I'm really enjoying writing this, I hope you're enjoying it as much. Please leave me a review if you have! This chapter has my favourite line of the story, "I am entirely yours." :-)
She was woken by the sunlight. Keen through the thin curtains, without a net it crept in early and sharply. Mumbling her annoyance she turned her back to it, finding herself pressed against his chest as she bumped into him. He murmured something, shifting beside her.
"Sorry," she whispered, her eyes still closed, unwilling to wake just yet.
He obviously felt the same; he threw his arm over her lifting the sheets up and around their faces to keep out the light.
Smiling she drifted back off, ignoring the early morning call as she'd wanted to for many, many years.
When she next woke it was to his searching hands. Wandering and testing, feeling. His mouth kissing her forehead, down her cheek, across her bare shoulder. She hummed her response, not quite awake, not wanting his attentions to end.
"So beautiful," he breathed against her skin, his voice still laden with sleep.
She moved with his body, lying back, welcoming him, her legs curled around his. She gasped as he moved inside her, his throaty moan causing her heart to tighten.
"Oh goodness," she drew in a tight breath, fully awake now, "I thought people only did this at night, in the dark."
He kissed his way back up to her mouth, a slow steady rhythm now as their bodies moved back and forth. "Perhaps I'm more modern than you think."
"Certainly more daring," she inhaled, shuddering, "Charles…"
"Sweetheart…"
"Remember this next time I miscount the wine."
He stared down at her, stilling slightly, "Down tease now."
She quirked an eyebrow, "Tease?"
He groaned as her body moved around his, "Elsie."
This time they were almost frantic, full of passion and early-morning energy. She felt free now, she could enjoy it all, they were alone, no homes nearby and she could call his name and moan her appreciation without fear of being heard.
He hummed whilst in the bathroom shaving.
Sang in the bedroom as he dressed.
And she enjoyed it as she found her way around the kitchen, made tea, drew back curtains and let morning it. Opened windows for the air.
He found her by the sink when he came down, washing the soot from his trousers. He moved behind her, sliding his hands down her bare arms and into the water, his fingers lacing with hers, together they rubbed and folded the clothing in the warm water. His kisses light upon her neck, she tilted her head back, eyes closed, the sensations delicious.
"Do you think we'll get anything done today?" She asked, twisting her face round to his, glancing at him over her shoulder, they kissed again – unending it seemed now – slowly, leisurely.
"You'll scold me for being lazy," she teased, feeling his fingers tighten in the water over hers.
"Never, you're never lazy."
She smiled knowingly.
"Perhaps I should work outside today or we really will get nothing done."
"I certainly won't rinse these if you don't let me go."
He pouted, "Oh but I don't want to." He kissed her again. "You're intoxicating."
"I'm so very glad." She pulled her head back before he could kiss her again, "But let me finish this, the eggs will be done and the tea stewed."
Chuckling he finally relented and moved back from her, drying his hands before pouring the tea.
"Shall I do anything?"
"I'm useless but I can manage boiled eggs and toast," she watched him sit as she buttered the bread and cut it for him; "Besides I rather like the fact I get to do this, humour me."
"Happy to."
They sat across from each other eating, ignoring the fact the clock struck ten and they were only just having breakfast – neither had ever felt so reckless.
"You look incredibly pretty this morning," he said as he watched her sip her tea, elbows on the table, staring out of their kitchen window.
"I'm sure," she replied, turning back to look at him, "with little sleep and my untidy hair. Though, I have to say Mr Carson," she stood up, reaching over the table to pat his head, "yours doesn't look much better."
"Come here."
"An order?" She tilted her chin up in mock defiance.
"A request."
She moved around the table to him, stood firm and straight as she did at Downton, "Would his lordship like some more toast?"
He pulled her into his lap, leaning her back as she giggled like a girl, young and carefree. Her legs swinging forward as he did so. He pulled her back up to him, "I want you."
"We'll never get anything done."
"We'll get this done." He kissed her deeply, branding her as his.
"So amorous," she giggled again. "But I need to rest. Or rather clean, which will be a half rest."
"Surely I haven't exhausted you."
"It isn't like you to talk this way."
