Chapter 9 – Enough Time

A/N: Okay, here we go, the chapter encompassing the very early hours of Boxing Day 1924. "Boxing Day? But CeeCee, what of the early hours of Christmas Day?" you say. I really still feel that this is a true companion piece to AHoM, and if you've read AHoM, you may recall Elsie searching for her new fiancé in the wee hours of Christmas morning, and being informed by Beryl that Mr. Carson had fallen asleep, likely waiting for her, in the chair in his study, where she finds him stretched out, and places a brief kiss on his slumbering forehead. Then she leaves, undetected by him (Ch 19, for those interested). They reconvene the next chapter, on Christmas morning, where she gives him a special Christmas gift, and they declare their love for each other for the first time, whilst breakfast preparations clamor on in the kitchens. And her leaving him, sleeping, on Christmas night feels really important for me to keep intact, especially as contrast to her awakening him on their wedding night. I want those moments lingering in this story too.

~CeeCee

The Early Hours of Boxing Day, 1924

Christmas Day was no less hectic than Christmas Eve had been, but she really couldn't mind the hard work, not today, of all days, could she now? No, she definitely was entirely unable to manage anything but a hazy, jumbled sense of complete goodwill, all day long. Things that on an ordinary day would irritate her, like the pair of housemaids nursing sore heads from dipping a bit too much into the Christmas punch, simply made her shake head and smile a little, thinking There's a price for fun, but sometimes it's worth paying for it.

Joy seemed very close to the surface for her all day, and ready to burst forth each time she caught glimpse of the tall sturdy figure of Downton's butler, or heard his rich baritone humming or singing a bit a carol, or brushed past him in the hallway, each of them going in different directions, a touch on his sleeve, the whiff of his shaving soap. The way, without saying a word, his eyes told her an entire story in those brief seconds.

Her mind returned, again and again, to certain moments:

…the creasing of his face when she'd accepted his proposal, the smoldering warmth in his dark eyes;

…brushing his sleeping face, ever-so-softly, with her lips, careful not to wake him, last night;

…hurrying down the hallway to the kitchen, hearing his voice, filled with its own joy, singing the familiar carols;

… his voice, thick with feeling, cutting through her blathering about the watch.

Oh, as practical and staid as she usually felt, as she nearly always was, she could revisit that moment, those few seconds when the truth of it all had fallen from his lips, over, and over, and over again. She kept rubbing her mind against them, wearing them down into softness, as the holiday celebrations unfolded all around her, as she remembered where to go, what to do, when to speak and how to maintain some semblance of control over house and staff.

And, once again, with the exception of those fleeting moments where her senses were overwhelmed by his passing presence, she didn't see much of Charles Carson on Christmas Day, not really, not in the way all of the various parts of her wanted to, on their own, somewhere she could just stop, for more than a brief moment, and create another memory to wear out to sheer tenderness.

The magnanimity that filled her this Christmas didn't help her cause, either, not hardly; she seen the look on Anna's face, on John Bates' – there was a couple seeking their own string of private moments, making up for the days, the weeks, that he'd been gone. Once again, as she had when Mr. Bates had arrived unexpectedly the night before, she sent the lady's maid and the valet on their way, far earlier than she should have, and was upstairs, helping the ladies of the house to bed, for far longer than she should have.

So it was, that she headed downstairs, towards her office, in the minutes that Christmas Day ended and Boxing Day began, wondering if she could find him, awake this time. Daisy and Mrs. Patmore were the only two left in the kitchen, and the younger woman called a cheerful but tired good-night to her and disappeared up the stairs.

The cook, however, wiped her damp hands carefully on her apron, met Elsie in the entryway between the kitchen and the hallway.

"Well, that's Christmas, done, then," Beryl sighed. "And I always enjoy Boxing Day, though I'm not headed anywhere particular this year."

