The love affair continues... As always please leave me a review if you feel so inclined.
She awakes the next morning alone in the bed and it strikes her as odd that after only three days she has already grown entirely accustomed to waking to him by her side – spooned against her, wrapped around her.
She stretches, the novelty of a double bed – the luxury of it – her arms above her head, her feet digging into the firm mattress. The sun is on her face and she's happy. She wonders if she's ever really known it before. How it's taken for granted, to just be happy.
With no pressing matter drawing she slowly rises, draws back the curtains and opens the windows, summer air, and stands before it in just her robe feeling it tickle the bare skin beneath.
Downstairs Charles is sitting at the kitchen table reading a newspaper, bolt upright (the man never slouches) with that gentlemanly air he carries so well. She slides her hands over his arms and across his chest, resting on his shoulder and kissing his cheek.
"Good morning," he says surprised, twisting his head to kiss her arm.
"Good morning, you let me sleep in late. Very late."
"I hadn't the heart to wake you, you looked so at peace."
"Completely. What time did you get up?"
"Just after six." He admitted folding the paper.
"Charles," she admonished tapping his chest.
"Can't quite break the habit, besides that would be a late morning at Downton."
"True, but we need to take this time to rest and enjoy."
He reached to squeeze her hands, "Oh believe me, I am enjoying. Besides I got plenty done."
She noted his dirty boots propped by the open kitchen door, "Sowed your seeds have you famer Carson."
"I have, and quite pleased with myself with it too. Would you like some tea?"
"Of course."
"I'll make a fresh pot."
She reluctantly let go of him and slipped into the chair he vacated. "I'll inspect your handy work later."
"I forget sometimes, you'll be better at all this than me with your childhood."
"That was a long, long time ago."
"It would all come flooding back."
"I suppose so," she pulled a corner off the remains of the toast left on his plate and chomped on it.
"Would you like some?"
"No I'm fine, I want to make sandwiches anyhow and we haven't got much bread left."
"I can go into the village."
"I could bake." She smiled, tilting her head as she watched him warm the pot and add the leaves. "Let's take the day off and go to the river."
"It's going to be hot."
"It's shaded there, or I know a spot that is. We can read and picnic."
He poured the tea and sat down across from her, "Then that's what we'll do."
"Did you walk to the village this morning?"
"Yes, for the paper, it was early, hardly a soul about."
"You didn't take a turn by the house?" She asked, needling.
"No," he said slowly, holding her gaze, "I can keep away."
She raised her eyebrows, "Which I am quite surprised about. Are you missing London?"
"Not in the slightest, especially not when I'm walking home thinking of my beautiful, naked wife asleep in our bed."
"Charles!"
"You asked. Now, I'll just clean my boots then change."
"I should leave your gardening clothes on, you might get wet."
"I intended to read by the river, not crawl in it."
"Well," she shrugged, "you never know."
"With you one never knows," he finished his tea and got up. "You seem to draw me into the most remarkable little adventures.
"Do I indeed."
"Yes, indeed." He leant over and kissed her. "Good morning Mrs Carson."
"Good morning Mr Carson."
Charles swung the picnic basket in one hand; Elsie's arm was tucked around his other arm and he strode proudly through the village, now full of life. He nodded and tipped his hat at passing acquaintances. This was the first time they'd been out publically together since they'd wed and he felt glorious.
He almost tripped when she stopped suddenly though and pulled back on his arm before letting go of him to hug some woman he couldn't recall seeing before. He supposed he must have, at some point, but he wasn't entirely sure of her name or from where she came. He smiled politely and waited for Elsie to finish her conversation before she retook his arm and they set off again.
"That was Emma, remember, the flower shop, her husband runs it."
"Vaguely. I don't often have the need for flowers."
"Well now you do." She said confidently, a wide smile on her face as she said hello to another passing lady.
She looked different these days, brighter, he thought as he watched her. And her lips were shining as if she was wearing something, some kind of gloss, it looked nice, though he wasn't at all used to it and in his humble opinion it wasn't necessary. Still. She was happy.
"I'm rather enjoying this," she whispered next to him. "It makes quite a difference not to be seen as just The Housekeeper, the spinster."
"What a horrid way to refer to yourself."
"I was."
"You weren't. Spinsters are ancient, witch-like ladies that have cats and curse."
"Goodness Charles, I'm hardly a spring chicken."
"We're as old as we feel, which means at the moment I'm around twenty-four."
She chuckled as they headed past the side of the church, each remembering the vows they'd taken in hushed tones with shaking hands only a few days before.
