Elsie tried her best to take advantage of not just the warm days that had graced them in the spring months, but also her not yet fully expanded waistline, at least when it came to working in the garden. It wasn't much, mostly because neither of them had much time to devote to it. Though she did like the idea of tending to a few flower beds; if the posies were nice enough, she'd bring them inside and make tiny table arrangements. She enjoyed having something to do all by lonesome: she was hardly ever alone, as it was. Before she'd married Charles she would at least have a few hours in the evening to read and sip her tea. Not that she didn't enjoy his company (which, in any case, she'd even sought out when they weren't married, as was evidenced by their almost nightly glass of sherry) but she was somewhat relieved to have a bit of time just for herself and her thoughts.
The dirt was cool to the touch, as it was in early spring before the sun had warmed the earth. It was pleasantly damp against her skin, which seemed particularly tender these days. The baby wouldn't come until the fall, but she had already begun to be made aware of the changes to her body. She had not been able to wear her corset for several weeks and she felt tired by luncheon, which made her afternoon duties — and tending to Her Ladyship when she went up for bed — nearly impossible. She felt, perhaps, as each day passed she perfected the art of sleeping upright.
She hadn't felt the baby's presence yet — at least, she didn't think she had. The book she'd been reading, Dr. Buchanan's Domestic Medicine, had mentioned it only in passing. It brought a smile to her lips to think about it, though she wondered if it was an experience she ought to share with Charles; Dr. Buchanan's book didn't mention that.
Brushing the dirt from her hands, she moved to stand and was somewhat embarrassed to discover that her balance and — perhaps—her very center of gravity had shifted so greatly that she could barely manage to get herself up from the ground. She chuckled to herself, thankful that Charles had gone to town and wasn't there to witness her clumsiness.
"Elsie — you should have waited until I returned before you went rolling about in the garden."
Perhaps she'd spoken to soon. Hands on her hips, sweat plastering her hair against her cheeks, she turned to see Charles meandering through the yard to her, carrying parcels from town.
"I called for you when I came in," he said, a touch out of breath, "I thought perhaps something was the matter when I didn't see you in the drawing room."
She huffed, "Well, I wasn't going to sit in the house all day like a lump on a log — not on a gorgeous day like this."
He watched her as she carefully bent down to retrieve her gardening tools, wiping the excess dirt off on her apron, "I thought I'd start turning over some of these beds."
"Should you be — in your condition?"
"My condition? Good Lord, Charles, I'm in the family way not a leper." She waddled past him, "Come in, then. Did you get what I asked you to from the patisserie?"
"The toffee pudding? Yes, did." He said, hustling to catch up to her.
"Scottish —?"
"Yes — of course." As they stepped into the kitchen, he unloaded his parcels onto the table and she moved over to the sink to wash her hands.
"One of the shopkeepers had such a peculiar idea," Charles said, lifting the small box from the bakery from his knapsack, "He had hand-sewn tiny satchels into which he wanted to put a smidge of tea leaves that he could then send to other shopkeepers so that they could give it a go before he sent them several pounds." He shook his head incredulously, "I was polite, of course, and was sure to encourage his entrepreneurial spirit because I do like this chap — but imagine how terrible it must taste, steeped in silk!"
Elsie looked over her shoulder at him, "A tea-bag, what a queer prospect!" She laughed, shaking the excess water off her hands, "Though wouldn't it be nice to only make one serving of tea — if it were just you—wouldn't need to make a whole pot."
Charles frowned at her, "I'd rather have excess tea that is remarkable than just the right amount which is subpar."
She wrinkled her nose at him, coming over to the table and taking his face in her still-damp hands playfully, "Aye, but you're an Englishman and I'm a Scottish farmgirl. We're far more practical than thou." She leaned up to kiss him, and he lingered against her lips a little longer than he intended. He'd only been in town for the morning but he'd missed her. He always missed her when they weren't together.
"What of this pastry?" He said, holding the box up for her to take, "Homesick are you?"
