The Acquisition of Memories- Chapter 19: To His Coy Mistress
A/N: Definitely rated M for this honeymoon fiction now- adult activities described. If that is not your thing, turn away now. Certainly NSFW- but done so in a tasteful manner, I believe. You have been warned!
It is my first foray into this territory ever. I hope it tasteful enough for all you lovely viewers out there, and FF guidelines safe- and that it all has the intended impact on readers! I also hope that all fans of Chelsie and DA realise I only want what is best for the old Boobies!
Read the other chapters first if you haven't already, otherwise patches of this may not make sense.
Disclaimer – JF owns it. I do not profit, and I try to treat them well.
Enjoy!
BorneToFlow
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From Chapter 18 -
Elsie marvels at the way that he is luxuriating in the touch of her hair alone, for none of their skin has yet been in contact. Her breathing is shallow- she does not want to distract him. She holds her breath as he lifts a sheet of her thick hair and leans into it, breathing in its floral warmth like oxygen, rubs it over his cheek and against his closed eyelids. The sight alone of his silent, soft revelling makes a heat grow in her belly and a sting of sharp excitement sweep outwards across her décolletage as her heart skips and stretches across a beat.
At the sudden intake of her breath, he looks up into the mirror and sees her glittering blue eyes. Deep. Mouth slightly open. Breaths fast and light.
"Mr Carson," Elsie's voice gravels in her throat. She worries that she will break this spell, but somehow her low and sultry tone makes her next words sound incredibly seductive to Charles. "I never really took you much for a ladies maid."
His eyes alone show the slightest smile, and equally low, with a velveteen roughness, he speaks slowly, "I have performed many different roles across my years in service, Milady," he penetrates her gaze with his, "but I am now indentured solely to you. Allow me, if you please, to attend to all of your needs."
His breath is heavy and close and warm across the loosed hair on the back of her head. She shivers as he steps back and gestures towards Elsie's dressing room.
With the slightest of nods and eyes shimmering with desire and unlimited trust, Elsie steps further into the room.
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Elsie leads their way, and Charles willingly follows. His night and day long quirk of referring to her as 'Milady' now fully understood and accepted with effortless grace. Charles' hooded eyes dreamily watch the new, supple sway of her hips as she walks with her usual sure and petite gate towards the dressing room. He cannot even visualise what new treasures of cotton or lace that might reside beneath her floating wedding gown and which make her every move so fluid and sinuous, so seductive. A brief swell of giddy pride sees his fingers flutter excitedly near his thighs once more and his heart thuds clear and bright in his chest.
Still in his full evening livery- a single white carnation of pure love the only visible difference in his bearing from that of his role as the butler in the great house. To one side of her dressing table, behind Elsie, Charles stands.
Still.
Ready to attend.
Silently, he moves the dresser chair well back from the table for her.
"Please be seated, Milady," he intones quietly.
Elsie accedes.
She looks intently at his eyes on hers within the mirror- so different from that day he looked forlorn and lost behind her when she set out for her test results. His eyes are still dark and glistening- but now they overflow with hope and love and happiness… And much more.
"Do you trust me, Milady?" he asks calmly.
"Entirely."
"Then husshh," he draws out the breath across her hair. Low. "Be still, Milady. Let me love you."
Now, finally, Charles knows that everything from his past- the things that he had seen, long, long ago- etched onto his eye and brain - Young licentious curs! – Etched forever, he had thought- those things that had wounded him, marked his life with pain and betrayal and loss. It was only now that he knew these things could be re-formed in the actions woven between their two loving bodies. Transformed. Made infinitely beautiful in their eyes and hearts alone.
Together.
Charles takes his place behind her dressing chair. Every fibre of his being stringing with latent need.
Electricity- held taut in precise restraint.
With fine coiled power, his breath whispers over Elsie's luxurious auburn locks.
Still.
Measured.
He begins.
* Had we but world enough… and time,
This coyness, lady, were no crime.
Elsie's eyes shoot wide onto his, crackling with instant recognition.