"Hard to believe it's not even been a week." He said thoughtfully. "And already so much has changed."
"In what way?" She asked gently, her hand slipping from his arm to come down and hold his. "Despite the obvious."
He shook his head at her. "I was going to be serious."
"You can be… please…" she squeezed his fingers.
"My centre has shifted; I'm not ashamed to admit it was Downton, the family, now it's you. And will always be you."
"Thank you for that." She said sincerely.
He cast a glance at her as they reached the first stile. "You doubted?"
She bit down on her bottom lip, "I would say I wondered."
Placing the basket down on the other side of the fence he hauled himself over and then waited to help as she climbed.
"Damned skirts are an inconvenience," she said leaning heavily against him. "Lady Sybil was onto something."
"I would never wish to see a woman in trousers."
"You do surprise me, oh!" She gasped as she fell off the bottom step falling ungracefully against him.
"Thank you."
"You're welcome," he gripped her hand again; "You'd better lead the way."
"Shall we take the longer route, have a real walk?"
"Why not."
The clock was just striking midday as she led him around the field and towards the widest part of the river. They walked for nearly half-an-hour before seeing anybody else and then there were children splashing in the water. Shrieking and laughing as they raced about.
"Do you remember doing that?" She asked smiling fondly at them.
"Not really."
"Charles, you can't have always been standing to attention waiting to serve."
"There's something entirely wrong about the way you say that."
She blushed, "I didn't mean that. I mean you must have had friends, had fun." She paused on the small bridge they were crossing, leaning against the rail to watch the children play.
"I'm interested in what you were like," he said standing behind her, his hands on her hips, the basket hanging around his arm. "Muddy and reckless."
"Yes," she said, "in gumboots with wild hair, we'd disappear for an entire day – morning til night – exploring."
"With your sister?"
"Yes, and children from other farms. Do you remember feeling like that?" She indicated the playing children. "So free, no cares, happiness relied on nothing more than sunshine and a free river."
"I was rather partial to candied apples."
She giggled, turning in his arms, "You do surprise me." She straightened the collar on his shirt, "What else did young Charlie Carson like? Were you Charlie then?"
"At times." He nudged her nose with his, "I liked thunderstorms, and music, and reading. I used to act out plays too, on my own of course."
"Really?"
"Yes, don't reveal that to anybody."
"Never."
"And cricket, I enjoyed playing cricket on the green with the other boys."
"Knobbly knees."
"I could run as fast as a greyhound."
She laughed, "I'm sure, who would have thought – way back then – that we would end up here together."
"Whatever fates intervened to bring Elsie Hughes to Yorkshire I shall ever be grateful to."
"Maybe fate wasn't involved; maybe it was just a stubborn, smart Scottish lass that got herself to Yorkshire."
He couldn't help but smile and kiss her soundly at that. It was rather amusing that for somebody like him, always behind the times and clinging by the fingernails to the past, that he would find such love and fulfilment with somebody dragging him into the future. A new world where women had as much say as men. She was certainly proof it could be done. He'd met no man wiser, more intelligent, more focussed or hardworking. Over the years he'd often thought her his equal, now he wondered if she were not just that little step ahead of him.
She tugged on his hand, "Enough daydreaming. I'm hungry. Let's go find my spot."
She led him through the woods, where the river thinned and trickled before opening out again. Past where a small gush fell over a tiny fall, jagged rocks that had smoothed with age, and to the side where it calmed and appeared to still. Moving as slow as each second on a lazy summer afternoon.
He spread out the blanket, his shoes on two of the corners to hold it down. She rejoiced in the fact he'd removed shoes and socks without no prodding from her, and enjoyed watching him flex his toes in the lush grass. She sat in the centre of the blanket, removing her own shoes and placing them on the other two corners.
"Are you quite sure we're alone?" She asked glancing up as he began to empty the basket.
He looked around, "It would seem so."
"Good," she pushed her skirt high up her legs towards her thighs.
"Elsie! What are you doing?" He asked astonished.
"Nothing," she reached up under her skirt unclipping her stockings. "Socks are much easier to dispose of," she said as she rolled them down her legs. "And a lady mustn't leave the house without them, even, it seems, when it's hot enough to fry eggs outdoors."
There were times he couldn't help but marvel at her fiery, no-nonsense nature.
She let her skirt fall back down, "Charles," she smiled at his glazed expression as he stood poised in front of her with brown paper packages in hand. "Are you going to sit down so we can eat those?"
He shook his head, finally sitting beside her on the blanket. She rolled her stockings and popped them inside her shoes.
"You continue to astonish."
