A Question of Conscience
Only one more week to their wedding lay before Elsie and Charles. They were both settling into their new roles while staff and family supported them every step of the way.
Lady Grantham was planning a small, quaint wedding reception back at the Abbey with the help of a suddenly very tame Mrs Patmore. The fiery cook didn't bat an eyelash at whatever changes Lady Grantham or her daughters came up with. The only thing she demanded to have complete freedom over was the wedding cake. She and Daisy had poured over her recipe books and had finally come up with the perfect cake. Whenever staff or family asked her after it, she turned very mysterious and told them that it would be a surprise, winking mischievously.
In the meantime Anna and Ms O'Brien had slaved every evening to sow Mrs Hughes a most beautiful dress. Both ladies-maids had formed a truce and even a tentative friendship, trying to get past their initial scheming and betrayals. Anna could understand Sarah better after the conversation in Mrs Hughes' bedroom, and tried to silently convey her respect to the older woman. For once Sarah understood her gesture, realising it was a peace offering instead of pity. All the maids were surprised to see Ms O'Brien observing the housekeeper throughout the day and intervening whenever she felt Mrs Hughes could use a break. Each evening she would prepare hot milk with honey and a few biscuits and bring it to the housekeeper's parlour, always careful to not be seen by the recipient of her kindness. Each morning she would open her door to Daisy and both women would knock on Mrs Hughes' bedroom door, holding their breaths to hear if the older woman was sick or would wake up refreshed and well. If she was sick, Sarah would collect
Mrs Patmore and Ms O'Brien had noticed that Mrs Hughes relaxed her brave front only in front of them, admitting to feeling weak or scared. For her young maids she still wanted to be a figure of authority and respect, a mother figure. The young girls were all aflutter because of Mrs Hughes' pregnancy. They were sewing little clothes and knitting woollen caps and socks, talking none stop about their experiences with younger siblings, if they had any, and planning games and outings with their newest addition.
The footmen on the other hand busied themselves with preparing the suite of rooms Lord and Lady Grantham had granted their butler and housekeeper after their wedding. William blushed furiously when they put up their marriage bed, trying unsuccessfully not to think too much about that side of their impending marriage. Thomas had sneered and made a disgusted face, not so much because the thought was distasteful to him, but more because he wanted to uphold his image. He had had words with some of the local lads about the unseemly hasty wedding date and their insinuations as for why. No one was allowed to blemish Mrs Hughes' reputation within his earshot.
Slowly the fear, anger and pain ebbed away, allowing the servants to rejoice in the coming nuptials of their superiors and plan for a happier future. They could look forward once more.
oOoOoOo
Violet Crawley couldn't believe Mr Trevis. The man was even more stuck in his old-fashioned ways than she was. He was harping on about deception, insurmountable differences. Staring at him with hard eyes, the Dowager Countess stamped her cane and demanded an explanation. Beside her Mrs Crawley held her breath, amused beyond all measure to see the pompous, self-righteous man crumble before a withered old woman. In her own experience Mr Trevis regarded anything that strayed from normalcy and religious cadre with suspicion, but she couldn't see what could be suspicious about a wedding.
"Mrs Hughes is a Catholic," he spoke hesitantly, not able to meet the women's eyes. His shoulders were tense and his whole demeanour fairly screamed confrontation.
Mrs Crawley observed with glee the narrowed eyes on the Dowager's face and how her knuckles turned white as she gripped her cane tighter. It would be highly entertaining to see her brain the old coddler. Refusing to perform a wedding ceremony simply because the bride was catholic … unbelievable!
"I doubt that this poses an 'insurmountable' difference, Mr Trevis," the Dowager disagreed firmly, voice dripping icy disdain. "Mrs Hughes attends Service every Sunday, has since she came to Downton. You have never found fault with this before and sent her to the nearest Catholic Church in Ripon alone. Far from it, you welcomed her into our congregation instead. She is a good Christian woman and that is that." The case was clearly closed – at least according to Lady Violet.
