Paris
They tumbled out of the restaurant-bar, the peels of their laughter ringing out loudly across the quiet street, the music and general hubbub of the cabaret echoing off the neighbouring buildings. The sound faded as the door swung shut behind them and they found themselves quite alone in the dimly lit street, the yellow-warm light drifting in the drizzle that still lingered. Their alcohol-fuelled sniggers as they crashed into one revealing quite how daring they felt. The chastity of their courtship, save a few moderately passionate kisses, far behind them now. As a married couple this behaviour in public was considered absolutely unacceptable regardless of their standing. For a peer of the realm and his wife it would be perilous to even contemplate it. At home at least.
The clear sound of a nearby church bell rang out marking the hour.
"Goodness!" Edith commented with delight."
"Only a few short hours until breakfast," Bertie responded, eyeing her mischievously.
He took her hand and led her down the street in the vague direction of their hotel, at least that's what he hoped. There was little chance of a taxi and besides he was utterly desperate to keep his uninhibited Edith all to himself for as long as they could both manage. They turned down a cobbled side street. She stumbled as her heel caught between the stones slowing their progress, a giggle escaping from her lips as she righted herself and then adopted a serious, focused look. After the third or fourth time, Bertie rolled his eyes as she fixed her shoe which had slipped off. Deciding to take matters into his own hands, he reached his arms around her and picked her up, lifting her so that her stomach lay across his broad shoulder.
"Bertie!" she shrieked in shock, "Put me down!"
Ignoring her demand he walked with determination, his arms wrapped tightly around her and nestled just under the curve of her bottom. He enjoyed the fight she was pretending to put up and whistled a merry tune as her protests turned to laughter. He came to a stop at the end of the street and loosened his grip and let her body slide down his until her feet touched the ground. Their bodies anchored to one another, she dipped her chin and let her eyes look back up at him provocatively.
"Lord Hexham," she purred, "Whatever would my mother say," dancing her fingers across his chest and then up into his hair.
Time stood still as his gaze locked in on hers and his hands slipped down as far as he could reach and he drew her yet closer. The scent of her filled his nostrils and he wobbled slightly as wallowed in the way in which she intoxicated every fibre of his being. He could barely control himself as she raised herself very slightly onto her tiptoes and brushed her lips on his. The effect was electrifying and when she whispered a request for more, he moved as asked.
Edith awoke to the sound of a shrill ringing, disorientated; she wasn't immediately able to work out what it was and where it might be coming from. She lifted her head towards the sleeping form of her husband, noting only the snores that emanated from him. The ringing stopped and she sighed in relief, but the respite was brief as it started up again. It's the telephone, she realised and swinging her legs out from under the layers of bedding, she made to stand. Oh God, that didn't feel good, she thought as she reached for the bedpost to steady herself. She stumbled through to the drawing room, located the receiver and lifted it to her ear.
"Hello," she croaked, clearing her parched throat as she listened to the heavily accented voice of the hotel operator. "Yes, please put them through." She listened to the click and the whirrs of connections being made before she heard a different accent, much lighter and much more familiar.
"Edith? Is that you?" the urgency of the tone jilting her into focus.
"Yes, Mama, it's me. Is everything alright? Is it Papa?" she said panicking slightly, scrabbling for any other reason her mother would call her on her honeymoon.
"No, nothing like that," the sound of a heavy sigh of relief accompanying the words. "Thank goodness you're safe."
Edith frowned, "Of course, I am, Mama. Why would I not be?"
"You said you'd send a telegram when you arrived and it's been three days since you left. I was worried."
"Oh, I'm sorry," Edith gushed apologetically. "I completely forgot. We're absolutely fine, I promise."
"Well, alright then," her mother's voice noticeably relaxing. "Your father told me I was fussing and he was right." She paused, "How is it all going, my darling?"
Edith looked around behind her to find somewhere to perch and found the edge of the sofa arm. She felt a little wave of delight at the realisation that she was cared about at Downton. Deep down it was self-evident but rarely spoken of. She blushed though as she thought about how to tell her dear Mama that everything about married life was amazing and delightful and, most of all, sublimely satisfying. She always strove to be the respectful, dutiful daughter she was expected to be but just then she found herself unable to be.
"Oh, Mama! It's...I can't even describe it properly...it's wonderful, gloriously wonderful."
Bertie winced as he opened his eyes, relieved to discover that they'd at least had the foresight to draw the curtains before collapsing into bed. He tried to sit but found he couldn't, his head pounding, his mouth dry in a way he'd never previously thought possible. He stretched out an arm behind him to reach for his wife and was forced to turn in confusion as it collided with an empty space. The sheets felt warm though and summarising that she couldn't have gone far, rolled back to sink his head deeply into the pillow. What time was it, he wondered, bemused to be able to find the answer attached still to his wrist. Well, they'd missed breakfast, he thought, probably lunch too, chuckling at the realisation that they really had stayed out all night. He was vaguely aware of someone talking in the next door but lacking the energy to move he simply closed his eyes and waited.
At last, he heard the soft sound of footsteps padding across the carpet and felt the rustle of linen as she slid in beside him, wrapping a slender arm around his waist and resting her head lightly on his chest. He felt the cool satin of yesterday's undergarments pressed up against him, no sign that getting changed for bed had even been attempted.
"God, my head hurts," she moaned softly. "I may never drink again."
He moved slightly to place a fragile kiss to her forehead as contented, exhausted sighs escaped from them both and they let sleep take them once more.
