VII:
Dinner was a slightly strained affair where Mary glared daggers at Charles and pointedly pressed barbs in his direction. Robert watched in amusement as his valet tried to dodge the volleys while Elsie got progressively more upset as the meal went on. She was moving her potatoes around her plate aimlessly when her mother snapped, "Oh for pity's sake, Elsie, I didn't make the food for you to play with it."
"I'm not hungry," Elsie mumbled.
"Leave her be," Charles said irritably. "You can have a go at me all you want, but leave Elsie out of it."
"I just don't understand how a man who claims to love my daughter would push her out the door and not even –"
"I didn't push her out the door," Charles muttered.
"Mam, how many times have I tried to tell ye?" Elsie snapped. "Charlie wanted me to stay. He wants me to go back with him. And I'm not going to do it. Because there's far more at stake here than just me – no matter how much you think you're trying to defend me and protect me, I am an adult and I have to make my own decisions. I'm not the little girl you thought you could shelter from the truth anymore."
"Now I'm curious," Robert interjected. "What truth would that be, now?"
Elsie glared at him for a moment, then went back to pushing her food around her plate. "That I'm a bastard," she said. "Not that it matters, anyway. My father always made sure we had food and shelter and clothes, which means we were always better off than most." She reached over and held Charles's hand under the table with her free hand. "But I'm a wife now, and I've got to learn to make my own mistakes now."
"Marrying being one of them," Mary grunted. "You should never have –"
"Kindly do stop it," Charles said. "We have done it, and it's legal and binding. I would not grant Elsie a divorce even with just cause – we love one another and we've created a child in love. I don't know how things will play out, but I will bring Mrs. Carson home as soon as I can make a home for our family. It requires planning, steady income, and patience – the latter of which being something you seem to lack, Mrs. Campbell."
"Please let's not quarrel," Elsie said weakly. "I feel sick to my stomach."
Mary immediately got up and grabbed a mixing bowl, holding it carefully under Elsie's chin as she had done for weeks; Elsie gratefully vomited and cried pitifully as her tea and little bit of dinner came up again. Morning sickness, her arse – it was every evening, strong and vile.
"There now, love," Mary soothed. "Poor little one is all in a tizzy…"
"Is it any wonder?" Robert asked, setting aside his fork. "Are you quite all right, Mrs. Carson?"
Elsie wiped her mouth with her napkin and nodded. "Aye," she murmured. "I'll be fine."
Charles reached over and gently put his hand on her thigh, his eyes searching her face for any signs of distress. "Elsie, how long has this been going on?" he asked.
"Since before I left England," she admitted quietly.
"It's a wonder you're keeping anything down at all," he said softly.
"I know," she agreed. "It's worst in the evening. And when I'm upset."
Robert cleared his throat. "I don't know what you could possibly be upset about," he said sarcastically.
Charles held Elsie's hand tightly. "Shall we go upstairs, then?" he inquired. "Maybe it will settle your stomach if you're not surrounded by food."
Mary glowered at him. "I've been taking care of her all this time –"
"Yes, mam, you have," Elsie snapped, "but now my husband is here and it is time for you to stop interfering. It isn't fair of you to hold him responsible for my decisions. And he is too much of a gentleman to tell you to close your mouth."
"I think it is time for me to retire as well," Robert said. "Before this escalates further. Carson, will you please attend, then you will be free to spend your time with Mrs. Carson until morning."
Elsie blushed but smiled gratefully at Robert. "I'll wash up, mam," she volunteered.
Once the men had retreated, Elsie started clearing the table. "Mam, he's a good man; it won't do for you to keep being so cruel to him. He makes me happy and I do love him so verra much," she said softly as she washed the dishes.
"He isn't fit to lick your boots come in from the barn," Mary muttered. "And he's Sassenach."
"Maybe so," Elsie agreed, "but he's my Sassenach, mam. And as long as he and Lord Robert are here, I need you to be civil if nothing else. I am the one that decided it would be better if I weren't in Downton any longer – I went before I could be thrown out. And I willnae do anythin' to jeopardize Charlie's career. Well, anythin' more than I already have."