Pleasant shock…
Awe…
And irrepressible want.
His deep melodious voice sings low, slow, worship over her. Hot blood rushes from her every extremity, leaving ears and hands and toes tingling and cool as her heart fills and pauses in a breath. She tries to fathom fully what is to come- what he has so obviously thought about, deeply- and planned…
And that deep, rich voice that enchants her so… Complex. Nuanced. All deep rubble and soft heather. Boundless.
She knew now. She knew.
Everything he had done tonight, everything he was doing now, was for her alone. Safety for her vulnerability. Love for her concerns. Desire for her body beautiful. She feels her eyes prick with tears of sweetest tenderness for the man who is her Charles- poised to make love to her with his voice alone- in tones she had never heard until that day. That voice that arcs over their hoary entombed flint and her dried bracken lust- deep-rooted- sparking fire and lightning across her new unfurling desire.
Deep. Lush. His baritone rolling dark with hunger. And, slow…Oh … so slowly…
We would sit down, and think which way
He slides with silent equine grace to one knee before her. First with one, and then the other, he lifts each slim gloved hand into his great and gentle paw, lightly pinches tips of cloth between thumb and finger-side, loosens the sleek grip, bunches fabric from elbows and gently pulls the coverings free with satin glide. He inhales her perfume from their length, floating them over the backs of his hand. Stroking. Folding, inhaling… Then places them aside.
To walk, and pass our long love's day
One elegantly shod foot rests gently in his palm, his broad fingers un-hasp the buckle. The shoe slips off and finds a home beneath her chair.
He unbuckles the other.
Removes.
Thou by the Indian Ganges' side
Shouldst rubies find;
A glinting six-pence pours from shoe to palm. Now turning borrowed happiness in his fingertips, he looks up and sees her eyes- catching round silver reflections in dark and bright blue depths, streaking with clouds of desire. He runs the coin on edge over her shin…her knee…her thigh. Pressing softly to flesh through silken mauve. Shivers ripple beneath. Breath is caught on rouged lip, held by teeth. He deposits their coin into her open palm and slips his hand away before they touch. A ring of gold clicks faint 'gainst silver disc as fingers curl instinctively around their great good fortune.
I by the tide
Of Humber would complain.
He rises to his feet before her, sweeps his hands in silent gesture and with hypnotic, tender force he draws her up before him. Eyes dark and heart full, he gazes all his love upon her face.
I would
Love you ten years before the flood,
Time holds still.
His palm ghosts over temple, eye and cheek. Soft downy hair prickles for his touch.
And you should, if you please, … refuse
Till the conversion of the Jews.
Fingertips, shaking with stinging need, whisper close to her lips, return to her temple, and crosses her brow. Air sits between his every trace. Breath escapes at shallow, uneven pace. A tiny movement of her head tells him clearly- 'No, I'll not refuse you.'
Sliding deft and silent behind her, the silken mane is parted, lifted, slid over strong fingers and draped to rest over each shoulder, onto her fluttering chest.
Seven covered buttons revealed. He slides their loops, lifts her dress clear of skin by shoulder seams. The neckline drops and scoops. Down limber arms, his hands slide dusky-heathered silk, catching lightly on nipples pushed tight to sheer slip and peach-blushed satin bands.
Heart thudding, his chest resounds. She hears it as her own. His eyes widen and smile at her with darkened delight. Her breath restarts. Tongue tips slide across parched lips.
Sound slips.
Scraping past his dry and gravel hardened throat,
My vegetable love should grow
Vaster than empires…and more slow;
Time. The day. The dress... All of it drops away.
Past elbows. Past wrists and hand- clenched on silver coin- wrestling with desire. Over hip and thigh. Past deep internal fire. Silk. The dress pools in swirling waves about her feet.
Kneeling to the floor, he beckons.
She steps clear.
He rises, and with deft and measured pace gently hangs her cloth mantle behind rich and shining maple doors.
Returning. Deeper- his voice resounds.
