24th of December
"Christ has been born among us ..."
The Reverend Travis's words are clear and comforting in the stillness of the church. Elsie's fingers are laced through Charlie's and she feels a sense of completion, of peace, and the knowledge that they are surrounded by love. It isn't lost on either her or her husband that it's been nearly a full turn of the wheel since his forced retirement, yet neither of them can quite believe how far they've come in that year.
People stand and voices rise, singing the familiar songs that are as much a part of her life now as the other, older traditions had been when she was very small, practices from her great-grandmother, decidedly pagan ones that have no place in St. Michael's and All Angels. But last year she introduced Charlie to the practice of lighting the Yule log and shared with him (in a quiet voice and with no small amount of apprehension given his own steadfast, lifelong religion) a bit of her childhood. To her surprise, he'd not only listened with wide-eyed fascination but helped her continue the traditions.
"What is that?" Charles asked, mystified by the small piece of wood in her hand.
"It's the remains of last year's log," she explained carefully. "It'll be used to light the new one."
"You've kept it all year?"
"Yes, Charlie. That's how it's done."
"And you managed to have a Yule log every year since you were a child? How is that possible?"
She smiled. "The Yule log is given, so for all the years I was in service, I improvised by selecting one of the pieces of wood that was laid out in the fireplace in my room. I couldn't very well ask for one, so that had to do."
"And no one wondered why you saved a piece?"
"Well, no one knew ... until now."
They sit again, listening to the prayers, reciting responses when required. Elsie's eyes scan the front of the church while the back of her mind is still reminiscing, thinking of the quiet that followed her explanation when Charlie had come upon her fetching the small piece of wood from a box in her wardrobe. Her heart swells when her memories bring her to last Christmas Eve, to the boyish look of pride on his face when she spotted the Yule log he'd laid in their fireplace before they left for church. They'd not lit it then, stretching tradition just a bit so as not to leave it burning whilst they were away.
"Will that do?" His face was uncertain, but he had surprised her and knew it, and his pride was evident.
"It's perfect, Charlie." It was all she was able to utter, so surprised and touched was she by his thoughtful attentiveness to this one detail that is such an integral part of her personal history.
"Elsie?"
His voice is a murmur in her ear, pulling her fully back to the here and now. She shakes her head but gives him a reassuring smile and it seems to placate him.
Near the altar, the Advent wreath is laid out. The flame from the Christ candle burns bright and true and full of promise. This tradition touches her heart too, for even with the old ways still a part of her, Elsie's faith in this place, this church, and these traditions and prayers is equally powerful. It ties her to Charles in a fundamental way and is something they share, a part of the mutual respect they've crafted over the course of decades. She hears the choir as they lead the congregation in song, sees bright faces and a bit of tiredness on the parts of some in attendance.
Her gaze falls on the Dowager, the woman's hair shimmering in the church's candlelight, and Elsie knows that tonight she'll send out an extra wish for the woman, for a painless passing of her spirit when she leaves this world for the next, which Elsie is certain will be before they all see another Christmas. There's a small, sharp pain in her heart when that thought hits her fully, for she knows the grief Charles will experience then will bring him to his knees.
Yes. She'll send an extra prayer of hope for Lady Violet, and one for Charlie, too.
There's a bit of loud commotion as everyone rises at the end of the service. People seeking one another out, shaking hands, kissing cheeks, and making their way by.
They linger in the back, since Elsie knows her husband wants to see the family one more time before they head home. They enjoyed such a lovely time earlier, celebrating as staff but also, in some small way, as true guests - particularly of Tom and Sybbie Branson. Charles surprised each of the children with a small toy and a peppermint, all of which he'd kept a secret from his wife until that very morning. The wine flowed freely, the food was excellent as always, and despite being in full housekeeper mode and keeping a dutiful eye on the entire thing, Elsie had been able to relax a bit and feel her husband's hand at the small of her back more than once. That and the absence of his livery contributed to a sense of belonging in a new way, and Elsie had the thought that if this happened to be her last Christmas as a part of Downton as well, it was the loveliest way to celebrate it.
Elsie feels Charlie's hand at her elbow and turns to see Lord Grantham's eldest daughter.
"Carson, I'll have you know that George fell asleep with that small wooden horse clutched in his hand." Mary's voice, so often clipped and cool, is full of affection.
"I'm very glad he likes it, Milady."
Elsie smiles, silent. She and Lady Mary Talbot came to some sort of mutual understanding during the royal visit, but neither of them have ever felt the need to fill empty space with meaningless chatter. They spoke at the family's party earlier - at great length, considering - and best wishes have already been given and received.
After a bit more conversation and some greetings exchanged with a few of the village folk, it's nearly time to go home. Elsie can't wait to be off her feet and cuddled up to her husband, and from the way he's looking at her from where he stands talking to Lord Grantham, she thinks he may be having similar thoughts to hers.
Tom Branson offers them a ride back to the cottage, which Charles readily accepts. It puts them in the warmth of their home sooner and, immediately after the shedding of coats, hats, scarves, and gloves, Elsie finds herself wrapped in her husband's arms.
His palm lands on her face and she can feel his fingertips in her hair. They're warm, which surprises her, but his lips are a bit cold when they meet hers. He lingers and hums against her mouth, then deepens the kiss slowly. Elsie grasps at his sleeve to steady herself, tilting her head slightly and opening her mouth a bit to him. He has her backed against the wall by the front door, and there's something almost illicit about it that thrills her.