"He needs to step up and take responsibility for the fact that he's fathered a child –"
"You mean unlike me da?" Elsie countered. "Charlie was already sending money. He is supporting us just as much as Lord Allenby is, and it means far more even if the amount is less. I am not going to chastise my husband for saving money in order to purchase a cottage for us in the village when I am to come home."
"He should take you home right now and –"
"And lose his position? Mam, you've been in service long enough to know what happens to people when they marry," Elsie sighed. "But you've been privileged enough to not have to worry about it yoursel'. Da would keep you fed and clothed and… loved… no matter what. Even when he were married."
"Obviously he didn't love me enough to keep from forcin' me to retire," Mary snapped. "And if you think he's written me once or come to the farm… you're dreaming."
"He loves you," Elsie whispered. "He just needs time to come to terms with everythin'. He's lost Ida just as much as I have."
Mary angrily tucked a sheet over the settee. "I get me pension like clockwork and a bit extra now you're here. But money ain't everythin'."
"Please," Elsie murmured, "try to be nice for Charlie's sake. He loves me and wants to help as he can, mam."
"I just want to protect you –"
"You have, mam," Elsie promised. "You've done your best to protect me – you let our Becky go when she got married. And now you've got to let me try to… to get on with it as best I can, eh? I'm not a young lass, mam. I'm old enough to know me own mind. And me own heart. And my Charlie owns my heart, even if he doesn't know what to do with it most of the time."
"Then why does he have it in the first place?" Mary's words weren't meant to sound as harsh as they came out; Elsie knew that from years of her mother's moods.
"He's got a mask that makes him an unfeeling valet and a good butler," Elsie said after a long moment of thought. "But I think his mam and I are the only two people who have ever seen the real Charles Carson. He was very kind to me when I came to Downton and we became friends before anythin' untoward happened." She blushed a little. "We were lovers before we married," she admitted quietly. "I think I was… with child… before I left."
"I know you were," Mary sighed. "So I couldn't believe you were capable of being so unbelievably stupid as to leave your husband."
Elsie shook her head and sighed. "I couldn't stay with his mam any longer and Lady Grantham gave me my marching orders. How do you justify… hurting the man you love just to stay?"
Mary punched a pillow and muttered, "It's difficult."
"I'm not talking about Lord Allenby," Elsie said. "You and I have very different lives, mam, and I don't mean to upset or demean you –"
"I hate him and I love him and I bloody well hate how it feels," Mary grumbled, exasperated. "And your Charles is nothing like Bruce Hughes – your Charles runs true, doesn't blow hot and cold. So you just dry your hands and go see your man. I dunnae ken how long the storm will last or how soon he'll be gone again. So just try to be happy while you can, my little Elsie May."
Elsie didn't need telling twice. She dried her hands and took the uneven steps two at a time until she was right outside her bedroom door, biting her lip and hoping that her Charlie was waiting. She knocked and then stepped through. The hurricane lamp was burning at the bedside, illuminating the room. Charles was just about in his pajamas, halfway into putting on his shirt when she burst in.
"Hello," she murmured.
"Hello yourself, Mrs. Carson," he said as he finished dressing.
She closed the door and cleared her throat. "Mam's not really herself today," she said softly. "I'm apologizing for her – she'll try to do better tomorrow."
"She doesn't have to," he said dully. "I know I'm a miserable sod that doesn't deserve to breathe the same air as my goddess of a wife –"
"Just you stop right there," Elsie murmured, crossing the room in two long strides and kissing him without warning or preamble. "Do you have any idea – any at all – how much I love you, Charlie Carson?"
"I think I do," he whispered, pressing his forehead against hers, "but I don't think I've done much to deserve it."
"Oh, but you have," she whispered back. "Ever so much. I wouldnae married you if you didnae deserve every bit of my affections, m'love. And I certainly wouldn't be in the family way if you didnae deserve me." She reached up and stroked his cheek, the stubble biting at her fingertips. "Help me undress and then I can show you just how much you deserve me, my darlin' man."
