A/N: I am SO SORRY for the wait on this! Serves me right for working on other fics last week!
This chapter gave me some trouble, mostly because my original intent of this story was to have the two preview chapters, then dive right into the main story. Which meant skipping forward a lot in time. But so many of you commented about Charles sailing away, and what would happen next, that I felt it would be too abrupt to skip that far. And it would cheat you of what little courtship they have. (Spoiler alert!)
Also, I apologize for the length of this. Obviously word count is not my strong suit.
Disclaimer: I do not own Downton Abbey, I just use the characters names. A lot. Occasionally I follow canon, but sometimes I don't. This is one of those fics. Fair warning.
Disclaimer II: I am not a native Californian. I just married one. Brenna, you'll be getting a message from me at some point. I fudged on a few things here, but hopefully nothing too serious.
To guest reviewers – please, please consider signing up for an account. You don't have to write anything to have one. I would love to respond to you all. I love reviews, but I can't respond to guests!
I'm putting the historical facts up here, sorry for making this long, but you'll understand why at the bottom. If you skip them, I won't be offended.
*The Witchcraft was a real clipper ship that sailed from the Far East to San Francisco, and on to Peru, then around Cape Horn to Brazil.
*Mrs. Chung/Mrs. Gruzinsky – San Francisco, from the time of the Gold Rush, became home to a large population of Chinese immigrants. Chinatown there is still famous; the best (authentic) Chinese food I've ever had stateside was eaten there. Russian immigrants were also numerous.
*Conflicts between Americans/Californios – The latter population were people born in California who descended from Spanish settlers. After the gold rush (familiar refrain), the flood of Americans caused tensions between the two groups, especially regarding land claims. Suffice it to say many Californios were cheated.
*1852 Presidential Election – So the Whigs (one of the major political parties) weren't happy with the incumbent president, Millard Fillmore (one of the more unfortunately named American presidents). So they nominated Winfield Scott instead. (See!? Presidential nominees don't have to be guaranteed – if they stink, we can still get rid of them! Sorry, 2016 reality intruded.) The Whigs still lost the election to the Democrats' nominee, Franklin Pierce. P.S. The Whigs imploded as a party soon after, and Franklin Pierce is still considered one of the worst presidents ever. Mostly because he was one of the guys who came right before the Civil War.
*Don Quixote – the famous Spanish novel. The title character loses his mind and thinks he's a knight. During one of his adventures, he sees windmills and mistakes them for giants. Dulcinea is a fictitious, unseen character in the book. She doesn't exist, except in Don Quixote's mind.
*Montgomery Street was once right next to San Francisco Bay. I think. It's not anymore.
*Cavallo/Carlo – More immigrants, blah blah. Charles being called Carlo is a nod to my choir director. Which is hilarious because he's actually Dutch.
San Francisco, Early 1852
Charles barely sleeps that night.
"Yes, you may call on me. Good night, Mr. Carson."
The glimmer in her eyes, just visible from the light through the window.
He has never heard his own name spoken like that. The way her lilt curved around it made his heart race, and desire stir his manhood.
A laugh escapes from him. All this from a chance encounter due to his foolishness! Slow down, lad!
It is like, yet completely unlike, that day a lifetime ago in New Orleans. Alice, he muses, would never have risked her own neck to save a stranger.
Or given him a second glance.
It is a miracle that Miss Hughes did not dismiss him entirely. How did she know that by letting him walk her home, she gave him back a little of his pride?
Elsie.
He wonders if it is short for another name, whispering it to the darkness.
The clipper ship Witchcraft sits quietly in the early-morning fog. The first mate is not happy he is not going to sail, but releases him without much fuss. At least you bothered to inform us, he says. Most don't even do that much.
Walking back onto the docks, he can't help thinking he is exchanging the lure of the sea for another kind of enchantment.
He goes back to the boardinghouse and writes a letter to John. Tells him he is staying in San Francisco for the time being. He wonders what to say further, as it is certain John will let Beryl read the letter as well – or, more likely, she will force him to give it to her. He is not ready to explain what has changed.