Her eyes widened as she took the small box from him, and as she made her way to the table he thought he saw her skip a little.
"Oh — I've a hankering for it as of late. Unbearably. I've dreamt about it, even." She lifted the lid from the box and her face lit up, "Oh, look how gorgeous. Near as pretty as the ones my Ma used to make"
Charles pulled a fork from the drawer and handed it to her — fearing that she was about to lift the sticky pasty up with her hands out of sheer desperation to have her craving quenched. She took the fork happily and pressed it against the gooey cake.
"I rather think it a shame I did not have the privilege of meeting your mother," Charles ventured, sitting down across from her at the table. He thought about asking her for a bite of the treat, but when he heard her low, satisifed moans he thought better of it.
"She'd have loved you," Elsie said, sinking the fork back into the cake, "But you'd think her a bit much."
"A relation of yours, a bit much?" Charles said incredulously, "I'm unconvinced."
Elsie swallowed, "No — she was, before she was ill. She was delightful; singing and dancing all the time. She and my Da were the finest reelers in all of Argyll, maybe all of Scotland."
"And you?"
"Oh, I could hold my own." She looked up at him with a glint in her eye, "They called me Eight-Step Elsie."
He guffawed at this, imaging her spinning around a barn somewhere in western Scotland, "Did they now?"
She paused, the fork halfway to her mouth, "You don't believe me?"
He shook his head innocently, "Oh — I believe you. I'd have just given my left foot to see it."
Accepting his challenge, she gently set the fork down and stood, pushing the chair back from the table.
"Oh — Elsie, you don't—"
"Alright Mr. Carson — clap your hands, would you please? Like this:" She clapped a simple, steady rhythm and though he felt a bit sheepish, he repeated it and carried it through as he watched her hike her skirts up. She paused — holding one finger up to him, "Keep that rhythm going, love, I've got to take these off."
She reached down with one hand and unlaced her boots, lifting her feet out of them. She curved them, rolling her ankles. He hadn't noticed it before but her feet were beautifully arched, indeed like the many other dancers he'd known in his life.
"Don't slow down on me, Charles." She said, nodding her head in time to his clapping. She bobbed up and down a moment and then, as if springing to life, began to highland step right there in the middle of their kitchen. Her hands lightly holding her skirts, which fanned out around her legs, and each pointed foot rising and falling in time. She closed her eyes smiling brightly, and he clapped a bit faster. Her eyes flicking open in response to the challenge, her footwork sped up, each foot gracefully rising and falling before the other. She reached one hand out to him and, finding himself somewhat caught up in the sight of her, took it without hesitation and held her spontaneity. She danced him around the kitchen, mindful of the small space, the chairs and uneven floorboards, and he was somewhat startled by the sound of his own laughter.
As they maneuvered their way around her chair, she suddenly stopped short, one hand bracing the side of her abdomen. He'd noticed she'd stopped wearing her corset a few weeks ago, and finally he could — and he supposed anyone else—tell she was carrying a child. He looked down at her with, he perhapsed, a look of horror on his face.
"Are you alright?" He asked, trying to catch his breath. He grasped her shoulders tightly and she shushed him, letting her other hand come to the top of her belly. He studied her face for a moment and then, before he could implore her further, her hand shot out and grasped his, an open-mouthed grin spreading on her face. Without a thought, she pressed his hand into her center, which all at once felt strange and intimate, even for them. She waited a moment in silence and then, he felt it; a small flutter against his open palm. They caught each other's eye and stared at one another, waiting on baited breath to see if they would feel it again.
"Did you feel that?" She breathed, grabbing his other hand and pressing it to her stomach. She closed her eyes, as if trying to envision the baby turning over somewhere deep inside of her. He thought, perhaps, he had — but how could he possibly be sure?
"Is it—?"
There, against his hand again — a small thump. She blinked up at him, biting her lower lip, her eyes shining. "You felt that, didn't you?"
He laughed nervously, "I — well, I suppose I did. What am I feeling, exactly?"
