A/N: OMG I KNOW HUGE UPDATE. This is where I had originally intended to end this story - and for the time being, it *is* going to have to end, at least until after the holidays. I was just offered a editorial position that I can't pass up - but it will, of course, mean I have absolutely no free time. So, as I head forth to perhaps climb the career ladder, I thank you all immensely for taking this journey with me! I'll pop back to this AU when I need to take a break from editing, writing and otherwise doing non-fun writing projects. I really hope this is a fitting ending and that you've all enjoyed the story - I have so enjoyed writing it and all your lovely comments. Best. Fandom. Ever. So, big update means: smut, angst, comfort, flashbacks, Cobert (bits anyway), adorable Aoife & of course fluff. :)
Downstairs, Aoife peered over the top of the table and watched in awe as Mrs. Patmore's hands skillfully kneaded bread dough, her upper back arching with each push against the table. Aoife had grown up underfoot in the kitchen of Downton Abbey and she especially liked watching Mrs. Patmore prepare the very elegant meals that the upstairs family enjoyed each day. If she was quiet and stayed out of the way, before the night was over Mrs. Patmore was known to hand her a sweet, or another nibble of whatever she'd been working on throughout the day. Although Mrs. Patmore could be very loud and, at times, even mean she was always gentle and kind to Aoife. After dinner, when the maids were puttering about and her parents were readying His and Her Ladyship for bed, Aoife would sit in the kitchen with Mrs. Patmore and wait for her to regale stories of life at Downton before the child had arrived.
"Tell me about the night I was borned, Mrs. Patmore!" Aoife said, slapping her hand against the hardwood table top, sending a puff of flour up into the air. Mrs. Patmore shot her a glare, but softened quickly, taking Aoife's face in her floured hands — leaving the dust behind upon her cheeks.
"You've heard that story 'nuff times to tell it to me," Mrs. Patmore chuckled, wiping her brow across her arm, she lifted the glob of dough and began to push it into the bread pans, "I've to get these in their pans—so, go on, then — you know how it starts."
Aoife grinned, bouncing up and down a bit as she geared up to tell the story — her own story— "It started out right here, didn't it? In the kitchen?"
Mrs. Patmore nodded, "Right abouts where you're standing."
Biting her lip, Aoife looked up to one side, thinking hard, "The broken teacup, right? Ma broke a teacup?"
"You mighta' said you broke it, Aoife." Mrs. Patmore laughed heartily, "You gave your mother quite a fright, you did. . ."
Elsie shot her hand out to grab the edge of the table, knocking over a teacup in the process and causing it to fall to the floor, the porcelain shattering.
Beryl looked up from the far end of the table and eyed her — Elsie was due to give birth any day now, but had forbade anyone to shoulder her duties. She'd "work right up until her water's broke," she said, just like her Ma had back on their farm in Argyll. There'd be no confinement for her. For the last several weeks she'd slowed noticeably, but Her Ladyship was generous enough not to mention it. Charles had watched for her like a hawk — if he so much as spotted her thinking about descending the staircase, he'd leap to her aid, offering his arm and making her cluck her tongue.
"Women've been havin' bairns for a thousand years, Charles." She'd say, rolling her eyes, "And they weren't being waited on hand and foot!"
"Well, those women were not my wife, carrying my child." He'd say, kissing her cheek. She'd quiet at that, let him cherish her a bit. She was tired, truthfully, and apprehensive about what was to come. Though to wear her anxiety on her face would only stand to deepen the lines that were already there, and what was the sense in that?
"Oh, —Mrs. Patmore, sorry, I've —" Elsie hesitated, pulling in a sharp breath, the air whistling through her teeth. "Good Lord, that hurt."
Beryl set down the mixing bowl she'd been holding and pressed her palms against the table, leaning in. She stared down at Elsie.
"If it's time you'd better tell me," Beryl said, " 'cause I'd wager once you go upstairs you ain't be coming down 'em again."
Elsie looked up at her, her knuckles gone white from gripping the edge of the table. In an instant, a look of relief crossed her face and she straightened.
"Well, I'm all right now," she said, shaking her head, "I'll fetch a broom for that broken teacup." She made her way across the room toward the door, but stopped just as she made it to the threshold. Beryl heard it before she saw it, a dull 'pop', almost as though someone had just cracked their knuckles. Slowly, Elsie turned to her, one hand pressed against the doorframe.
