As always, my thanks to chelsie fan.

Charles Carson was a man who snored.

Elsie knew this, had known this from years of looking in on him when he was ill and their shared time together in their cottage, but she had never appreciated quite how loud it was until it startled her out of sound sleep.

She lay there in the dark for a long while, wondering what she could possibly do. He was lying flat on his back beside her. Eventually, when it was clear she wouldn't get any sleep like this, she inched closer to him and using her elbow, gave her husband a light dig in the ribs.

"Charles," she hissed. "Be quiet."

He mumbled drowsily, his words incoherent. He shifted only slightly and resumed his impossibly loud breathing.

She gave him another light jab. "Charles! Honestly!"

"Waah?" That was her best guess as to what he'd said.

"You snore," she informed him.

"Yes, you do," he agreed sleepily, "and don't forget the cake."

She shook her head, trying not to laugh at the poor man.

"It's better than Mrs. Patmore's version, but please don't tell her," he continued, rolling onto his side. She was sure now that he was still fast asleep.

"I won't, dear," she told him.

"Because the lemons...so many…"

She felt his hand on her waist as he pulled her towards him, and she let him, giggling quietly to herself. Thankfully, when lying on his side, he was much quieter. Elsie snuggled against her husband and drifted back to sleep.

There were few things in life Charles Carson appreciated more than waking up with his wife beside him. It would turn out over the next several months that he almost always woke first. He didn't get up, though, for he didn't have to.

Instead, he frequently had the joy of watching her wake up. Never mind what she said, he thought she looked lovely in the morning. He rather liked the way her hair was disheveled and never quite entirely in its braid, or the way she would yawn and stretch like a cat, and then would promptly roll over and fall back asleep. He could have gotten up, and sometimes he did, particularly when he was very hungry. Somehow she'd managed to switch to eating breakfast at a later, more reasonable, time, but he never quite feel comfortable with it. Meanwhile, Elsie liked to sleep in.

He liked that he knew that. He liked that he was permitted to know everything now. He liked the way she snored. (She DID snore, even if not as loudly as she insisted he did.) It was almost dainty, unless she had a head cold. He liked that he knew every one of the freckles scattered across her shoulder blades and the fact that she always slept curled up on her right side. He liked how their bodies fit together in so many pleasant ways. He liked how sometimes, when she woke up in the morning and realized he was awake beside her, she would give the most tantalizing smile and climb on top of him.

He blushed just then to think of their time the other morning. It never seemed uncouth in the moment; he'd reassured her several times that he enjoyed her affections and that she could never be ridiculous to him. Sometimes he found himself...she would call it "in a state" upon waking up, and his wife was more than happy to oblige him. Other times, he couldn't manage it even if he wanted to. Instead of letting him feel ashamed or sorry for himself, Elsie just held him, kissed his cheeks, and settled into his arms. Sometimes, it felt like just lying together, cuddling in the early hours of the morning and listening to each other breathing, was the most intimate thing imaginable.

Her back was to him now, and he noticed that she shivered. The depths of winter had brought very cold weather, and their fire was only embers in the hearth. Swiftly, Charles slipped out of bed and went to fetch some kindling and a few more logs from the basket in the living room. The floors were freezing. and he lamented not putting on his slippers, but soon enough more wood was on the fire. With a few pumps of the bellows, it caught nicely. He climbed back into bed, but his actions had been loud enough that Elsie was stirring.

"Cold!" she muttered.

"Sorry, my dear," said Charles. He'd tried to be quiet, but it couldn't be helped.

"Mmm," replied Elsie blearily, reaching out for him. He cuddled against her and she gave a start. "Charles! Your feet are like ice!"

The fire gave several loud cracks, and Elsie propped herself up on her elbows in an attempt to orient herself.

"The fire will warm things up," Charles assured her, "come here?"

"You come here," Elsie insisted, wrapping her arms around her husband. "And let me warm up those feet of yours. How can you even feel them?" She pressed her toes against his feet and rubbed his arms rapidly as if to warm him. Charles snatched up the blanket in one hand and pulled it over them. It was far too cold and far too early to be doing anything but cuddling.

