A/N: My dearest readers, today we'll be having a bit of a different vote, with an extra question. You'll see what I mean when you get through reading!
Thank you all so very much for your support, it means so much to me - reviewers, voters, guests, followers, tumblarians. Everyone.
And of course DeeDee for beta'ing!
Results for chapter 35: option 1: 19 votes ; option 2: 5 votes ; option 3: 4 votes ; undecided: 4 people. In all: 32 votes, one death-of-devices threat.
I don't think this needs a trigger warning, but just in case: non-descriptive labour ahead!
previously on One Year:
"You've been having pains for two whole days?!" he exclaims, his voice booming and echoing in the small room. "And you didn't think to tell me?"
"I am telling you now!" she yells back, winces, and he feels immediately guilty.
"Let's get you upstairs and call for Dr Clarkson," he suggests, his eyes darting between the box filled with their few possessions and his wife, panic rising steadily in his chest.
She nods and reaches out for him. He helps her up and supports her as she makes her way into the corridor, up the stairs and through the green baize door.
They cross the hall and just as she puts her foot on the first step, Elsie's water breaks.
"Get Beryl!" she shouts.
She is drinking her cup of tea, propped up by a few pillows on their brand new bed (she had helped Beryl line the mattress with old newspapers and two side-to-middle sheets before being gently covered in a blanket). Her feet are cold and she is nervous, but doesn't like to show it. Beryl is practical and no-nonsense, but even she can get a bit jumpy, especially when it comes to being ill - she isn't ill, per se, but she is having a bit of an emergency; even Elsie has to admit to that. They chat, discuss names for the baby, joke how the new baby will try to make it in time for the old year to go out, how he or she doesn't want to compete with fireworks and champagne. Time seems to move slowly as they wait for Dr Clarkson to come and Elsie can tell her pains are increasing in intensity and are coming quicker.
Charles has come in a few times to check up on her and every time he popped in, she was just sipping tea and nibbling on a biscuit. He looked utterly confused. Elsie leans back, putting her empty cup on the nightstand and bracing herself for the contraction that ripples through her body.
At first she had thought: "If this is it, it's going to be just fine." But by now she is getting slightly overwhelmed by the amount of pain. She is starting to get nauseated and needs to use the bathroom really badly, but isn't sure she can make it on her own. She lets out a long drawn out moan and reaches for Beryl's hand.
"Help me…" She asks, pointing to the door and Beryl shows this is not the first time she's been in a delivery room by helping her up and guiding her slowly - ever so slowly - to the bathroom, where Elsie relieves herself, immediately feeling a lot better.
Until the next contraction hits.
Nine months ago she wished she weren't in this position and she hasn't changed her mind about it. This is not something she wants to have any part of. She doesn't want to be there at all, someone else can have this baby, she doesn't want anything to do with this shivering and vomiting and fear.
Charles is sitting in his pantry, nursing a - by now cold - cup of tea. He feels lost, worried, frustrated. His wife is in the attic, having their baby in their new room. The room is sparse still, most of their belongings still in the room off the silver pantry. All he has managed to do was bringing Elsie's painstakingly packed cardboard box filled with baby things up to their rooms earlier that morning. Before everything suddenly started happening.
Elsie's painstakingly packed cardboard box filled with baby things is the only thing he's managed to bring up so far. That was this morning, before everything suddenly started happening.
He cannot even hear her down here (he feels he ought to be at least close enough to hear her, to be able to be by her side in ten steps or less, just in case she needs him - just in case he needs her, to make certain everything is going well - or well enough), but it's the only place he feels safe. He would be of no use hovering on the landing, treading a hole in the corridor's floor, listening to his wife in agony. Or so he assumes, he has never been present when a child was being born, but he knows enough to be aware of the perils and the pain of childbirth.
He had peeked in on Elsie a few times earlier, but she had looked relatively relaxed then, serene almost, drinking her tea, talking to Beryl.
Thank God for Beryl, he thinks.
He has taken off his coat, undone his collar. He hopes there won't be a bell soon, asking him to come up with a full tea service. He cannot bear to think of having to announce guests. He doesn't think he could do it without his voice giving way. The only person he had wanted to see had come soon after he had sent a boy out to fetch him. The doctor had clapped his shoulder, told him he would do all he could and had run up the stairs before Charles could follow him.
Many thoughts plague him as he watches the minutes tick away on the clock over his desk. The thought of losing Elsie, of losing their child. Ofbeing a father (hedoesn't know how to be a father, not really, only has his own father as an example and he passed away many a year ago). Ofbeing employed in a house that expects him to be at the family's beck and call at all times whilst having an obligation to his own family.