"Was that—?" Beryl said, tottering around the table and over to where Elsie stood, motionless. They both looked down at saw a quickly-spreading spot of dampness along the floor. They met each other's gaze and Beryl sputtered, "Well— better inhere than in the library with them oriental rugs."
"What mischief are you two getting up to in here?" Carson said, stepping into the kitchen.
Aoife skipped across the kitchen to him, "Da!"
"Aoife was tellin' me the story of the night she was born, Mr. Carson." Beryl said, turning toward the door. Carson raised his eyebrows incredulously,
"She was telling it to you, Mrs. Patmore?"
"Lord knows she's heard it enough times — she can practically recite it like a sonnet!" Beryl said, throwing her hands up in defeat, "I'd imagine you could as well, Mr. Carson."
Carson hummed nostalgically, "Ah yes — well, perhaps not a sonnet." He leaned down and lifted Aoife into his arms, "But as a soliloquy!" As he bellowed, he took Aoife's small hand in his and took a few steps of a waltz into the kitchen. The sounds of Aoife's laughter echoing down the hall.
"If my memory serves me, Mr. Carson, you were in need of some smelling salts before the night was through—" She shook her head, "They gave the missus some nice ether but she had more of her wits about 'er than you did."
"If my memory serves me Mrs. Patmore, I was orchestrating the event!"
She scoffed, "From behind the o'er side of the door!"
"You'll stay with me, won't you?" Elsie said, looking pleadingly up at Beryl.
"Of course I will, if that's what you want." Beryl said, hovering in the doorway to Elsie's bedroom. They'd managed to walk back to the Carson's cottage, making a few stops along the way to sit on various benches and one particularly large rock along the estate, and Her Ladyship had giddily rung for Dr. Clarkson.
"You'd think she were the one having the baby!" Mrs. Patmore laughed as she bustled around the cottage, "The look on 'er face!"
Elsie smiled, "Everyone gets excited about babies."
"Hardly they do!" She came to the edge of Elsie's bed, "Can I bring you a glass o' water, love? Tea?"
Elsie shifted uncomfortably, reaching behind her to readjust her pillows, "I don't know — where is Charles?"
"He's in Ripon with His Lordship, they'll be back by luncheon."
"Oh, luncheon — Beryl, you can't stay here, you've got to finish—"
"No, no, it's all right. I'd mostly finished anyway—besides even if they muss it up it's not as though Her Ladyship's going to eat anything — she's too excited, bouncin' about all willy-nilly."
Elsie grimaced, shifting on the bed again, "Help me up, would you? I don't want to lie around here like a mare—"
"Are you in a lot of pain, then?"
Elsie sighed, "Not the worst of it—soon enough." Beryl helped her rise from the bed and steadied her, resting a hand on her shoulder. "I think perhaps I'll have a cuppa — keep my strength up."
They meandered into the kitchen just as Carson came bursting through the front door — both women jumped, Elsie reaching out for Beryl's arm.
"Are you all right?" He asked breathlessly, coming into the room before he'd even take off his hat. Elsie gave Beryl a look,
"I'm fine, Charles — are you?"
He studied her a moment, then looked at Beryl somewhat perplexed. "We arrived back from Ripon and the house was atwitter with the word — Her Ladyship could hardly contain herself."
Beryl rolled her eyes, "You'd think Mrs. Carson here's having the next soverign of England."
Carson reached up and removed his hat, holding it against his chest. He walked over and took Elsie's hand, "You're all right?"
"Yes, I'm fine — I could use a spot o' tea, though."
Beryl took her cue and pushed past them to the kitchen, "I'll fix it for you . Why don't you go get comfortable— if you can."
Charles looked at Elsie expectantly, "What —what should I do?"
"I'm not sure," Elsie shrugged, "I suppose you could warm me some toast?"
"Robert—Robert! There you are." Cora said, prancing into his dressing room. He turned, adjusting his waistcoat, and raised his eyebrows at her.
"Cora, love, what is it?"
"Hughes is having her baby — " she beamed, "I've rung for Dr. Clarkson."
"Ah, I see." Robert said, "And who will look after you until she returns?"
Cora's mouth fell open, "I — well, I'm not sure, the head housemaid I would presume — but aren't you terribly excited?"
Robert blinked, "I wouldn't say terribly so, no."
"Oh Robert," Cora frowned, "You care for Carson — he's like an old friend to you — aren't you even a little bit curious to see what he'll do now that he's to become a father?"
