"You anticipate what I would say, though you cannot know how earnestly I say it, how earnestly I feel it, without knowing my secret heart, and the hopes and fears and anxieties with which it has long been laden. Dearest wife, I love you fondly, dearly, disinterestedly, devotedly. If ever there were love in the world, I love you."
Elsie looked up from the book lying in her lap, her knees bent up under the blankets against which it was resting, and smiled at him affectionately.
"That's not quite how that quotation goes," she replied, her amusement plain on her face, her joy at his choice of words kept a secret for now.
"I should think," Charles countered, with a mock seriousness that clearly belied his own mood, "That if Charles Dickens could see into my heart at this very moment then he would have been writing about you, my wonderful, most darling Elsie."
She watched as her usually stoic and polished husband crawled the length of the bed and drew close alongside her, his shirt sleeves turned up, jacket and waistcoat no doubt abandoned somewhere downstairs, the back of the settee no doubt.. Across the back of the settee, she didn't wonder. He placed a reverend kiss to her cheek, and then to the corner of her mouth, his lips soft and tender as they pressed so tantalisingly close to her own. He lifted his head to give a happy grin before collapsing beside her, his head rolling back onto the pillow with a contented sigh. She regarded him for a moment before turning back to the page and, locating her place, took up the tale once more. She delighted as she felt him reach for her hand, taking it carefully from where it lay on the bed and cradling it to his chest, it rising and falling in time with his breathing as, after a few minutes, he relaxed into a light doze. She thought she should probably disturb him, encourage him to change into his bedclothes. A nap now was, from experience, likely to result in him waking in the wee small hours whereby he'd feel honour-bound to get up and get ready for bed properly only to find himself unable to sleep. She chuckled to herself at the thought that this was what marriage really was, intimate knowledge of the mundane, of the tiny details that were of no interest to anyone else, the minutiae that could help or hinder according to how they were applied. Rather like being in service, she concluded, and, if she did say so herself, she was really very good at that.
It hadn't taken long for Elsie to establish what it was that was really going on and by the end of the day she'd fancied herself a detective, just like the one featured so regularly in the story pages of The Sketch, copies of which her Ladyship was always so kind enough to pass on when she'd finished with them. She'd laughed to herself at the thought, perhaps not quite like him, there'd been considerably fewer dead bodies for one thing. But there had been plenty of clues from which to piece together the truth. She'd listened to the evidence presented by Anna, how she'd overheard Lady Mary enthusing with Mr Blake at the idea of sharing the Abbey's secrets with the world; and then of the article that Miss Baxter had seen and read after it had been tossed aside by Lady Grantham's favourite reading chair, of the endeavours to raise funds for the good works to safeguard a heritage under threat; and back to Anna as she described the little aide memoire for the contract for payment that had been spied amongst his Lordship's papers as she'd dusted in the Library; and finally Andy's report, the trigger to cause her to march up the stairs to prevent the confused Mr Carson from making a fool of himself. And she'd been relieved to reach him just in time, a subtle tug of his sleeve to pull him away from the poor young man who had simply been trying to do his job.
"Why did you do that?" he hissed, outraged that she'd dare to act with such forwardness. Whatever their personal relationship it wasn't done for the housekeeper to command the butler.
"Saving you," she whispered back. "It's not what you think."
He frowned in response, a deep furrow on his brow as she'd indicated with a gesture of her head that he should follow her. She led him to the relative seclusion of the Morning Room, it was rarely used in the afternoon and she was certain they'd be safe enough.
"Elsie," he started up crossly. "I won't have you interrupt me like that. That man needed to -"
"Oh, hold your tongue and listen for once," she admonished. "He's not measuring for an auction house brochure or whatever you imagine to be happening, but for cables."
Charles stood aghast, "Cables?"
She nodded, "Cables," she confirmed, "And what's more he'll be wanting to check more than that. You see, he's from the -"
"Ah, Carson, Mrs Hughes," came the calm voice of Lady Mary behind them, "Thank goodness I've found you. I see you've met our friend," she said, nodding towards the man hovering behind you.
"Indeed, milady," Charles managed to utter.
"Wonderful, then would you mind showing him where all the electrical sockets are? Or perhaps Barrow can?" Inquired Lady Mary, "Only we don't have much time if they're to start tomorrow."
Elsie had been proud of her man in that moment, his honed skill in pretending he knew exactly what it was that was going on, the seamless way in which he ushered the man from the room and into the next. As their glances had found one another she imagined she was the only in the world who could read his thoughts.
