Half the Story Hidden— Chapter 2, Part a: Fair Nature's Confounded Base
Author Note: Thank you for the initial reviews. The consensus appears to be for me to offer shorter chapters. Therefore Chapter 2 will now be labelled in separate parts (roughly A-F).
Some notes will appear at the end of this piece to interlink you to various chapters in my other stories where certain concepts/character elements are first examined.
Kind regards,
BTF
Chapter 2: Fair Nature's Confounded Base. (Part a).
6 days later. August 1927: After the morning funeral service and post-funeral luncheon feast for the late Dowager Countess of Grantham, which was held in the Great Hall of Downton Abbey.
Early Afternoon. Near the Stable-hands' Stream, Downton Abbey Estate.
oOOo
"Charles."
Elsie calls out across the barley field towards her man.
Despite the heavy weight of the day, her heart still skips like a young girl's, and then it beats in a wild tattoo, at the mere sight of him—standing knee-deep in the stream and casting a dry fly out over the water.*
But she is too far out and he has not heard her.
The fishing line glows yellow in the brightness of the sunshine and it glitters with white light as the water flicks off it as it moves in a large arc—hanging momentarily like a dancer leaping high and silently through the air.
In peace there's nothing so becomes a man,
As modest stillness and humility** She thinks.
Her draw to be near him is undeniable.
It would be an entirely heart-warming scene—hip-waders riding high, white collared (as ever) and with a subtle deep grey and black, Argyll printed woollen tie in deference to his state of mourning as a retired servant of the Dowager Countess. And then, his cuddly round belly is sporting his new favourite close-knit smoked-navy Argyll fishermen's jumper, despite the heat of the summer's day. It is the jumper that Elsie knitted for him on their recent trip away to see her niece, Selah, and her husband, James, back in Elsie's homeland for the first time in over 30 years.***
He must be stiflingly hot, she thinks as the line arcs again.
Yes, it would be a beautiful scene if it were not for the fact that his shoulders seem drooped, his gaze is unfocussed, and his every movement appears somewhat uncoordinated. Elsie had been expecting the exact opposite of him after the funeral and early luncheon feast at the big house. She had thought that he would still be somewhat stiff and upright, but as fluid as ever. And here, now, she had imagined that he would still able to hold it all together through the well-focused precision and practised movements of such an avid angler. She had expected to see him much as he had always appeared when he was working–so long ago it all seems, but it has only been ten months since they both retired.
She is worried. He seems more like Her Little-Diddle-Dumpling man right now.****
The line arcs.
A swift breeze runs across the field and rushes over the heavy grained heads of barley — swirling and eddying around her until it meets her skirts as she wades through the sea of green, intently watching her man from afar. She spies the direct path Charles cut through the field running along close by her, and so she steps into the furrow he has already made.
He twists his hips and upper back ready to cast again, but the lack of vigour in his mien makes his arms move out of sync with his torso and the rod and line seem to snap out of time in a staccato rhythm that runs counter to the gentle task at hand and the very heart of the man himself.
The line arcs.
"Charles," she calls again. Louder this time and it carries on the breeze that has finally passed her by and caught up with him. The line arcs and snaps back again—unexpectedly collapsing in mid-air. It tangles onto itself. His pretty little dry–fly drowns and the man himself snaps with a most uncommon growl of frustration. His brow furrows and his face creases in on itself— pinched and small. She can see it all, even in her distance from him. His arms flail about wildly as he repeatedly beats the end of the rod against the water's surface caring not that tomorrow's supper has now slipped quickly and silently away from him—just beneath the surface. The line flicks up with the vigour of his sudden movements and the fly-hook sails up again to catch upon his cheek. He roars with the shock of sudden pain—much louder than such a smart should be able to draw out of such a stoic man as he. And still, he has not heard her, as he grabs his rod in both hands now and starts to wring it between his twisting fists.
"CHARLES!" she cries out and breaks into a run across the remains of the field at the edge of the riverside as he makes to lift his knee and snap the rod in two across it.
It is his favourite one!
She knows that he will regret it.
"CHARLES!"
Finally, he hears her and he stalls his writhing movements in the midst of his impotent fit of rage. His heart stops as he catches sight of her— a vision running towards him—cheeks flushed, but the skin near her clear eyes is blanched white with concern. Her hair is floating in a strange halo about her head as the breeze that caused him to lose both his line and his temper has merely loosed the strands of her bright and silver-streaked hair as her straw hat flies off behind her into the field. Little blue cornflowers and green barley heads catch onto the light cotton of her grey summer skirt and pale blue blouse.
Brighton.
A warm tear of blood trickles down his cheek as his eyes flood with instant tears of naked frustration and complete helplessness in the face of such beauty.
