As always, my thanks to chelsie fan.

When she woke up later that afternoon, Elsie went to the kitchen to do the washing up as she had planned. Running her hand across the countertop revealed nothing but a smooth, empty surface. All of the dishes from their tea were gone.

"Charles?!" she hollered, her voice echoing through the house, ensuring it would find its way to her husband whether he liked it or not.

"I'm here!" he said, hurrying into the kitchen. "Is anything wrong?"

"The dishes are finished." She didn't look pleased or grateful, as he'd expected. Instead she scowled, her arms crossed.

"I thought...since you were tired, it might be a nice gesture."

"Right," she said biting her lip. Anger and guilt swirled around her mind, poisoning her thoughts. "Well, that was very kind of you," she said acidly.

"Elsie, what's the matter?"

"Why must something be the matter?"

"Please don't treat me like a fool. You're angry at me."

"I told you I'd take care of the washing up. There was no need-"

"That's what this is about?" he said incredulously, touching her shoulder. "The washing up? You're angry that I washed some dishes?"

She shook her head slightly, not quite sure how to respond. Tears pricked her eyes, and she blinked them away quickly.

"I thought perhaps I'd offended you over the book," admitted Charles. "I confess I was embarrassed, but I really thought it wasn't appropriate to read aloud."

"It's not about the bloody book, Charles."

"It's not about the dishes. It's not about the book. Then what is it!?"

He was aggravated; that much was clear from his tone. She could feel her husband's irritation in every syllable, could imagine the frown etched in his features: the one he often gave when a footman dropped something or he didn't approve of the dinner conversation in the servant's hall. Elsie felt frustration bubbling up in her sternum. They had been in this place many times before at Downton, and they always handled it with some degree of decorum. Decorum seemed rather far away at the moment.

"I'd rather not discuss it now," Elsie declared, hoping to retreat from an unpleasant conversation. She wasn't sure she could articulate what she wanted. She wasn't sure she even knew what she wanted.

"I think we ought to discuss it now," said Charles firmly.

Elsie sighed. He was right, and she knew it. "Perhaps we should sit down."

"It's more comfortable in the living room. Why don't we move there?" suggested Charles.

"As you say."

Once seated on the sofa, Elsie felt less defensive. She reached out for him, and his large hands enveloped hers. They sat, holding each other's hands for a moment. He waited for her to speak.

"You've done nothing wrong," she said finally. Her voice was small. Dejected.

"I must have, if you're so angry," reasoned Charles.

"I am angry. I'll not deny it. But not exactly at you. And I'm...sorry that you are the one to see it."

Charles blinked, even more confused than before.

"I'm angry at myself, Charles, not you. I feel guilty - as if you are contributing to our marriage, but I am not. You deserve better, to be better taken care of, not to be...sweeping the hall and making meals-"

"Elsie," said Charles firmly. "Please, don't speak that way."

"You asked me what was the matter, and that...that is what's the matter."

"I thought we'd been over this. " pointed out Charles. "I thought you didn't feel like you had something to prove anymore. You don't have to prove anything to me, Elsie, and if I ever let you think over wise-"

"It doesn't work like that," Elsie sighed, shaking her head. "I don't know. I can't help it. I'm tired. I'm bored. I'm ungrateful. I can't believe you put up with it to be honest. A wife should be-"

"My wife should love me," interrupted Charles. "My wife should trust me when I tell her that I love her."

A tear escaped, slipping down Elsie's cheek. Charles pulled out his handkerchief and pressed it to her palm. Gratefully, she dabbed at her face with it.

"Thank you," she mumbled.

"Can't you trust me when I tell you that I'm happy?"

Her heart hurt, but she couldn't help but ask. "Are you truly happy, Charles? Honestly: are you?"

"If I am unhappy, it's only because you are, love. That is what distresses me."

"So this is my fault."

"That's not what I meant."

"But it is true," she argued, her face screwing up in frustration. "I love you, Charles, but sometimes love isn't enough! One must think of practicality, and we haven't done any such thing. We subside on bread and stew; you're doing housework-"

Charles cut her off abruptly. "What do you think I expected?"

"What?"

He was squeezing her hands, as if by holding them tightly he could ensure that she wouldn't disappear on him again.

"What do you think my expectations were when I married you?"

"I…" her voice faltered. "I couldn't...I suppose…well, I don't know."

"And yet, without knowing my expectations, you presume that you have fallen short of them. Is that it?"

That was exactly it, but he didn't sound disappointed or angry. Firm, perhaps. Definitive.

"Yes," she said quietly. "I do believe I have."

"And is there any way that I might convince you otherwise?"

Elsie bit her lip again. He hadn't done anything wrong; she'd told him that. She didn't know what she could possibly want from him. "I don't think so," she said quietly.