"I should hope so, even after all these years, or life would become very dull indeed." She spread out the sandwiches, opened a tub of salad and another of fruit cake (her wedding cake) and he popped the top off a bottle of lemonade they'd purchased in the village on the way through.
Stretching their legs out they ate in companionable silence, watching the river ebb and flow and the play of the sunshine along it.
"You came here alone?" he asked some time later as they lay back on the ground, his jacket rolled up beneath his head, her head resting on his stomach, her body twisted diagonally from his.
"Quite often," she said, eyes closed, face tilted towards the filters of sun sneaking in through gaps in the trees.
"I'm quite jealous, finding this spot."
"It's rather lovely isn't it?"
"Very, but I'm not sure I approve of you being so far from home on your own."
"You make me out a child."
"Not that, just… I'd want to be sure you were safe."
"Mmm," she reached for her book. "I've survived all these years."
He squeezed her shoulder, "stubborn woman."
She read as he dozed, until the oppressive heat of the day shifted over leaving a pleasant warmth in its place. When her eyes were heavy she marked her page and put her book aside, rising from the cushion her husband provided and stretching her body. Her shoulders ached from the position and her legs felt sticky with the August heat.
"Charles," she whispered looking down at him.
"I'm awake."
"I'm going for a paddle. Are you coming?"
"Not just yet."
He couldn't resist opening his eyes though, shifting the blanket beneath the tree so he could lean against the trunk and watch her. Her skirt lifted to just below her knees she found the spot where the bank was low and tentatively dipped a toe in before she fully stepped into the water, over the muddy edge, taking her time to balance on the pebbles beneath. In the centre the ground was more level, sand-like, and she stood there, her back to him, enjoying the feel of the cool water tenderly lapping her skin.
"I used to fish for tadpoles in the river," he said. "Marvelling when my father explained how they'd turn to frogs."
She turned to face him at his words, "That's a sweet image."
"As is this one," he indicated her current position.
"Come join me, just for a minute or so. It feels good."
"I'm sure." He smirked but nevertheless he inched his trousers up past his ankles.
"To your knees at least Charles," she smiled watching him.
He did as she requested and climbed down the bank to join her.
"Your hair's coming loose," he said reaching forward to touch where the curls hung down from her tightly coiled bun. Dark, auburn, gold in the sunlight.
"It's sleeping on the grass. Let's paddle a little way."
He watched as she stepped away from him, delicately finding her way as she scanned the water for riches – childish tadpoles, pebbles that shone like diamonds.
"It's so clear here," she commented as he followed not too far behind.
He marvelled at the way she carried her skirt, how it accentuated her hips, the slender waist, how her breasts curved in that blouse as she leant forward to look into the water.
She jolted backwards when an unseen frog lurched up from a rock and onto the grass, toppling sideways, he reached for her arms. "Goodness," she laughed, "that made me jump. Did you catch frogs too?"
"I didn't like it when boys did." He admitted, holding her elbows as she continued to scan the floor.
"That's because you're a sweetheart."
"Am I?"
"You can be."
Again she left his hold, moving out in front of him, lifting her skirt higher as the water deepened. Not too far, he thought, be careful. "I'm so absolutely in love with you." Is what he said instead and she stopped and turned her body back to face him
"I'm beginning to realise that." She admitted, her face soft and flushed with the sunshine.
He thought how soft she looked these days, he couldn't think of a better way to describe it other than 'soft', each and every day they moved farther away from their roles and deeper into this wondrous new adventure.
He stopped, waiting for her to come back to him. "Not too much further Elsie," he said lowly.
"Spoilsport, where's your sense of adventure?"
"The currents getting stronger."
As he spoke the words she stumbled again, losing her footing, her balance, and tipping forward. In two strides he was behind her as she fell forward and against his chest. Laughing hysterically as he caught her waist and a fistful of her skirt.
"Don't do that," but then he saw her smiling face, her giggles as she tried to straighten up but simply kept slipping against him, wobbling, and he laughed too. "You're incorrigible."
"Hmm, I know. Kiss me Mr Carson, or do you need some encouragement for that?"
"Hardly."
He held her flush against him, his strong arms steadying her as they kissed deeply.
"I can't remember a time when we didn't have this," he said huskily. "I can't imagine not having it now."
"Don't go accosting me in the pantry though." She teased, nudging his chin with hers and lightly kissing the corner of his mouth.
His hands slid down to cup her bottom, holding her ever tighter against him as he kissed her again.
"Charles," she murmured.
"Mmm?" The word 'senseless' kept coming to mind as he found her tongue with his own.