They'd planned to postpone their so-called honeymoon until after the worst of winter was over. After all, London was rather miserable then, Charles insisted. They'd have a nicer time when the weather warmed up.

This had suited Elsie fine, and for the coldest of the winter months they settled into a comfortable breakfast routine. Breakfast was usually tea and toast, though occasionally Charles would venture into frying up eggs and tomatoes for them. Porridge was out of the question for several weeks after he burned it terribly. Twice. There were a great many kitchen mishaps, really, and truth be told, the dishes that were reliable started to become rather repetitive. Charles would have complained, but he didn't want to make his wife feel as though she'd failed him. Elsie would have complained, but she didn't want to sound ungrateful. So toast and tea it was.

Over breakfast Charles read her the newspaper headlines. If she wanted him to continue she'd only need to nod and he'd go on reading. She tended to dislike his grumpy commentary on the government's activities, but it did make for spirited conversations at breakfast.

After breakfast came chores. Without much thought anymore, she would tidy the kitchen, washing up the few dishes they'd made. Outside - against her advice and concern about the toll it took on his body - Charles would split wood. She could hear him grunt before swinging the maul, followed by the inevitable sharp thwack and a dull double thunk as the two pieces hit the ground. She worried about him doing something so laborious, surely they could hire a boy to help them with it. They paid one of the maids from the big house to come do some of the cleaning once a week – Madge, usually. But Elsie had a sneaking suspicion she would not be working for them much longer, what with all the talk of her beau…

Love finds us all.

What a very romantic thought. Like something out of book, not out of her head. But she'd been thinking like that more lately. Sappy thoughts. Once she wouldn't let such notions so much as wipe their feet on her welcome mat, but now she entertained them for tea. How odd. How...pleasant.

He worked hard, her man. T They'd tried to manage the cooking, but more often than not, they ended up eating stew or sandwiches. She wished he'd go to Mrs. Patmore for some help, but she didn't dream of suggesting it. Not when he did so much. And he did [do so much. And she did so little.

She knew she shouldn't think that way, but the thought was difficult to banish completely, and it would come spilling up at the most unexpected moments. Halfway through supper, she'd have to excuse herself to the washroom where she cried for seemingly no reason. It lingered an uncomfortably long time. She didn't like to bother him with it; he seemed so pleased with her now. She didn't want him to look upon her with disappointment.

He'd love you anyway, Elsie.

Still. There was no need for such melancholy. Elsie very firmly told herself, her mother's voice echoing in her head. It's not proper to go around feeling sorry for yourself.

Chin up, lassie. Though her mother was long gone, the sentiment stayed. There was never time for tears; there was work to be done. There was always work to be done. On the farm, with her sister, with her Da...She'd moved to service to immerse herself in even more work. She'd spent decades, decades she was proud of, proving her work ethic, proving her worth.

She heard the door creak, and the gust of cold air that followed. Charles was panting, and she assumed he had another armload of firewood. She should get up, fetch the bin for him, and take a few pieces to lighten his load, but she stayed rooted to her seat.

Lazy bones, she chided herself.

"Els?" Charles grunted.

"I'm here," she responded. He'd gotten used to announcing himself every time he entered and every time he left. It was second nature to them now.

"Could you close...the door?"

The instruction provided her with enough motivation to finally get up, her joints creaking as she did so. Lazy bones and creaking bones it would seem. How droll.

She made her way to the door and pulled it firmly shut. The wind went right through her, and she shivered. She was so easily cold these days.

In the living room, Charles was depositing the firewood into the bin. It was a larger load than he really ought to have been carrying, but after nearly freezing his fingers off outside, he was anxious to warm them.

Elsie traipsed into the room after him, broom and dustpan in hand. "I'll sweep," she declared. He'd brought with him twigs and bits that trailed from the back door, down the hall, and into the living room.

"Never mind. I'll do that. You'll miss spots." said Charles, taking the broom out of her hands.

"But-"

"Why don't you sit by the fire and warm up, you look cold."

"Not half so cold as you," she pointed out.

"It will take me no time. Go on. We can have our tea and then maybe read a book if you like."