"Aye, neither am I, but it'll be a nice change of pace tomorrow, Mrs. Patmore. Take the easy days for all their worth, I say," she grinned back at her friend. More than half of Downton's staff would be visiting their families tomorrow, after working full-tilt that past few days, bringing boxes of treats and gifts (and likely some extra spending money) to family celebrations on the morrow. The daytime meals were set up continental style, with the family mostly serving themselves.

"You seemed to hold up rather well today, Mrs. Hughes," her friend's eyes were shining with barely-contained glee. "Floating around, like a lass in a field full of flowers, you were."

"That's a rather flamboyant tale you're telling yourself, Mrs. Patmore," she replied pertly. But she couldn't manage to feel anything but contented.

"Not particularly interested in my tale, Mrs. Hughes, but yours," her friend responded. "I'll not pester you for it now, of course, but I plan to be in your office with a very large pot of tea two mornings from now. In the meantime, I would stop talkin' to me, and head on where you originally intended." She paused for a moment, then stage-whispered, "He just fell asleep, this time, so mayhaps you can wake him if you knock on the door a mite too loudly, Mrs. Hughes?"

Elsie just stared at her, momentarily speechless. The cook placed her hand briefly on her shoulder, squeezed, walked towards the stairs, heading to bed. "Go on, then!" She called again in a low-pitched voice, and Elsie could hear her chuckling to herself.

And now, she was alone. Standing in the quiet hallway. She gazed over at the butler's pantry, which door was slightly ajar, enough to see that a low, warm light was still on. She walked over, pressed her fingertips against it. Wrapped, hard, three times. Waited a few moments, then heard him, his voice slightly tacky with sleep.

"Come in," a low rumble, like faraway thunder.

"I didn't mean to wake you," she stepped inside, pushed the door shut behind her. "And I didn't intend to be so long upstairs." Now that she was here, finally, with him, she felt demure, bashful, almost. Though it was all she had thought about, this wonderful, mad, magical day.

He stood, staring down at her, his face, his eyes, his mouth, soft with sleep. She would kiss that mouth, someday. Someday, soon, she thought. She shivered a little, not quite sure if she was ready for that side of things, though certain parts of her certainly seemed to be...

"I wasn't quite asleep, not exactly, Mrs. Hughes, thanks to you and Mrs. Patmore's hushed conversation in the hallway, though I am assuming it's quite late," he replied, a mildly amused look flitting across his face, his eyebrow arched. He pulled out his watch, the watch she had given him earlier today. Then his face softened again, and he rubbed his thumb over the inscription of its smooth silver surface, before tucking it back into his waistcoat pocket. He transferred his gaze back up to her, and she felt a warmth rush through her as he stepped forward, towards her.

"It does come down to time, almost always, doesn't it, Mrs. Hughes?" He smiled down at her again, his face opening up as it had during his proposal, another lovely glimpse at the man she was starting to think of as her Charles Carson, the one that no one else in this house, in the village, was privy to. Not even she had been, exactly, completely, until last night. She wondered, briefly, how very much more there was to learn about him. And for him of her.

She stepped towards him, instinctively and without thought, negating the final few inches between them. She pressed her face against the spotless white vest of his livery and inhaled deeply. What an odd thing, she thought, that the smell of someone can make me feel so peaceful and so topsy-turvy, all at once.

And his hands, one cupping the back of her head and the other around her waist, the solid, warm, double weight of them. She sighed, as did he. They pressed, just a little, closer to each other.

"Aye, Mr. Carson," she leaned away from his chest a little, stared up at him. His face was close, very close. She reached up, and stroked his cheek, ever so tenderly, the raspy feeling of his facial hair sending dozens and dozens of tingles shooting down her arm. And it was all she could manage, at the moment, the intimacy of it overwhelming her a little, like a child knocked down into the wet sand by a wave.

He seemed to understand, and gently stroked her hair when she broke eye contact and rested her head back against his chest, where she could hear the steady vibration of his heart.

"It does come down to time, and now we've finally got our fair share of it, the pair of us," she finished, feeling more contented than she could remember feeling in a very long time.