Trevis, though, obviously had an ace up his sleeve. "What about the child? Will it be baptized into our church or will its mother's believes influence its up-bringing?" They were phrased as questions, but sounded more like challenges. The word 'child' was spat as if it left a vile taste in his mouth. Apparently they were reaching the crux of the problem.
Mrs Crawley answered this time, her words coming slowly as if explaining the obvious to a very stupid man. "As Her Ladyship has already mentioned, Mrs Hughes is a God-fearing Christian who may have been baptized a Catholic but practises the Protestant way of worship. I doubt she will change that once she's married," she spoke calmly, not letting herself be drawn into the cross fire between those to headstrong, stubborn people. If Violet Crawley was involved, running for cover or at least staying out of her way was very sound advice indeed. Sure enough, the old lady had something to add.
"A marriage is a binding contract. Not only does it bind two people together in holy matrimony, but both parties are bound to this sanctimonious contract," she said haughtily, "and that surely isn't that different for Catholics." Isobel could see a muscle in Violet's cheek twitch and decided to chime in as well.
"Besides the child's father will have an influence as well and Mr Carson is a creditable asset to this parish. He and Mrs Hughes both help out at Church bazaars and celebrations. He was baptized in this parish and is respected by the congregation."
"Exactly," Mr Trevis exclaimed, red flags appearing in his cheeks. "That's why I'm looking out for him … even if his employer doesn't."
Both women stared at him, speech- and clueless. They turned to each other for an explanation, but only met the blank stare of the other. When they turned back towards Mr Trevis it was once again Mrs Crawley, who spoke up. "I don't understand," she muttered. "Looking out? What for?"
The reverend jumped out of his seat. With agitated strides he rounded the table and stood in front of the window, staring out of it. He found it impossible to look either woman in the eyes. His voice was clipped and short, but quiet as he spoke. "I heard rumours. They say that the child isn't his. That he was forced to marry." A gasp behind him made him whirl around, righteous anger in every line of his body. "It won't be a real marriage. This is deception and I won't lend my hand to that!"
"Deception?" The Dowager was seldom lost for words, but right then and there she was utterly speechless.
"Why does an honourable man like him have to suffer humiliation and degradation in the eyes of his peers for a fallen woman's sake?" Mr Trevis snarled. "If the woman got herself into trouble, it's hardly his fault. She couldn't keep her legs closed and …"
"I would think extremely carefully about what your next words will be, Mr Trevis," Violet Crawley said calmly, eyes deadly cold. Slowly she got to her feet, back straight, every inch of her the grand lady that she was. She would do battle to defend Mrs Hughes' honour if she had to. "Mrs Hughes is a fine, upstanding woman and you will do well to remember that."
Isobel got to her feet as well. She was all angry fire, opposed to Violet's calm ice. Her voice shook with emotions and barely concealed rage when she hissed, "How dare you?! How dare you insult Mrs Hughes like that? Mr Carson has asked Mrs Hughes to marry him despite her pregnancy. He's the most honourable man I have the privilege of knowing. When Mrs Hughes was brought home that terrible night when she was hurt …" She couldn't go on, the old fear and pain closing of her throat, making it impossible to speak. Taking a deep breath, she closed her eyes and tried again to explain, "He was beside himself. There is no person on earth he loves more and he would do anything to protect her … even marry her despite the 'humiliation and degradation' she has gone through." Her hands were curled into tight fists while her eyes blazed once she opened them again.
If looks could kill, Mr Trevis would have met his maker that day. He swallowed convulsively. What Mrs Crawley had not said spoke volumes. How wrong he had been. He had overheard a whispered conversation between two village men … now that he thought about it he remembered that one of them had been Mr Carson's oldest friend … and had obviously jumped to the wrong conclusions.
