It was almost dawn. The sky outside the latticed windows of the sitting room cast everything in a hue of deep blue and there was a stillness that only comes about as night turns into day. Elsie blinked her eyes fuzzily and eventually became aware of where she was. It was not the warm and cozy confines of her bed in her flat downstairs, but something altogether warmer and cozier.

She was pinned between the sofa and the warm mass of Carson's sleeping body. They faced one another, nestled under a tartan blanket, their legs twisted together and their arms draped around the other. His steady breath kept time and his large hand, planted above her left hip, kept her right in place. Her fingers were on his navy sweater, the thin cashmere all that separated them from his chest. Even with the fabric between them, she could feel the warmth rolling off of him. It was the closest and most intimate she had been with a man since Joe. How on earth had they ended up here like this?

So much for a professional work environment, she thought sardonically. That was certainly out the window now.

Still, Elsie knew she ought to extricate herself before he woke. And yet, every atom in her body longed her to stay, begged and pleaded with her, all but fought with her. A heavy sigh left her without warning and at the sudden disturbance, she felt Carson stir in his sleep. Her every muscle tensed and she winced, praying he wouldn't wake and find her there.

Her prayers, in fact, were answered. Carson continued his blissful slumber. Yet, as he settled further into the sofa, he unconsciously pulled her closer, his hand tracing her hip until it skirted across the small of her back, tugging at it until they were flush against each other. His nose nuzzled in her hair and inhaled deeply. At this, a low moan left him; there was no mistaking what sleeping Charlie had in mind.

She felt possessed by him, by his great hand on her back, by his sandalwood scent overwhelming her, by the broadness of his large, warm body against hers. It had been a very long time since she had been with a man, but her body picked up where she had left off. As if one could ever forget something so ancient, so primal. Her lower lip was caught between her teeth; she bit down so hard it almost hurt. She longed to lean in, to trace a finger along the stubble that now peppered his cheeks and chin, to press her lips to the tuft of white chest hair that peeked through the v-neck of his sweater, to run her hands through that untameable curl of his.

To stay was unthinkable, Elsie decided. All of Carson's tugging and groping and subtle moaning was done while he was unconscious. Would he be horrified if he found them in this position if he woke? She couldn't bear the look on his face if he did. So, with the greatest, most patient care, she severed each limb from his embrace, first their tangled legs, then his hand from the small of her back, then hers from his chest, until a few inches separated them and she could crawl off the sofa. A spare beaded throw pillow took her place in his arms and in his sleepy state, he pulled it close.

He would never need to know that they had spent the night together, she thought with some relief.

Before retreating to her flat downstairs, she pulled the tartan throw over him until it covered his shoulders. For a fleeting moment, she had the thought that this would not be the last time she would watch him slumber or hear him moan.

"Good heavens," she muttered to herself at her own impropriety. What wishful nonsense.

The walk back to her flat in the old servants' quarters was cold and a little dreary. An old house like this one was always chilly in the autumn and winter months, but more so now given the stark contrast between Carson's warm embrace and the cool hallway in which she now padded. Her bedroom was the same shade of dark blue as the sitting room and just as still. Perhaps she had another hour or so before she had to be up, so Elsie peeled off her clothes in exchange for a nightgown, glad at least for the chance to get some sleep on a proper bed.

As she pulled off her blouse, however, she caught his scent clinging to the fabric, that heady mixture of sandalwood and port and…him. It was intoxicating in every sense of the word. Elsie pulled the blouse close to her, clutching it, getting lost in it.

"Oh, dear," she mumbled to herself as she pulled the blouse away, feeling its heady scent go right through her, right to a place long since dormant. Irritated with herself, she tossed the blouse in the hamper and climbed into bed, harshly arranging the duvet cover over herself and thumping against the pillows. Dreams of Charles Carson tangled up with her in this very bed, making the very sounds he had made not ten minutes ago were surely forthcoming and Elsie knew she could do little to stop them.

There were worse fates, however. And far less pleasant ones, too.

The sitting room was brighter than when he'd last seen it, but outside, where a layer of frost covered the ground, the sky was still a deep shade of blue. Carson stirred and rubbed his eyes with his right hand, and as soon as he recalled last evening, he immediately startled. He turned to where Elsie had been tucked against his ribs and under his arm, warm and small and serene. She was gone; in her place, a beaded throw pillow.

Carson frowned. Had it all been a dream, he wondered.