He took his time, worshipping her skin with tender, peppering kisses that burned wherever he left them. When she finally stood naked in the room, her skin was covered in gooseflesh from the chill in the air and the warmth from her arousal, and he was pressing open-mouthed kisses to her belly, then lower. She gasped and bit her own hand so she wouldn't make another sound that might disturb Robert next door. Charles propelled her to the bed, guiding her onto her back. "You are perfect," he vowed. "So beautiful, my Elsie –"
"Don't trifle with me," she murmured. "I am… chubby and not at all pretty. My nails are ragged and my hands are calloused and –"
"Beautiful," he contradicted. "You are perfect to me."
Her eyes welled up with tears. "You are… you are the sweetest man and you're all mine," she sobbed out in wonder. She still didn't entirely know how she had managed to snare such a catch as Mr. Charles Carson, nor how he'd not gone off her yet.
"Oh, Elsie, love, don't cry," he whispered, kissing her tears away. "My sweetheart, don't cry – I'm sorry I upset you –"
"You didnae upset me," she breathed. "I promise. I seem to cry at the drop of a hat anymore."
"Is that down to the baby?" he asked worriedly.
"Mam says it's normal," Elsie sighed. "Don't you worry about me, Charlie – I'm fine, aside from being a bit of a porker now." Her frown returned; she had always been so very proud of her figure and now it was not so much an hourglass as it was becoming a wobbly sphere.
"You are round in all the right places," he said softly. "I can rest my head on your bosom and I'll lose myself in your thighs and belly… and I will be so glad of every moment I can hold you."
"It sounds so nice when you say it," she murmured.
"And I can't wait to grab your bottom when you're on top of me," he threw out softly, his eyes sparkling with mischief.
Her cheeks flushed; he'd never given up the bone of knowledge that she was always happiest and best sated when she was on top. "Charlie," she gasped. "How improper of you to say –"
"I'm allowed to say such things to my wife," he pointed out. He leaned in and whispered, "I want you to have your wicked way with me, Elsie May Carson. I want you to come apart and be blissfully happy. I want you to have as much pleasure as I can give you."
"I want you," she breathed. "I just want you." Their lips met in a searing kiss that was as much about possession as it was passion. He owned her, she owned him, neither of them backing down from that most intimate pact. She found his buttons and worked at them as they kissed and he touched her in ways both shockingly intimate and familiar. It took what seemed to be ages to get him as naked and exposed to the night as she was; but once he was, it was a different matter altogether. He was already hard and ready; her nipples stood to bloody attention with the cold and with her arousal, and he went in for the kill. She buried her cries of need in her arm rather than let them escape.
At Crawley House, it had been so easy to stay quiet. They'd had everything to lose by making noise. Here, it was more inconvenient than wrong; but she still felt the need to be compassionate and smother her cries.
He sank into her, eliciting a humming moan that she bit back. He helped move her legs into a comfortable position around his hips and kissed her senseless, inhaling the warmth of her kisses and the depth of her whimpers and moans. Every move, every thrust, felt like her world was imploding, coming in closer and closer until they were the only thing that mattered. There was only Charles and Elsie. Nothing else mattered.
He came first, a raging torrent of barely restrained passion, need, and lust. She was swept behind in his wake, careful not to drown. He rolled them onto their sides, still together, and held her close beneath the heavy blankets. "My wife," Charles whispered in wonder.
"My husband," she echoed sleepily, her hand splayed possessively on his buttocks. "Don't leave me," she whispered. "Please be here when I wake up."
Elsie just wanted to know he wasn't a dream.
The oil lamp was still burning away pleasantly when Elsie woke up again. It was the sole source of warmth in the room – aside from her dear Charles, that is – and cast a gentle glow around the bed. For his part, her husband was still asleep, his jaw slack as he breathed in and out slowly and evenly. She reached over and gently traced the new lines on his face; he'd aged since she'd left, and she didn't like it one bit. He had more silver hairs coming in around his hairline and there were lines appearing around his eyes and mouth of the most severe kind.
His eyes opened suddenly and she jolted, withdrawing her fingertips. "Are you cold?" he asked sleepily.
"A bit," she murmured.
"Me, too," he agreed.
"I've got another blanket," she volunteered.
"We've got each other," he reminded her with a cheeky smirk. "What time is it?"
"Gone one," Elsie said softly, not willing to tell him that she spent so many hours awake at night anymore that she knew just by the feel of the thing. "Too early to get up and bother mam."