Or to hear his Yorkshire friend's gloating.
The most I can say, he writes, is that I have found what I've been looking for.
And he can only hope that he will not be turned away.
He sends John's letter, as well as two others.
The air seems more brisk, the light brighter. He finds himself smiling, tipping his hat to people as he walks up and down the streets. The steep hills. It doesn't matter that he has little idea what the future will hold.
All he knows is that he has finally found a firm place to stand.
Part of him wonders if he has gone mad. He smiles to himself. If this is madness, then I hope to never regain my sanity.
She cannot stop thinking about him. As she sits in the dining room at breakfast, she wonders what he is doing.
Hopefully not sailing away.
"May I call on you in the next few days?"
His voice made her mouth go dry and her heart speed up.
The feeling of dancing butterflies in her belly is so strong that she half-laughs at herself. Foolish girl, you only met him last night! You don't know him at all.
But she does know him. Mr. Carson. An honorable man. A man she was glad to help.
A man whose heart calls to her.
Charles.
Has anyone ever called him Charlie?
She sips her tea too fast, burning her tongue. Serves you right, she scolds herself. He was likely only being polite when he asked to call.
Richard still snores at eight o'clock. She smiles fondly when she passes his open door. Boots askew on the floor, his bag dropped carelessly next to his bed.
The woman who marries him will have to understand the life of a doctor. Called out all hours, his life hardly his own.
Sitting by the window sewing, she is thankful for the bright morning outside. Both for the light it brings and for the sunshine that mirrors her heart.
You're humming, mutters Richard as he blearily stumbles into the room, pulling his braces up over his rumpled shirt. He thanks her for bringing coffee and bread upstairs. What puts you into a good mood today?
Was I not yesterday? She cannot remember anything before sunset the day before.
No, you were. Just you look…happy. Glowing.
It must be the sunshine.
Maybe. He sips his coffee, his blue eyes doubtful over the rim of the cup. She sighs and sets down the shirtsleeve in her lap.
I met someone last night.
Oh? He asks.
She tells him about the would-be thief. About meeting Charles Carson and their walk home.
I'm not looking after you properly, he says. Your mother would flog me, then you, then me again if she knew you sewed by day, and were acting like the sheriff of San Francisco by night.
The night before was not the first time she had pulled the Colt revolver on a miscreant.
Thank you for not telling her. And it isn't your fault Mrs. Chung's baby was big, she reminded him. You cannot always walk me home. Is she all right? Is the baby?
Yes, and yes. She had a boy, which seemed to make her mother-in-law especially happy. Not that I could understand a word she said. But never mind that, he yawns. This Mr. Carson must have made quite an impression on you.
He seems nice, she says rather defensively. To her horror, she feels heat rising in her face.
Richard's foot, which rests on another chair, falls to the floor with a thud. Oh no, he leans forward. I've seen that look. I never expected to see it on you. After meeting him once!?
What look?
He fights a smile, and fails. When's the wedding?
She glares at him and picks the sleeve up again. Don't be daft. Drink your coffee before it gets cold.
Malcolm wears that look, he says, his eyes serious. When he sees Josefina.
Mr. Carson simply asked if he could call on me! It doesn't mean he wants to marry me!
He said he was planning to sail tomorrow, but before he left he asked to call? Richard swallows more of the bread. He's either a liar, or in love with you. If he calls here, I expect you to be Mrs. Carson before the autumn.
She rolls her eyes and huffs out a breath in exasperation at his cheek. For several minutes it is quiet as she concentrates on the sleeve and he finishes his breakfast.
There is a soft knock on the door.
It's the landlady, Mrs. Gruzinsky. There's someone to see you downstairs, she says. Richard reaches for his coat, smoothing down the front.
Not you, Dr. Clarkson, the matron smirks. Miss Hughes, he says his name is Mr. Carson.
Richard turns and looks at Elsie, a smug smile on his face.