"I-I didn't … know." It wasn't enough to be called an apology, but it was now his turn to be dumb-struck. His cheeks stained red, hotter than before, in shame. He should have known better. Mrs Hughes was an upstanding, moral woman, who believed in the teachings of the Bible. She would never have allowed a man to touch her in that way out of wedlock. "Of course I'll perform the wedding."
Lady Violet's head nodded jerkily, eyes still cold and murderous. She would never forget his error in judgement, of that he was sure. With deliberately slow movements she sat down again. "Good," she pressed out through clenched teeth, "then we can talk about my son giving Mrs Hughes away …"
oOoOoOo
Four days before the wedding Elsie was waiting for Charles to come to her parlour. Ever since her instalment as housekeeper it had been their ritual to meet in the evenings to discuss the house and the staff, sharing little insights, helping each other with their ledgers or simply enjoying a peaceful, quiet cup of tea or glass of sherry. Ever since they had found out that she was pregnant and then had gotten engaged their meetings had taken on a much more intimate note. They would sit close to each other on her settee, her head leaning on his chest and his arms wrapped around her. It had become the embodiment of comfort and safety.
Tonight, though, Elsie felt anything but comfortable. She stood slightly bent over next to her desk. Breathing deeply was harder than normal, her corset digging into her flesh more than she was used to. First her breasts had been chafed sore by the constant pressure, and now she couldn't take a deep breath if her live depended on it. Her torso felt like it was in a vice-like grip – a normal feeling in a corset, one might think, but not after all those decades she had been wearing it. Ordinarily it fit her snugly, supporting her torso, hiding the few extra pounds she had gained since her youth, acting as a sort of armour against the everyday perils of life. Now, however her lungs felt on fire, aching and suffocating. If only it were evening already so she could get upstairs and rid herself of the offending garment. She felt her ribs being painfully squeezed together.
She was so wrapped up in her own thoughts and the pain in her body that she didn't notice the door to her parlour open. In her agitated state, close to hyperventilation, she nearly jumped out of her skin when she felt hands gently gripping her shoulders and pulling her upright again. A faint gasp issued from her tormented lungs and her hands both came up to cover her stomach as the corset dug deeper into her due to the laces in the back tightening further when she spun around.
Charles' furrowed brows were the first thing she noticed as her head came up sharply. He, on the other hand, instantly observed her unusual pallor and her shallow, quick breathing. For a horrible moment he thought that she was once again trapped in a nightmare from that terrible night, but then she let herself fall forward into his arms, mumbling something incomprehensible into his chest.
"What is it, love?" he asked, somewhat apprehensive of her answer.
More mumbling was his only answer, but this time it was slightly louder and he could make out the words "… corset … too tight … bairn …" It took him a moment longer to fully grasp what he had heard and connect the dots in his mind. When he did, he blushed fiercely and took a step back in shock by the images his mind concocted almost immediately.
Elsie groaned in pain as she was jostled by Charles' sudden movements, causing him to regret his instinctive reaction. He vaguely remembered Lady Cora's pregnancies and her, by Crawley standards, unusual behaviour during that time. Being a progressive American, she had stopped wearing a corset unless it was required for a social engagement, had cut down drastically on her consummation of coffee and alcohol. Maybe Lady Grantham had the right of it; she certainly knew more about pregnancy than he would ever comprehend. If the Lady of the house followed those rules then he should make sure his own lady would adhere to them as well. This moment felt like a test of his makings as a husband; seeing to his future wife's comfort.
"Here let me help you. Please don't be alarmed, I'm only trying to make you more comfortable," he said softly before, without further hesitation, Charles held her away from himself for a moment and then his fingers deftly unbuttoned the first button of the row, almost right under Elsie's chin. He slowly, reverently worked his way down until he saw the top of Elsie's shift, modestly covering the tops of her breasts. It was then that he noticed Elsie had gone completely still, barely breathing. Looking up he met her wide-eyed gaze and saw that she had the corner of her lovely lower lip between her teeth, betraying her nervousness.
