The Next Step


Charlie still lost himself in small moments throughout the day, but now sometimes he allowed for her to accompany him. He seemed preoccupied with a past that could never be—the other way, Elsie had said all those years ago. She honestly didn't think he cared too much about that conversation then, when Joe's proposal was still fresh on her mind and Charlie's love for her was still blooming, but now that they were married and Joe was nothing more than a distant fading memory, she wondered just how much her husband liked to linger on the topic of "what-if."

The morning after their restless night when they were walking toward the house—the sun already up with the paper boy zooming passed them, having already delivered the paper—he asked her, quite abruptly, what she might have named their child. "If we were to ever have one, that is," he went on to elaborate.

"It would take a bit more than a miracle if we were to have one now, Mr. Carson," she had told him seriously. It had been nearly ten blessed years since she had gone through the change. To her own surprise, she did not mourn the children she chose not to bear. "To have a child now, at our age… well, I think the only name suitable would be Angel, as God Himself would have to interfere with conception."

He flinched slightly at her wording—conception, a word suitable only for doctors and nurses in his eyes—and then turned away quickly, embarrassed by the risqué-ness of it all. They were well into their marriage—she knew all of him almost as well as he knew all of her—but he still felt some discussions, some words belonged behind closed doors. As they grew more intimate, that list only grew. A few days ago, they were alone in his pantry when she excused herself to the toilet instead of the bathroom. His face went bright pink and she teased him for his unnecessary lecture that came afterward.

"What about Hugh," Charlie said. "Hughie…" He sounded as if he were trying out the name, offering it more so to the air around them than to Elsie.

"Right then, Hughie it is," she agreed. But he still seemed unsatisfied, so she allowed the idea of naming their child, the child they both knew would never exist, to linger. There was no harm in it, after all. "Of course, the name Charlie is always a safe bet… And there's always the possibility we have a girl."

The moment passed quickly—and when Downton drew closer, he changed the subject entirely. He hoped Mr. Barrow was bringing breakfast up because Lord Grantham would already be dressed, and Lady Mary and Lady Edith would be up any moment. Mr. Carson returned to her in all his seriousness with little regard to the world outside of Downton Abbey, with little regard to little Hughie or little Charlie, or whoever they were to be called. And that was how he remained for most of the day, most of the week. They were far too busy to think about anything more than the next five minutes in front of them.

And their little dilemma ended how it began: over a dinner Elsie did not know how to properly cook, and Charlie being… well, Charlie. He tried to be kind, at least, but she saw his disappointment when examining his dinner plate. They were eating venison pie, a favorite of his as a boy, he had told her. "Not quite up to Margaret Carson's standards, I take," she said, hoping she sounded lighthearted but also desiring to cut him deep. Charlie became not kind but silent while eating her meals or watching her clean and it drove her almost as mad as when he was complaining.

He shifted. "She did make the crust a bit more crispier than this," he told her gently. "And"—he lifted the crust to observe the ingredients inside—"she, erm, never made it with bacon…"

"Well then tell me how she made it, so then maybe next time…" But she stopped, noting her temper was getting the better of her. She took a sip of her water to fill in the sudden silence. Charlie, the loyal fool that he was, refused all drink to support his lordship's recovery; Elsie, however, maintained her enjoyment of alcohol with Mrs. Patmore and Daisy, and sometimes Anna and Miss Baxter if they weren't too busy, on the evenings they worked latest. "Or better yet, next time you can make it." It had just slipped, like a foot on a loose floorboard.

"I don't know how to make it, my love," he responded, though still maintaining a gentle tone his eyebrows raised and irritation screamed in those sparkling eyes when he looked up at her.

Learn, she wanted to snap back but held her tongue for the sake of peace. "She never kept a recipe book?" Elsie asked as the sourness between them simmered some.

He took his fork and knife and carefully removed the flimsy bacon pieces from the dish. "No," said Charlie, his voice low but not quite calm. "No, she did not." He shifted again slightly in his chair uncomfortably—it waddled as he moved—and Elsie knew it was a little more than gas wanting to burst out of him; she felt it too. He took a bite of his now bacon-less venison pie, then hummed in response to the taste; it was not and would never be like his mother's. And then she saw him hesitate, look up at her for a quick moment before his eyes fled back to his plate to speak his mind to her: "Of course she never conspired against my father with her friend, either."

He made sure his words were vague, not accusatory, but Elsie knew where his finger was pointing. Who else could he be referring to? "Honestly, Charlie, do you hear yourself? When have I ever conspired against you?"

He looked up again at her in disbelief, his eyes in flames. "When have you ever…?" Dropping his fork and knife with little regard to where it would fall, his knife landed atop the pie while his fork crashed onto the edge of his plate and landed on the table. "I seem to recall you and Mrs. Patmore giggling like two young schoolgirls over my misfortunes in the kitchen." Her hand immediately touched the wrist she had told him she hurt. His hand moved to his healed burnt finger, which still had a small red mark. What a silly thing to do, looking back. She had wondered if he overheard them, or if he caught on to their little scheme. She was no Phyllis Shannaw, after all. Elsie felt her face warm, and the fire in his eyes suddenly extinguished as he gathered his knife and fork to resume his cutting. "Perhaps I have been a bit grating as of late—"

"Perhaps," agreed Elsie softly.

"—but that is still no excuse…" His words faded into the air between them, his lips pursed and head bent, as he observed a large chunk of meat stabbed by his fork.