She let go of his hands and wrapped her arms tightly around his neck, "Your child, Charles—"
He reached his hands up to grasp her arms and she pressed her face into his neck. He could feel her tears against his skin as she shook in his arms. At first he thought that she was crying, and he moved to pull her away so that he could see her face — but as he did, his face softened when he realized that she was laughing — tears of joy spilling from her eyes and a gentle laugh rising up in her like a fiddle warbling a reel.
Elsie set Aoife down in the servant's hallway, outside the doorway to the kitchen. Peering in, she saw that Mrs. Patmore was already bustling about, the young scullery maids hustling under her watchful eye. She'd hoped that perhaps she could leave Aoife in her charge, but seeing how busy she was she immediately felt guilty for even thinking it. Aoife was pressed against her skirts, sensing her mother's conflict.
"Mrs. Carson —?"
Elsie turned. Coming up the hall, a basket over her arm and her hair neatly tucked up under a pretty hat, was Charity. The young maid had been at Downton longer than Elsie, and was well on her way to becoming head housemaid, if that was her perogative. She was tall, with a soft voice and a natural grace about that Elsie would have envied when she was the girl's age. When she'd first arrived at Downton and met Charity, the girl had been young and uncertain in her role, but over the years she had matured and developed a quiet confidence that made her, now, something of a role model for the younger maids who looked up to her not just for her skill, but her grace and beauty as well.
"Hello, Aoife." She said, smiling down at the girl. Aoife smiled up at her from Elsie's side — she thought of Charity as something of an older sister.
"Are you off to town, Charity?" Elsie said, nodding toward the basket. Charity nodded, reaching up to reposition her hat.
"I've a few errands to run," she said. "No lessons today, Aoife?"
"Charity, I hate to ask but — could you look after Aoife this afternoon?"
"Of course!" Charity beamed, "If she doesn't mind going into town with me."
Aoife looked up at Elsie, "Can I, Ma?"
"Oh — Charity, love, thank you." She reached into her dress pocket, pulling out a few shillings. "Here — take this, have your tea."
"You needn't give me any money," Charity laughed, "I'm running errands for the housekeeper, not myself."
Elsie closed the girls hand around the coins, "Please — for your trouble."
Charity smiled, "It's no trouble, Mrs. Carson. It's been far too long since Aoife and I had a day out, isn't it pet?"
Aoife smiled up at her, leaving Elsie's skirts and taking Charity's out stretched hand. "Can we get biscuits?"
"Thank you, Charity. Really — why don't you come up to our cottage on your halfday for supper."
"I would love to, Mrs. Carson." She took Aoife's hand, "Alright the, shall we?"
"Goodbye, Ma!" Aoife said, skipping down the hall with Charity, who gave Elsie a wrinkle of her nose over her shoulder.
"I won't let her spoiler her dinner with biscuits, Mrs. Carson." She said.
Elsie waved her off, shaking her head. "I won't tell Mr. Carson if you don't."
She watched as the two giggling girls turned the corner of the hall, and felt a hand on the small of her back.
"Won't tell Mr. Carson what?"
Her head snapped around and she saw Charles standing behind her. He looked surprised that she was so shocked to see him. It wasn't as if they didn't cross one another's paths at least a few times a day and it was hardly unusual for him to tuck her around a corner and steal a kiss.
"Nothing, love." She said, putting a hand on his chest as he walked past him. Rather dejectedly, he followed, skipping a few steps to catch up with her.
"Elsie —?"
She closed her eyes without turning back to him, "Charles — I'm fine, I've—"
He placed his hand on her upper back and she bristled, "Elsie. . .?
She turned to him, forcing a smile, "Quite a busy day —" she said, reaching up to kiss his cheek non-commitally, then scurried away without saying goodbye. Charles opened his mouth to speak, but she'd already turned swiftly to flee down the hallway. By the time the words he'd been searching for found his lips, she'd already disappeared up the stairs.