"Lady Grantham always detested her corset and, I suspect, she always saw her pregnancies as an excuse to get rid of it," he didn't even stammer despite his hands still on her chest and his mouth suddenly paper-dry. "I-I just wanted to help you get more comfortable."
Elsie surprised him then, and it cost him nothing to say it. She closed her lovely blue eyes, took his hand in hers and silently laid it back on her chest.
"I trust you," she admitted quietly. For a moment her chest heaved underneath his hand, expanding to the maximum she could manage still encased in her corset, breathing deeply then relaxing into his touch.
The trust she displayed warmed Charles' heart. Carefully he resumed his task and finished to unbutton Elsie's dress. During his time on the stage Charles had gained a certain knowledge about women's clothing, but now he was confronted with the very prosaic corset of his fiancée … and he had no idea how to proceed further. There were no bows in the front, but instead a row of tiny hooks and eyeholes. He must have looked quite bewildered because Elsie chuckled softly, her eyes twinkling merrily up at him. Her cheeks were tinted pink and her lip was swollen from her relentless worrying of it, but she was even more relaxed now.
Elsie could barely contain her merriment. For a moment Charles had looked flummoxed by her corset and how to extricate her from it. Her worldly man had faltered, giving her the hope that he mightn't be too experienced to be disappointed in her. She had worried about not living up to his expectations ever since she had talked about marriage with Glenna. At night she hadn't been able to control her wayward dreams of a physical relationship with Charles, hazily picturing them locked in a passionate embrace. Her only experience so far had been an unnecessarily painful one, having been taught that the first time always hurt, and she understood now thanks to her sister that being with a man could be pleasurable, could far exceed her wildest dreams of desire and passion. Charles had held back when they had cuddled on her settee, she had noticed that, had silently been grateful for it, not ready for more herself. His kisses and light caresses had awakened something in her, though, and tonight she was curious. She sensed that he only wanted to make her more comfortable, had no hidden agenda other than her well-being, but she wondered if he held back because he didn't want to pressure her or because he thought her sullied. Her instincts told her that in all likelihood she would have to make the first step … especially if she wanted her question answered.
Feeling his hands on her waist, lightly tracing the rows of tiny buttons there, she took a deep breath and closed her eyes, revelling in his closeness. Slowly she slid her arms from the sleeves of her dress, letting it crumble around her waist, prevented from sliding further by the cut of it, and then turned around so her back was to him. His hands were sliding over the satiny fabric of her dress as he refused to let go of her entirely but loosening his grip enough to allow her movements. This new sensation added to her nerves. Breathlessly she spoke over her shoulder, "If you could loosen the laces, I wouldn't feel so constricted …" as she felt his hands trace up her spine, her voice trailed off and her knees grew weak.
Charles had to swallow the sudden lump in his throat. The trust his fiancée displayed astounded him. He knew too many men who would take advantage of such a situation, one of those dishonourable scoundrels had hurt this precious woman after all, but he would never give her reason to doubt him. With trembling fingers he traced the criss-cross line up her spine, feeling the dip of the small of her back. Her shoulders looked small, the skin almost alabaster white and delicate. He smiled tenderly as he noticed faint freckles dotting her shoulders and disappearing under her corset. From this new vantage point her corset looked more like the ones he knew from showgirls. There was a precisely made bow at the centre of her back. He reverently undid it, hearing Elsie sigh in relief as the pressure on her body let up. Frowning in consternation, he noted the red marks the tight lace had left behind. Pushing a finger into the small gap between the two flaps of her corset and under the lace, Charles began to loosen them, working his way from the middle first down and then up. Elsie's body relaxed and her breaths came more easily now. His own breath fell in line with hers. When he was done he dropped a light kiss to her shoulder before turning her back to face him.
She was still modestly covered, but Charles knew that her reputation hang by a thread. He would have to say goodnight and send her up to her own bed before they would both do something irrevocable.