Well, he says, he's not a liar.
Charles comes to see Elsie at the boardinghouse nearly every day as winter flows into spring. His work on the docks is sometimes busy, and sometimes light.
If Richard is there, they walk along the bay. The doctor follows at a discrete distance behind the two. If he is out on a call, or the day is too damp, the couple sits in the small parlor downstairs. There is always someone nearby, for propriety's sake.
They talk about everything.
About fewer people coming for the gold rush. The land conflicts between Americans and the native Californios. The presidential election, and the rumors that the Whigs will cast aside the president, Millard Fillmore, for another candidate.
Charles is pleasantly surprised by her sound opinions, even when he disagrees. She has a keen mind, and he is impressed by the effort she makes to educate herself. After he sees her one evening reading Keats, he lends her several of the books he has.
They take turns reading to each other. More often, he does the honors while she sews, but occasionally she insists on it, especially when he is tired after a long day.
More than once he falls asleep in the parlor to the sound of her voice.
He is embarrassed by this, but scarcely notices that when he reads, her sewing slows to a crawl as she listens to him.
She loves the sound of his voice.
For a man who is a day laborer, he is more erudite than would appear on the surface. It is apparent that he has seen a lot of life, but his tastes are simple. A job well done, a good meal, a book to broaden his mind.
When she notices a hole in his coat, she insists on keeping it overnight to patch it.
Elsie tells Charles about Becky. About how despite the fever took her little sister's mind, she still loves to sing and pick flowers. She shows him some of Becky's drawings that her mother sends with frequent letters from the family.
The picture that he gets, of a family spread far apart, yet close in heart is one that he rather envies.
"I was an only child," he says one Sunday afternoon by the bay six weeks after they met. "Once my parents were gone…I felt adrift. Nothing to hold me in place."
"Is that why you have moved so often?" she asks, looking up at him from under the brim of her hat. He smiles.
"Partly. And the chance to explore this country, to see as much of it as I could, was an opportunity I did not want to miss. Also," he looks out at the billowing sails of a clipper, "it may seem strange, but I felt rather like a man on a quest. Searching for something." He puts his hands behind his back, feeling the breeze. "Perhaps that makes me akin to Don Quixote."
The thought of him as a knight makes her blush. Him in a suit of armor. Not that he would indulge in the flights of fantasy that the legendary Spaniard would, she thinks.
"I think not," she says. "I hardly think you are the sort of man to tilt at windmills." He laughs under his breath.
It is one of her favorite sounds.
"Have you accomplished your quest?" she asks, her eyes twinkling. She wonders if, like so many others, he originally came to California in search of gold. Or simply an adventure. He did plan to sail from the Pacific to the Atlantic. He might decide to do so again, and leave.
This thought sometimes keeps her awake at night.
Charles stops abruptly and turns toward her. Behind them, out of earshot, Richard stops as well.
"I think I have," he says so softly she barely hears him over the wind, "but I will not know for sure until Dulcinea says so. She is no figment of my imagination, you see, but a real woman of flesh and blood."
It as though she can feel the blood thrumming through her veins. Her skin flushes pink.
They continue walking in silence. He knows he must speak plainly, but now that the moment has come, he finds he has lost his confidence.
You already wrote to her mother. And she gave her consent. Thank God.
He removes his hat, stopping again further down Montgomery Street. "Miss Hughes, I hope you will forgive me for speaking my mind." Elsie raises her eyebrows.
"Mr. Carson, in the short time we've known each other, you have always spoken your mind. I would not expect you to stop now."
He nods and swallows a lump in his throat. His palms sweat. "I…have never met anyone like you. Your company is one that I enjoy more than anyone else's, and I am not eager for that to end any time soon." He fumbles in his coat for a letter. "But I received this yesterday. Mr. Cavallo asks me to come work for him in his vineyard, near Sonoma. I'm going to accept his offer."
"You-you are leaving?" Her heart plunges right down into her shoes. It is her worst fear – that she will lose him.