Considering this, Robert lowered himself down onto his bed. He really hadn't thought of it at all until just this moment. "I suppose. Carson's a good chap, isn't he?" He ran his hand through his hair, "Though, I can't imagine it will be easy to take on the responsibility of butler at Downton and raise a child."
Cora glided over to the bed, sitting down beside him, "His father did it, didn't he?"
Robert sighed, "I suppose you'd have to ask Carson — I don't think his father was very much—a father."
Cora frowned, "Carson's very kind — and Hughes, of course, she'll be a wonderful mother. You've seen how natural she is with Sybil."
Robert gave her a small smile, "Yes—and we do owe her for our good fortune with her, don't we?" He leaned over and kissed Cora's cheek, "Will Carson be sure to let us know when the baby's arrived?"
Cora nodded eagerly, "Mrs. Patmore's gone over to their cottage, I'm sure she'll have all the details."
"Mrs. Pat—the cook? What are we to do about luncheon?"
"I'm sure it'll be fine, Robert." she said, placing her hand on his cheek, "Babies are much more rare an occurrence than luncheons."
He forced a smile, not entirely reassured, and returned to the letter he'd been attending to when she'd come in.
"Who's that a letter from?" Cora asked, sitting down on the settee.
"Rosamund," he said, lifting the note closer to his face. "She's asked about the girls, of course. She's hoping to come for Christmas."
Cora sighed, fingering one of her perfume bottles, "It's awfully good of her to come — I know it's such a terribly hard time of year for her. But the girl's look forward to seeing her so much."
Robert sighed, "Yes, well — I think she'd prefer it to being alone."
"I can't believe it's been nearly five years since..." She sighed, "Poor Marmaduke. It feels as though he was just here—"
"I suppose she'd agree — I'd wager it feels even longer a time for her."
"Do you think she'll ever remarry, Robert? She's so young. It would be such a shame for her to be alone —" She didn't look up at him — the totality of the word — forever—hung in the air. Robert brushed it away with his hand, folding the letter up and tucking it into his breast pocket.
"Dear Rosamund has always done exactly as she pleases, despite anyone's pleas. I've no doubt that if she wants to marry again one day, she will." He came up behind Cora and rested a hand on her shoulder. She looked up at him from beneath her eye lashes.
"But if not?"
Robert chuckled sadly, "Then she won't"
"Well, look at you gigglemugs." Elsie said, leaning up against the doorway, her arms folded and a sly smile across her face. Charles looked up from the table — where he'd taken a seat, Aoife upon his knee. Mrs. Patmore was still kneading bread against the table, her face red — but her eyes glinted as she saw Elsie.
"Have a sit, I'll throw a few things in a basket for you to take home."
Elsie stepped into the kitchen, waving Mrs. Patmore off. "No, lass, you're busy as a bee — we can fend for ourselves." She looked down at Charles and Aoife, "Are you ready? Shall we go home?"
"We haven't finished the story!" Aoife said, looking up at Charles.
"It's not as if you don't know how it ends, love." Mrs. Patmore said exasperatedly. She shook her head at Elsie, "You'd think she remembers it herself, how many times she's heard it."
"What story is that?" Elsie said, walking over to the table. She stood behind Charles, placing one hand on his shoulder, her thumb caressing his neck.
"Aoife was telling us the story of her grand entrance into the mortal coil!" Charles bellowed, bouncing Aoife on his knee.
"Oh, I know that one." Elsie said. Aoife reached up and gently touched her mother's face, and Elsie turned to kiss her daughter's fingers. "That's one of my favorites."
"Mine too," Beryl said, hefting a bread tin into her arms and heading over to the stove, "One of the most blessed nights of my life, that was."
"Ma, tell me." Aoife said, reaching for Elsie. She came around the other side of them and lifted Aoife from Charles' lap, the soft weight delightful in her arms. Charles reached over to pull the chair next to him out from the table and she sat down.
Looking over Aoife's head at Charles, she sighed wistfully, "And unto us, a child was born."
"Charles Carson if you don't stop your pacing I'll banish you from this bedroom until the child is weaned!" Elsie huffed — though she was pacing about the cottage herself, she had ample reason to. Try as she might she couldn't get comfortable on the bed. Dr. Clarkson would be arriving any moment and though she knew she ought to be, she couldn't be convinced to lie down. Charles, overwhelemed and concerned, followed her around as she paced, herding her into the bedroom like a shetland sheepdog.