"My skirt's getting wet."
He momentarily glanced down to where his grip had slipped before quickly snatching it back up. "Sorry."
But she was laughing again and moving away from him towards the bank.
"Where now?" He asked, bereft at the loss of her touch.
"Home, I rather think we want to be alone." She cast him a sly look, "Unless you want to stay here."
He'd never moved so fast.
The walk back was pleasantly painful. The more he thought of her damp skirt, the fact she'd stuffed her stockings in the basket and was now bare-legged, the feel of her body, that warm weight pressed against him. The slickness of her thighs last night in the bath. Things were getting rather uncomfortable.
"Can we skirt the village?" He asked.
She didn't reply but altered her route slightly; they'd stay in the woods longer, come out near the brook and jump over then take the back route towards Downton and their cottage. They didn't hold hands this time; he feared if he touched her he'd take her right there and then on the ground. He wondered when he'd become so unabashed. So full of yearning and desire, presently it seemed there was nothing more he hankered for than her.
She reached their door before him, took the key from her purse and let herself in. He followed seconds after and shut it behind him. She was slipping off her shoes. He did the same. Dropped the basket, removed his jacket. Then she was in front of him, her graceful fingers working on the buttons on his shirt. It was mid-afternoon and he'd never felt so aroused.
He too reached for her blouse, tugging it free from her skirt, working on the silky buttons until he could see enough of her cleavage and then he couldn't help but press his face against her, kissing and licking the sweetly-soft skin there. She smelt of the outdoors and it only heightened the sensations already tearing him in half.
Somehow she managed to push his shirt off, then reached for the fastenings of his trousers, he was groaning against her, pushing her back against the wall. He found her mouth and for a moment they were breathless, tasting, rough, smooth, soft as they nipped the others' lips.
She thought of shifting from his embrace, heading upstairs to their bed, closing the curtains (in the middle of the day!) But he was too close and she couldn't move, didn't want to. She found her hand trapped between them, inside of his trousers, the metal of his belt sharp against her wrist, the insistent burning hardness struggling against the confines of the material. She'd done this to him – the thought both excited and confused her.
Impatient, more so than she'd ever seen him, he shrugged his trousers off himself, tugged on her skirt until it was loose and pooling at her ankles. He was sliding open the laces on her corset, his fingers stumbling and pushing awkwardly at the fine material.
And somehow, somehow, the thing she'd seen and felt but never touched was in her hand and he was gasping. For a second she stood unsure. How did this work? Would she hurt him? Could she do this? Was it right and proper? The look on his face was of absolute pleasure so it must have been right. Oddly hard and smooth at the same time, so hot and firm in her hand and he was moaning her name in abandon as she moved her fingers.
They were in their hallway in the middle of the day! She told herself. Questioning how on earth they'd reached this point.
"God Elsie," he fell back against the wall now, slipping down to the floor and pulling her with him. She let go of him, her palms hitting the wall with the sudden exertion of the move as she fell into his lap. His steady, sure hands guiding her, holding her hips. His mouth finding hers even at this moment of pleasant uncertainty.
"I love you," he mumbled kissing her chin, her neck. "I love you, I love you."
She gulped in air as he lifted her slightly, guiding her down onto him and then there was that sweetly-tinged moment of forever as their bodies joined. Foreheads touching as they settled a little, angled better, her knees bent, his hands wide on her hips as she rose above him. He couldn't even admit to himself that he'd dreamt of this, let alone believe it was reality.
Anyone could come to their door now (it wasn't locked), hear them, see them, gossip about them. The thought splintered away along with any other rational idea. All that mattered was the feel of her, the joy they created together.
Her climax caught her by surprise; so sudden, so quick, so intense. It had never happened like that before. Perhaps the different angle. The thought that it was her dictating the moves. She wasn't sure. She didn't care. When he called her name and hit his head back against the wall she slid her hands though his hair, rubbing where he'd caught it, but he didn't seem to care. He was smiling. Such a complete smile. Kissing whichever part of her skin his lips could reach in reverence.
"I love you too," she finally said against his lips. "Shall we go to bed now?"
"Well," he panted, swallowed, finding his breath again. "I certainly don't fancy doing any gardening."
The moments of intimacy are what make a marriage. Whether it's during illness where you nurse, witness them at their worst. Their most angry. Their most loving. The domestic chores. Or moments like this, overcoming the awkwardness of being half-dressed, still aroused, and messily unpeeling your body from the other, from the floor.
