Chapter 17 – Yours, A Long Time Past
A/N: For CSotA, for myriad reasons.
It wasn't even half-past four when he and Albert Mason walked through the cottage's front door. He had to hand it to the much smaller man: he kept up with Charles' much longer, nearly frantic strides the entire walk from the farm. And the farmer had merely raised his eyebrows, handed him a cup of strong coffee, when he insisted on leaving before the chores were begun, not after. He'd slept fitfully, his body desperate for the rest, but the remainder of himself just as desperate to be back at Elsie's side, no matter what state his wife was in, and whether she knew he was there. He would know he was there, with her.
They were greeted by the sound of Beryl Mason singing softly to herself, and the sight of her standing by the stove, hovering over a boiling pot.
"Mornin', Berrie, well, almost, at least," Albert strode across the kitchen and placed a hearty kiss on the corner of his wife's mouth.
"What in God's name are you both doin' here, at this hour? What about the pigs, Al? The chickens?" She pulled two eggs from the sauce pan, added them to a plate with toast and jam.
"Mr. Carson was desperate to see his wife, and so was I, to see my own," Albert Mason winked at him, then grew more somber. "How is Mrs. Carson doin', then? Did the fever break, like the doc expected?"
"Indeed it did," Beryl replied, and Charles could see there were tears brimming in her eyes. "She's awake, Mr. Carson, and lookin' for breakfast – and for you. Perhaps you'd like to take it in to her?"
He nearly lost sense of the words coming out of his friend's mouth. Elsie was awake, Elsie was fine. There was a high-pitched buzzing in his ears, but he didn't mind it, not a bit. He wasn't sure if he'd mind anything, not for a very long time at least.
Beryl was pushing a small tray with the breakfast plate and a fresh cup of tea into his hands.
"Alright, Mr. Carson?" She asked, gently. "She startled me, too, I'll not lie. It felt like one hour, she was ranting about the wallpaper, the next, she was askin' me for a cuppa, like it was any other day."
"She's…she's really okay?" He squeezed the edges of the tray tightly.
"She's really okay, though I'm no doctor, I'm sure he'd agree with me," Beryl put her hand on his wrist. "Now, go on with yeh. I'll tell yeh, with a fever and without – she was a'lookin' for you, though she was glad you were resting, when she found out why yeh weren't here."
"I thank you, Mrs. Patmore, for your…dedication…and friendship," he was struggling. "And you, Mr. Mason, as well…" he trailed off. He felt so grateful for these people, for their friendship and support, but he was tired, and needed to see his wife.
"You're quite welcome, Mr. Carson. Berrie and I'll be off, then, for now. We'll come 'round with lunch for you and Mrs. Carson, noon, or thereabouts," he nodded, smiling. "Go on, now, before that nice breakfast Berrie rustled up gets cold."
He nodded dumbly at them, and walked towards the bedroom, pushing the door open. There she was: he could see, immediately, she was better, she was herself. Her eyes were closed, she looked like she was dozing; but it was a restful sleep, not the fitful, simmering state of unconsciousness that the fever had been boiling her in.
He shut the door softly with his elbow, dimly aware of the Masons making their way out of the house. He set the tray on the nightstand and sat on the arm chair, which Beryl Mason had pulled closer to the bed than it usually was, so she could keep an eye on their patient.
Once he was seated, he leaned forward and oh, so gently, took his wife's hand. She didn't stir, but everything in him finally, completely relaxed: her hand wasn't cold and clammy, as it had been at the onset of her illness, nor was it hot and dry, as it had been when the fever overtook her. It was warm and soft, relaxed.
He sighed, a shuddery, shaky movement of his entire body. He felt humbled by two things he'd learned the past three days or so: how utterly rudderless he felt without his wife, well and whole, by his side; and that he, they had friends, family, really, who loved them, so deeply.
He'd never considered himself a callous man, nor particularly closed-off; but marrying Elsie, loving her, as he did, opened him up that much more to the other people in their lives. He looked at her face again, and placed his other hand over hers, cupping it between his own. He bowed his head down, pressing his cheek, which needed shaving, against their joined palms.
He didn't know how long he sat like that, with their room slowly, slowly, brightening towards dawn, on the edge of the morning. Not long, he thought. Then she spoke, at last, her voice husky and sore.
"Charlie? Is that you, then, really?"
"Elsie," he answered, not lifting his head from the counterpane. Brushed his lips against her hand. The tears fell, and he paid them no mind. They deepened, a little, and his chest hitched and shuddered, like a small child who'd lost his way home.
"Charlie, you're here. I'm here," she pulled her hand out from underneath his cheek, and placed it on the top of his head. "We need not get dramatic, Mr. Carson."
He finally lifted his face. She was smiling at him, her eyes bright, her face tired, but regaining some color. He brushed his hand over her messy hair, which needed washing. He stood and moved to sit next to her, on the bed.
"I feel I've been shown myself this week; it's as if I knew nothing of the man I am," he finally spoke.
"And now ye do?" Her question, somehow both teasing and warm. Her eyes, searching his face intently.
"Now I do," he answered. He paused, only for a moment, and mostly because, in the near decade that had past, they'd never spoken directly on what he was about to mention. It was breaking an unwritten rule between them, but it no longer seemed important. "It happened to me before, I admit, nearly a decade ago. When I was terrified at the idea of you having cancer."
She blinked, hard. His words surprised her, as he knew they would. "My goodness," she finally said, brushing her hand across his still-damp cheeks. "This is more than dramatics, I suppose, then?"
"I suppose," he said, and he struggled to continue. But this felt like something that must be said, at long last. "I know, I know, we've never spoken about it, as there didn't seem to be any reason to bring it up. However, with you getting sick, like this, I was…"
"Worried?"
"Terrified."
She sighed, stroked his face again. Didn't speak. Waited.
"And…the oddest thing, was that, of course, I knew I was worried about you, as a colleague, as a friend, as…"
"Yes."
"Somehow, it wasn't until I found out, for certain, that you weren't ill, that you would be fine –"
"We certainly ran poor Beryl around, those days, didn't we?" She was smiling up at him. He smiled back, nodded.
"She is a good friend, to us both," he answered. "I suppose, in the end, that was my point: I didn't realize how desperately afraid I was, until she told me you were fine. That…" Why are some things still so hard to say, after all of these years, after all of these days, these nights, together? "That I…wasn't going to lose you."
And then, it was her turn to sigh. "Was I yours to lose, back then, Mr. Carson?"
"You most certainly are now," he answered, running his hand through her hair, down her cheek. "And you were then, I think, or…you should have been. We've belonged to each other for a long time, haven't we, Elsie? Really, we have, and I sometimes take that for granted, I think."
"You don't, not anymore, not very much, Charlie," she grinned at him. "Especially now that you're helping out around the house regularly." She laughed, and he knew she was teasing him, about what a boorish fool he'd been when they first moved into the cottage.
"You aren't taking me seriously," he stated.
"I am. I do," she retorted. "Even in my feverish state, you were there. Humming, singing. Wishing me back, better. Whether it was only in my mind, or not."
"I sang a lot when I found out you weren't sick, those years ago," he replied, remembering.
"Yes, you certainly did. Dashing away with a smoothing iron, dashing away with a smoothing iron..." she began singing in her rusty, worn-out voice and his heart fills up.
"She stole my heart away…" he finished the line with her, and they smile.
"I guess I was yours, and you, mine, long before the wedding vows, and this cottage, Charlie," she said, glanced over at the breakfast tray. "I'm certain that tea's gone stone cold, but I cannot, for the life of me, bring myself to mind, not in the least."
And she leaned forward, and kissed him.