"Shouldn't you be — on the bed, Elsie?" He said, wringing his hands, "Isn't that how — you—" His words failed him — he didn't know the first thing about what was about to transpire in this room, and he was wise enough to close his mouth before he was accused of supposing he did.
"Stop keekin' at me, Charles!" Elsie moaned, pressing her palm against the wall.
Charles just stared at her — as soon as the Gaelic of her youth began to flow from her mouth, he knew he was in trouble. He held his hands up in surrender, "I'll gladly cease keeking at you if you tell me what it means for one to keek!"
Dropping her hand and instead pressing them against her lower back, Elsie shook her head apologetically, "I'm sorry — I'm a bit radge."
He blinked, "It's — well, it's all right. What should I do — or I should say, what would you like for me to do?"
Elsie exhaled sharply, "Sit doon 'n' haud yer wheesht!"
Baffled, and no closer to understanding what she was saying, Charles lowered himself onto the bed, his mouth still agape. She turned to him, one hand coming up to press against her forehead, "Shut yer geggy, Charles."
Managing to translate, he quickly snapped his mouth closed with a dull clink of his teeth. He watched as she took a few steps into the room, hands at the small of her back. She'd barely made it a foot across the room before her body stiffened, curving over in a twist of pain. He felt like a fool.
"Closer together aren't they?" Beryl said, coming into the room — a tea tray in hand and a few cloths draped over her arm. She set the tea tray down and threw one of the damp rags over her shoulder, taking the other in her hand and approaching Elsie. She helped her to straighten up and dabbed at her temples.
Elsie sighed gratefully. "Aye — has Dr. Clarkson come yet?"
Beryl shook her head, "Where's the pain now — in yer back, still?"
Elsie nodded, "Aye, — I cannae sit, lie doon —" Her hand reached out to grip Beryl's forearm. "I don't think I'd be relieved if I were dead."
Charles looked up at her in horror, but when he saw Mrs. Patmore laugh and wrap an arm round Elsie, he relaxed a bit.
"If the baby's leaning back than you've to lean forward." Beryl said as walked over to the bed and grabbed one of the afghans, spreading it out in front of the fireplace, which smoldered. "Now get down on all fours,"
Elsie looked at her incredulously, but Beryl just shrugged, "Or you can stay upright and ache — suit yourself."
Charles looked up at them both — of course, neither woman looked to him, it was almost as though they'd forgotten he was there at all. Finally, heaving a sigh, Elsie acquiesced and started to bunch up the skirt of her nightdress.
"Come on then, Mr. Carson, help her down." Beryl said, gesturing to him. Feeling relieved at having something to do, he leapt up and raced over, taking one arm as Beryl took Elsie's other. "Easy does it," she cooed, and together they lowered Elsie down onto her knees. She looked up at Beryl, her face flushing.
"I'd think you a wench for this if you weren't so good to me, Beryl Patmore."
Beryl laughed, "When have I ever led you astray, love?"
That was evidence enough for Charles, but Elsie still seemed a bit hesitant as she walked her hands forward, her belly — taut with a contraction—shifting with her. Beryl walked around to the front of her and produced a feather pillow from the bed, which she offered for Elsie to rest her forearms on. She stepped back and waited. After a moment, Elsie looked up at Beryl, her face relaxed and glowing.
"My God," she said, "How did you know that'd work?"
Beryl shrugged, "Same thing happened to my sister — you just have to move about and get the babe to move off a bit." She turned to Charles, "Go on then, get down there—put a little counter-pressure on her lower back."
Charles blinked, "I — on the floor?"
"No, Mr. Carson, on the ceiling." Beryl said, rolling her eyes. From the blanket, Elsie chuckled. The sound of it calmed Charles immensely.
"Charles, if it's too much for you why don't you step outside and see if Dr. Clarkson's here." Elsie said, exhaling smoothly, "I'll be all right."
He nodded, grateful for permission to leave — he didn't quite know what to do with himself and he supposed that his tension in the room was palpable.
"Well, you're in good hands — I'll—I'll just be outside. If you need me."
Beryl came over and took his hand, patting it affectionately. "You're doing all right, Mr. Carson—but help yourself to a little air, would ya?"
He took his hand from her and nodded as he headed for the door, closing it softly behind him. When he'd gone, Elsie groaned loudly from the floor. Turning to look down at her, Beryl raised her eyebrows.