Not that he is hers to lose. She closes her eyes briefly, desperate to keep the rush of emotion in check. He steps closer.
"Yes. I only came to the city to sail, and never expected to stay as long as I did. I sold the store to Mr. Bates, and will not take it back. Now I have a chance to build another life." He sees the hurt in her eyes, those deep blue eyes. It gives him hope, even as he wants to take away her sadness. He takes a deep breath. "I have little to offer you now, but I will learn all I can at the vineyard. With my savings, I hope to buy a property free and clear. Build a house. Plant a vineyard and watch it grow. Make wine."
He was interested in the vineyards before he left to go sail, and has thought of how he could make a life since he decided to stay in California. Working on the docks was only a momentary thing. He does not want to open another store.
"I have no right to ask anything of you," he murmurs, "but I hope you will give me that chance. I will write, once I've settled." His voice drops to a whisper. "Will you-will you wait for me?"
He is terrified that once he leaves, she will forget him. San Francisco is full of men without wives. Someone (much less foolish and much more handsome in his mind) could turn her head after he is gone.
As her heart starts beating again, all she can think is how afraid he is. She does not want him to leave, but his words and pleading look tell her of a promise, a whisper in her heart.
Still, she hesitates. She has felt drawn to this man since the day they met. But he has moved so often that she can hardly believe he would be willing to settle down. With her.
Dulcinea, a quiet voice reminds her. He meant you. A woman of flesh and blood.
"And what will I be waiting for?" she asks, wanting him to be clear.
It is the opening he needs. "For me to work hard enough to provide a life for more than just myself. I want to be with you, Elsie. If you will have me."
He is unaware that he speaks her Christian name. He holds his breath.
Her heart stops at the sound. He wants me. He wants to marry me.
She blinks rapidly, taking all of it in. It is what she hoped for, what she wants. Yet she has a sense of pride in her own worth.
And a niggling doubt that he could be truly happy staying in one place for long. He talks often of the places he's seen, expressing a fondness for the view of the Sierras. The wide plains. The Big Muddy, the Missouri River.
"I'm honored that you think so highly of me," she says, her voice trembling. "Really. But I can't accept."
As much as she wants to.
His heart shatters within him. "Why not?" he asks. Surely she cares for him.
She tries to explain. "I-I don't want to tie you down," she says, watching his stricken face. "To be a millstone 'round your neck. You have the ability to make a name for yourself. Make any life you choose."
Would I be enough for you?
She does not want to be with a man who feels he has to provide for her, rather than with her. That is one of the things she appreciates about him, that he is not Joe, that he understands how hard she works. She knows he values her independence, little though it is.
"I know what life I want-" he begins, but she shakes her head. Looking away.
"Who knows what the future may hold? Or how much longer we'll even be here?" she continues. "Suppose you want to move away, change your life entirely-" her breath hitches, thinking about that very thing. "You don't want to be stuck with me."
She is giving me a way out, he thinks wildly. She thinks I will get bored after a few years. Resent her.
Does she really have no idea of how much she has changed me?
He feels ashamed of himself that he has so hidden his regard for her, under the cloak of propriety, that she still thinks he is the same man he was who planned to sail away.
And that he would be the sort of man to treat her like she was incapable of taking care of herself! He wants a partner, not a delicate doll who sits on a shelf and waits for the world to come to her.
He wants her. Elsie.
Not Alice.
He takes a deep breath, feeling every emotion possible. I must make her understand. "But that's the point."
"What is?"
"I do want to be stuck with you." The look on her face is one of stunned disbelief. "Elsie Hughes…I'm asking you to marry me."
For an instant, the bay and San Francisco disappear, and she sits next to Da as the old farm fades away into the mist.
Charles would follow me anywhere. His heart calls to mine.
There is no one else, she knows. Nor will there ever be.
"Yes," she half-gasps, her heart feeling as though it will burst, "yes, of course I'll marry you!"
She visibly trembles, yet the bright smile on her face and her shining eyes make his heart leap.