An hundred years should go to praise
Thine eyes, and on thy forehead gaze;
Hot breathed- lips murmur wordless approval and exhale close to her face. One hand winds into streaming hair- fingers slide through, brushing feathered ends against cloth clinging tightly to heat-blushed breasts. Concealed. But ready to be blessed.
Wide eyes follow his gliding dance of black and white. Captivated by strange minglings of what is right before her and what is reflected in reverse. A pulse spikes and winces red across her chest and up her neck, leaving a quick chill from where it has left. Her dry throat swallows heavy panting air into her chest.
Behind again- his smallest fingers loom large but slide delicately between the straps of the finest linen shift and her new brassiere. The chiffon rises. Her arms drift aloft in a dreamlike state. She straightens- back tall and lithe- arching low towards his warmth- stretched across the moment. The shroud lifts up about her face. Eyes close. Breast heaves. Teeth taste rouge.
The veil is removed.
Her hair falls back around her breasts. Her ragged breath stirs fire in his loins. His eyes meet hers in dark embrace within the mirror's walls. Casting down. His long and loving thirsty stare runs over bumps and dips, across fine exposed, pillowy midriff. Her satin covers sit tight and high on curving waist and liquid warmth pools silently beneath his lingering gaze.
Light. Meticulous. Tips of dexterous fingers pour focus onto silken covered pearls of promise.
Undone. One by one.
Opened.
Straps of satin slide over pale, smooth shoulders. The band of skin-flushed colour glides down- catches on the tightened buds of rose-blushed breasts and drops away- from chest, from arms, from wrists. He holds the smoothest fabric in one hand and rubs it softly on finger pads and thumb, and gazes- admiration bright- at far softer gifts draped in dark and silken hair, still hiding from his reach. His painful lust surges hard and hot. A groan escapes his throat as a wondrous smile plays across his face.
Flushed with pride, tinged with trepidation, her right arm curls to hide the blemish at her side. Eyes blanch- concerned, but brief. He pulls petaled love from his lapel and presses lips soft with his purest love's caress to velvet pristine bloom. He shifts- surely, slightly, and slides an arm around her. His thick wool sleeve brushes smooth across her bicep- and he tells her, most assuredly, of his praise.
Two hundred… to adore each breast,
Stem held long across his curved palm, the bloom rests tenderly at his fingers tips- he runs white silken love from summer's early blushed life over her soft, inviting glory and their fears of times gone past. His hand, with silver-jagged scar, floats- whisper close- and shadows her puckered, tightened cup. Twirling his flowering kiss into the depths of all her pain, time-toughened scars stitch up… and are healed again. Tears glisten in eyes, dark and brown, crystal and blue, caught long in loves pure, deep embrace. His hooded orbs gaze longingly, following as the flower pushes locks of hair aside and smokes across each glorious breast, swirling beneath heavy mounds and brushing heightened peaks of deep and dusky pink. The small catch of a wanting cry weeps across her tongue.
Husky throated, he continues what he has begun.
But thirty thousand to the rest;
An age at least to every part,
And the last age should show your heart.
Her body ripples and sways beautifully before his eyes- before her eyes- reflecting the desire of her soul. Mouth ajar and gasping in short breaths, nerves and skin swell and flow- following the flower's path with twitching, shivering need. Velvet soft.
Then at her back, his white starched front scrapes a shoulder blade as she leans into his weight. And this- this is where the nerve is truly touched and teased. Mirroring his want and iron will, she holds her ceaseless excitation- her movements, her burning need for his skin's touch- so close but all too far away- all of her burning instincts- she tethers down- holds them once more under quavering, ruthless restraint.**
He runs the flower down her sides, across the top of silken briefs, down the lines of lace to garter clips, across her undulating front of womanly promise, over shimmering nerves, between each breast, to heaving neckline hollow- fluttering fast between her collar. Across boney ridge to solid shoulder- round, and smooth. Then down her arm, a path is traced by velvet petals bloom, and at her wrist, he twirls again, and the flower comes to rest upon her opened palm.