"Who said anything about bothering your mum?" he asked softly.
"I usually get up about now and make a cuppa," Elsie admitted very quietly. "We go to bed about eight, then I'm up four or five times in the night."
Concern flashed in his eyes; the lines around his mouth deepened as he frowned. "Elsie, you're not sleeping, either?" he asked worriedly.
"It's difficult without my human hot water bottle," she teased gently, hoping to deflect his line of questioning, to ease his burden of worry so those lines would ease just a little. She didn't want to the be the cause of his suffering: she wanted only to love him now whilst she had the opportunity. She reached up and stroked his face again, and he eased into a wary smile. "Tell truth, I can keep food down overnight, but not during most of the day. I have a few snacks before morning."
"Do you need me to go down and get –"
"I've got oatcake and dried apple in the drawer," she murmured. "I'm fine." She pulled on that unruly curl of hair that rested on his forehead, smirking when it bounced back into place again. "I thought I might've been dreaming," Elsie breathed. "Such a nice dream. But then I woke up and you were still here… and I'm so happy you are."
He leaned in and kissed her very gently. "I'm not leaving till Lord Robert says," he said softly. "And then I'll be back hopefully in time for the baby to be born – when will that be, do you think?"
"Mam thinks it will be late July." Elsie pulled him closer, seeking warmth and comfort in his arms. "I've not really known her to be wrong about such things. She were a midwife before she went to the Castle." Before she became my father's live-in mistress. There were so many things she did not want to say, could not bear to disclose to anyone – even Charles – for the shame of herself and her mam. How her grandfather had turned them out of the farm when Elsie was four when Becky came along. How he had changed his will to leave Elsie the farm when she was old enough to prove a logical head of the family and not flighty and prone to desire like her mother – and, oh, how he was being proved wrong now! How her father had acknowledged her as his child, but had never really done anything about it aside from providing money – not that she could expect more. She knew the shame and stigma of illegitimacy and heartache, wore it like a cloak around her shoulders, allowed it to shape her personality, her kindness, her strength. But Charlie saw beneath that protective barrier and saw her for everything she really was, maybe the only person who ever could.
His fingers played over her hip, and he whispered, "Have you heard anything from him since you came back?" he asked.
She shook her head. "A footman comes with an envelope of money like clockwork every week, and mam puts it away. The farm will sort itself," she said quietly. "I do the books and make sure that everything runs smoothly, but it's been in her hands all this time. I don't know what I'd do without her and Jimmy – he's been managing it for years." She took a deep breath. "But I'm back now and it's my responsibility to make sure all is right."
"How so?" he asked softly.
"It's my farm," she said simply. "It'll be our son's when time comes."
There was a long silence, then he said, "Or our daughter's."
"If there's a boy child, it will go to him," she whispered. "It's the law, isn't it? Now I've married, what's mine is yours – you could sell it out from under us and use the money to buy a shop, get out of service, a public house or a hotel or –"
A fleeting look of anguish crossed his face. "Is that what you think of me? That I would take what's yours and dispose of it rather than –"
"No, but it stands to be said," she whispered. "When I married you, all my possessions became yours, Charles Carson. I only hope you will be kind about selling up and help me mam find a home –"
"I am not selling up," he said firmly. "And you aren't listening: this farm is yours. It is not mine. It will never be mine, not properly. It is your birthright and who am I to take it away?"
Her birthright? Her birthright was shame and illicit whispers; clandestine meetings and gossip in the streets, unkind words in the church of all places. Her birthright was a scarlet B painted on her forehead, large as life and twice as painful. The farm wasn't home – not anymore. Maybe it never had been.
Her home was wherever he was; right now, it was in a double bed that she had shared for so many years with her sister, in the middle of a raging blizzard, wishing for all the world that she could just tell him that all she needed, all she wanted, was him.
She doesn't want him to see her vulnerability; she must always be strong, in control, for him if nothing else. He doesn't know that she is fragile and terrified that he will wake up one morning and realize that he's made such a mistake in choosing her. She was born of sin, and she is not immune to sin herself. She has coveted, desired, and taken – most recently, she has stolen him, and all for herself. Theirs is an original sin, dancing to temptation and giving in, just as with the serpent and the apple. And they will be punished for it accordingly.