He worries about money and about giving his child the tools it needs to lead a successful life. He thinks of his Elsie, his love for her, of how he ought to have married her sooner, taken her away, to give her peace before embarking on this journey that was thrust upon them (of course he claims full responsibility, of course he does, but it's never been truly right, never been completely proper).
Charles is startled by the knock on his door. It's too bold to be one of his footmen, it's definitely not one of the hallboys. He closes his eyes for a moment, thinking how all he wants is to be left alone, before calling out, gruffly:
"Come in!"
He is rather surprised to find Robert Crawley on the doorstep holding a bottle of scotch and two glasses.
"I thought you could use some company," the Earl says.
Charles nods.
Perhaps he could.
If asked, she wouldn't be able to describe it - the pain, the way her mind is whirling - unable to focus, to maintain a single thought - how somehow she manages to feel slightly hungry in between contractions. She is thankful for the few bites of toast she has managed to get down, for the cups of tea Beryl keeps pouring diligently.
The pains come every few minutes, flowing and ebbing and she is starting to feel so very tired.
Doctor Clarkson is calm, quiet. He doesn't tell her what to do - not yet, but she knows he will and that it won't be long before she'll be in the thick of it. She puts her hand on her belly, wanting to comfort her child, but another pain makes her pull away, grasp at the sheet, squeezing her hands tightly.
"I'll have a bit of a look, if that's alright," Doctor Clarkson says - his request for consent mechanical. She nods, tries not to think of the doctor as a man looking at her, but as someone trying to help her through this.
"Beryl…"
Beryl's hand is immediately upon her own.
"I'm scared…" she says, bites her lip.
"That's alright, lass," Beryl answers, her thumb running over Elsie's knuckles. "It's alright to be afraid, but you just keep in mind that you can do it."
Elsie is thankful for her friend's faith in her, though she doesn't feel strong right now. She feels tired, weary almost and the pain is getting more intense, stronger.
"Well, Mrs Carson, if you feel able to, I'd say you'd best start pushing soon."
Elsie never thought those words could be so liberating and as the pain builds, she grunts - a deep guttural sound, nothing she would normally ever utter in her life - and allows herself to go with it.
'It cannot be much longer,' she thinks as her body takes over completely.
Two hours pass, then three. Lord Grantham has poured them both a small glass of scotch and they have both sipped the amber liquid slowly. They've not spoken much. Charles is glad not to be alone and he couldn't have asked any of his lads to keep him company - this is his own burden to bear, but in this moment, he and his employer are somewhat equal. His Lordship has sat like this three times so far, the first time accompanied by his father, the other two by Marmaduke Painswick (for all that the Dowager Countess said about him, Charles thought Lady Rosamund's husband a kind man and a gentleman). It was good of his lordship to join Charles and he took it as an apology of sorts. That things could be the way they used to be between them. The relationship between employer and employee as much restored as possible.
Charles knows he is not a man who easily forgets, but it's enough.
"She is strong." The Earl's voice slices the silence. "And stubborn."
Charles nods. "She is that, Milord."
"The wait is the worst."
Charles doesn't know if that is supposed to make him feel better. He looks at the clock. It's been six hours. He thinks how tired Elsie must be, especially because she had been feeling pains for two days already. He starts imagining terrible things happening to his wife and unborn child, remembers all those times he's been told about women dying in childbirth. Recalls terrible things from his past he thought he'd buried long ago. He almost jumps out of his seat when the door to his pantry opens without a knock.
It's Beryl, her cheeks flushed, her eyes sparkling. "Well, Mr Carson. I think your presence is very much wanted upstairs."
He gets up so fast, he knocks over his chair and he passes Beryl, hardly stopping to quickly squeeze her upper arm. He strides down the Servants' Hall, takes the stairs two steps at the time and runs down the hall to reach their new rooms where he knows Elsie will be.
He opens the door slowly, tentatively, peering into the [not dark, not unpleasantly so… warm, but not bright… it's about seven o'clock on 30 or 31st December…]. He sees the doctor tidying away his instruments, but he only pays attention to his wife, sitting up against the headboard of their new bed, a small bundle in her arms.
"Won't you come in?" she asks, looking both tired and elated. "And meet your… "
1. … son?"
Please suggest a name for baby boy Carson!
2. … daughter?"
Please suggest a name for baby girl Carson!
A/N: Don't forget to vote and get your choice for a name in!