The words on the page in front of her were beginning to blur, her eyes tiring as she strained to make them out, the dim light from the bedside lamp hardly helping. Their bedroom was bright enough in the early evening, the west-facing window affording views of some quite magnificent sunsets, but not at this time of night. She'd been ambitious to even try to read, but she'd need something to take her away from the madness of the Abbey, with its endless trials and tribulations, and from the endless worry at the state of their marriage, it's early days still twisting and turning, not yet settled into the comforting rhythm that she foresaw was possible. It was why she'd persuaded Charles to sneak away early, to trust Barrow and Miss Baxter to manage things by themselves, to enjoy a quieter, simpler supper where they could be themselves, talk if they wanted, or not as the mood took them. And the sleeping giant beside her gave her cause to give thanks that he'd agreed.
She carefully marked the page in the book, a move made trickier by only having the use of one arm, but she managed well enough, the bookmark poking out from between the hard-bound leatherette covers. She eased it onto the shelf of the bedside table before turning back, her trapped hand gently shaking as she tried to stir him awake.
"Charlie, Charlie," she whispered, "Come on, dear," the grumble and snort she received in return causing her to try a little harder and louder. And when that didn't work she resorted to a more certain technique, that of the efficient housekeeper, "Mr Carson, you're wanted upstairs,"
"What?" he said with alarm, his eyes wide as the words in his ears collided with the reality around him. "Where am I?"
Elsie chuckled softly, "At home," she soothed, her free hand moving to stroke his cheek, a thumb enjoying the scratchy skin underneath, "But you nodded off in your clothes again."
She lay there for a moment, watching as he blinked and yawned himself to full consciousness before hurruphing as he shifted himself off the bed and began to unbutton his shirt. Not letting her eyes leave him, she took the chance to snuggle down under the bedclothes, pulling them up right over her shoulder. She was still wearing her lightest cotton nightgown despite the cooler evenings, his heat being more than enough to warm her. As he digested himself of his trousers she nearly looked away. It had become a habit to do so and one she now found herself keen to break. Why shouldn't she take in the full sight of her man in all his glory, she mused, and oh, the effect as he stood there in just his starched white shorts! She'd not deny that something had been awakened in her in the last few days, a sensation she found herself craving with an incessancy that would have been disturbing if it wasn't so darned tempting. She'd read enough novels, heard sufficient gossip amongst the womenfolk of the town to speculate as to what it might be that fizzed and bubbled deep inside, somewhere hidden. That she might possess the ability to feel it, no, she shook her head, to be consumed by it, well, she was married now. And she had God and the world's permission to indulge it.
She sighed regretfully as he disappeared, his broad shoulders hunched a little as he ducked through the doorway, only for him to reappear with only the addition of a frown.
"Have you seen my pyjamas?" he asked, "I could have sworn I left them hanging on the back of the bathroom door."
She gave him a small smile, her eyes bright as she leaned over and flicked back the covers on his side of the bed, a little gesture of her head to indicate he should climb in. He hesitated but briefly before he obeyed and slid in to settle beside her once more. She turned and reached to switch off the lamp, the room drowned in darkness as she felt a warm, heavy arm encircle her and draw her backwards, Charles shuffling so their bodies were up against one another, his hand seeking out the breast that was squashed into the mattress, moulding his palm around it so completely. Her body gave way at the sheer pleasure of it, being held so close, with such affection, such warmth, as if only they could fit together so perfectly. Her earlier lustful thoughts were set aside as she surrendered, the exhaustion of the day beginning to release itself from her mind and body and drift away under his touch.
"Elsie," he said gruffly into her ear, "I didn't thank you, for earlier, for figuring it all out."
She tilted her head back towards him, just enough to catch a glimpse of his face, the sincerity etched upon it. She didn't reply, instead let her hand drift back behind her to brush against his leg as it pressed against her own.
"I'll confess I was concerned," he added, his voice beginning to quiet.
"And now?" she asked sleepily, not able to prevent her eyelids from closing any longer, the light squeeze of his hand against her bosom a delightful comfort than anything more.
"I'll confess, I'm quite excited," he whispered, his breath tickling her ear, "The BBC coming to Downton."
"You don't disapprove?" she murmured, feeling him shift, burying himself deeper against her if that was possible.
"Not now that I've had time to adjust," he replied, his voice thick and dark with his admittance. "But given the alternative I find it all quite acceptable."
And she smiled, the vibrations as he hummed happily to himself, the soft melody on his lips a bedtime lullaby to lull her into a peaceful slumber.
I'm beginning to worry I'm obsessed with these two being asleep in each other's arms...send help!
Opening quote ruthlessly doctored from 'A Tale of Two Cities' by Mr Charles Dickens for which I give all due thanks.