His lips are gentle and tender as he kisses her; she responds in kind, knowing that there is not a wicked bone in her man's body. He has only sinned because of her, a wicked bastard born of lust and wantonness, destined only to repeat the cycle. But he is honorable and has taken her as is out of an obligation to propriety and maybe even piety – and it worries her. What else would he give up for her? It is not a question she wants to contemplate.
The doubts, the fears, are piling up and have become overwhelming. She suddenly bursts into tears and tries to push him away, to gain space, to breathe, but he gently wipes her tears away with the pads of his thumbs, kisses her cheeks, and whispers soft assurances that make her feel even worse. He doesn't know the shame she carries; only sees what is on the outside. He doesn't have to listen to the harsh words, the gossip, the punters talking about how there was no Mr. Carson and she'd made him up to hide an illicit affair that had got her pregnant. He is a man: he is immune to everything that cuts her down like a scythe.
"Elsie, love, please," he whispered. "Tell me what's wrong –"
Everything. Nothing.
She wanted to scream and cry and tell him everything, but she knew her pain was a powerful weapon and he would use it against her. Arguments would erupt and he would throw bits of her past, of her reality at her and it would destroy her. Some things could not be recovered from.
"I need you," she rasped, the words harsh and barely true.
He assumed she meant physically; she meant it in so many other, darker, more twisted ways. She needed him and the moment he walked away again, she would wither and die a slow, agonizing death. But for now… for that moment… he was bringing out the worst in her – the passion and desire that marked her as a woman of no morals trotting out front and center on display.
It was not gentle; she nipped and dug her nails into his back. If she was damned, she needed him on the same path – she could not endure Hell if he was not at her side. Desperation tinged their caresses, and he was a gentleman – he did not hurt her, but he did touch her with such need that she had light bruises ghosting across her skin. The bed creaked and groaned with their harsh, unfulfilled need. His hands cupped her breasts, roughly massaging her nipples as she rode him like a woman possessed. Her nails bit into his chest, drawing blood. This was not her; this was some demon unleashed inside her and her heart shredded to pieces as she realized what she'd done. She shuddered and wept, physical need dying in the aftermath of her climax, to be replaced by a stark emptiness where her heart should have been. He was on his back beneath her, eyes closed, breathing ragged but steady.
His face was one of bliss, but she couldn't fathom why.
"Elsie," Charles breathed, smiling up at her. "That was…"
"Awful," she choked out. "I hurt you –"
"You didn't," he said, opening his eyes and seeing that she was weeping again. "Elsie, you didn't – I'm fine."
"You're bleeding," she whispered.
"Only a touch," he contradicted. "Love, it's all right."
"No, it's not," she spluttered. "I hurt you – it's all I do. I hurt you, Charlie. I'm no good for you – I'm not good enough to be your wife and now you're stuck with me and I'm sorry – I am so sorry –"
He stared at her blankly; where on earth was this coming from? "Elsie, love," Charles said softly, "you've not hurt me. I promise. And I want to be stuck with you, darling." He reached for her, but she pulled back, nearly falling off him as she reacted violently. "Sweetheart?"
"I've hurt you time and again," she whispered, getting up in the cold and putting on a nightgown and dressing gown. "I didnae tell you about the farm. I didnae tell you about the bairn. I didnae tell you till it was too late that I am a bastard. I'm a wicked, awful person, and you dinnae want me – "
He could see her belief in her words and it shook him to the very core: how could she believe any of it? Yes, he had been a bit cross that she'd not told him she was in the family way, but that had dispelled the moment he knew why she'd not spoken of it. He knew her fears, mirrors of his own, and he could not fault her for them. But the rest? Nonsense. He didn't care about the farm – he didn't care that she was illegitimate. All he cared about was her.