"He got outta here in two shakes of a lamb's tail, didn't he?" She laughed, hiking up her skirts and kneeling down next to Elsie, "Men sure like us to think we need them — but sometimes we're better off when they're tucked up in a corner somewhere, outta the way."
Elsie looked up at her and smiled, "I'm glad you're here — and I know he is too."
Beryl pet Elsie's back, "If he thinks he is now just wait 'till Dr. Clarkson gets here and we have to get that baby out."
Charles had, perhaps, never been so relieved to see Dr. Clarkson, his leather satchel in hand, coming up over the hill to their cottage. He practically scurried out the door to greet him.
"Well, hello Mr. Carson." He said, tipping his hat, "How are things?"
"Well —I'm not sure, entirely, Dr. Clarkson. I think they're—well, as to be expected. Mrs. Patmore has come up from the big house — she's with her now—"
"Ah, left the Crawleys to fend for themselves?" Dr. Clarkson joked, nudging Carson. Charles swallowed, having not considered that.
"Oh — well, I hope she hasn't left them in a lurch — though, I'm terribly relieved that she's here, you see—I haven't —which is to say, I don't know—"
Dr. Clarkson laughed, his brogue as thick as Elsie's had been earlier, "Mr. Carson, calm down. I was joshing you. I should have thought better on it — nothing so fragile as the nerves of a new father."
Leading Dr. Clarkson into their cottage, he rounded the corner to their bedroom and stood somewhat awkwardly in the doorway, allowing the doctor to go in first — and questioning whether or not he should follow him.
"Mrs. Carson —Mrs. Patmore, a pleasure to see you."
"And you, Dr. Clarkson." Beryl smiled, struggling to push herself up from the floor. Dr. Clarkson knelt down, replacing her beside Elsie — who turned and gave him a sheepish grin.
"I know I ought have been in bed, Dr. Clarkson." She said, her voice hushed. Her hands curled into fists and she inhaled, a contraction interrupting her.
Dr. Clarkson rested a hand on her lower back, which made Charles bristle, though he wasn't sure precisely why. "I am only to assume you are suffering from what we call back labor, Mrs. Carson."
"Oh — is that what they call it?" She said, throwing him a look.
Dr. Clarkson laughed apologetically. "Yes, I suppose it's rather obvious by this juncture — would you mind if I took a look, see how things are progressing?"
"I've to get up on the bed, then?"
"I'm afraid so — it's easier for me to examine you that way."
"Easier for him," Beryl huffed, "God forbid a woman make a man's life any more difficult than it need to be."
Settling Elsie onto the bed, she almost immediately began to cry out, the change in position resuming her previous level of pain which was only worsened by the doctor's intrusive physical exam. Charles stood in the far corner of the room, blanched.
Noticing Elsie's sudden paleness, Dr. Clarkson leaned down, "Ah — bit peely-walley?"
She nodded, grasping the bedsheets, "Aye — right coupin' like this — cannae get doon again?"
Mrs. Patmore turned to Carson, "I guess it's a good thing Dr. Clarkson's Scottish — I've half a mind to throw me hands up when she gets on like this, talking like she's out on the moors."
Charles couldn't help but laugh — it certainly was good luck that the country doctor happened to hail from the same country as his wife — what with her penchant for lapsing into her mother tongue when she was riled up.
Dr. Clarkson sighed, "Forgive me, Mrs. Carson, but I hold you to a much higher standard than that — common women give birth that way, and you're far more a lady—"
Mrs. Patmore steamed, "Well, pardon me Dr. Clarkson, I didn't realize Mrs. Carson was sitting for her coronation portrait." She huffed, "I thought she was having a baby!"
Charles shot his hand out to stifle her, "Mrs. Patmore, please."
"No, I won't stand for any lip from him. If she's hurtin' laying there like that what harm is it gonna do her to find something more comfortable? It's not like the whole town's going to see her push this baby out!"
Taken aback, Charles once again found himself feeling a bit gormless. He clapped his mouth shut and looked down at Mrs. Patmore, who was staring at Dr. Clarkson daringly.
"I don't mean to insult anyone," he began, pinching the bridge of his nose. He looked up at Charles, as if to explain further. "In medicine there are rules — protocols—as there would be in running a house, such as Downton. Now, to some extent we can make exceptions when it's fitting to do so, but Mrs. Carson is progressing well, and other than being in pain — which is to be expected — there's nothing to worry about. I don't forsee any complications and expect she will have a rather uneventful course."