"You've done something to me," he squeezed her bottom as he spoke.
"I will do something to you. Now, please, if you can, I'd like my parlour done by this evening so we can sit in there after dinner and read. I must go into the village, there's a chicken in that hamper that I intend to stuff and roast and we need vegetables to go with it. And until my husband gets started on his garden I'll have to rely on the store."
"I feel a list of requests already beginning."
"If we finish it in the next few days we can have a week off, do something, go places. Before we return to Downton."
"I don't want to share you."
She placed her hands on his face, kissing his forehead, "I am entirely yours. Now, the parlour, please."
"Yes Mrs Hughes."
It was after three before she took her walk to the village, though her parlour was pristine, fragrant with freshness, glistening with old dreams finally coming to fruition. She left him in the garden, battling with hard earth that hadn't been turned for several years.
She'd buy cake, cream cake perhaps, and spoil him.
She'd buy flowers too, she thought, and have them in the kitchen, parlour and bedroom. Bright and fresh, life indoors.
The village was fairly empty, it was hot after all, and she carried out her tasks with the minimum of fuss. She wouldn't admit it to anyone, she'd never been that kind of woman, but she longed to get back to him, to their home and what they were creating there. Burgeoning married life.
Her hat felt heavy upon her head as she reached their front path, her shoes tight. The garden was freshly dug and sectioned out into neat rows; clearly he'd decided where each and every item would go. Only now, at 4:12 in the afternoon, Charles Carson was asleep in a chair by the front of the cottage. She chuckled when she saw him, stretched out, those long strong legs awkward in the small chair. She'd have to have a new one made for him, perhaps a birthday gift, so he could truly relax when out of sight of the abbey.
Taking her wares indoors she removed her shoes and stockings before taking out his hat and resting it over his head, tipped down over his forehead to keep the sun from his skin. She cleared away his tools and left him to rest.
She would make him dinner, perhaps not as fine as Beryl could manage but she'd been around the cook long enough to have at least picked up a few things. She could roast a chicken. She could peel and roast potatoes. Carrots. Beans. Make some sort of sauce. And then there was a cream sponge for dessert, not of her own making but he wouldn't mind, chilling in the fridge alongside the last bottle of wine from their wedding hamper.
It could be fine.
Once happy all was progressing as it should she set the table, used a cloth, candles, the fine china she'd been collecting for years. She'd wondered on more than one occasion why she bothered with it but now it seemed to have a place.
She'd never been a weak woman. She'd never relied on a man to get her what she wanted – despite the world around her telling her that was exactly what she was meant to do. She had goals outside of that life, from the age of nine she can remember dreaming of escape, leaving the farm, her family even, in pursuit of something better. It might not have seemed much, but it was better. There was no doubt in her mind, when she'd gone into service at just sixteen, that one day she'd be Housekeeper of somewhere fine. Respected. Perhaps even revered. Though she'd softened over the years, now she was often mistaken for a mother figure – until someone stepped out of line.
She thought of finding Ethel in the upstairs room, naked and flushed. Not all men were like Charles. And young girls would always be young girls; she'd been there herself, easy to go down a certain path, easy to be led in by lust. But whatever it was in her that kept her focussed Ethel hadn't possessed. She did now though. Perhaps motherhood gave that to her. It took all kinds of folk to make the world go round.
She was humming a tune about sweethearts when she went out to the garden to wake him, shaking his shoulder at first and then kneeling in front of him, her hand on his knee tapping it lightly.
"Charles," she whispered, looking up to his restful face. "Charles…"
He grunted and she smiled.
"Darling, you might want to wash your hands before dinner, perhaps change into something a little cleaner."
"What time is it?" He asked without yet opening his eyes, his hand resting atop of hers on his knee.
"Almost seven, the sun's setting, I don't want you to be bitten to death. Come in."
He finally looked at her, taking the hat from his head. "Help me up?"
"That bad?" She rose, holding out her hands for him.
"My back, gardening is not forgiving."
She pulled him to his feet, staggering back a little at his height and weight, "Perhaps a soak in the tub might help, later."
"Perhaps. Ohh…." He rolled his spine back, rubbing at it as he followed her indoors. "Something smells good, chicken."
