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CSotA
22nd of December
Elsie wakes before dawn on the morning of the twenty-second. The fire has gone down to very small embers and there is a distinct chill in the bedroom.
Beside her, Charles snores away in a very deep slumber. She wonders if he knows he talks in his sleep sometimes. She can hardly judge him for whispering her name in his dreams, though, for if Charlie knew what was in her own dreams last night and the night before, he'd surely have woken her to see if some of it might happen immediately.
Her face warms as she slides off the mattress and stands, searching for her slippers and retrieving one from underneath the bed where she must've kicked it last night. Her feet securely tucked in, she grabs a few pieces of kindling and lays them on the embers, blowing gently and patiently until one ignites. She watches it for a moment and then, satisfied, she adds a small log to the pile, grabs her robe from the chair by the window, and ducks out of the room without a sound.
As she heads to the kitchen, carefully avoiding that one step that creaks loudly on the left-hand side, she wonders about the dreams. She's never had any like them until a couple of months ago, and certainly never anything remotely close prior to being married. After all, she reminds herself as she puts the kettle on, her mind would not have had the faintest idea what to put in them.
You know now, though. She and Charlie certainly had their struggles in the early days of their marriage, but the physical intimacy they share had never been one of them. True, it had taken a while before all that happened with something resembling finesse, but that wasn't due to a lack of interest or enthusiasm on their parts.
Or wine, now that she thinks back to their honeymoon. A good bit of wine had calmed her nerves - and his - and was probably responsible for the entire act even having happened. They'd experimented with quite a few things during those days away, all under the cloak of darkness, until the very last morning, when Charlie had woken her with caresses and kisses in places she never expected - kisses which, now that she thinks of it, figured heavily in last night's dreaming.
The kettle whistles. She steeps her tea and puts in some bread to toast, famished due to the rushed dinner she'd managed at the Abbey last night between the myriad things that somehow suddenly needed doing. It was a good thing Miss Baxter had taken over the linen rota and that Elsie had finished the stocking when she did, because otherwise Charlie likely wouldn't have had it in time for Christmas.
She takes her cup and saucer into the parlor and then retrieves the stocking from her handbag. She knows Charlie spotted it peeking out last night, but despite his frequent impatience with many things, he's no snoop.
Not like you, she tells herself with a bit of shame. Still, overall, Elsie feels her meddling in the affairs of others has so often ended up on a positive, helpful note that she is willing to overlook the little guilt that still resides in her heart over pushing Charles so hard after she'd read his letter from Charlie Grigg.
It feels like a lifetime ago. Sometimes she pinches herself, wondering if she's still the same Elsie Hughes that grew up on a struggling farm in Argyll, the same woman who rose from housemaid to housekeeper in record time in one of the most esteemed homes in all of England - the spinster housekeeper, as they so often were.
She's no spinster now, and she smiles as she sips her tea and eyes the hastily-wrapped stocking that she's left on Charlie's end of the settee.
Elsie is on her second cup when Charles finally wakens, and although she feels like it's the middle of the morning, it's just past dawn. She turns when he comes into the room and presents her cheek for a morning kiss, lifting her fingers to his cheek.
"You're prickly," she observes.
"So I've been told." His voice is still somewhat thick from sleep.
"Your face, you daft beggar." The look on her own face takes any sting out of her words.
"Would you mind getting my cup of tea?"
She glances at him and gets up to heat the water again.
"Not a good morning?"
Charles holds up his hand, which is trembling more than usual. "Must've slept on it funny, I think. It was tingling when I got up but that went away immediately once I was moving about."
"You slept like the dead, or so it seemed."
He watches as she scoops the tea into the pot. "Was I snoring?"
Elsie chuckles. "You're always snoring, Charlie. Not always loudly, but always something."
"I hope I'm not the reason you're up so early today."
"Not at all. And it doesn't bother me; in fact, I had more trouble sleeping here alone the nights you were back at the house for the royal visit than I ever have had sleeping beside your snoring self."
She pours. "Come on; I've got a surprise for you in there."
"Is it the item sitting on the settee?"
"It is."
"You had it at the Abbey last night."
Elsie winks at him. "Sit and open it." She tucks herself into the opposite corner from where he sits.
Charles lifts the package, squeezes it, shakes it, holds it up to his ear-
"Charlie. Just open it."
"Fine, fine," he grumbles, but she knows it's all teasing.
He pries the paper back, completely mystified as to what could be underneath it. It's much too small to be any kind of shirt or trousers or blanket, and he doesn't need gloves or a new hat - not that it's the right shape for either of those things anyhow. It's sort of a rolled-up something or other ...
"Oh, Elsie."
She looks into his eyes, so full of surprise and love.
"It's ... It's perfect. However did you manage it? You've not had a spare moment!"
"I found moments here and there," she replies. "Granted, I was swearing at the thing and my lack of overall ability, and the overzealousness that made me bite off almost more than I could chew."
