V:
"This is the first I've been able to get away," Charles apologized as his mother let him into the cottage. "Is she all right?"
Margaret scoffed and muttered, "Two days since her niece who was like her own child died, and no word from her husband at all? Chance would be a fine thing if she was all right, Charles. She's finally cried herself to sleep; hasn't touched the tea or porridge I left outside the door this morning."
"It's nearly noon –"
"And I'm not to be disturbing the first sleep she's had since Lady Ida died," Margaret snapped. "If you want to do it, I'll not stand in your way – she is your wife, after all. But I've no right to do it. She needs her rest – poor thing is exhausted."
He hesitated a moment, then sighed. "Maybe a cup of tea before I go up and wake her," he acknowledged. "Are you all right with her staying here for a time?"
"Of course – she's always welcome here," Margaret murmured. "She is my son's wife, and hopefully mother to my grandchildren – she is welcome."
"Lady Grantham is putting pressure on her husband and son to either file wrongful death charges against Elsie or to send her away without a reference," Charles said darkly. "If the latter, I do not know where she would be sent – Innsbroke House will not have her; Lady Ida's father has spoken very strongly against such a thing the moment he was informed of his daughter's death. So I suppose she would be forced back to Scotland. She's spoken of her mother –"
"But without a reference, how would she find work? And what about you?" Margaret questioned.
"My place is here," Charles said.
"Your place is with your wife," Margaret snapped.
"It isn't that simple, mum," Charles sighed. "We've been married in secret; I've not confided to anyone that we have wed, save yourself. I cannot just up and leave without notice when I have a comfortable position where I might save some money and –"
"And leave Elsie to fend for herself? For shame, Charles – I thought better of you than that!"
"What's going on down here?" Elsie asked from the foot of the stairs. She was pale, drawn, lines of exhaustion and grief slashed across her face, aging her dramatically.
"Your husband and I are having a disagreement," Margaret said. "I'm making a fresh pot of tea – would you like some, dear?"
Elsie shook her head. "I'm fine," she murmured. "What are you two fighting over? Hopefully not me; I've rather made my mind up to retreat gracefully from the stage and take a break from all of this mess."
"And you've determined this all by yourself?" Charles challenged.
"Well, what else can I do?" she asked, sitting down on the small sofa next to him, reaching out to hold his hand. "Lady Grantham won't see reason and she's baying for my blood, when all I'll do for the rest of my life is blame myself for not being there just a few minutes sooner – I might have been able to do something… but I was in bed with you."
"You don't blame me for –"
"No," she murmured, squeezing his hand. "But it seems terribly unfair that what should have been the happiest day of my life is now the worst. And we've no proper place in the world yet, you and I – mine is gone and you are Lord Robert's valet. Why should I not go away?"
"You are my wife," he countered, impotently.
"And I cannot properly be your wife right here, right now," Elsie murmured. "Not as things stand; the gossip of the village will be relentless. There would be such scandal for the Granthams in the county – maybe even as far as London when they were through. We are married, yes, but we cannot be seen to be married in the public eye – at least not now."
"I cannot just allow you to –"
"You don't have a choice," Elsie soothed, holding his hand tighter. "None at all; men don't understand these things, these… social mores. They pretend to, but the intricacies of propriety sail right over their heads." She sighed. "I will be Mrs. Carson in Scotland, because that is who I am. But when I am in England, Miss Hughes I must be – I will not shame you, Charles, and I will not destroy your chances in life because you married someone unworthy of you."
"Nonsense – you are… more than worthy."
"More worthy than Lucy?" Elsie countered softly. "I know about her, Charles; she was well-liked, respected… unlike myself."
"I love you," he shot back angrily.
"Enough," Margaret snapped.
"The discussion is closed," Elsie said firmly. "I will away to Scotland within the week and stay with my mother until I can find suitable employment. All I need from you, Charles, is to secure a letter of reference from Lord Robert – and, if needbe, tell him that I will take the blame and steer far clear of him for the rest of my life in order to secure it. And then I will be gone and life will go on."
"You're leaving me. You are actually going to… leave me." It wasn't a question; he felt his heart shredding itself into ribbons of agony and anger, but he knew her reasons to be sound.
"I haven't got much choice," she whispered. "I cannot fight the might of Lady Grantham and emerge unscathed, can I?"
He wasn't pleased by her neatly wrapping everything up with a bow; he wanted her to be willing to fight – for herself and her reputation, if nothing else – but she was walking away from the ring even before the fight was officially announced. "And if there is to be a child?" he asked.