"Uneventful for you—"
"Mrs. Patmore, that's quite enough." Charles coughed, "I understand, Dr. Clarkson — I know you didn't mean to say anything to make us cross."
Seething, Mrs. Patmore tightened her lips around her teeth and stormed out of the room. A few moments later they could hear her banging around in the kitchen — presumably the way the cook always blew off steam after a row.
Elsie reached up a hand to Charles, who hesitated to cross the room to take it. He looked to Dr. Clarkson for permission.
"You recall that His Lordship was present for Lady Sybil's birth." He said, opening up his leather bag, "It's become far more common for the father's to attend the births — in fact, the last of Queen Victoria's children were all born in the presence of Prince Albert."
Charles nodded, taking a few soft steps across the floor. Elsie looked up from the bed, her face contored into a grimace, and he felt his chest burn.
"Hold my hand, would you?" She said quietly, her voice strained. He lowered himself onto the bed and took her clammy hand between both of his. She relaxed a bit in his presence, and Dr. Clarkson returned to her bedside, a monaural stethoscope in his hand. He pressed the wider end gently against Elsie's belly, pressing his ear to the other and listening a moment.
"Och," she said, hissing through her teeth. She wrapped her fingers around Charles' hand and gripped it until he was quite certain she'd staunched any blood flow to the extremity at all. Charles looked down at her gravely; while he understood it was, as they say, Eve's curse for childbirth to be painful, it certainly didn't mean he wanted it to be so. Not where his wife was concerned.
Dr. Clarkson studied Elsie's face for a moment and then beckoned Charles away from the bed and led him to a far corner of the room.
"Mr. Carson, I think I may have something to offer her to help offset the pain — it was used quite widely by Queen Victoria in her later pregnancies and we've seen quite a bit of success with it in city hospitals. I don't mean to boast but the physician who discovered it was Scottish himself."
Charles perked up, "Oh — well, what is it?"
"It's a chemical — something that she can breath in. It's called chloroform. It's somewhat like anesthesia."
"Anesthesia — but, wouldn't that put her to sleep?"
"Not entirely," Dr. Clarkson explained, "She would be, perhaps, a bit discombobulated, but she would feel marked improvement in her pain. And she would still be able to converse with us."
"And it's safe?"
"As long as the dosage is correct. It's not so much a concern of safety, Mr. Carson, as it is — religious tolerance."
Charles furrowed his brow, "I don't know what you mean."
"The clergy are quite against it — they believe, of course, that it is a woman's duty, the curse of Eve, to experience pain during childbirth. Now, from a medical perspective, I'd have to say I disagree — but I wouldn't want to overstep my boundaries and presume that I would be allowed to go against your religious beliefs. In situations such as this we do usually let the husband have the final say."
Charles stuttered, "I see—well, neither of us is Catholic. I don't think she'd think it sacreligious. She'd be more concerned that it would harm the child."
"I can assure you — with careful monitoring, no harm will come to her or the baby."
Charles looked over Dr. Clarkson's shoulder to the bed. Mrs. Patmore had returned and was holding Elsie's hand, wiping her face with a wet cloth. Even from across the room he could hear her low moans, a discordant hum that almost made the floors shake.
"Very well, Dr. Clarkson. If it is safe — and you think she would be more comfortable—I suppose I can allow you to proceed."
"Thank heavens for that," Elsie mused. She looked down at Aoife, who had fallen fast asleep in her arms listening to the tale of her birth. Elsie hushed her quietly, leaning her cheek against her daughter's soft hair.
"I still think you'd have been better off listening to me," Mrs. Patmore said, reaching for the kettle she'd put on which had begun to whistle demandingly, "I think, if you'd done as I suggested, you wouldn't have needn't it at all."
"But it was marvelous," Elsie crooned, "Makes you feel like you haven't a care in the world."
Mrs. Patmore scoffed, bringing the kettle over to the table to refill the teapot, "Might that have just been the joy of a beautiful baby?"
Elsie looked over at Charles, who had been watching her intently. She blinked away from his gaze, kissing Aoife's hair softly.
"Aye — that too."
Charles stood on the opposite side of the bedroom door, his ear pressed up against the wood. As soon as Elsie had started to push, she'd demanded he leave — though her pain had subsided somewhat from the dose of chloroform — a damp cloth pressed over her nose and mouth—she became quite suddenly wracked with the realization that she wasn't certain she wanted him to see her so indisposed.