He cannot find anything to say to express his joy. Pressing his lips together, he feels tears coming.
If her stepbrother were not standing feet away, he would have kissed her. Instead she offers him her hand. He brings it to his lips and kisses it, perhaps lingering a beat too long, but she does not seem to mind.
She breathes out a sigh and steps away from him, reluctantly dropping her hand from his. Richard approaches them slowly. It is obvious he knows what has just happened by the smile on his face.
He congratulates them, shaking Charles's hand heartily. They walk back to the boardinghouse, this time with Elsie's hand tucked into the crook of Charles's arm.
Her feet do not touch the ground. He memorizes the feel of her hand around his arm, every flex of her fingers.
Richard wishes Charles luck for his new venture. Repeating Elsie's request to write, he cautions him to take care of himself. Charles feels a different kind of pang at his words. Though he will miss Elsie much more, the doctor too has become a good friend. Richard lingers for a moment on the porch, then says a final goodbye before going inside.
The couple are completely alone for the first time.
Without a word, they move together.
Charles kissing her is nothing, nothing like Joe. The mere touch of his lips on her hand made her belly flip, and the feel of his lips on hers is absolute bliss. Her entire body thrills at his touch.
Elsie hums into his mouth when their lips meet. He has never heard the sound before, and instantly decides he wants to hear it again. When they break apart, he waits a beat to let her catch her breath.
Then he kisses her again.
She hums again and the sound almost makes him come undone. Somehow he manages to keep his hand on her shoulder.
A man driving a wagon brings them back to their surroundings.
Looking down at her rosy cheeks and dark eyes, he resists the temptation to kiss her again, holding her hands instead.
"I love you," he murmurs. The words come out without any prompting.
He has never said them aloud to anyone.
Tears fill her eyes. She is overwhelmed. She has always been able to keep a firm grip on her emotions, but her hold is tenuous at best with Charles.
But she is so happy, she hardly minds. "I love you, Charlie."
It simply slips out.
She means every word.
He looks at her in wonder, even as his eyebrows are raised in surprise. She holds a hand to her mouth. "I'm sorry…I didn't mean to…I won't call you that, if you don't like it."
"No, no," he reassures her, a slow smile on his face. "I do like it. It's just…no one's called me that in years. Not since England. But you can," an impish gleam appears in his eyes before they go soft. "My love." He kisses her again then sighs, his breath tickling her cheek.
"I have to go," he says quietly.
"I know." Even knowing they will be together again, her heart breaks to think she will not see him for a while.
They hold hands for a long moment. Finally, he kisses her once more, and they both whisper their shared love once more.
He climbs down the stairs to the street. Unable to resist looking back, he meets Elsie's eyes. "I will come back," he promises, meaning it from the depths of his heart.
The vineyard is nothing like other crops. Mr. Cavallo has tended it for four years already, and this will only be its second year producing grapes which can be then made into wine.
Charles learns quickly that it is all about the sun, and soil, and plenty of water.
There are other crops to look after as well, both to feed the family and to sell in town. The work is hard and hardly ever stops. But he sees the pride the immigrant family has in their land. Something they have built with their own hands.
He writes every few days to Elsie.
Watching the vines ripen is like waiting for Christmas. Mr. Cavallo and his brother some days are more impatient than children! I can scarcely blame them, as so many depend on how the crop grows. The sunset two evenings ago was beautiful. The vibrant colors reminded me of you.
Her letters arrive just as often.
Mam, Patrick and Becky arrived here as expected. But Malcolm and Josefina and the baby were with them – I was delighted! Of course, they wanted to know everything about you. You will be pleased to know that Richard sang your praises almost as much as I did. I loved talking about you, but I miss you.
Happy news comes also from a different direction. As the rush for riches has slowed, so has John's business. He moves to Petaluma, a scant fourteen miles away. Beryl and her mother also move to the nearby town. Mrs. Patmore's sister-in-law is recently widowed. Running her large establishment is too much for her to do alone.