Brighton.
But all of his memories and all of his present are now coloured differently by all of the lies and secrets he has unknowingly shouldered across all of his years at Downton.
His draw to be near her is undeniable.
He wades messily to the bank of the stream, dropping his rod and shoulder basket into the grass as he reaches for her and grasps her tightly to his chest—lifting her off the ground to try to somehow bundle her even closer to his heart as a strangled whimper issues from his chest.
"El-sie."
"Charles-love. My Charles," she whispers near his ear as her arms wrap around his stiffened neck and her hands somehow manage to stroke up through the back of his hair. When she finally manages to draw back from his fierce hug she automatically rubs her licked thumb pad over the little nick on his cheek. The trickle of blood is already smeared onto the collar of her blouse. "What is it, a Chagair? What has brought all of this on? I know she is gone, my love, I know," she soothes, "It was her time, my man. My Dear man. You said it yourself. SHhh-now Shh-shh…"
"It's not that!" he says brokenly. "I know all of that." He swallows hard. "It's everything, Els. Everything. Everything else is changed. It's all changed! Everything! It was all a LIE!" He suddenly roars as he plonks her feet back hard onto the ground as he rips himself away from her, and all quite as quickly as he had just lifted her up and crushed her bodily into him. Elsie struggles to keep her balance upon this uneven ground she suddenly finds herself on. She watches her man messily scrape his large paw down his face, causing the blood to run again from his open wound.
"Charles-love! What has happened? Tell me."
"The letter! On the Rug!" He seems to both weep and spit it out across his tongue in a single breath. "It's all in there, Els. Everything. Read it! Then you will know what a sham life I have lived! Then you'll know the true BASTARD you have married!"
"Charles!" She sucks in a sharp breath. Elsie is genuinely shocked by his language.
Charles Carson does not swear—Ever! Charles Carson does not think of himself in any such terms. Not ever!
"Read it! Elsie—just read it!" He howls like a wounded bear again. His arms flail out wide as he sails about from her in a large sweeping arc and he stalks away down the riverbank kicking roughly at the ground with the boots of his sloppy rubber waders in his absolute rage and despair until he hits a rounded stone. It rubbles away from him and that enrages him even further so he bends to lift the palm-sized ball of smooth grey into his hand— needing something solid and real to direct all of his confusion into. Teeth set, he swings back with all of his frustrated might and roars again as he tries to fling the full weight of his warring grief out of himself – wanting it to all go away — somewhere else—Anywhere! To just…just…drown! DROWN! DOWN! GO! GO DOWN! JUST DROWN — YOU BASTARD! YOU UTTER BASTARD! JUST DROWN! DROWN! DROWN-DROWN-DROWN-DROWN-DROWN!
But the stone merely disappears beneath the calm surface of the water with an annoyingly gentle plop. So he bends and frantically grasps about for something bigger. Something that will make more noise. Something that will scare away all of the little birds that suddenly seem to chirp annoyingly loudly and happily about the trees in the thick summer warmth.
Nothing should be allowed to be happy right now! NOTHING!
The next great stone is pried heavily out from the mud and hoisted with both of his massive hands clawed around it. His brow sports a terrible aspect as his nostrils flare and eyes glare wide with a hard-edged rage. He pushes the weight of all his years skywards to his fullest height with a grunting roar of sheer sinewed and animal effort—high into the air. The rock falls in a slow arc and thuds as it cracks loudly in half against one of the large boulders in the middle of the stream—right where he had been trying in vain to calm himself through the precision of his passion—where he had tried to find some beauty and solace in the world, which he now feels, most assuredly, does not actually exist for him anymore—not in this world. Not now.
NOT EVER. Never! Never again! Precision—be damned!
This is all too messy and only something large and hulking and ugly can possibly see over the top of all this…this …BLOOD AND MUCK!- MUCK!-MUCK!- MUCK!-MUCK-MUCK! All of the years! All of these BLASTED years!
All of these years where he might have been out fishing on his weekends—leading his OWN life—maybe with a wife and family.
Beholden to NO ONE!—Instead of missing out on it all! ALL OF IT! GOD DAMN IT!...GOD! GOD DAMN IT! THIS! —THIS! THIS SHAM OF A LIFE! All given over to the Blessed BLOODY Crawleys! Bastard! ...BASTARD!BASTARD!BASTARD!
Elsie feels the spike of a slick cold shiver run down her cheeks as the blood drains away from her face and her head suddenly feels light. A chill passes over her chest as lightning-quick sweet alkaline saliva fills her mouth—she is scared. Scared sick. Racing. She can feel her heart. Elsie has never seen him like this—Not ever.