"Don't you dare tell me you've been sneaking around and having it off," Margaret gasped, staring at him. "How disgraceful –"
"He's been taking precautions," Elsie interjected. "If there… if there is a child, they will be a Carson. I will not keep a son or a daughter from their father." She looked up at him, and he felt a sickening feeling like he had been punched in the stomach. She was willing to walk away to give him a chance at a good life; and all he wanted was to follow her to Scotland and make her a proper wife in a proper home, with a load of children at their feet to carry on.
It was a dream, only a dream; she was right. There would be a time when they could be together again, but it was not now. He could afford her only so much protection as her husband; his position was just as precarious as hers. He needed to steady himself, crack down and work his way back up the ladder – maybe even up to butler. Then he would be able to bring her home, shelter her with impunity and the dignity affording the wife of a senior member of household. That must be his life's work: to be a man worthy of the affections of Elsie Hughes, capable of caring for her and loving her as he should.
"It would make me the happiest of men to be a father," Charles said softly, "but if it is not to be, I will not dwell upon the matter. I only want you to be safe and well, Elsie." He squeezed her and exhaled a sad sigh. "I will, of course, give you money for the train fare – and send your letter of character when Lord Robert has written it. You will write to me to tell me where you are settled?"
Her lower lip was trembling as she bit it. "Aye; I will write every day, Charlie. Every day – so we aren't really so far apart as it seems."
"It might as well be the other side of the world," he complained. "I'll not be able to hold you or comfort you or wipe away your tears –"
"Aye, but I'll not be able to hear your snoring," she teased, trying to bring a bit of levity to the conversation.
"Why don't we forget the tea and I'll step out to the butcher's," Margaret suggested gently, "and the two of you can… have a private moment."
"Mum, that isn't necessary," Charles said firmly. "And it would cause more scandal than it would be worth if you were to leave us unattended – we aren't married in anyone's eyes but our own, after all."
Elsie sighed deeply and twined her fingers with his. "Alas," she murmured.
"Alas," he agreed.
"I hear you went out today; Mrs. Harper was very eager to tattle on you," Lord Robert said.
"I went to my mother's," Charles said with a frown on his lip. "Miss Hughes will be leaving for Scotland in a few days; I've given her the fare."
Robert whirled around and stared at him. "Really? So she thinks she is culpable for the death of my wife and is running away from the consequences?"
"She said that you may blame her for the incident, and it would be your right, since she already blames herself," Charles said. "She is leaving rather than being sacked and turned into a laughingstock thanks you Lady Grantham's… bullying."
Robert's manner deflated and he sighed. "Mama is a brute," he agreed. "And I do not believe Miss Hughes anymore responsible than I was. Of course, I will write her a reference – a glowing one. She is something, our Miss Hughes."
"Our Miss Hughes, m'lord?"
"Is she not your sweetheart, Carson?" Robert asked. "Surely you cannot believe me to be entirely blinkered and blind to what's around me."
Charles took a deep breath and decided if he was to be damned, it would be on his own failures and merits. "We are married, m'lord," he said in a grave tone.
"What? When?"
"Three days ago in Ripon," Charles said. "It cannot be annulled, m'lord – we have… consummated the vows."
"And you would let her just… walk away?" Lord Robert asked, aghast.
"I haven't a choice," Charles said. "She is going, with or without my consent, to spare you the agony of reliving the day over and over again, and to protect me from your mother's wrath. I do not agree with her that this is the only way, but she is convinced and will not brook an argument on the matter."
"What can I do, Carson? Anything I can do to –"
"Write the reference," Charles said firmly. "The rest is up to me – I must strive to be the husband she deserves when I can finally bring her home to me. I must earn the right to be higher than I am –"
"I do rather hate Mama having demoted you to merely my valet," Robert sighed. "As soon as I am able to reinstate you to underbutler, I shall do so –"
"Many thanks, m'lord," Charles said. "But, for now, a reference for my Elsie will do."
"You will tell me if there is anything else I might do…"
"Yes, m'lord," Charles said.
She was leaving on the milk train to York at four-thirty in the morning. Charles had made his way around the rules by staying over at his mother's the night before, on the pretense of Mrs. Carson being ill. Instead, he had held Elsie in the darkness of the spare room all night long, words between them seeming inadequate. They had made love silently, intensely, sparing none of the rawness of their emotions at the impending separation, but ever keeping it quiet as was their nature to do so. They never wanted to disturb anyone else with their private intimacy; it would be unseemly to do so.
He helped her to dress, kissing her body as the clothes covered her, branding her as his – and only his. By the time her hair was up and her coat on, he was nearly undone; his wife was leaving him, and he'd not fought for her. He was less of a man than she deserved. She deserved someone who was not a coward; he was shirking from the fight and letting her go. And for what? The misery of grief.