Charles helps cultivate another vineyard about two miles from Mr. Cavallo's property. Under the man's guidance, he prepares the ground, sets the trellises, makes sure the vines grow properly. One warm afternoon, they rest for a while.
Mr. Cavallo wipes his forehead with his handkerchief. This is good land, no? Do you like it, Carlo?
It is amusing to hear his name from an Italian. When Elsie asked him how he liked it, he wrote that it was better than hearing it from a Frenchman.
He takes a long survey of the view around him. The wide sky, the rolling hills behind. Beautiful, he says softly. Your brother is very fortunate to have it.
His companion laughs. Nino? He shakes his head. He likes helping me, working at home, but he doesn't want his own place! He's Mama's boy! No, if you want it, I sell it to you. Give you a good price.
Charles protests, but not very long, and without much effort. He has fallen in love with the land from almost the moment he saw it, and secretly envied the younger Cavallo for it.
He is glad now that he worked so hard.
He does protest more strongly when his employer gives him the price for the land. It's worth more than that, he says. But the older man refuses to take any more for it.
You and me, we are new here, he says. We help each other, yes? He pats Charles on the shoulder. Build a good house for your wife. For your family.
John comes for a solid week and with his help, as well as with Cavallo's oldest son, they get the walls up. It is in the Spanish style.
Do you think she'll like it? He asks John one evening.
Most likely. But you'd better leave some things for her to do. And it might be a good idea to invite Beryl to see it. Women see things we don't, he grins.
The flame-haired woman scrutinizes the place soon after. With her blessing, he feels like he can see the place as not just a house, but a home.
It is two weeks into the blueberry harvest before he begins to worry. It is not that Elsie's letters have become infrequent. They have ceased to come at all.
Maybe it's the post, Beryl says one Sunday afternoon in June. He and John are visiting at Beryl's aunt's large boardinghouse.
That's what I thought, he replies. Except I received a letter from Richard last week. He looks down at the wooden floor, his dusty boots. He said nothing about her being ill, or away. I've received nothing for three weeks!
And you've written to her? John asks, puffing on a cigar.
Of course. Five letters since I've gotten her last. Charles covers his face. Every fear invades his mind. That Elsie regrets their engagement. That she's met someone else.
That she doesn't love him anymore.
She seemed happy to hear about the house, he says. Excited. I told her about the rooms, the wide veranda. About your suggestion, he turns to Beryl. About planting vines to grow to the roof-
What? The short woman's eyes grow wide.
I told her she could choose what to plant, he says, confused by her expression. After we're married.
You told her I visited your new house?
With your mother, he answers. She wouldn't think it improper.
Oh wouldn't she? Beryl's face is getting redder by the second. An ominous sign.
Why would she? He is utterly baffled. She knows we're friends. I thought she would like to know a woman has seen her house-
He is cut off when Beryl leaps from her chair and grabs the newspaper off a nearby table.
You-Complete-Idiot-Numbskull-Charles-Carson!
Every word is punctuated by her slapping him over the head.
Ouch! He roars, getting to his feet. Have you gone mad!?
No, she storms, but you have! Think about it! She's never met me, she's only got your word that we're friends!
But we are, he says, his hands up in case she attacks him again.
But she doesn't know that! She rolls up the newspaper again. Use your head! You say goodbye to your lovely fiancée in San Francisco. You buy a property for the two of you and begin building a house. So far, all well and good.
But then, she raises her eyes to the ceiling, but then you have all the sense of a horse's arse and you tell her I've come and seen your house!? With my mother!?
What's wrong with that? He still doesn't see the point.
She doesn't know me! For all she knows, I've had my eye on you for as long as we've known each other! And then she gets a letter telling her about the house, and a strange unmarried woman with her mother – who, for all she knows is completely in favor of you and I getting married – going all over her house!
But this is all ridiculous, he says. He starts to laugh. You're like a sister to me! I've never looked at you that way! Elsie would never be jealous of you. She's pretty, and you-
He stops, suddenly aware of saying precisely the wrong thing.
