23rd of December
Miraculously, Elsie and Charles prepare to leave for home at around four that afternoon. When it became clear that the snow was coming before nightfall, and given that Elsie was finally, finally caught up on all things Christmas thanks to help from Charlie and from Miss Baxter, Thomas Barrow encouraged her to get out while she could.
"That was nice of Mr. Barrow," Charles says as he's slipping Elsie's coat over her shoulders, and she turns and gives him a look. "I mean that. He could have asked you to stay. I noted he isn't quite ready for tomorrow yet."
"It's still early," she says. "Besides, it's his first holiday season as butler. You've gotten him sorted with the wines, but you remember how much there is to do. I almost feel guilty leaving."
"It is his first Christmas as butler, I do remember how it was, and you should not feel guilty at all. I'd never have asked you to stay and do my job when I was butler."
"I'd have offered to help if it were back then," she tells him quietly, and she stands tiptoe to give him a peck on the cheek. "I was a little in love with you, though."
He raises his eyebrows in mock fear. "Was?"
She rolls her eyes in jest. "Fine. Am."
He acknowledges it with a soft smile. "Well, I actually considered offering to help him myself, but ..." He waves away the thought. "You know."
"Best that you didn't," she agrees, and she does up her last buttons and turns to him with a twinkle in her eye. "Let's go home, Charlie."
They bid the others goodbye and Elsie takes a basket from Mrs. Patmore. It's heavier than normal and the woman gives her a wink, but Elsie's afraid to open it in front of the others. She has her suspicions as to the cause of the extra weight.
Charles tucks Elsie's hand in his elbow as soon as they're outside, and he takes the basket off of her shortly thereafter, not caring one bit that it's typically the wife's job to carry such things. She's tired, she's been working all day, he really hasn't, and there's no reason he can see why he shouldn't help her out a bit.
He wonders when marriage turned him into such a modern man when he'd always thought it would have the exact opposite effect on him.
The snow began before they left, but while it had started as fluff it picks up and becomes much heavier when they're not even a fourth of the way home. They walk more slowly then, as they have to watch every step more carefully in order not to slip.
Charles has an idea as soon as they arrive and he sees the snow that'll need clearing from the front path. It's let up again (hardly atypical for Yorkshire, where the weather never seems to know what it wants to do), and he's grateful.
"Elsie?"
"Hm?" She turns from where she is unlocking the door to face him and sees something bordering on excitement in his eyes.
He looks over at the front lawn, then back at his wife.
It takes Elsie a few seconds, but then a look of astonishment comes over her face. "You can't be serious, Charlie," she scoffs, and she drops the key back in her handbag.
"Of course I am."
"No. Absolutely not." She looks at the garden, then at her husband again. "No."
He sets the basket on the stoop, then takes her hand and pulls her toward the grassy area, which is now covered with about two inches of snow.
"I'll never get up again."
"You will," he insists gently. "I'll help you."
"I'm in my work shoes, Charlie. No."
He looks down at her feet. "Stay here."
"What?"
Before she can stop him, Charles ducks into the house and then, about five seconds later, he's back with not her boots but his own, which are considerably larger.
"You can step right into these with your shoes," he says. "Come on, then. You know you want to."
Elsie looks up into his eyes, her resolve crumbling rapidly. "The insides will be wet from the snow," she protests, but it's weak and she knows it. "And I'm in my work dress."
"Nothing a flannel and some time by the fire won't cure." He watches her intently, silently willing her to agree.
Elsie shakes her head and laughs. "Fine. I surrender!"
"You know you want to," he repeats, and she bites down on her lip, smiling.
"I do," she finally admits. "Especially if it'll make you stop pestering me."
"Here." He takes his own scarf, which is much warmer, and wraps it around the back of her head and ties it in under her chin.
Elsie steps into his boots and fastens them, then makes her way into the yard. With Charles's help, she lowers herself to the ground, lying flat.
"I feel ridiculous," she says.
But Charles has no reply whatsoever. His brain is overwhelmed with so many images: Elsie as she is now, lying in the snow, mixed with his imaginings of what she was like as a young lass, making snow angels with Becky. And there's one other memory, which is about to come with a confession before the night is through.
"Go on, then!"
With a roll of her eyes, Elsie does her best in her long skirts, oversized boots, and arms contained in her heavy coat. Soon enough, her snow angel is complete with a full skirt and wings.
"Getting up is the worst part," she says, and she extends her hand out. Charles grabs hold of the fence post with one hand and his wife's outstretched palm with the other. She gets onto her knees and then, eventually, her feet. She stomps on the ground.
"Theres snow in my skirts somewhere," she mumbles, shaking it out, "but it was worth it if it made you happy."
"Oh, Elsie. Look."
She turns around and sees the perfect snow angel in the garden, and her smile is bright in the light from the street lamp.
"What if you go in and get the fire going and warm up, and I'll stay out here and shovel the path?" Charles suggests.
"Are you sure? I could help you."
"Of course I'm sure." He bends down and kisses her quickly on the lips.