"Mmm, I cooked." She shot back over her shoulder, triumphant.
"I wish we had music," she said as they finished off their dinner. "Perhaps you could sing."
His eyebrows rose and he reached for the wine to refill their glasses, "Perhaps not."
"Your face is red, be careful in the sunshine."
"I'll plant tomorrow; in fact I wanted to water the earth again before bed. We can have flowers beneath the window, then the vegetables on the left side of the house, avoiding the full sunshine but just enough… what? You're laughing at me."
"No, I'm just marvelling at how domesticated we've become in such a short space of time."
He leant back in his chair, his long legs stretched out beneath the table, brushing against hers. She thought of all the times he'd accidentally nudged her ankles with his feet as they'd sat at the head of that long breakfast table, awkward as he tried to tuck his legs away beneath his chair. At least here he could relax.
"That was a fine meal Mrs. – Elsie."
She bit her bottom lip, "I rather like Mrs Hughes. I've grown so used to it. Though I must say," she stood up, collecting their dishes, "Mrs. Carson may just grow on me."
"I do hope so."
"Especially when we're back and Thomas is doing it on purpose to see if I'll respond, always provoking."
"It'll soon settle down, they'll be used to it within a month. Leave those. Sit with me, let's talk."
"I want to clean up so we can sit and talk. Why don't you go take your bath, we can eat dessert later."
"There's dessert? I'm stuffed."
"You did have two lots of chicken, but there's quite enough left for sandwiches tomorrow, we could take a walk to the river and have a picnic. In the summer, when you're away, I usually treat myself to an hour or so by the river reading in the sunshine."
"Sounds divine." He groaned again as he stood, "I'll water that garden before my bath."
"If you're sure, don't over exert yourself though." She was drying her hands on a cloth as she came towards him, "I like having you around."
"I like being around," he kissed her quickly, smiling, content, "won't be long."
She'd rinsed the dishes and cleared the table before he returned, so she took the lamp upstairs to the bathroom and set about filling the tub – thankful this was one of the few cottages that had gone through the renovations of the past two years. She added a few drops of the oil she reserved for herself, for special occasions, and let it bubble away.
"Elsie?" He called as he undressed in the bathroom; downstairs was locked up, lights extinguished.
"In the bedroom, won't be a second."
He was naked and climbing into the tub when she appeared, half embarrassed, half amused. "Oh, I'm sorry." She turned her back to him then realised she was being silly. Gathering herself she turned back watching as he sank beneath the water.
"Oh, that's heavenly, what's the fragrance, lavender?"
"Yes, I keep it for myself but I thought you might appreciate it."
"Very kind of you."
She busied herself folding his clothes, snatching occasional glances at his face tilted back in sweet repose. "Would you like a book or something, perhaps some tea?"
"This is perfect, only maybe…"
"Yes?"
"My shoulders ache." He shrugged, casting her a sneaky look.
"Charles Carson, I'm your wife not your nursemaid."
He pouted – she couldn't believe it, he actually pouted. And somehow she found herself stood behind him, her hands massaging the muscles in his shoulders and upper arms. "You do feel tense."
"Not tense, physical labour, I'm not cut out for it. Give me a silver service any day of the week."
"The style and flair hmm," she kissed the top of his head. "I'm happy to see you so relaxed, I wondered…"
"If I'd go running back after only a day away? To be honest I wondered that myself. But now we're here I couldn't feel more – more at home."
She rested her chin on his head, "That makes me happy too."
He'd thought over his next statement all the while he was watering the garden and he still wasn't sure how she'd respond. They'd come so far so quickly, especially in terms of intimacy, life was throwing up all kinds of new and wonderful delights. But still. She'd been raised right and she had a moral core he was so very proud of.
He took the plunge. So to speak.
"Why don't you get in?"
"In where?" She asked, her brain already forming his answer, her hands stilling on his shoulders, blood immediately pumping furiously to her face.
"In here." He said lowly, anxious as to her response, he couldn't see her expression; he was reliant on her voice.
"I'm not sure that's considered entirely proper."
There was a hint of amusement to her tone; he knew he was on safe ground. She'd always been the more daring anyhow.
