against her breast and she cupped his face with her hand. And her breath deepened, she pulled his face back up to hers, and they began kissing again in earnest, but this was different: his body was over hers, and she was, again, suddenly, forcefully away of how physically large her husband was. And his hand were roaming over her body, untying her dressing gown, finding her breast and stroking it gently and she gasped at how wonderful it felt.

He stopped, moved so he was lying beside her. "I am sorry." He looked chagrined and boyish, his hair falling over his forehead.

"Don't be," she whispered, giggled a bit madly. "It felt…very, very, nice. Though…though I was feeling a bit…squashed, for a moment there, with you on top of me. I never quite noticed how much bigger you are than I am, Charlie."

"I have no intentions of…squashing…you, Elsie," he replied, and then he started laughing too, and she joined him, both of them finding the word funny, and then they were moving towards each other again, and his lips found hers, his hands pulled off her dressing gown, and she helped him, shrugging out of it, leaving it to fall where it may. More items of clothing, many his, were discarded in a similar fashion.

What she was aware of, mostly, was their breathing, which was synchronizing, rather than the sporadic and harried and frenzied panting of earlier in the night, or on the train. And his hands were running rhythmically up and down the length of her torso, and had she really been worried about being embarrassed, of not being enough for him? Her body felt as if it were doing something it had been intended to do, all along, it was like a ribbon unwound, unspooling, this feeling that something was opening up inside of her.

"Elsie?"

"Yes, Charlie?"

"Is it alright? Can I..?"

"Yes, please. Please…please."

And when they joined together, and he moved inside of her, it was brief pain, and building pleasure, and she felt the weight of her man. And welcomed it, with open arms, and an open heart.