Eyes locked intensely together, his heart speaks out their truth.
For, lady, you deserve this state,
Nor would I love at lower rate.
Sliding starched cotton and hard pearl studs around her back, his hand's ghost over her, climbing up limbs length- close- but still too distant, skimming prickled air over her lust slackened arms. To rest. To lightly rest upon the layered hair beside her face.
But at my back I always hear
Time's wingèd chariot hurrying near;
Hands slide down her silken locks.
A step back. Apart.
His eyes bore deep into the mirror of her shimmering eager soul.
And yonder all before us lie
Deserts of vast eternity.
He ducks and bends on reverent knee to trace a path of heated air 'twixt fingertips and spine. A sparking quiver follows his need. Rounding softened hips and muscle mounded curves above stair-toughened thighs, he flickers fingers deftly at clasps with slow intent. Finding release, he unclips the tops of silken covered legs.
Thy beauty shall no more be found;
Nor, in thy marble vault, shall sound
My echoing song;
Open palmed, he rolls the gossamer cloth's length slowly down each leg. Pressing into her skin through the finest weave, past each knee, he chases ripples of nerved electricity down to ankles with the music of her moaning breath. Then sidling 'round he bids her sit and lifts each ankle free from pale silk, revealing dainty alabaster feet. Shuddering under the waves of her own fervour, she curls her toes heavily into plush carpeted retreat as dark and solid heat rises from beneath his waist and brushes faint through black-drill cloth beside her shin. Breathing rough above her skin his head moves, bending low and skimming lips, a feather's breadth away, over her tensed thighs to twitching hips. Across. Floating close.
Across. Floating close.
Floating close.
He stops.
Breathing hot and ragged over satin-blushed peach covered delight, he inhales deeply her sweet and heavenly musk.
Rasped and urgent, he intones-
…then worms shall try
That long-preserved virginity,
And your quaint honour turn to dust,
And into ashes all my lust;
Closer. His voice wavers higher with conflicted want.
The grave's a fine and private place,
But none, I think, do there embrace.
Hot and dry. Desperate for all that they could have so easily missed- he exhales deep longing through her final sensual covering to stir the oasis of her womb. Bucking with the smallest twitch, her hips roll. Involuntary. Swaying towards his reverent face, his tongue tip licks over his parched, but lust reddened lips.
Stretching his liquid covered lips above her waist, skimming his hot words of praise with the force of his slow-chapped love across the central dip of her life's first holding thread, a fast twitch of energy thrills in a line towards her chest. He follows its path- raises his head and brushes the stiffened bud of her longing nipple- light and unintended- with his great eyebrow.
Breath catches. She shimmers and a giggle of loving delight flits across her eyes and cheek and ripples in her throat. Her lust smiles down at his- steel darkened- as her hips undulate, unbidden, with beckoning need, and gazing at her joyous, yearning face he halts briefly within his stiffening purpose, then quickly motions his intentions. She follows. Mirroring the gliding of his upwards sweeping hands, and with languor slackened knees, somehow, she stands. Fingers brush and dip and bump over round budded buttons at her sides. Slipping loose the eyelets of life-long chastity, the waistband opens, and feathering fingers run light across satin seams to draw shining fine-threaded fabric down over hip bone definition.
His breath steams lush and smoky adoration across her voluptuous belly.
Now therefore, while the youthful hue
Sits on thy skin like morning dew,
And while thy willing soul transpires
At every pore with instant fires,
Slowly. Unfurling her with all of his love bared soul shining on his face. Lowering down the final cloth- it falls heedless to the ground. His sultry breaths and thirsty yearning words stir over her secret warmth- her sylvan glade of curls.
Chest heaving. Legs tense. Hips writhing. Eyes wide with fascination and desire gaze upon her own body and her lover before her inside the looking glass.
Revealed.
Hot gravel rumbles from the depths of his chest and shakes through his adoring voice. His head sways in sweeping lines across her life from side to side- tracing electric fire, dancing with the sway of her hips.