Never. Never. Not ever. Never. No. Not my gentle Charles! No! No!
The heavy crack of the broken stone still echoes through the willow trees that line the stream and the birds are just a diminishing range of squawks as they flutter away from the trees. This is somehow a more gratifying noise and it seems to snap Charles back from the brink of such utterly blinding rage to the infinite tiredness and defeat he feels about it all. Every single muscle and fibre of his being has been stretched to the absolute breaking point in this single short minute and now all he can do is snap and crumple in on himself—whoever that may be.
He bends double but still tries to hold himself up as he stumbles on the slimy rolling gravelled bank. His grazed hands and broken fingernails try to grip above his knees onto the slick wet rubber of his waders, but they slip off as he heaves in a huge rattling breath– only to have it clash forcefully with his rising gorge and he promptly loses the battle for control over his own body. Charles collapses painfully onto his knees and retches violently onto to mud bank near the softly rolling stream. The last signs of the two halves of the cracked stone's descent into the inky depths float in concentric rings across the water's surface, mingling strangely as they overlap each other and finally dissipate in a near-silent ripple in front of him on the slippery and reeking mud. He puffs out more rattling breaths through the deathly acrid bile on his breath that only serves to remind him of the recent morning he spent holding the frail hand of an ailing woman as she took her terminal breath.
"Oh Charles," Elsie gasps out her concerned cry as she quickly finds a cloth from their picnic hamper and rushes to her man's side to see him cleaned up. Dipping the towel into the water at the river's edge, she kneels beside him. "Charles-love, come. Come now, my love. Let's wipe your face here. That's it. It's nice and cool for you. All nice and cool. There. That's it. There you go."
Elsie deftly loosens down the knot of his tie and undoes his top button. Then she dips her fingers into the stream and crouches near her man to rub the droplets of cool water over the back of his fevered neck. And then she wipes his sweaty brow with the dampened cloth, dabs again at the blood on his cheek and wipes the mess from his lips.
"Here, Love." She cups some clear stream water into her hand and bids him to sip.
His eyes are glassy and bloodshot—lined with the film of tears that were dredged from him in his efforts to purge this... this... Whatever it is!…This…This THING from him.
"That's it, Love," she soothes again "rinse your mouth and spit it out. Come now my love, up you get. Come to the blanket and I will pour you some lemonade…And why on earth are you wearing such a heavy jumper in this heat, Charles? You must be stifling. Come."
"For later, I packed it…for later…" he is still panting in sharp rasping breaths as he stumbles out the words, "And…and your-your-your shawl. In case...In case it gets colder...later…Wanted you close—to feel you close. Needed to know you were close once I read it. You weren't…here, Elsie!" he weeps out.
"Well I am here now, a Chagair," she states firmly "I'm here now, mo graidh. Come now. That's it."
Elsie assists him to his feet and he groans as his knees click and the realisation of the damage he has done to them when he fell onto the rocks and pebbles starts to fully kick in.
At least that is real. He thinks with some strange gratitude.
Together they stumble a little through the sweet and smooth long grass at the riverbank's edge. Charles leans heavily on Elsie's shoulder and his other hand reaches across to hold hers —trying desperately to feel steady again. They make it to the picnic blanket that Charles had laid out earlier at the edge of the field. He had tramped down a small section of the crop, for he somehow knew that he wanted a private cocoon for them to sit in and to picnic in and be away from the rest of the world today, after this morning's early luncheon tea for the late Dowager Countess up in the Great Hall. He wanted it to be just them right now. He wanted them to have a space—to read Her Ladyship's last words to him, to laze, and to remember, and to talk and smile, and maybe to shed a tear or two if he needed it—in their own little private space—to celebrate a 'long and noble reign', so to speak…in a way. When he had first envisioned how they would reminisce about the 'Old Bat' together, he did not imagine it would be anything at all like it is now.
Charles has mostly become accustomed to Elsie referring to the Dowager Countess as 'the Old Bat' in this last year together and away from the Abbey, knowing the begrudging admiration with which his wife actually viewed the grand old Dame. That Old B-B… He tries to spit that normally joking and kind-hearted endearment out in a single bitter thought—to call The Dowager Countess something rude and in a tone that contains the full force of Charles' wrath, even if it is just within the silence of his own mind. But he cannot do it. He just cannot. He still cannot disrespect her in that way.
Cannot…just… C-CAN'T… You have been too well-trained Charles BLOODY Carson. TOO BLOODY WELL TRAINED!
Charles has managed to manoeuvre into a sitting position on the rug so that he does not put any additional stress on his knees. Elsie hands him a cup of lemonade from where she kneels opposite him. She physically draws his clenching fists up to place the cup inside them, wrapping her chilled fingers around the outside of his muddy paws to ensure that he has clasped it properly.