He sat up and felt every single one of his sixty years in each joint and muscle. Perhaps this was some sort of retribution from his body for spending the night on a couch like some young thing who could afford such luxuries. As he began to rub out one particularly angry muscle in his neck, a familiar and delightful lavender scent flitted up towards his nose. A smile curved about his lips and in an instant he knew last night had not been a dream. Thank heaven for that, he thought.

He checked his wristwatch. 6:35. Elsie would be up soon and breakfast would be getting on shortly after. There was still time for a shower and a shave.

On second thoughts, perhaps the shave could be forgone. He was feeling lighter, younger, more daring than before. It was not a particularly common occurrence for him to spend the night with a woman in his arms, but even last night's brevity and relative tameness invigorated him. What more could their upcoming day trip to London hold in store?

Patience had always been one of his greatest virtues, perhaps his most developed and well honed. One could not be disciplined, not truly, unless one was also patient. Carson had practiced it for years and could always rely on it. Today, however, it was in short supply. London could not come quickly enough for his liking. Even if it arrived right on time, it would be late.

London called just a few days later. This morning, a cool and mild Saturday in mid-November, found Carson and Elsie in the York Railway Station, bundled up in thick scarves and long coats. It was unseasonably cold that morning; one could almost see one's breath if the light caught it just right.

"Here are the tickets," Carson said, handing her a little orange and tan ticket. "Train leaves in ten."

"Excellent. And here's your coffee," she said, handing him his cup. "The queue at Costa was nightmarish. Who would have thought there'd be so many people here on a dreary Saturday morning?"

"We're here on a dreary Saturday morning," he teased. "What does that say about us?"

She laughed. "Oh, dear, you're right. Forget I mentioned it. Now, drink your coffee before it gets cold."

They sipped their coffee in the center of the railway station as dozens of passersby whizzed past them, all going somewhere with a purpose. They were utterly oblivious. A mood had settled between them since the night they spent sleeping on the sofa. It was ever so slight, nearly imperceptible to the naked eye. Yet Carson and Elsie could sense it. Their stolen glances over lunch or dinner seemed longer, more frequent; both were often caught hiding a smirk. And small, seemingly accidental touches were becoming common: playful slaps on the shoulder here, a hand on the small of the back there. Neither had any mind to make any mention of it, lest they stop.

Carson spent the better part of the train ride into London trying to focus on that morning's edition of The Times, but his gaze kept peeking over the edge of the paper to steal a glance at Elsie, who sat across from him. To her left, the Yorkshire hills bled into an urban scenery, and all the while, she remained focused on her crossword puzzle, the eraser end of a pencil caught between her teeth as she concentrated. Occasionally, she'd catch him, smirk, and spare him embarrassment by asking him for a four-letter word for sailing the Atlantic.

"Asea," he mumbled before turning back to pretending to read the newspaper.

As they pulled into King's Cross, Carson thought back to the last time he was at this station not even six weeks ago. That man was hardly recognizable to him now. He looked to Elsie as they navigated through the bustling train station, certain that she alone was responsible for drawing him out of himself and reminding him of what goodness there is to life.

As if sensing that she was being watched, she turned to him and grinned. "You're looking rather pensive," she teased.

Carson cleared his throat. "Simply trying to get into the mindset for our erudite excursion."

"As if you need to adjust your mindset, bookworm," she countered. Leading him outside, she added, "If we take the bus there, we can spare our feet for the long day of walking around the museum."

"Capital idea," he said.

A short ride on London's iconic red double-decker bus led them to the British Museum. An impressive building in its own right, it was also the home to some of the world's finest antiquities. As a university student, Carson spent many long weekends among its exhibits, which spanned the entirety of humanity from its origins in caves to the present day. For a lover of history, there were few museums that could boast the size and scale of the British Museum. One could not dare to see all of its exhibits in a day, perhaps even in a lifetime.

"Are there any particular exhibits you'd like to explore?" Carson asked as he handed her a program and began perusing his own.

"Perhaps early Egypt? I'd be keen to learn more about the predynastic period."

Carson's eyebrows raised. "Then to Egypt we shall go."

They spent the next hour traveling back to 8000 B.C., wandering through the room where this era's treasures were kept, reading plaques on the wall and pointing out artifacts of interest to one another. The room next to it was dedicated to the Egyptian afterlife and boasted numerous mummies and sarcophagi, and it seemed fitting that they wander over there, too. Carson had hoped that he could flex some of his academic muscles in front of her, what with his being a history professor. Yet, on quite a few occasions, Elsie surprised him with her own knowledge about Egyptian history.