Now let us sport us while we may,
And now, like amorous birds of prey,
Rather at once our time devour
Than languish in his slow-chapped power.
His fingers flutter with desire at her rounded sides of pliant delight. Then, mirroring her own strong hands clasped tightly on softened, bruising petals and heat hardened metals, his hands fist with rigid force, holding onto his unsteady and weakening will- holding on by the few remaining threads of his ruthless, self-imposed restraint. His voice- rolls, moaning in counterpoint to her panting mewls. Drawing out. Halting. Pulling in a sharp and laboured breath. Then.
Then.
Billowing sudden gruff and lust filled thunder across the soft and darkening planes of her most private and slowly surging skin.
Let us roll all our strength and all
Our sweetness up into one ball,
And tear our pleasures with rough strife
Through the iron gates of life:
Thus, … though we cannot make our sun
Skin connects.
Stand still, …
Large hands grip sudden and hard to rolling hips.
Voice growls-
…yet we will make him run.
Fingers dig into shuddering, pliant flesh.
She gasps.
The coil arcs.
Plunging deep. His wet smooth tongue dives into hot velvet silk's embrace.
Unstrung.
Open.
Rumbling low- his first and last primal voice roars want and love through the lush valley of his beauteous wife.
Untamed.
Unleashed.
Vibrating through to her innermost core.
Open.
Opened against the animal need of his singing voice and palms and fingers and tongue.
She bucks wildly and calls her love and life's prayer in an instant of shuddering, uncontrolled ecstasy.
"Ó dhìol! Ah!
Ó mo chreach! …mhór!"
The flower drops.
Rolling Gaelic curses leave her soul to heavens flight.
Gasping.
Formless.
Her music fills his ears and heart with his whole world's sweetest song.
Her life spills forth from her long hid font. Sweet ambrosia pours over his parched and willing tongue. Quenching need and driving desire on.
On.
Quivering and twitching violently in his hard hands. Wanton. Rolling. High desire keening- panting under his hot and wet, demanding kiss.
Rising.
The finest needle's point of their purest pleasure threads slick and prickling warmth to her utmost extremity.
Her walls clamp tightly in final shuddering embrace. Hands grip into silver locks as she grinds hard into his loving face.
"Char…Charles!… Char-liee!…mhór!... mhór!..."
Every fibre of her being that across the day had been so tightly strung -now snaps – and she splendidly unravels in his hands.
Suddenly weakening, she shakes and collapses, slack-boned into his strong supporting grip.
Lowering her gently to the seat he drives into her once more, kissing deeper, reaching again for her core- her soul of purest love.
"Mo chreach-sa a thàinig! Aah!"
Pushing her beyond what nerves and body can hold onto and comprehend - as stars of dotted light break behind her eyelids, she shudders and bucks again and reflexively, she roughly pushes his head away and cries out "No!- No! No more! Charles… I can't…I…"
With a sudden final and fierce spasm, she pulls her hips back and her torso crumples over his head and shoulders.
Overwhelmed. Panting. Filmed with hot and prickling sweat, her heart thuds against his ear, her eyes stream hot and wonderful tears of sweet release over his hair and neck.
"My Lady. My Lady," he murmurs his sweet and sure devotion over her soft belly, still rippling beneath his breath and the soft kisses he places lightly upon her skin. She is home. Her breasts brush warm and heavy about his head. He is home.
The laughter of sheer wonderment at the joy of living courses up through her, demanding release. She leans back and draws his head up to her own. Hands still woven in his hair, she kisses him repeatedly, fervently- all over his slightly smug and shining, grinning face! Her laughter bubbles up in between the kisses she rains over his forehead, his cheeks, his eyelids, his nose, his silly, big and beautiful eyebrows. Giggling and crying and catching huge drafts of clear breath, she sighs long and smiles her adoration all over his face. Yet another precious smile filled with the sunshine of true feeling for Charles to file away in his personal ledger of sweetest memories.
"Oh…A chagair!... My darling…My man… My Charles." She kisses his face again and again, in between each of her heartfelt devotions.