"Here Charles, sip at it slowly. Get rid of all that nasty taste in your mouth. That's it."
"I don't think anything will ever take that away, Els," he rasps out bitterly "You…You need to read the letter. Read the letter!" and the film of tears that still sits in the corners of his eyes overflows and trickle their slow path down the side of his nose. He licks a droplet into his mouth as he swipes across his nose with the cuff of his shirt.
"Charles-love. Surely it cannot be that bad."
'No! It's worse, Elsie! It's SO much worse!"
"I don't understand, Charles. The Dowager thought so very highly of you. She wanted you there at the end Charles. Surely, that tells you something? What could she have possibly written to upset you so?"
"Just read it, Els," he rasps out brokenly. "Read it! Nothing was ever what it seemed! And it will NEVER be the same again! Not ever!"
She looks at him with quite some consternation. Charles Carson has never sounded so fatalistic and defeated. Her fingers are now itching to open the envelope and see what the Old Bat has gone and done now that nobody can call her to task over any of it anymore.
She always played her cards so closely and so carefully.
Elsie huffs out a sighing breath to gird herself.
"All right Charles. I will read it. But, you must go down to the water and wash your hands properly now. Fix up your basket and your rod, and I want you sitting and eating a little bread for your stomach by the time I finish. Understood? We can make this right together, Love. Don't you worry." And she kisses him over the little nick on his cheek and tries to at least make that little thing all better for the moment.
"There is nothing about it that can be made right, Els. Not now," he states with an ominous and defeated certainty.
"Tsk, Charles," she shushes out to him as she lifts his chin to look up at her. She peers at him seriously with her own clear and concerned eyes, and she shows him her truth —We will be all right, together, a Chagair—Always.
He can only nod slightly as he tries to at least cling onto this small truth.
Yes, Love.
He uses her hand once more to steady his rise from the picnic rug but he is frustratingly thwarted by the cumbersome inflexible weight of his sweaty rubber waders.
"Here love, let's get these off of you first."
She roughly tugs off his waders and his socks and then rolls his trouser legs up to his knees.
Brighton.
"Go and soak your feet as well."
"What if my trousers get wet?"
Brighton.
"If you get them wet, we'll dry them."
Brighton.
She states it all so matter-of-factly, once again, as she lifts his heavy Argyll jumper off him and lays it aside. He looks cooler about the face almost instantly as the breeze flutters the sleeves of his shirt.
Brighton.
She stands up before him in her light blue cotton blouse and grey skirt swirling about her ankles.
Brighton.
Mourning conventions be damned! This afternoon is still ours —even the Old Bat's first note insisted that we take it.
Elsie holds out her hand to him once more.
Brighton.
Elsie has always held and led him most surely whenever he has needed a steadying hand.
"Go on," she encourages him, "Off you go. I will still be here when you get back."
Brighton.
He sees the truth still in her eyes as he roughly tears the black mourning armband from his shirt sleeve and tosses it heedlessly across the top of the barley heads.
Mourning conventions be DAMNED!
The cloth catches on the wind and flutters and rolls away from them. A shadow.
The truth is in his Elsie-love's eyes, and He knows he can never be so sure of anything else like it in all the world—not ever again.
Brighton.
Yes, Love.
oOOo
A/N:
Unlike Mr Fellowes, my personal timeline of births, deaths and marriages for the inhabitants of the Downton estate, and beyond, actually matter greatly to my storytelling. My stories all aim to maintain internal consistency. This makes providing reasonable backstories for a range of characters so much easier, as it turns out. Working this way provides a solid historical frame to work within, and then characters actions appear far less 'WTF!' with JF-Randomness.
Noted cross-references to my other stories:
*Charles' passion for dry-fly river fishing is explored in 'The Acquisition of Memories'- Chapter 30 (Delicate Negotiations Pt 1), including chapter end-notes. This is where the story of Charles Stuffed trout from his butler's pantry was first explored.
Brief mention of fly fishing also occurs in "Conversations with the Man Upstairs"- Chapter 12 (The Golden Hour).
** Various chapters in 'The Acquisition of Memories' explore Charles and Elsie's shared interests in Classic Literature. This quote is from William Shakespeare, History of Henry V- Act III, Scene 1, Lines 1094-5.
*** Elsie's close family history is explored across "Ephemera". The Chapter 1 endnotes are a good first place to start tracing Elsie's family tree.
**** 'Little Diddle Dumpling Man' appears in "Calling Stumps" Chapter 2 (Retired: Hurt).
Reviews are always welcomed. : )
Kind regards,
BTF