"No," she agreed once more, shaking her head in remorse for her own actions. If they were closer, she would reach out her hand to take hold of his, maybe kiss him lightly on the cheek. "It is still no excuse." She paused, hoping his gaze might turn back onto her but his attention remained on his plate. "But I know why I did it." Again, Elsie paused to see if he would react. He did not, so she continued: "I wanted only for you to… appreciate the effort I have made—"

"I appreciate everything you have done here, Elsie," he murmured softly, finally looking up at her.

"—to make this little cottage a home for us," she continued as he spoke. "But I shouldn't have tricked you. And Mrs. Patmore should have never been so involved in our little lover's quarrel. I know I'm not the best cook—I don't do things exactly how your mother might—but I am trying." She could tell him it was Mrs. Patmore's idea to begin with, but that was still no excuse; she went along with the silly ploy, no matter who birthed it into existence.

"I'm sorry," he told her quietly.

"Yes, I'm getting there, Charlie…"

"No, Elsie," said Charlie seriously, "I'm sorry." Part of her wanted to lie and ask him what he felt he needed to apologize for. Her other half was grateful for him acknowledging he hurt her. "I am… a stubborn old fool," he continued with a huff, abandoning his silverware once again onto his plate and leaning back in his chair. "And I wish I could give you all that you deserve: a comfortable life at home, Elsie, and children..." Elsie shifted slightly, but he seemed too preoccupied to notice. He began rubbing his face, avoiding his eyes. "I keep lingering on that moment in my pantry—er, when you asked if I wished we'd gone another way."

"That was a very long time ago," she said more to the air around her than to him, remembering those days only vaguely. Her attraction, her blossoming love for Charlie was certainly present in those days, but in that moment she was thinking of Joe. She had just received his letter and nostalgia took control briefly with a part of her wondering what might have been had she accepted his proposal the first go, but that quickly resolved itself when she met with him and realization struck she was perfectly happy with who she became. And she assumed Charlie's thoughts about Alice and himself were similar.

"It seems the next step, doesn't it?" he continued, sitting straight again and looking at her once more. "To buy a home, to marry the woman you love—then to have children with her."

"Well, two out of three isn't so bad," she said to try to lighten the mood. "But"—and she paused, a slight dread forming inside her at what she was about to suggest—"there is always the way of adoption, if children, you think, is the next step for us..." There were plenty of children in England in need of a home. And Elsie loved the young maids and footmen like they were her own, even the ones who rebelled against authority—especially those who rebelled against authority. She accepted long ago and became perfectly content with knowing she would never truly know motherhood, but marriage, as she was learning, was all about compromise.

"No," Charlie was quick to answer in a gentle tone; relief quickly filled her. "Don't be silly. We're too old, too set in our ways for anything like that."

"Then why are you so troubled with not having it?" she asked.

"I only want to make you happy, Elsie."

"And you have, my dear Charlie," she said honestly. "I would have loved being the mother of your children, but that isn't the life we chose. I don't want to linger on what might have been had we done this… instead of that—I'm proud of what we've accomplished apart. I'm proud to call myself Housekeeper." She stopped to linger on her own words. Yes, proud she was. Her life was never as grand as the Grantham's, nor as profitable as Charlie's, but it was her life she lived, her choices she made, hardships and all.

She bent to eat a few bites of her meal. The pie wasn't very tasty, even she could admit it to herself. She added far too much mushrooms and too little garlic, and the bacon was too sweet compared to the venison. "And we both know I'm a far better Housekeeper than I am your wife," she added, tasting the salt on her tongue.

"Don't say that," he said, his face suddenly dropping. "I'm at fault—I've been too harsh on you. You have been a wonderful wife."

"So wonderful," Elsie echoed with a scoff. "But I can't even…" Why was she even bringing up such topics? And at the dinner table of all places. She stopped herself quickly, and continued her meal. The meat had a bitter aftertaste; wine would have been preferable to wash it down with.

Charlie waited for her to continue, but her lips remained sealed. "You can't even what, Elsie?" he asked her cautiously.

She felt her face warm. I can't love you the same way you love me. I'm too embarrassed, too ashamed, she wanted to say. "Nothing," she mumbled out instead.

"It doesn't sound like nothing, dear." He waited again. She remained silent. "Elsie…?"

She dropped her gaze. If he could be so honest with her, it was only fair to be honest with him. "I'm not exactly good at—that is, I haven't ever done… but if you want me to… with you." She looked up at him again with her face burning and her head spinning; he still looked utterly confused. She tried gesturing with her eyes to get him to understand, but he was nowhere near discovering what she meant. "Fellatio," she whispered to him finally, ending both of their misery.

"Oh." And he straightened, shifting slightly in his seat. His face went pink, but he showed no signs of disinterest. "Oh, I… well, I—erm, wasn't aware you were offering… that."

"Of course I am," she told him softly, the burning on her face easing some. "I love you."

"And I love you," he said.

If they were closer, they might kiss, maybe she would let it linger into something more, and she would find the confidence to do it right then and there at the table. But Charlie would not have allowed it, and Elsie would have been far too anxious doing it so out in the open, even if it was still inside their home. Instead, they turned back to their meals and finished dinner.


Sorry for the delay here. This was a chapter I avoided writing because it was just so hard to write. I hope I conveyed the character's emotions in a believable way. A lot of this is just me wanting to fix how things were handled in the show.

Thanks so much for reading! Next chapter, smut (so even more of a delay, probably, because that is difficult to write too.) But slow and steady wins the race.