Her breathing finally starts to slow, and she holds his face steady between her hands. She looks deeply into his eyes through her joyful tears and kisses him full and loving on his swollen lips- briefly shocked, but soon fascinated and savouring and licking and tasting the sweet and peppery exotic flavour of her own lush ruby fruit upon his tongue. She plays languorously inside his mouth, feeling heat stir low within her again as she mimics what he has just done for her. She does not know where Charles learnt of such an act, but he has shared it with her and appeared to enjoy it immensely, and he is responding now, so she is sure he is not too shocked by her own unexpected response to her scent upon him. Her beautiful and fearless and giving man.
Foreheads now resting together in their shared delight, she sighs in shivering contentment.
My Lady.
He holds onto her tightly around the waist until she fully calms.
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Definitely TBC :)
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IF you are interested…
Another multitude of Historical and other notes!:
So, this is the chapter and the piece of poetry that I originally envisioned writing with when I started down the road to Chelsie-ville. I am sure that says quite a lot about me… but I shan't dwell too much on such things! I just hope it has worked out ok.
* A/N 1: I hope I haven't ruined anyone's favourite poem here! It is To His Coy Mistress by Andrew Marvell, c. 1650.
I will put the whole original flowing piece below in this A/N 1. ..and a link to the best read-aloud version I have found. Sorry, no Jim Carter one available! ... or Alan Rickman, or Jeremy Irons, or Timothy Dalton, or Sir Anthony Hopkins for that matter! Any of their gorgeous voices would have done it for me! Most of the read-alouds rush sections of it, or are in American accents, most annoyingly! Well, at least to my ears (Sorry, no offence intended at all, but I just have to hear it with a British accent for DA purposes!). So, this one link, read by Samuel West watch?v=mhZuxUyNA14 is at least passable.
That said, the flow/ timing/ phrasing and intonation are still quite different in places to what I envision when I read it aloud, and compared to what I was going for in this FF piece. I do believe that poetry should be read aloud (or at least with an audible voice inside your head) so as to understand the nuances of the word sounds and expression, and the different pacing you can get from a piece. All of these things can substantially change the way the words can be interpreted.
And, a word on pronunciations- Although this poem was written well after the Great Vowel Shift (1350-1600) that saw the English language take on most of the sounds we generally hear today (Distinct from Chaucer's old English pronunciations in the Canterbury Tales)- from what I understand (and I could well be wrong), in a piece this old, a poem like this could well have been read with all written rhymes pronounced as true rhymes- for example:
And yonder all before us lie
Deserts of vast eternity.
Could possibly have been said as 'eternit-eye'.
When you read it that way a few times, you do get used to it, and so you can stop seeing it as an annoying wrenched-rhyme in the written text.
I hope you think this poem works well with our character's lives…(I do!- otherwise, I wouldn't have written this piece I guess!). I saw it as fitting because of Elsie's fears re. The full marriage thing, and also because of their incredibly slow burn, yet very deep rooted love and romance seeming to fit the scope of the love described in this poem (Chelsie: "like a pair of Galapagos Turtles slowly making their way towards one another!" to misquote Jim Carter).
Also, Charles and Elsie's somewhat advanced ages can substantially change the probable original intent of this poem- which would have been to get a much younger, and possibly unwilling, woman into bed quick smart! The somewhat jarring imagery of graves and ruthless time/ time wasted is quite fitting where our Old Boobies are concerned, I think.
I have tried to break the poem all into this story in a very particular way, using underlining emphasis to help… I hope! It was an incredibly difficult chapter to write, and I just hope it works for some readers out there. (Please let me know!).
Just keep that voice of Jim Carter in your head (He and Imelda Staunton have done some read-alouds with WW1 war poetry if that helps at all- just Youtube it)
Here is the full text of the poem with correct stanzas, punctuation and line breaks:
To His Coy Mistress. BY ANDREW MARVELL c.1650
Had we but world enough, and time,
This coyness, Lady, were no crime
We would sit down and think which way
To walk and pass our long love's day.
