24th of December

Perhaps it is its own version of a Christmas miracle, but Elsie sleeps later than usual on Christmas Eve morning. She's not to be to work until ten due to the long evening ahead of them with the family's celebration and then midnight mass, and so Charles gets up before her once again and heads down to put the kettle on. When he gets to the bottom of the stairs, he remembers the small box he tucked up in the storage closet and retrieves it, setting it on the dining table on his way into the kitchen. Elsie should be up soon, he hopes, and it will be a sweet surprise.

He puts on water for tea and some sliced bread goes into the toaster, which reminds him to tell Elsie that the bread is nearly gone and they'll either want to make a couple of loaves themselves or pick some up in the village or from Mrs. Patmore. They've been slicing it all right away and storing it differently, which has enabled Charles to manage a decent breakfast even on the days when his hands shake too much to use the bread knife safely.

While the bread is toasting, he looks around the kitchen, feeling as though something is missing. The feeling makes no sense because this morning is really no different than any other morning.

Except it is, he realizes. With what he knows is at least two minutes before he needs to pull the toast out (over a year of marriage behind him, but he managed to master the toast-making only six weeks ago), he heads into the living room and turns on the wireless, tuning the knob until he lands on a station coming in clearly and smiling as the first chords of Adeste Fideles come through the speaker. He adjusts the volume a bit and returns to the kitchen. The toast is ready just as the water for his tea boils. Once well set with food and drink, he takes his seat and hears his wife's footsteps descending the stairs.

"Happy Christmas Eve." She greets him with a kiss.

"Happy Christmas Eve. You slept well."

Elsie stretches, which allows her husband to appreciate the look of her body as her night gown and robe slide over it a bit. She moves to get herself a cup for tea, but Charles waves her into a seat and gets up himself to retrieve it ... and that's when she spots the box.

"What's this?"

"Open it," he replies with a smile. He pours the tea with two hands carefully holding the pot. It splashes out a bit and he wipes it up, well past the days when the mess would shame him. Elsie has shown time and time again to have patience with and acceptance of all his shortcomings - another thing which, in Charles's mind, 'passeth all understanding.'

Elsie looks at the mailing label on the package, but the name of the company and return address are smudged, and the postmark gives no clue as to what might be inside.

"It's light," she remarks, turning it in her hands and smirking at him. "Are you sure there's something inside?"

"Very funny," he says, chuckling. "Although ... Perhaps next year an empty box will be the way to go."

"Oh, get away with you." She takes a tentative sip of her tea, then another. "I'll need a small knife, I think."

Charles provides her with one, then sits down and watches as she opens the package.

"I'd have done that part yesterday morning," he confides quietly, "except the trembling worsened by the time I returned from the post office, and then I needed to get up to the house."

"It's no bother," she says, pulling the last of the brown paper off. "It is a gift, after all; one should be required to unwrap it." She pries open the shipping box only to find a white, much slighter box inside, one which bears no markings. Curious, she lifts it out and sets it on the table.

"It won't bite," he says softly.

Elsie looks at him. "Should I know what this is? It seems familiar, but I'm not sure why."

Charles smiles at her. "Perhaps, if you think back."

Shaking her head, completely mystified and unable to come up with it, she gives up and lifts the lid. "Oh, Charlie," she whispers, overcome with emotion. Her head snaps up to look at him, then back to the box once again. "You found some! But how ...?"

Resting in the box were a dozen beautiful, thin, shiny pieces of silver tinsel.

"In a catalogue that her Ladyship showed me," is his reply. "The company has nearly stopped making them, but two lucky telephone conversations later and I tracked these down."*

Elsie's jaw drops. "And how, pray tell, did all of that occur?"

Charles smiles. "You mentioned it when we were first discussing the purchase of the lights for the tree, months ago," he reminds her. "We didn't have it in the local shops, and then I remembered that her Ladyship had some ordered a few years ago for the tree at Downton. In fact, it must've been you who'd ordered it."

Elsie nods, nearly speechless. "A great deal of it, as I recall."

"And so I knew she'd be able to tell me where it came from, and I asked her."

"You asked her," Elsie repeats, astonished. "And when was this?"

"After church a few weeks ago," he says simply. "It was right when Christmas decorations began appearing in the shops again, so it's been quite a while now. Anyhow, I waited for a moment when you were busy catching up with Dr. Clarkson. Her Ladyship left a note for me with Mr. Barrow a few days later with the name of the catalogue in which she'd seen the advertisement."

Elsie reaches into the box and pulls out a few of the strands. They shine so brilliantly in her hands, and she knows already that the tinsel is of a very high quality.

Of course, she thinks. Her Ladyship wouldn't have purchased anything else.

"Charlie?"

But he sees the question coming a mile away. "I refuse to tell you what it cost, but I can assure you that it wasn't out of the realm of reason." He reaches for her free hand and kisses the back of it. "You deserve to have something beautiful now and again, Elsie," he says quietly. "And after all, it is Christmas."

"It is at that," she says, and the pride and happiness in his eyes at having pulled off such a surprise quell any remaining protest she might have had; after all, she knows all too well that the magic of Christmas is often most easily found in the giving of a meaningful gift and the surprise in someone's eyes when it is opened. "Thank you, Charlie. This was so very thoughtful."

He stands back and watches her as she puts the first few strands on the branches of their tree.

"You should put some up," she encourages, but he shakes his head.

"No. I'd rather watch you, if I'm honest." He holds his hand out, which is still trembling terribly. "I will polish it, though, when it needs doing. That can be my contribution."

Her first thought is that she can manage it herself, but the words never make it to her throat. He still struggles with his forced retirement nearly a year later and knows there's value in finding ways to be useful instead of feeling redundant.

"I'll hold you to that," she replies.

Charles peers out the window and sees the remnants of the angel in the snow.

"The sun is out today," he says. "I hope that doesn't melt."

Elsie peeks around him, resting her hand on his hip as she does so.

"Oh, Charlie. It can't stay forever." She smiles up at him and rests her hand on his cheek, scratching her fingernails against the stubble of his beard. "You're just like Becky, you know. Sometimes. With things like this." She chuckles. "Sentimental things."

"Stop."

Laughing, she turns back to the tree and hangs the rest of the beautiful tinsel on the branches.

*Tinsel used to be made from actual silver, which was hammered and cut into thin strips. But due to the necessity of polishing it (and soot from the candles which also adorned Christmas trees around the turn of the century), manufacturers eventually switched to a tin and lead composite. No iteration of Charles Carson that exists in my mind would ever choose a product made of lead over one made of silver, and so here we are.

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