"Sacred animals were mummified, too, you know, not just humans," she explained as she led him deeper into the room and he followed happily in her wake. "Cats, falcons, bulls. Really anything sacred to the gods."

"Was this era of history a focus of yours when you taught?"

She shook her head. "Actually, no. It's been a recent development for me. Lord Grantham's grandfather, the fifth Earl of Grantham, was an egyptophile and spent many years there. Mummy-hunting, no doubt," she teased. "Anyway, he brought back some artifacts that we have on display in one of the rooms upstairs. And he amassed a generous collection of historical texts on Egypt."

A few groups of schoolchildren filled the room then and suddenly, it became loud and almost chaotic.

Carson leaned in closer and asked. "And you've read them all?"

"The off-seasons are very…quiet," she explained. Then, without missing a beat, she added, "Usually."

"I'm glad I could liven things up, then," he quipped.

The rest of their afternoon was spent jumping around the centuries, first in Roman Britain circa 200 A.D., then to Greece between 1050 B.C. and 520 B.C., and finally, they ended up in the Enlightenment.

It was the oldest room of the museum and one of Carson's favorites. The room was long and flanked on either side by glass bookshelves housing texts, diagrams, and sketches of Europe's most influential thinkers. It was late in the day by this point, nearing five, and the museum was starting to empty. This room, in particular, was barren.

"Have you ever been in this exhibit before?" he asked Elsie.

She glanced up from a display case field with ceramics. "I haven't," she replied. "But it's marvelous."

"There's a secret in this room."

This piqued her interest and she stood fully, ignoring the display case entirely. "Oh? What would that be?"

Carson smirked, feeling almost mischievous. "It's called the Door to Enlightenment," he stated. "Legend has it that those who walk through it are immediately imbued with wisdom."

"Ach, go on with you," she laughed, slapping his arm, her brogue as thick as it ever was. "There's no such thing."

He smiled. "Ye of little faith." Marching over to what looked to be an ordinary bookshelf, Carson pulled on a protruding wooden seam, revealing the bookshelf to be a secret door that led down a narrow hallway. "See?" he said. "I told you there was a little secret."

"Why, I never," she exclaimed, looking around as if they were about to be caught. Realizing that they were alone, she inched closer to inspect it. "Where does it lead?"

"Narnia," he snarked. Another playful slap. "Alright, alright. It once led to the librarian's quarters during the time when this all belonged to King George III. They're just regular offices now, I believe."

"Are we allowed to go in?"

"Probably not, but why don't we?"

Elsie bit her lower lip and tried to hide a wide grin; she failed miserably. "Alright then. Lead the way."

Carson smirked and nodded. Not even as a boy had he been this mischievous. What on earth had come over him?

The hallway was very narrow and its ceiling was shallow. He had to stoop his tall frame slightly over in order to fit. It was dark and cool, but one could see a bit of light at the end, presumably where the old librarian's quarters were. Elsie followed behind him, holding onto the back of his coat for guidance. It really was quite dark.

"I can't believe we're doing this, Charlie," she whispered. "This is wildly inappropriate!"

"Isn't it?" he teased over his shoulder.

They reached the end of the hall and found an array of standard, modern cubicles. Printers, computers, file cabinets. It was all terribly anticlimactic. One had hoped for, perhaps even expected, something more ornate and lavish, especially given the dramatic way in which one entered the room. Standing to full height, they looked at each other, both slumping with disappointment, and began to laugh.

"Well, I had hoped for a bit more flair than this," Carson chuckled. "This is not what I had imagined."

"Really? This isn't enough flair for your taste?"

"Hardly," he said. "Should we head back? Perhaps grab dinner somewhere around here before catching the train back home?"

"Lead the way," she said once again.

They traced their steps back down the hallway, but once they reached the door, Carson stopped in his tracks. On the other side of the secret door was the sound of a voice, perhaps a docent giving a talk about the enlightenment era, likely the last stop for a school tour group, no doubt. There was no question that they couldn't very well waltz out from the secret door and announce to the whole room that they had been trespassing. Such an act would surely result in a life ban from the museum, a fate worse than death to Carson.

"Hear that?" he whispered.

She nodded. "Sounds like a school group. Perhaps we had better wait it out."