"I can't even tell where the damned mice got at it," he marvels, holding it up to the light that's now coming through the window.
"Miss Baxter rescued me," she confesses. "She didn't repair it, mind you - she wouldn't hear of it and besides, I wanted to do it myself." Her eyes drop to the cup that she's holding near her chest. "For you," she adds, her voice much quieter than it was.
Charles reaches over and pats her knee, then squeezes it gently. "It means more than you can guess that you've done this. It's nearly all I have left," he reminds her, and she nods.
"I know. It's funny; I was thinking as I finished the last row that mending your things was something I always helped with in my duties as housekeeper at Downton, but it's completely different now. It means more, doing it for my husband."
"Having a wife to do these things ..." He doesn't finish, but she understands.
"Go hang them up, then. Mine's on the back of the chair."
He takes the stockings to the mantle and finds the tiny nails that he'd put in the wood for the sole purpose of hanging their Christmas stockings. He struggles a bit but does secure them, after which he turns back to her and smiles.
"There. It's looking rather merry in here now. Quite festive, what with the garland and the tree and now the stockings."
Suddenly, Elsie remembers something. "Surely the paint is dry on the horse? We should put that cushion together before I head out, and then when the glue dries you can attach it to the seat."
"And I'll bring it down here, I think. Mr. Bates said something about coming on by tomorrow when everyone else is busy at the house with Christmas Eve preparations. His Lordship has an appointment with his solicitor to sort out a few things."
"Yes, I know," she says softly, and she reaches out for his hand and encourages him to sit beside her again, which he does. "With his solicitor and with the Dowager. I'm certain it's to do with her will."
His eyebrows fly up. "How do you know that?"
"Her Ladyship mentioned it," Elsie says simply. "And it makes sense, after all. She'll want to be sure to include Caroline, and Lady Hexham's baby is on the way, too." She doesn't mention the other thing she knows is going to change in the will, the tiny mention of a specific item that the Dowager had asked Elsie about only last month. She wants Charlie to have it, and Elsie confirmed her suspicion that he'd never accept it unless it was specified in the will.
Charles snakes his arm over her shoulders and she leans into him, looking out the window and into the snow-dusted, frosty trees beyond. She tries to imagine him as a young hall boy fascinated by a first-edition of a treasured book, tries to envision the first time Lord Grantham's father had handed it to him and told him to be very, very careful to return it in excellent condition to the library. That book had become Charlie's favorite over the years, and while Elsie suspects its monetary value is quite impressive, the sentimental value it will carry as the book transfers from Lady Violet's shelf at Grantham House to their much more modest one at the cottage will be absolutely beyond measure.
She feels Charlie's lips upon her forehead, pulling her from her musings.
"You need to get dressed," he murmurs against her skin, his stubble prickling her brow.
"I want to retire," she blurts out. "I mean, I'd like to make a plan for it to happen."
Charlie sits back quickly in order to see her face. "I see." His heart pounded at her words, but he doesn't wish to give that away.
"I know we've discussed it loosely and decided that we'd be comfortable financially."
He nods twice, slowly. "We would. If you wished to retire within the next ..."
"Year," Elsie supplies, and he beams at her.
"Within the next year, then we should think about selling the other house. Unless you want to move into it and rent it out as originally planned?"
Elsie swatted at his leg playfully. "That was never truly the plan, was it?"
"Actually, yes. I didn't know if you'd accept me as your husband, although I suspected, but at least with an investment property, I knew we'd be together for as long as we were both around."
Elsie stands and rolls her shoulders, wincing as one of them cracks and gives her instant relief. "Well, you're stuck with me now, remember. But I could never leave our cottage, I don't think. We've just barely begun this part of our lives, and I want my retirement to be about settling down and not another upheaval."
He smiles. "I agree. We can discuss it more later, but now, Mrs. Carson, you need to get moving."
She takes his cup and brings it to the kitchen with hers. From where she stands by the sink, she can hear him rustling about with the fire before settling back on the settee with yesterday's newspaper, looking for any small detail he might have missed. It's the picture of retirement, and she can't wait to be spending every morning by his side, with no rushing out of the house necessary whatsoever.
"Are you sure you'll be able to stand having me under foot all day?"
Charles looks up from the paper and glances at her. "It's the nighttime I should be more concerned with," he replies with a smirk.
"I beg your pardon?"
He looks back at the paper. "You talk in your sleep, woman."
Elsie's eyes go as wide as saucers. "You've never told me that before," she whispers, aghast. "Did I do so last night?"
"Why?" He turns the page, feigning seriousness. "Were you dreaming anything particularly juicy last night that I should know about?"
She approaches him and ruffles his hair with her fingers, then leans down and kisses him chastely on the cheek.
"You may never know, Mr. Carson."
He watches as she heads toward the stairs to get ready for work.
"I may know already, Mrs. Carson."
He hears her laugh echo in the hallway, and he smiles.
Retirement, he thinks. It's about damn time.
TBC