"I love you," he whispers when they part. "Happy two years."
She smiles softly at him. "Your sense of romance knows no bounds, Charlie."
"Would you still marry me, if I asked you today?" He holds up his hand, which is trembling slightly, likely from fatigue. "If you'd known I would end up like this?"
"Is that what's been on your mind these last few weeks, love, what's been worrying you so?"
To his credit, he does not look away, allowing her to see the sadness in his eyes, and he nods minutely. "I feel that Christmastime is supposed to be so wondrous, and it is and I do feel that, but it's also such a reminder of how things change, of how I am changing. It's so evident now, and I can't help but feel that I've wasted so much time ..."
"Oh, Charlie." She had suspected this was at the heart of his melancholy, and she wished she knew how to fully dispel it. They're both aging, they feel it, and over the past year his infirmity has worsened a bit, it's true. But they've also found ways to manage with it, small changes to their lifestyle that haven't made a huge difference in how things happen: the sliced bread, larger buttons, and the safety razor she's just ordered through the mail that she's not told him about yet. He is participating in village life more, doing things which don't require as fine a hand as being the butler did.
She takes his hand and places the softest of kisses to his palm, keeping her gaze steadily focused on his as she does so.
"I would marry you today, tomorrow, and every day after, Mr. Carson," she whispers. "Let's get upstairs."
He takes her hand and leads the way, taking the bathroom first as she fetches the small bit of wood to light the log he's laid in the hearth. It catches quickly, crackling once it gets going. Elsie hears the door creak behind her and Charlie's footsteps on the cold floor.
"You've done well, Charlie," she praises him, pointing at the log from where she's crouched down before it. "Time to make our wishes."
He holds his hand out to help her up and wraps his arms around her as they stand together, watching the fire and casting silent wishes for hope and peace into the warmth.
"I'll brush your hair," he murmurs in her ear, and she nods; it's a declaration, but also a request.
"Just let me change."
When she returns, he's sitting against the headboard with the pillows piled behind him and room for her to sit between his legs - which she does upon climbing into the bed.
"Can you hand me a pillow?"
He passes her a fat one, which she hugs to herself for a bit of support before leaning forward on it.
"My back is so sore. I'm glad we've been discussing my retirement. I'm not sure I have another Christmas season at that house in me."
He sees that she's already pulled the wooden pins out, probably put them somewhere very safe, but she's left him the smaller ones. He removes each one with care, setting them on his nightstand as they talk.
The Dowager's situation lies unspoken between them, and Elsie won't be the one to bring it up.
"She looked very well tonight," Charles says as he takes out the last of the pins. He fluffs Elsie's hair a bit and runs his fingers through it, searching for large tangles as he undoes the braiding, then rubs her scalp with his fingertips.
"She did," Elsie agrees, and she moans softly as he massages her temples. "Ohhh, that feels wonderful, Charlie."
He breathes deeply, inhaling the faint lavender scent of her hair. "It'll be her last Christmas. I just can't wrap my head around it."
Elsie hears the hitch in his voice, but she knows her husband well and does not turn around. Sometimes he just needs a bit of time and space, even in the sanctuary of their bedroom.
"She wants me to call on her," he says a moment later. He's picked up the brush and started on the ends of her hair, working his way up and running his fingers through it every so often. It's unnecessary, but the feel of her hair in his fingers soothes him - and it pleases Elsie, too.
"When?"
"'Beginning next week'," he replies. "That's all she said."
"So ... repeatedly?"
"It would appear so. Truth be told, I'm not sure how I feel about that."
Elsie ponders the thought for a moment.
"Perhaps she's lonely, Charlie. So often the harbinger of death makes family and friends keep their distance instead of increasing the frequency of their visits, despite how little sense that seems to make. And you truly understand her in a way that many people do not."
"We have similar priorities, I think," Charles says.
"And a similar outlook on the world and how it's changing, too."
He continues to run the brush through her hair a few more times, then sets it aside - its job complete - and wraps his arms around his wife, who leans into his body. She feels his lips on her head and can tell he's stifling a yawn.
"I'll miss her," he whispers sadly.
Elsie pats his arm. "I know. And I think she knows that, too. Perhaps she's also trying to give you a little more time."
Charles nods, his temple rubbing against his wife's.
"Let's get some sleep, Charlie. Tomorrow is a big day, too."
They rearrange themselves and Charles switches off the light. Elsie feels the soft thump as Eve jumps up on the bed, planting herself firmly by Charles's feet, and she smiles when he gently lifts her back off and places her into her basket and softly tells her to go to sleep.
Eve, Elsie thinks. For Christmas Eve, when she joined their family, and as Charlie* so eloquently put it, because it's the eve of a new phase in their lives, being responsible not only for the care of one another but for this small, beautiful creature as well.
Elsie tucks herself into her husband's side and lays her ear over his heart, letting its beat lull her to sleep.
TBC
A/N: Please leave a wee review and let me know what you think!
*and Hogwarts Duo, who came up with the name Eve. I did consider Violet, which was also suggested and which had been my original idea, but I wasn't sure Charlie could bear it.
BIG hugs to nanniships for helping answer some questions I had about Anglican holiday observances, the history of the Advent wreath and its use in the early 20th century in England, general amazing discussion about religion (tongue-in-cheek and not), and the likelihood of a young Elsie vs The Village Kirk in Argyll. :) xx