"I'm freezing," Elsie says, "so I accept your generous offer." She knows the shoveling would be mostly his job anyhow, but still ... ordinarily, he'd be the one building up the fires, too.
"I'll be in shortly."
"Don't overdo it, Charlie. We can always walk over it in the morning if need be."
"It's light," he replies. "Not to worry."
Elsie goes inside and takes off her wet clothes, figuring Charlie won't mind if she slips into her warm, dry nightgown and slippers. She returns downstairs and moves the small coat stand into the living room, where she stands it by the hearth and then builds up the fire. Wiping the worst of the snow (and, now, water) from inside Charles's boots, she lays them on their side, remembering from when she was young that facing the open ends to the fire to catch the heat will dry them by morning.
In the kitchen, Elsie gets the kettle on and opens the basket. She'd expected an apple tart and an extra bottle of cider from the cook, but she's quite shocked when she pulls out a small bottle of good brandy, to which a small note bearing lovely wishes is attached.
"You never cease to amaze, Mrs. Patmore," Elsie mumbles. "We can certainly use this tonight."
She rubs her hands together as she waits for the kettle to boil, and it's not long before she hears the door open, close, and the slide of the bolt.
"All right then, Charlie?"
"Just fine," he calls back, and just as he's removing his coat and hanging it, the water is ready and Elsie pours them each a cup of tea.
"This'll be the precursor to Mrs. Patmore's gift," Elsie explains, nodding toward the brandy on the counter.
Charles moves past her where she stands in the doorway and picks up the bottle, holding it out from his face a bit so as to read it.
"That's rather dear, isn't it?"
"That's what I thought. I appreciate it, though." She gives him a wry look. "These old bones aren't meant for lying about in the snow, you know."
"Oh, you can afford to live a little, Elsie."
She gives him an incredulous look when she hears the sound of her own words thrown back in her face, and he laughs.
They cuddle up on the couch with their plates and their tea, Charles placing the brandy on the table for when they're finished. "We've nowhere else to be tonight," he explains, "and besides, it's Christmas."
"It is."
They eat in silence, enjoying the lights on the tree and how their glow bounces off the window panes and the snow that's gathered in the corners of the glass.
The wood crackles in the fire, and Elsie rests her head on her husband's shoulder.
"I need to tell you something - about Christmas, in 1902," Charles says suddenly. His voice is calm, steady, and it warms her more than any tea or brandy.
Elsie thinks back, trying to remember. "What about it?"
"It was my other favorite Christmas," he says by way of explanation. "The other half of the answer to your question from last night."
"Ohh," she breathes. "Go on, then." She scrunches up her forehead, thinking, then adds, "I knew you for that one."
He leans forward and sets his empty teacup on the coffee table, then turns back to her, reaching up and brushing the backs of his fingers against her cheek and finding it still chilled from the snowy air.
"Snow angels," he whispers, and he leans forward and touches his lips to hers, deepening the kiss and feeling her gasp in his own mouth when she realizes what he means - when she remembers.
She breaks away.
"Charlie, did you- Were you there? Did you see? But you couldn't have. I'd have spotted you, I think."
"I was in the library," he explains. "I looked out the window and saw you. Truth be told, I wasn't sure what to think."
"No, I imagine not!" Elsie laughs. "Two maids frolicking about in the snow, throwing snowballs and having a grand old time with the dog."
"But then you turned. I couldn't tell who you were at first when you were lying in the snow and playing about, but then you turned and you looked up at the library window - or near enough, anyhow, that it felt like you were looking right at me." He pauses, lowering his voice meaningfully. "I think my heart stopped that day."
"Oh, Charlie. Is that why you started speaking to me? The new butler with the deep voice who never gave any of the maids the time of day up until that point." She raises an eyebrow at him. "Don't even deny it; those were Mrs. Williams's words, not mine."
"I won't. You're absolutely right." He looks into her deep blue eyes. "I didn't know then that I'd end up loving you, but in that brief moment, I felt ... something." He shrugs. "It was the strangest feeling I'd had in a long, long time. And as the days went on from there, I finally felt that I had someone I could talk to in the house - a downstairs person, I mean. And all because of the snow."
"And here I always assumed your stoicism and stern demeanor were part and parcel of being the butler. You were in charge, so it made sense that you didn't speak much to the others. You had no equal, really, not then."
He smirks. "But once you were the housekeeper, I did?"
Elsie swats his knee. "You did and you know it."
"Poor Mrs. Williams," he quips.
"Oh, Charlie." She gets up with a soft groan and opens the brandy, pouring each of them a healthy bit in their teacups. "She was old enough to have been your mother."
She hands him a teacup and tells him there's no point getting the proper snifters when they have the warm cups already, and for once Charles doesn't balk at doing something improperly.
She sits back down and he reaches his arm around her, pulling her close. He remembers the package that he tucked away in the closet earlier, but he's loath to get up now and disturb her. It can wait until tomorrow.
From atop the tree, the angel seems to twinkle.
TBC
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