Charles felt as if his mind were spinning in circles. "Then what am I to do?"

"I don't know, Charles. I know you mean it, but it doesn't feel right. I can tell you that I believe I'm enough for you just as I am, but in my heart I wouldn't mean it. It would be a lie."

"Do you think I'm lying to you when I tell you that you are?"

"Well, you don't tell me that I am. Not really."

"I didn't think I had to. I thought that should be common knowledge by now." He cupped her face with his hands. "You have been, and you will always be enough for me. I wish you believed that."

"I can try harder," Elsie declared.

"What about me?"

"What do you mean?"

"What can I do?"

She was silent for a moment, resisting the urge to dismiss his offer. He wanted to help. How could he help?

"Tell me that, then," she said. "That I'm enough. Tell me always. I don't know how I've come by such ruthless self-loathing, but I hate it as much as you do. And it will not disappear overnight, and I'm...I'm…" her voice caught in her throat and she furrowed her brow, "I'm concerned that it won't ever... go...go away."

"Elsie, love." He didn't ask her not to cry. Instead, he comforted her, wrapping his arms around her and holding her tight to his chest.

"It will go away," he reassured her. "Maybe not today … or tomorrow, but it will."

"You can't know that," she sniffed.

"I do. I know the woman I married, and I know how incredibly strong she is," he whispered fiercely. "And I know that you deserve to be happy, and you will be."

She sobbed harder at that, giving in to the rush of emotions that had surged up. Gods, she hadn't cried quite like this since she was a little girl in her mother's arms, listening to a maternal voice that told her she was made of stern stuff, that she could conquer anything.

In his arms, she felt the same way. She wasn't going to let her own grief and frustration destroy her or her marriage. As she cried, she got almost angry at the idea. How dare this make her feel less than? How dare it rob her of her hard won happiness?

"You're more than enough, Elsie, do you hear me? So much more."

She nodded her understanding, her tears slowing down. She hiccuped, and covered her mouth immediately. "Sorry- hic!" She was half crying, half laughing now.

He laughed with her, a deep rich sound. Not at her, mind. He pulled out a second handkerchief.

"Two?" she asked, when he pressed it to her cheek. The first was was still clutched in her left hand.

"I had a hunch about today," Charles replied. "It's good to be prepared."

"As you say," she agreed. She took the cloth from him and wiped her face. Shaking, she sat up, pressing her hands to her cheeks, breathing deep.

"I'm finished with this," she declared, deciding firmly that her cry spell was over. She felt a rush of relief, leaving her feeling almost tingly. "If you'll excuse me, I'm ought to wash my face."

"Of course," said Charles. "But will you come back once you've finished?"

"I will," she promised him. "and I won't be half a minute."

True to her word, she came back a moment later, her eyes still puffy around the edges, but with a small smile on her face.

"You look lovely," Charles told her. From his voice, she presumed he was still on the sofa.

"I do not," she shot back. Crying did not suit her, and she wouldn't hear any false flattery on the subject.

"Fine," he said, with exaggerated sarcasm. "You look like a hideous troll that lives under a bridge and eats children for supper. Is that better?"

She laughed - heartily. "Much better," she told him.

"I will never understand women," Charles muttered to himself.

"I heard that," she told him.

"Nothing wrong with the troll's hearing, it would seem."

"I'll smack you in a minute," she deadpanned.

"I'd rather you not," he said. "If my wife promises not to hit me, I might have a story for her."

"Might you?"

"A tale of great impropriety and vulgarity," he said, tapping the book in his hands.

"Changed your mind on that, have you?"

"I have," said Charles. "I think we might just survive it."

She sat down next to him, and folded herself into his arms once again. "I look forward to it, Mr. Carson," she said, drawing out the "r" in a rather charming fashion.

"All right. But you must not laugh at me."

"I solemnly swear."

Charles took a deep breath. "'He never forgot seeing her as she lay on the bed, when he was unfastening his collar.'"

"''So he left her, and she was alone. Very few people cared for her, and she for very few people. She remained alone with herself, waiting.' And that's the end of chapter eleven.'"

"I don't think two lovers could both love and hate each other with such intensity," commented Elsie, stretching out her arms. One of them had fallen asleep.

"They certainly tend to extremes," agreed Charles.

"Do you suppose we're anything like them?" she asked, craning her neck towards him.

"I should think not," said Charles, surprised. He'd rather not imagine himself as a character in a story. "Why? Do you?"

"Well, I can think of one way …" said Elsie slyly. With a wicked smile she reached out and attempted to unbutton her husband's collar. Charles made a low sound in the bottom of his throat and pulled her hands away. Elsie paused, unsure.

"If I recall correctly," Charles said, pushing her gently onto her back, "you lie there while I unfasten that…"

TBC...