She surrendered the broom and dustpan dejectedly. Charles took them from her without stopping to catch the look on her face. He smiled with pride as he set about sweeping up the brush that he'd brought into the house. Sweeping was something he knew how to do properly, to the standard he'd been used to. Whenever she did it, there were corners missing, and it took twice as long. She'd probably thank him for it. With that pleasant thought in mind, Charles tossed the dustpan full of dirt and twigs out the back door.

Charles had returned from sweeping the hall. "Warmer?" he asked.

Elsie nodded. With the fire roaring, it was much warming in their living room.

"Well, shall we pick up where we left off with D.H. Lawrence?"

Elsie forced a smile. "Why not?"

"Good," said Charles, sounding pleased. He picked the book up off the side table, and they settled themselves on the couch. This had been a regular habit for them in the afternoons. A bit of a novel, which he read aloud to her, followed by their tea around four.

Of all the tasks that Charles did for them, this was one she felt no guilt about. He had such a marvelous voice, and without his job as a butler, he had no one to entertain with his theatrics. Elsie did not appreciate style and show for the sake of style and show, except when it came to their books. They had some overlapping tastes (if not similar interpretations), and having him read aloud gave the words a special kind of gravitas. She could have mourned not being able to read herself, but he made it so easy to enjoy stories again.

"'Chapter Eleven: The Test on Miriam,'" he began.

It was also a lovely excuse to lounge on their sofa together. He was large enough to wrap his arm around her waist, holding her snug against him, and still hold the book in both hands. They'd perfected this little arrangement, and she let herself relax into the story.

"'He never forgot seeing her as she lay'...oh my-"

Elsie turned in surprise. "'As she lay' … what?"

Charles scowled angrily as he skimmed down the page. "I ought not to say. It's highly inappropriate."

His eyes skittered down the page, reading too fast for anything nearing comprehension.

"It cannot be that bad."

"I shouldn't think you'd like to hear descriptions of such improper behaviour."

"Charles, we do quite a lot of things that are not very proper." She smirked, perhaps taking slightly too much enjoyment in her husband's discomfort.

"That well may be, but we are married."

"And they are fictional. Go on, Charles. Is it worse than the bawdy songs you sang on stage?"

Charles stiffened. "That was improper Elsie, and you know very well I'm not proud of that."

She grimaced at how sharp his tone was. "I'm sorry. That wasn't fair of me to say."

He didn't acknowledge that she'd even spoken. He drew himself up in anger. "I refuse to continue with this vulgar excuse for literature, and I must say I am disappointed in you."

"Charles-"

"I'd think a woman of your standing would have higher standards than this..this filth. It's bad enough that they're adulterers, but to describe it in detail is beyond the pale!"

His words hit her like a blow to the chest, and she froze.

Charles slammed the book on the table with unnecessary force. "It's quarter to four. Why don't we call it a day?"

Elsie nodded curtly, feeling sickened. "I'll fetch the tea," she replied acidly before storming from the room and leaving her husband furious.

Charles watched her fuss about the kitchen. After the strenuous physical task of chopping firewood all morning and the stress of their argument that afternoon, he was glad to sit down and let her fix their tea.

"There we are: bread, cheese, and a bit of the ham that's left over. There are also biscuits somewhere…"

"Beside the bread bin," said Charles. Elsie gave a sharp nod and fetched them.

"Anything else?" she asked him coldly.

"Seems fine to me."

"Very well."

Elsie sat, a cup of tea in front of her, but she didn't move to eat.

"Are you not hungry?" asked Charles after swallowing a particularly large bite.

"I suppose not."

Her face was set in a tight smile, her head cast down. For a while, they sat in silence, and the only sounds were those of Charles's cutlery on his plate. Elsie sipped slowly and finished about half her tea before standing up abruptly.

"I'm rather tired. I think I'll have a nap. Not to worry. I'll be sure to do the washing up before supper."

"Elsie…"

He put a hand on her waist, trying to keep her from leaving the room. "I've offended you."

She snorted derisively before schooling her features into a blank expression. "I'm tired," she repeated plainly.

He dropped his hand in defeat and she left him to his meal. Charles stared at her empty chair.

Damn.

TBC