"Elsie, would you stop?" he said sharply, startling her into silence. "I know you don't believe me, and why would you when everything else in your world has conditioned you to believe otherwise, but I don't care about your farm and your parentage. I don't. I love you, not who everyone else thinks you are. Do you understand? I love you. I wouldn't have married for anyone that did not… that did not make me believe that there is God in this world." He stood up, shivering in the chill, very aware that his manhood was actively attempting to retreat into his body and other parts of him were averse to the harsh Scottish cold. "Elsie, look at me," he pleaded. She looked up at him, naked and vulnerable as he was, and he held his hand out to her. "You are not wicked, nor are you awful, love. You are beautiful and so strong and amazing to my eyes – and I am not worthy of you. I never will be; but you chose me and I chose you."
"You could've done so much better than me," she whispered.
"Never," he said very softly. He crooked his fingers, beckoning her closer. "I understand, Elsie. Better than you know. But you need to trust me, sweetheart. Please."
"I do," she whispered. "But I don't trust meself."
"You don't have to," he said. "Just… just trust me." Her hand found his, finally, and he pulled her close, holding her tightly as she would allow him to. "Love, it will be all right," he promised. "It will be all right. I'm not upset – I'm not."
She was crying again, maybe she had never really stopped. It hurt him to see her so miserable, but she did not share her burdens lightly; she was cracking and he was afraid she would break, but she was stronger than anyone else knew. He didn't even attempt to wipe away her tears, merely held her and let her cry.
Of course he knew she was illegitimate: she had told him so herself many times. It was a dark stain and a stigma, but he didn't care. It was not her fault that she had been born into the world in such a manner; he found himself wondering how long she had blamed herself for the sins of her parents. Of course he knew that there would be gossip surrounding her, low whispers and outright lies. He knew from her telling of it – low and quiet during one of their nights together – that she had been forced by several village boys to raise her skirts at a young age because she was a whore like her mother. None of it was truth, but it hadn't protected her.
He hadn't been there to shelter her, to give her strength, to give her a name to hide behind and a support to lean against when her knees gave out.
Of course he knew she was terrified witless of childbirth, and with good reason. And yet, he had planted a baby in her belly without thinking of the consequences, of the terror and madness it could have – indeed, had – inspire in her. Fear was a powerful motivator, a powerful decimator… she was coming apart at the seams and it was his fault.
He needed to bring her home, to save her from herself. He needed her; just the few hours they'd been together, he felt younger and happier than he had since she'd gone. And she needed him.
She stilled in his embrace and whispered, her voice low and hoarse, "I am sorry."
"Don't be," he breathed. "Don't you ever say that again, Elsie Carson – not to me. You don't ever need to apologize to me."
"Even when I'm wrong?" she whimpered.
"Especially when you're wrong," he said firmly. "Because you aren't – not really."
Her tears began afresh, and all he could do was hold her. It wasn't enough, but it was all he had left to give.
Seven days together wasn't nearly enough. Elsie watched with sadness as Charles packed his suitcase again, and she whispered, "I want to go home."
He turned and looked at her for a long moment, several emotions plain on his face; sadness, anger – no, frustration -, and dismay. "Soon," he promised. "After our son –"
"Our daughter," she contradicted.
"After the baby is born," he promised. "I will start putting out the word that I've taken a wife and I'll seek a new position or… or a shop. Something. Anything."
"I love you," she murmured plainly, without artifice or intent.
"And I love you," he agreed. "So much, Elsie."
They had talked, openly, frankly, spilling secrets until they were devoid of anything between them. In some ways, seven days had been too many, and in others, not enough. He was just as broken as she was, but in different ways. They had to be better for one another, for their children – because he wanted as many as she could safely bear. And she was not averse to having a passel of little ones at her feet, loving them as dearly as only children could – even his gentle words about childbirth and her trauma had calmed her. He had reasoned (as only he could) that his mother had borne three sturdy children (nevermind that one had been carried off by measles, and one had been carried off by an accident involving slate tiles and a roof three stories up), and her own mother had borne three sturdy children of her own (but they never spoke of wee Hamish, who had died from scarlet fever at eighteen months – Elsie only vaguely remembered her brother at all), and she was strong and everything would be all right.
But now he was leaving, taking that fragile peace with him. She wasn't entirely certain how she could go on without him.
Can't go on; must go on.
"Soon," she whispered.
That word held so much promise and hope, and she would cling to it like a lifeline.
Soon.
