The Next Step
She first noticed it, the sudden shift, when they were in bed together one night. He was sat up on his pillow with Elsie resting her head on his arm, both too preoccupied with their own nighttime reading for any other such intimacies—for Elsie, her fifth read through of The Scarlett Letter; and Charlie, Dickens. They had been married for almost a month, and it seemed their honeymoon phase was waning down, their romps becoming less frequent, but far from being unwonted. To be frank, she felt he had overtired himself in that area, though she never dare say those words aloud, much less to him. Their first full day in Scarborough they decided to take a walk along the beach, and then have a late lunch nearby. Newlywed fever had them arrive back in their room soon after. But he wasn't able. It would have been their third time together, second that day. Instead his fingers danced inside her until her toes curled. After that incident, a silent acknowledgement grew between them that he needed time between each session. She understood and took no offense to it—she never felt unwanted, nor did she feel he lacked desire for her—but they never discussed it; rather, they moved around it, careful not to disturb it.
He shifted, and her head rested on his chest as his arm wrapped around her now. Setting his book on the table near him, he cuddled close to her. She finished reading the last few sentences on her page before closing her book, too. And Charlie yawned. It was time for bed.
He kissed her lightly on the lips, and then her cheek, her jaw, her neck, before, finally, her chest, just above her breasts. They sunk down into bed together; he settled back on her mouth, his tongue circling her lower lip—and then suddenly he paused. Only for a second, but long enough for her to notice something about him was off. She thought maybe he wanted to, but was not able; they were together just that morning. She took his hesitancy as an opportunity to place her book aside.
"Erm… the hallway bookshelf is looking a bit dusty," Charlie told her as she settled back in his arms.
"The whole cottage needs a thorough cleaning," agreed Elsie. "We should have time on Sunday."
And he hummed, his fingers tapping on her bare shoulder. "What do you say we have dinner here one night?"
"At the cottage? The servants will certainly enjoy our absence."
"Mr. Barrow will see to it they behave themselves," he said. Mr. Carson had his own opinions about Thomas Barrow, and so did Elsie, but he was good at his job—and deep down, underneath all that hatred and bitterness inside him, he was a good lad—when he needed to be. If he just kept his head low, stayed out of trouble, he could excel as butler somewhere. Though, life of a servant seemed dwindling; she was glad it was happening in her later years, rather than in her prime.
She cuddled close; he kissed her hair. "It might be nice to eat in our own home for a change, but we really don't have anything to cook."
"You can speak with Mrs. Patmore about it," said Charlie. "I'm sure she'll have something for us."
He blew out the candle. Smoke lingered around them for a bit. She remained cuddled in his arms until his breath grew heavy and light snores began wheezing out of him. He turned to his side, and Elsie did the same. She felt giddy at her husband's sudden need to play pretend, to truly behave like a husband and wife outside their world of the service. But their plans for a perfect dinner faltered before she even sat down at the table. Elsie's skills at cooking were a little below average—she hadn't cooked a proper meal since her days on the farm—and Charlie was very unkind—his skills included giving people orders and pushing them to impossible perfection, and not, it seemed, being a caring husband. He complained the entire meal, and Elsie held her tongue. Later in bed she feigned sleepiness, not even reacting to his touch or his call to her.
He remained oblivious. And once Sunday arrived, he only found more things to criticize: the bookshelf wasn't sparkling to his liking, the clean sheets had been folded incorrectly… He walked in on her sweeping the kitchen and he had the nerve to tell her she wasn't doing it like his mother would, the proper way. Their romps became more and more infrequent—but not quite dwindled—because of his tongue. She didn't think he noticed.
A/N: Thanks for reading! This was supposed to be a long one shot but writer's brain no work right now. I'm a little all over the place, but that's okay! I don't know how many chapters I'm gonna end up making this or how long it will be (again, thats okay!)
Also, if you're wondering about my other unfinished WIPs, I do intend to finish them. It's just writing is hard and sometimes words don't come as easily to me.