Miss Patmore's right, John breaks his silence from the corner. You ARE a numbskull.
He gets another slap. This time in the face. The blow stings, making his eyes water.
I'm sorry. He puts his hands around his nose, hoping she didn't break it. I should not have said that. You're a lovely woman, Beryl. You're going to make someone very happy one day-
Charles, John interrupts, for God's sake, hold your tongue.
Beryl sits back down in her chair. Never mind that, she says rather thickly. But really, Mr. Carson, it's bad enough you've probably broken her heart. She sighs.
From everything you say about her, Elsie Hughes sounds like a wonderful person. I was hoping to be friends with her. But now she likely hates me! Because of you!
I was hoping to have someone to talk to other than Mother and old Aunt Ida!
John gets up and goes to the desk on the opposite side of the room. He pulls out paper, and a pen with a steel nib.
You're going to write to Elsie, he says to Charles in a voice that brooks no argument. Now. Tell her everything, apologize if she had the wrong impression. I'll keep the letter and post it tomorrow.
Wait. Beryl gets up, and puts her handkerchief away. Leave out some paper. I'm going to write to her myself. She shoots a glare at Charles. She needs to hear the truth from someone who isn't a numbskull.
She tells herself that she is being absurd. That Charles would never have feelings for someone else.
And if he did, she thinks in her darker moments, he would not be so cruel as to write to her about them.
But what is she supposed to think?
You said Mr. Carson spoke of Miss Patmore as a good friend, like a sister, Mam says one morning in the parlor. Surely that is all he means by it.
I'm sure he does, Richard leans forward in his chair. He is an honorable man.
I know that, Mam says softly. I trust you, and Elsie's judgment. I was touched when he wrote to me personally. Not every man would have.
Elsie knows they are likely right. That evening, she gets out the letters Charles has sent her since that letter.
They are the same as the ones before, though the last three have hints of worry.
I hope you are well…no letter arrived from you in the last week…it is like hearing your voice when you write to me…I miss you, my beloved.
She stifles a sob, not wanting to wake Mam and Patrick. Once again, she lights the lamp and attempts to write a reply.
But the pen sits idle in her hand as she stares at the little flame. How can she say anything when the only questions are ones she can't ask him?
What is Beryl Patmore to you? How well do you know her? When you look at her, does she make your heart skip a beat?
Lurid images fill her mind. A lithe, blond woman with light green eyes. A raven-haired beauty. Or a brunette.
Like Alice.
The woman he almost married in New Orleans.
She crumples the paper and throws it into the fireplace. She half-laughs even as jealousy rages through her veins. If she were an animal, she would be a wild horse, kicking anything in sight. No. A stealthy mountain lion, stalking its prey.
She pictures herself chasing a faceless woman down Montgomery Street and throwing her in the chilly water. She slumps over the little desk, her face in her hands.
Beryl Patmore might be a good-natured person, undeserving of such scorn. It would be nice to have a fellow woman to talk to. Someone closer in age to her.
If she isn't, in fact, trying to seduce Charles.
Giving up on writing, she flips her braid over her shoulder and goes back to bed.
The next morning Mrs. Gruzinsky hands her two letters at breakfast. She almost chokes on her bread when she sees Charles's handwriting on one of them. Leaving the table, she runs into the empty parlor and sits in a chair. She lays aside his letter, wanting to postpone another plea for her to write.
The handwriting on the other letter is unfamiliar.
Dear Miss Hughes,
Please forgive my impertinence, but I thought it best for you to hear of my connection to Mr. Carson directly.
My name is Beryl Patmore. I met your Charles Carson when he owned a store near Sacramento City. We shared some similarities. Being natives of Yorkshire being the most prominent. When I met him I was used to meeting men who were either numbskulls or bores. He was neither.
I enjoyed talking with him, and we became friends. This may give you the wrong impression. Let me reassure you.