She kissed him gently and whispered, "I don't want to leave you. I have to go – you understand that there is a difference, don't you, Charlie?"
"All I know is that you are leaving," he said quietly, "and I do not want it."
"I'm sorry," she murmured. "I'm so sorry, Charlie –"
"Don't say it if you don't mean it, Elsie," he said firmly.
"But I do," she whispered. "I am so sorry it has to be this way –"
"Me, too," he confessed brokenly. "What am I going to do without you, Elsie?"
"You'll keep on living," she murmured. "Just as I will. Life doesn't stop just because bad things happen – or because you choose to run away rather than face the consequences."
"But you'll write."
"Every day," she agreed. "And my first letter is right here." She pressed an envelope into his hands. "Wait until I've left to read it – and my address at the farm is in the note, so you might reply if you've a need." She gave him a quick kiss and whispered, "I must go –"
"I'm coming with you, with your cases," he said firmly.
"But propriety –"
"Damn the gossips," he hissed. "I will bid my wife farewell; who knows when I will see her again."
He helped her onto the train, and watched dismally as it pulled away from the station. He sat down on one of the benches and covered his eyes with his hand for a long moment, willing himself not to weep. The gas lamp flickered in the breeze, and he took a deep breath, pulling out his letter.
My dearest Charles;
I am writing this as you sleep; you have a beautiful curl of hair that falls over your eye when you're sleeping, and I find myself constantly amused that my gruff, staid valet looks so much like a pleased little boy when he is in my bed with me.
I am sorry I am leaving in the morning. I wanted nothing more than to live a life with you, to have you to hold in good times and in bad. But it is not to be. Lady Grantham would not allow it, and we all must dance to her merry jig, mustn't we? The last thing I want to do is bring shame down on your head, Charlie, darling, and I pray that you understand how difficult it is for me to leave now. I have lost my niece, my position, my credibility, and now I must lose you. My grief is overwhelming, and I must face it alone, now.
You are the best of men, Charles Carson, and my love for you will never waver or falter. You are the one I have been waiting for my entire life – please don't judge me harshly for saying so. I love you desperately, and will miss you with a pain worse than my grief.
Ever yours – and only yours,
Elsie
It was nearly dusk when they finally navigated the terrain from the railway station to the farm; it was snowing, blowing, and Elsie felt the numbness seeping into her bones. Three miles had felt like a million as they'd lost the road several times due to the crosswinds and the lack of visibility. Eventually, they approached the house, and she was helped down, half-frozen, from her perch in the milk cart.
She was ushered inside, quickly undressed by the warm, sturdy hands of her mother, and redressed in cotton and muslin, many flannel petticoats, and several heavy shawls. "There's my girl – get some color back in yer cheeks," Mary said softly. "Poor lass –"
"So cold," Elsie mumbled.
"I know, lass," Mary said gently. "This storm is a big'un. Think it'll snow all night and most of tomorrow. Lucky we've got plenty of peat for the fire and stew for your tummy."
"Mam, I – thank you."
"Nonsense," Mary said firmly. "You're my daughter. Of course you must come home to lick your wounds and start over."
"I don't want to start over," Elsie whispered.
"Of course not," Mary said softly. "No one ever does." She paused. "So, who is he, then, this man you've left behind?"
"Who says there's a man?" Elsie snapped.
"There's always a man," Mary sighed. "He's not taken advantage, has he?"
Elsie shook her head and sighed. "No, he's honourable," she murmured. "His name is Charles Carson, and we were married less than a week ago."
"THEN WHY ARE YOU HERE?" Mary shouted furiously. "Honourable my fat arse!"
"Stop," Elsie pleaded, "stop – he is a good man, mam. A better man than Lord Allenby."
"Are you in the family way?" Mary demanded.
"No," Elsie murmured. "No, I'm not. Charlie wouldn't have let me go if I were."
"He let you walk away from him, and you sit there and tell me he's a good man?" Mary scoffed. "If he ever shows his face here –"
"I love him, mam," Elsie interjected forcefully. "I love my Charlie – and nothing you say will change that. Nothing at all."
"Why on earth would a good man let his wife just leave him –"
"Because he has a good position and in time, will be in a better one," Elsie said softly. "And then we might live together again as husband and wife – right now, I cannae bear to be in that village one more moment."
Mary's rage simmered down to barely a boil. "Oh, love, let it out," she sighed. "Let it all out." She held her weeping daughter for a long time, until Elsie had cried herself to sleep. "My poor lass," Mary sighed. "My poor, poor lass."