"Nobody will know but us two. And I won't tell a soul."
"Neither will I." She said quickly.
"Well then…"
Last night he told her she was bold – at this moment she wondered who that statement applied to more.
She felt rather apprehensive as she removed her blouse, her skirt, her shift and corset (damn thing – she would treat herself to one of those new brassieres soon) and she did all of it behind him, folding each item neatly and lying them on top of his on the chair in the corner.
"Where will I go?" She asked, hands on hips, staring at her rather large husband filling their tub.
He glanced back over his shoulder at her and she shivered, not used to such attentions, but his eyes shone with a mixture of love and desire.
"Right here," he sat himself up more in the tub, making room for her in front of him.
Taking a steadying breath she moved to get in, gripping the side of the tub, "Don't watch," she warned, "If I slip I'm blaming you."
He hid his smile; her warnings clear indications of her nerves, but he held her arm nevertheless as she climbed in, his other hand moving to her hip to guide her down in front of her. She slid a little, tipping against his chest; he kissed her hip, her stomach…
"Charles…"
"You're beautiful."
"I'm too old and flabby for this kind of thing."
"Never."
Finally in the water she turned her back on him, settling between his legs she sat forward until his insistent hands drew her body flush against his and this time he rested his chin on her head. His knees were bent to accommodate and her feet sticking over the end of tub but they were in. And soon the warmth of the water lulled her to relax.
"You're surprising me," she said sometime later, the room heady and warm with candlelight and lavender.
"In what way?" His voice was heady too, languid.
"In many ways. This is just one at the top of a very long list."
He kissed her shoulder, her cheek, the back of her neck – repeatedly, adoringly – anywhere he could reach.
"Didn't you always suspect there was more to me, beneath the uniform– "
"And sharp words and regimented existence."
He nipped her shoulder with his teeth, "Isn't that why you didn't give up?"
She drew his arms around her, in front of her, folding their fingers together, watching the silky water slide over their entwined hands.
"Because I didn't know how to give up. Lord knows I tried at times. But you were like some damned splinter niggling away at my heart that just wouldn't cease."
"I hurt you…"
She swallowed, closed her eyes and rested her head back against him, feeling his lips on her head, her hair. She could admit it now, now that they were here. "Several times. Unintentionally and probably unknowingly most of the time. How were you to know I was so deeply in love with somebody so utterly uninterested?"
"Never uninterested. Never. Just blind. Just afraid. I have spent so many years of my life carving out what I think it should be, sticking religiously to that neat and tidy path that I almost missed the joy right there in front of me. It wasn't until…" he breathed deeply, recalling the moment, the sleepless nights, his own pain.
"Until we thought I had cancer."
"So many years wasted and it took that to jolt me to realise… Or rather to accept it. I'd known for years that my feelings for you were much more than respect for a job well done. More than friendship even. And the thought of not having you here, not being able to tell you how I felt or even try." He squeezed her, "I want a lifetime with you."
"We've had a lifetime, perhaps not always as it should have been but we've had it, I wouldn't change it. It's silly to regret when we have this now."
"Wonderful, wonderful this."
She smiled, sitting forward enough so she could twist her neck to look at him, her palm resting on his chest. "Yes, wonderful this, let's go to bed. That is if you can forgo the cream cake."
"Just this once perhaps."
She stood first, using his shoulders for support as she climbed out and then helped him. They shared a towel, kissing, stroking, adoring as they dried and tumbled to their bedroom, still in the darkness.
They made love slowly on top of the sheets, confident now in the other's trust. They took their time to please, finding what the other liked, discovering new ways to love and be loved.
He cradled her to him as the clock struck one, the sheets haphazardly pulled around their bodies, her back to his chest, she was half asleep, he was wide-awake. Delighted by this new and precious gift.
"Have you read Shakespeare?" He whispered by her ear.
"Mmm, some." She longed for sleep.
"I'm reminded of Juliet, she tells him her love is boundless, the more she gives the more she has to give. I'm not sure I fully understood that until now."
As she drifts into sleep she hears those words and can't help but marvel at how she's managed to take Carson the Butler and turn him into Charles the husband. Sentimental and all.