Chapter 14 – (Not Quite) Three O' Clock in the Morning

August, 1927

A/N: A very sweet little interlude. This chapter is for ChelsietotheNorthern and CSotA, in partial fulfillment for a long-promised and tardily-filled fic wish. One reader wished for happily married, sweet Chelsie and the other, for a dance between the pair, with one person singing into the other's ear. I've managed to include both in this chapter, which is excessively romantic, I know, but, sometimes it MUST be done. ~CeeCee

NB: It's a real song, of course, as the music lover and verisimilitude lover I am would allow nothing else. But it's a bit perfect, no? You can Google and find Paul Whiteman's instrumental version from the '20s, or several others from the same time, inclusive of the lyrics.

He stretched his legs out in front of him, glanced up at the wall clock. Nearly half-past midnight. He wondered if he'd see his wife before he finally called it a night, but he supposed babies came in their own time, and everyone else's schedule could go hang. He grinned a little, set his novel aside.

The summer air that floated in from the open window was heavy with honeysuckle and cut grass. He sipped his wine, sighed. Anna had gone into labor with her second child a little over twelve hours ago, and when Elsie had gotten wind of it, she'd headed over to the Bateses' cottage to keep an eye on wee Will. Charles could only imagine that she'd found a dozen other things that needed tending whilst she was there, and, knowing his wife, she certainly wasn't leaving until that baby showed up. She insisted she wasn't mothering Anna, but she was close enough that you'd have to squint rather hard to tell the difference between her and a 'real' mother.

He closed his eyes, listened to the music warbling out of the gramophone. "Rhapsody in Blue" tumbled forth from the flower-like speaker, played by Paul Whiteman's jazz orchestra. An American's song, performed by Americans. It felt very American, and he'd read somewhere that Gershwin was inspired to write the piece whilst traveling on train. He honestly couldn't decide if he liked it or not; every time he heard it, he would get swept away by the first few minutes of the piece; but then, much like the composer's train, he wasn't sure if he wanted to go where the song took him. It felt both exciting and undignified, somehow. Yet, he still pulled the record out, not infrequently, mixing it in with familiar favorites.

Just as the music had begun taking off, he heard the front door open, and a tired, contented sigh from his wife. A few moments later, she appeared in the doorway, smiling. She walked over to him, bent, kissed his forehead.

"Feeling adventurous, tonight, eh, Charlie? American jazz…what would the Dowager think, Mr. Carson?" She grinned down at him, her face tired, but her eyes bright.

"I'm still not sure what I think of it, Elsie," he replied, standing, to get another glass for her.

"Well, I like it," she retorted, accepting the wine he proffered to her.

"Obviously," he inclined his head, raised his eyebrow. "It's a wonder that you're home at this early hour, not sitting in some smoke-filled night club."

She rolled her eyes but grinned up at him. "Don't tempt me," she replied, then raised her glass. "In any case, we must toast the new baby."

"Ah, yes, of course," he answered. "How is he, then? Not quite the dramatic entrance into the world as his older brother, I suppose, but a lovely night to be born, nonetheless."

"How is she, you mean," she responded. "Eliza Mary Bates, lustily wailin' away in her happy mam's arms when I left."

"'Mary?' Her ladyship will be flattered, I am sure," he clinked his glass against hers, sipping.

"Aye, I am sure what Lady Mary Talbott feels is the top of everyone's list at this moment," she replied dryly, but there was no bite in her teasing.

"You didn't walk home on you own?"

"Nae, Mr. Carson, though we both know naught would have happened to me had I chosen to roam abroad in the middle of the night. Dr. Clarkson dropped me nearly at the door on his own way home," she grinned, placed her hand on his chest, rubbing the soft fabric of his dressing gown. "Lest I be accosted by bandits on my walk home."

"I'll not apologize for being concerned about my wife's safety, Elsie," he answered, frowning down at her.

"No, I suppose you don't have to, at that, Charlie. And don't let it go to your head, but it's rather flattering to know you're so concerned," she finished her wine, set the glass on the table. "I wasn't sure I'd find you still awake. I'm glad that I have."

"It would be difficult to sleep without you beside me," he was surprised to find himself replying. Not that he didn't mean it, not even that she didn't know it, already, but that he felt he wanted to say it, out loud. He loved her ferociously, with all of himself, but found it difficult, most times, to say those small words, the little phrases, that were only uttered by lovers' mouths. "The bed would feel too big, Elsie."

She turned back to him, took his glass. Her face softened at his words, and she reached up, stroked his cheek. "You're awfully sentimental tonight, Mr. Carson."

"Bite your tongue, Mrs. Carson," he teased back, and suddenly noticed the music had changed: Paul Whiteman and his band had left Gershwin behind, and a familiar series of chimes rang out, ushering in the next song. Now this was a song that made him feel exactly right, it's lilting waltz and catchy tune causing a hum to rise immediately to his lips. Elsie smiled, too, and began to hum along with him.

Then, without really thinking too hard about it, he pulled her towards him. She yelped, giggled a little – "Charlie!" – and laced his fingers through hers, holding their joined hands out. Not proper form, exactly, but close enough. He began whirling her around the room, expertly avoiding the ottoman and the armchair, the side table and the floor lamp.

She was laughing, exclaimed his name a few more times, but kept up, each of them humming along with the orchestra. Then he leaned over, and sang into her ear,

"...it's three o'clock in the morning,

We've danced the whole night through,

And daylight soon will be dawning,

Just one more waltz with you…"

And as he sang to her, they slowed, and she softened in his arms, until they were barely moving at all, swaying in a way that hardly could be called dancing, any longer. Their arms came down, hers winding around his middle; his, shaking a little with the ever-present palsy, resting on her hair. Thought of how she always moved him to music. Whether it was the news of the restored status of her good health all those years ago or serenading her with a Scottish tune on their wedding day.

But, this, this was sweeter, richer, because he was singing to her, not to himself, or with a joyful crowd, but just they two, in their little sitting room. And now, the song was nearly ending, and she was singing along with him,

"…that melody so entrancing,

Seems to be made for us two,

I could just keep on dancing forever dear, with you…"

He kissed her as the band began another tune and he felt her mouth smiling under his lips.

"I have a better idea, Charlie, than dancing until three o' clock in the morning," her voice sounding as it only did to him, in these wee hours of the night, when their faces and bodies were close.

"Such impertinence," he muttered, with faux sternness, then kissed her behind her ear. She gasped, laughed, grabbed his shaky hand. Led him to their bed, that was simply too big without her, but the perfect size when she was in it, as the band played on in their cozy sitting room.