Clutching at her clothing Elsie went up first, undressed in the bathroom as he hid in his robe and made sure the curtains were closed before she joined him. Both naked now.
She crawled onto the bed beside him, leant over him, and they were kissing again.
"You've brought me such joy," he confessed, brushing out her hair, the soft silky warmth spreading over his fingers. "I've never known it."
She was leant against his broad chest; she could feel his heart beating beneath her hand. "Neither have I." She whispered. "I didn't know this kind of thing existed, that it could be so pleasurable." She smiled sheepishly up at his flushed face. "Or that I could share those thoughts with anybody, let alone a man."
"Let alone me." He smiled, raising his eyebrows.
"Well, there were times…" She smiled in return.
"Perhaps we didn't know." He suggested. "The friendship was there, deep respect, burgeoning love and certainly I was attracted to you. I didn't realise that we'd be like this though, that I would finally have somebody to share everything with." He tangled his fingertips into her hair, twisting it around his fingers, massaging her head, "I want to know everything about you."
"I think your ninety percent of the way there." She teased, "Certainly nobody has ever seen me naked, or heard me make those kinds of noises."
"Is it wrong I'm proud of that fact?"
"I hope not, because I'm rather hoping the sentiment is returned."
"Absolutely. Although I think you're past ninety, you know me better than I know myself."
Already their bodies were teasing again, her knee between his legs rubbing at him, his hands tracing the outline of her body, tickling along her sides until she squirmed against him.
She lifted herself up and on top of him, lying full length, body to body. Her mouth nipping at his, her fingers stroking his face, fingertips sliding across his lips, into the warmth of his mouth until he sucked on her ring finger and she giggled in delight.
"I can't stop wanting to love you," she admitted, eyes half-closed, heavy and heady with lust.
"I hope you always feel like that."
She parted her legs and somehow they managed to find the right angle, always learning and testing. It was slow and steady this time, the frantic actions of downstairs replaced with the languid relaxation of a couple who have all the time they need to find their way. She kept her eyes open, her gaze locked on his as they moved together. Her breasts pushed tight against his chest, rubbing as they moved, slowly, slowly, until the pressure built and he shifted them slightly to take control and push her steadily over-the-edge until she was moaning her pleasure and sighing in the aftermath.
They slept like that, her body on top of his, on top of the sheets. Late afternoon easing into early evening. Half sleeps. Almost drunken kisses as they turned and settled then repeated the movement again an hour later.
"Are you hungry?" She whispered by his chin into the dark, wrapped around his body, his arms tight over her.
"A little. I can make something though." He said against her hair, kissing her head.
"Can you?"
He sensed the smile in her voice.
"I'm not completely useless."
"In no way useless." She forced herself to move, to lift her body up from his, groaning as she did so. "It's grown so warm, sticky."
"I'll open a window." He swung his legs over the edge of the bed. "Then I'll go get some food." He chuckled as he opened the window, breathing in the honey-like fragrance of summer. "I'll make you one of my favourite things when I was boy."
"Should I come and help?"
"No, it won't take me long."
He brought up thickly cut ham, he'd covered it in mustard and he must have warmed it in the oven forming a crust to the top. Bread and butter and a bottle of cider accompanied it and they sat on the bed eating.
"This was your favourite thing as a boy?"
He nodded, "And Granny's Sunday pie. So good I can almost taste it."
"This is rather good."
"Too good, I'd stuff myself silly when we had it then regret it later."
She sighed suddenly, "Oh those cakes are still downstairs, they'll be ruined."
"I may have perhaps eaten mine this morning."
"For breakfast?" She laughed.
"Let's call it a mid-morning snack."
"Oh of course," she cleared away their plates to the tray he'd brought up. "You'd never make it to lunch without your mid-morning coffee and biscuits."
"And catching a glimpse of the lovely woman who brings them for me."
"I wonder who that might be," she climbed from the bed, leaving the tray on the vanity they'd inherited (as yet empty of the things a vanity unit usually possessed) and heading to the bathroom to wash her face.
When she came back to bed Charles was reading, that focussed frown she'd come to love so much over the years settled on his face. For a moment she considered putting on her nightdress but then dismissed the idea, it was summer, it was hot and they were newlyweds. Old newlyweds perhaps but still... She climbed in next to him, marvelling at the way he automatically lifted his arm so she could come to rest against him.
She closed her eyes, buried her face against his chest, and, without prompting, he started to read to her.
A thing of beauty is a joy forever:
Its loveliness increases; it will never
Pass into nothingness; but still will keep
A bower quiet for us, and a sleep
Full of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet breathing.*
*Keats, "Endymion"