Mr. Carson is not the man for me. To be honest, if I was married to him, I'd be tried and hanged for murder within a year. He is intelligent, but he can be horribly inconsiderate at times.
Please don't think I'm trying to dissuade you from marrying him. I have no doubt that he watches every word with you, and is much more polite. I'm equally certain that you have more patience than I do.
Growing up in a house with five girls (I'm the youngest), having a brother is something that I always wanted. Mr. Carson always wanted a companion as a child. The way he and I regard each other is much like that of a brother and sister.
He asked me to come look at the house he's building for the two of you, saying that he wanted a 'woman's eye'. I'm sure you will agree that there are things that men can't see. I brought my mother along simply to keep the local gossips at bay. As much as Mr. Carson, Mr. Bates and I are friends, I know that most people may not see it that way.
Nothing improper happened, or was intended.
It is a lovely house. I think you will be pleased with it.
From the moment Mr. Bates and I spoke with Mr. Carson after he arrived in Sonoma, everything was clear to us.
Mr. Carson loves you. He utterly adores you. He thinks the world of you, and is willing to go to the moon and back to make you happy. If I'm lucky enough to find a man who looks at me with half the stars in his eyes as my friend does when he talks of you, I will be a blessed woman indeed.
If I have not convinced you by now, let me be blunt.
I'm short for my age. And rather stout, despite my best efforts (which are few and far between, my love for pudding overcoming my best intentions most days). My hair, like yours, is red. Though mine more closely resembles orange.
Aunt Ida (my father's sister) says my cheeks are too round, my voice too shrill, and my nose too short, for me to ever catch a man. I'm fairly certain she caught her husband only by locking him in the cellar, and only letting him out once he promised to marry her, so her opinion is rather fishy.
Mr. Bates is at this moment standing by the desk as Mr. Carson finishes a letter to you. I do hope he writes a groveling apology. Please feel free to write to me if he hasn't, and I will make sure to hit him with something heavier than a newspaper.
I hope you and your family are well. I look forward to meeting when you come to Sonoma.
Sincerely,
Beryl Patmore
Elsie reads the letter through once, then twice more. The third time she reads it, her lips twitch and she laughs until tears run down her cheeks.
Mirth and relief are equally felt.
Then she picks up the other letter to read. It is much shorter.
My darling Elsie,
I have been recently informed that writing to you of Miss Patmore's visit to our house may not have been wise.
Please be assured she is my friend only, nothing more. I wanted her opinion, to get a different perspective than either mine or Mr. Bates' view.
It gives me pain to think that I may have hurt you. If this is so, I never intended to. I am truly sorry if you thought that I had broken faith with you. If there is anything I can do to make amends, please tell me.
From the way Miss Patmore is writing from the table, I have little doubt that she is telling you everything. Please don't think too badly of me.
I am truly sorry for misleading you. I love you.
Yours,
Charles
One month after Elsie receives the letters, she receives a visitor.
Wrapped in Charles's arms on the porch, she kisses him again, sliding her hands around his back. He moans and breaks away, leaning his head against hers. "Am I forgiven for my foolishness, then?"
"Yes," she breathes, reaching up to touch his face.
"Ouch," he says, wincing.
"I'm sorry, I forgot," she says, a smile playing at her lips. "It still hurts?"
"Yes," he admits. "She didn't break my nose. But I had a bruise on my face until last week."
She smirks. "I will have to thank your friend Beryl when I meet her."
"For maiming your fiancé? What kind of woman are you?"
"A wise one. As is she. She knew if she punished you thoroughly, I would not." Elsie gives him a smile from under her eyelashes. He groans aloud.
"When you smile at me like that, it is worse than a blow to the face!"
"Oh dear. Do I require punishment?" She raises an eyebrow.
"Yes," he growls, leaning down again.
He kisses her until she moans. He smiles against her lips. As much as he would like to never stop, he knows they must, as does she.
But they do not have to wait for long.
In a few days' time, they will be husband and wife.
TBC…the wedding day-oh, who am I kidding? The wedding night beckons.