Thou by the Indian Ganges' side
Shouldst rubies find: I by the tide
Of Humber would complain. I would
Love you ten years before the Flood,
And you should, if you please, refuse
Till the conversion of the Jews.
My vegetable love should grow
Vaster than empires, and more slow;
A hundred years should go to praise
Thine eyes and on thy forehead gaze;
Two hundred to adore each breast,
But thirty thousand to the rest;
An age at least to every part,
And the last age should show your heart.
For, Lady, you deserve this state,
Nor would I love at lower rate.
But at my back I always hear
Time's wingèd chariot hurrying near;
And yonder all before us lie
Deserts of vast eternity.
Thy beauty shall no more be found,
Nor, in thy marble vault, shall sound
My echoing song; then worms shall try
That long preserved virginity,
And your quaint honour turn to dust,
And into ashes all my lust:
The grave's a fine and private place,
But none, I think, do there embrace.
Now therefore, while the youthful hue
Sits on thy skin like morning dew,
And while thy willing soul transpires
At every pore with instant fires,
Now let us sport us while we may,
And now, like amorous birds of prey,
Rather at once our time devour
Than languish in his slow-chapped power.
Let us roll all our strength and all
Our sweetness up into one ball,
And tear our pleasures with rough strife
Through the iron gates of life:
Thus, though we cannot make our sun
Stand still, yet we will make him run.
OOOOOOOOO
I know people do not read poetry anymore the way they used to, but I believe it is accurate to assume that both Charles and Elsie were educated, even to a low level at a grade school, in a time where learning poetry verbatim was expected (although I doubt this particularly raunchy one would have been on any Dame/ grammar school curriculums!). That said, people used to read aloud to each other in the evenings as entertainment, and Charles and Elsie, we can assume, have both had access to the vast library of Downton over time. So, I personally believe this rather old poem would have been known to both of them, hence Elsie's instant recognition when Charles starts it. However, I am guessing To His Coy Mistress was still seen as a rather risqué piece by Victorian and Edwardian standards and would have been read privately rather than shared. Those secretive and lusty heroes of ours -hey!
As I said, this was very tricky to write and get flowing anywhere near where I wanted it. I did only put letters to screen for this during this week, but it was my initial idea when setting foot in the Chelsie DA FF universe. The previous 18 chapters were really to give me the bit of plot I needed to hang it all on! For those of you who haven't read those, my references to previous imagery used in this chapter may not make much sense- so go back and read them first! Thanks.
The piece actually went off, quite unexpectedly, into a bit of a rhyming couplet/ poetry/prose direction. I hope it works for at least some readers out there! I have read it over so many times when editing that I cannot be sure if the thrill is still there! Please let me know if you care to review it. Also, this night of love is definitely to going be continued. I was aiming for one big chapter, but I decided to post this bit first as I ran into an interesting problem…
Namely, I am now having to consider posting two alternative chapters for what happens next for C and E. Both could work equally well…I think. Again the flow of writing took me to a different place than I initially envisioned. So!- do you want Charles maintaining an almost inhuman level of physical restraint next, or, do I just let all his walls crumble as soon as Elsie gets at him? Kind of a choose your own adventure really! I will end up writing both, I think- and I will make sure they are both Charles and Elsie are entirely happy by the end of it! This is first time territory for me, but it is lots of fun! Let me know if this worked for you and if I should go on.
I actually feel very self- indulgent writing any of this fiction at all, really!
A/N2: ** Line doctored mercilessly from Jane Eyre: "This was the point—this was where the nerve was touched and teased—this was where the fever was sustained and fed: to witness this, was to be at once under ceaseless excitation and ruthless restraint."
-Jane Eyre watching Blanche Ingram getting it all wrong trying to woo Jane's beloved Rochester at the house party at Thornfield (Jane Eyre, 1847, Charlotte Bronte)- such great lines of prose- Again, I just couldn't help myself pilfering it for my own selfish devices!