His right hand came to rest lightly on her scantily clad stomach, feeling the growing bulge of their child more acutely than ever before. He put his free hand around the back of her neck, warming it, and her. "I wish you a good night, my lass. Dream of me and of our future together." He leaned his head down and slowly closed the distance between them, giving her the opportunity to stop him if she wanted to. Charles closed his eyes a fraction of a second after their lips finally connected.
He wrapped her up in his arms. She had one arm about his waist and one about his shoulders and hung on to him, not at all steady on her own two feet. He fit his lips to hers and went very quiet and gentle, breathing her breath, settling his hold on her until they matched, twined together like vines. His kiss was tentative, gentile, a testing of the waters, but also full of passion for her.
Elsie felt a dam burst inside her the very moment their mouths came together. Oh, she nearly came undone by the soft feeling of his lips on hers. All the hurt, sorrow and passion of every kind came crashing to surface and into the kiss, which she dominated after the initial shock. Her mouth opened against his, her tongue demanded entrance in her urgency to be close to him. Her hands were wadding up the material of his livery jacket, drawing him down and closer to her.
Charles' arms tightened around her, pulling her even closer to him, but he tried to gentle her. He kissed her sweetly then, his tongue sliding gently into her mouth as she wrapped her hands around the back of his head, feeling his slicked-back hair against her fingers. His tongue caressed hers softly, stroking along her tongue and teasingly flicking against it every now and then. As Charles bent his head to kiss the side of her neck, Elsie gasped and dug her nails into the back of his livery.
Charles' hands began to roam her back. When his fingers came into contact with her bare back, he was quickly reminded of how little she was actually wearing. He moaned into her mouth as he squeezed her shoulders.
The touch of her fiancé's hands stoked the fire that was already raging out of control within her. Still firmly clutching his lapels, she quickly succumbed to her desire to feel him. She was allowing herself to be swept away on the tidal waves of desire his caresses created in her. How very different it was to be touched out of love from the man you love.
Before she could do more than tug helplessly on his jacket, Charles gently pushed her away from him, eyes grave but full of love and his own desire. He wouldn't shame her, would never do something she could regret in the morning. As it was he could hardly control himself and he was very much afraid that she could feel the effect she had on him. Her eyes slowly clearing from their impassioned haze and then darting down for a brief moment before being cast to the side were answer enough for him.
Elsie could feel his erection against her stomach, even through the many layers of her corset and bunched up dress around her waist. With shocking clarity she realized that he couldn't possibly think her soiled, unworthy of him. How could an honourable man like him be attracted to her if he thought her spoilt and dirty? There was no doubt in her that he wanted her. A thrill ran through her body and she shuddered with it.
Charles misinterpreted her shudder and made to disentangle him from her. His eyes were cast down, unable to look into her eyes and see his condemnation in them. "I don't want to scare you?" he whispered, frightened to have destroyed her regard for him.
"You could never frighten me, Charles," she assured him quietly, cupping his cheek and gently tipping his face so she could look into his eyes. She licked her lips nervously, gathering her courage to whisper, "I want to be a proper wife to you."
Smiling tentatively now, Charles cupped her hand against his cheek, stroking her fingers with his. "You will be," he said with conviction, "once we are married and you're ready. I only want you if you are sure." His conscience wouldn't allow anything else. He would never stoop so low as to force himself on a woman, least of all his darling Elsie. The law might be on his side in demanding she perform her wifely duties, but he would never be able to look into a mirror knowing that he had hurt her, had taken something so precious from her without her consent.
Elsie's shy smile eased his mind further. Once again she leaned into his chest, laying her cheek against his thumping heart. Her voice was steady as she made her confession to him. "I am sure," she susurrated, "Only ever with you."
They both drank in the calm reassurance of the other for long moments after their declarations. Neither could wait for their wedding night. Tonight, though, saw them eventually separate and go up to lonely beds, their minds on each other nevertheless.