It was his turn to nod at their plan. In the darkness of the hallway, as they listened to the muffled sounds of a docent lecturing, as their breaths were the only noise between them, Carson realized how very small that little corridor was. Elsie was just an inch or two from him, close enough that he could smell that lavender scent he had first encountered days ago when it had clung to his sweater. How he had missed it. How he loved it.

Without a second thought, Carson reached for the back of her arms, slowly tracing them with his fingertips. He waited a moment, but before a moment had even passed, her hands were on his chest and she was pressed against him. He felt her hands move up his neck until her fingers found a home in his hair, weaving through it tenderly. His eyes fluttered shut at her touch and he tightened his grip on her.

"Where have you been?" he sighed as he leaned down and pressed his lips to her jaw, and then her cheek, and finally, to her mouth.

Her lips were soft, he thought, so impossibly soft, and as they moved against his own, he felt a desire stirring in him that he had not felt in a very long time. He moved them both until her back was against the wall and to his great surprise, her kiss deepened. It was not frantic, not like those drunken, passionate encounters of his youth when everything was new and intoxicating. It was more than that. It was so much more.

How much time melted away then, Carson couldn't even begin to estimate. The world, as far as he was concerned, was just this small corridor and the woman inside of it. But after a time, their kisses became more languid and eventually tapered off until they stood in the darkness, their arms still wrapped around the other, both a little breathless.

Elsie ran a hand through the curls she had helped to untame. "Hello," she whispered.

Carson chuckled. "Hello, indeed," he replied. "I've been wanting to do that for—"

"–I know," she interrupted knowingly. "Shall we get that dinner you mentioned?"

Reluctantly, he loosened his grip on her and felt an immediate coldness where she once had been pressed against him.

"Perhaps we should," he agreed. "Do you think the coast is clear?"

They both stilled and listened. The tour group had dispersed, so they emerged from the secret Door to Enlightenment, grateful to find the exhibition completely empty. In the late afternoon light, Carson could see how Elsie's hair was a little ruffled, as he expected his was, too, and her cheeks were reddened. She looked as beautiful as he had ever seen her, bathed in the warm glow of a dying day. Instinctually, he took her hand in his.

Walking onto the streets of London hand-in-hand, Carson flagged down a black cab and gave the cabbie the name of a restaurant near the River Thames that he thought Elsie would like. It was upscale, posh even; it was the kind of place a man takes a woman when he wants to impress her. They were taken to a table in the corner, a little candlelit spot for two. Across the restaurant were arched windows that stretched from floor to ceiling, the Thames on the other side of them.

"Isn't this ritzy?" Elsie remarked as she perused the menu.

"I hope you like it," he said. "I've been here a few times before and it never disappoints."

"Charlie, as far as I'm concerned, we could grab a Cornish pasty from the shop down the street and I'd be happy as a clam." He smiled at this. "Although, a place like this is quite alright with me, too."

The evening progressed just as the afternoon had, which is to say that it was as pleasant as either could remember. They spent the dinner chatting about their favorite parts of their trip to the museum, albeit in a slightly shy way, and certainly without stating the obvious. What happened in the corridor went unspoken, but its effects lingered. Carson couldn't seem to take his eyes off her lips and Elsie, for part, couldn't keep from licking her own. Their meal, while a little extravagant, was rushed through; Yorkshire and the prospect of a quiet abbey where they could be alone, beckoned them.

After settling the tab and pulling their coats and scarves back on, Carson was about to place his hand on Elsie's back and usher her back outside when he heard a voice he had not heard since March.

"Charles, is that you?" came a woman's voice, her accent posh and clipped.

Carson looked up and felt all color leave him. Standing not fifteen feet away from him next to the restaurant bar was a woman he had once loved, a woman he had promised his future to, a woman who hurt him more than anyone else ever had.

Noticing the abrupt change in his demeanor, Elsie nervously asked, "Who's that, Charlie?"

"It's no one," he muttered, grabbing her hand and ushering her out of the restaurant as quickly as his legs would take him.

A/N: Thank you all for the tremendous support for the last chapter! Quite a bit happened in this one, and as you can guess, we'll learn of Carson's backstory in the next chapter. I hope to have it finished by the end of the weekend. Fingers crossed!

Also, for those who are curious, the Door to Enlightenment is a real secret door in the British Museum. Check it out if you can!

And if you can spare a moment, I'd love to hear your thoughts about this installment. I hope you enjoyed it!