A/N 3: I have loved those FF Chelsie shippers that have Elsie (or Dr Clarkson) falling into original (assumed) Gaelic tongue at the heights of passion. I have tried for it here. Apologies if I have mixed a multitude of different dialects together, I was just loading stuff into this Gaelic: English Translator and Dictionary- ( lexilogos- english/gaelic_scottish_ ) It is fun because some of the words have audio pronunciations you can listen too. The ones I have chosen also look the way I want them to on paper, even if I haven't heard how to pronounce them- look them up for meanings, or make up your own meanings and pronunciations- Like I do!
A/N 4: I have had some interesting research insights about people's knowledge of sexuality and sex acts in this era from DA FF-er, Edward Carson (thanks ).
So, would Charles have known about the act I describe in this chapter- and would Elsie? Well, obviously my assumption is that Charles has stumbled across Alice and Griggs at this one backstage when he worked the halls. I may elaborate later on his motivations for trying this with Elsie at all… not sure- it would have to come up somehow in a conversation between them- so a tricky one really. For Elsie, I think she would have found Charles' actions here quite a shock, but I believe she found it pleasant in the end! Plus, I think she is a woman who can take unknown things in her stride pretty easily and adapt to these new circumstances without shame. So- it could make for a lot more fun for both C and E in later chapters!
According to info from Edward Carson though, apparently, street corner/ underground knowledge of sex is all a lot of people in the Victorian and Edwardian ages would have received prior to entering the marriage bed- so you had to hang out in some potentially 'insalubrious' places. I think Charles has encountered a thing or three in his time, even if he did not partake. I also think that he would have had his share of pulling errant footmen and hall boys away from the young scullery and housemaids in his time- what with hormones running wild below stairs and so many darkened doorways and the like.
The church would also have had a huge influence on people's ideas about morality (SIN!) and the marriage bed- causing all sorts of reticence to speak and learn about such things, as we all know because of the Patmore/ Carson/Hughes triumvirate meetings on the matter. That said, there was quite a hot-bed of hidden pornographic material available in the Victorian era –( advent of photography, easier and cheaper printing processes, etc.)- and all seemingly in direct contrast to the levels of personal restriction that society and the church were imposing on people's behaviour in day-to-day lives.
So, I do think Charles knows a bit from his days in the bawdy music halls, and he may or may not have partaken of some 'gentlemen's services at times in London- but I tend to think that would be seen as pretty shameful by him and not indulged in very often.
And Elsie states that she - "May not be a woman of the world, but I haven't been living in a sack." That says to me, she probably has not had relations with a man before, or at best, only a couple of youthful knee-tremblers in a barn, or below stairs in a previous household. Either way, I believe she knows a hawk from a handsaw in this situation. My reasoning, as stated in my profile treatise on all things DA and Chelsie, is that she has seen and heard and walked in on enough people in the act over her years in service to understand what men and women get up to. She has helped Anna after the rape, and Ethel- (didn't she walk in in that one?- cannot remember now). Plus, she grew up on a farm, and I know from my own background, that you see animals at it all the time, get an idea about anatomy from a young age, and eventually, you shockingly realise that your own parents must have done something a bit like it all in order for you to exist at all- and then you stop thinking about such things! I reckon Elsie might have ended up present at the odd human birth in her time too, so has probably seen some female anatomy up close, even if she has never held a mirror up to herself- to speak quite literally. I think the mechanics of sex would be well understood by Elsie. But, as for the events of this chapter – she probably has never heard of such a thing being possible, let alone being a desired act for a man. So, it was lucky for her that Charles knew what he was about, hey?!
Anyway, that is just my take on it all… I hope the theory of the possibility of this happening at all rings true for other readers, for I do know that I have stretched the bounds of what level of self-imposed physical restraint is humanly possible in such circumstances!
Don't forget to tell me which way to go in the next chapter- a bit more self-imposed restraint for Charles (his brain may well explode I think!) – or Elsie breaks him down a bit quicker than that-( to her mutual benefit in the long run, in both cases, of course !). Please cast a bit of a vote.