He opened the door just a crack and looked inside — Mrs. Patmore was at the head of the bed, holding Elsie's arm, and Dr. Clarkson sat at the far end, his hand under the sheet of the bed. His other hand rested atop her belly, his gaze steadily holding hers.
"Good work, old girl. Go on then, give us another."
Elsie sat up on her elbows and brayed, huffing out a few short breaths.
"Nicely done." Dr. Clarkson commended, patting her stomach, "Take a good breath and give us one more —"
Elsie turned to Mrs. Patmore who flapped the rag of chloroform over her face, letting her have a drag on it before pulling it away. As she did, Elsie's head lolled to the side and she saw the crack in the door — her eyes met Charles'.
"Charles," she mouthed, her hand pushing the rag away. Mrs. Patmore followed her gaze to the doorway and grinned when she saw Charles standing there.
"Come in then, Mr. Carson." She said, "You haven't missed it."
He pushed the door open slowly and it creaked — the sound of it roused Elsie and she reached for him, rallying for the last efforts required of her. Dr. Clarkson wiggled his hand under the covers again and nodded to them.
"All right then — this one ought to do it,"
She gave Charles a look— was it excitement, love? The glimmer in her eyes was like the way she had looked at him that first night, when he'd swept her up into his arms and carried her across the threshhold. It was the way she'd looked at him that day, in her bedroom, looking for a devilish little mouse. A little mouse that led them to a stolen kiss . . .
He felt his eyes sting with tears and though he was humiliated to think he might be crying, in the next moment he could do nothing to stop the tears from coming.
In the quiet of the room, the small cry of a baby rose up — echoed by Elsie's soft whimpering beside him. He turned his head to see Dr. Clarkson placing the squalling infant onto Elsie's chest — a girl, her eyes wide and blue like her mother's — and a sprig of red hair atop her head.
"Oh, she's beautiful — look at her hair!" Mrs. Patmore cried, her own tears freely flowing as she pat Elsie's hand. Elsie freed her arms up to reach down and gently touch the baby's skin. Almost as if the infant knew her touch at once, her tiny hand reached out and clamped round her mother's finger.
Elsie mewled, looking up at Charles. "Look what we've done," She marveled, tipping the babe in her arms so that Charles could better see her face.
He beamed, shaking his head rather in disbelief. There she was; his daughter, a perfect amalgam of his full pout and her mother's eyes.
"Aoife —it means radiant." Elsie said, "Shall we call her Aoife?"
He said the name quietly to himself, his heart skipping in his chest. There were no words for the moment and he felt no need to give it any. Instead, he watched as the baby nuzzled against Elsie's chest, rooting for her breast. His wife's long, elegant fingers brushed the tufts of auburn hair atop the baby's head and he shyly placed his hand—which seemed unspeakably large now—over hers. She laced her fingers through his, gripping them tightly, and as he leaned down to kiss her, he felt her supple lips spread into a smile against his.
"Oh, time passes on quickly, it does." Mrs. Patmore said, yanking the now toasty loaf of bread from the oven, "I can't hardly believe how big she's gotten — look at her! Seems like just yesterday you were walking around the kitchen with her nestled on your shoulder and swaddled in one of me sister's afghans."
Elsie sighed, her cheek pressed against Aoife's head. She slept soundly against her chest, her long legs dangling off the edge of Elsie's lap. "She's growing like a weed, she is."
Charles stifled a yawn and took out his pocket watch. He squinted at it.
"Shall we go home, then? Get the little cherub to bed?"
Elsie stood, hoisting Aoife up with her. She turned to Beryl, "Thank you kindly for the story hour, Mrs. Patmore."
She smiled, wrapping a warm loaf of bread up and placing it into a small wicker hand basket, "Oh, you know I love that girl like she was my own." She said, nodding toward Aoife, "Here, take one of these home for your tea- semolina this time."
She passed the basket across Elsie to Charles, the sweet smell rising up and making her realize just how hungry she was. She thanked Beryl and she and Charles stepped out into the night. She tightened her grasp around Aoife, covering her daughter's ear with her hand to keep out the cold chill in the air. Charles walked next to her, the basket over his arm, and as they made their way up the hill to their cottage, he placed one hand at the small of her back.
"Charles, I think we ought to have Aoife schooled in the village." She said, the frostbitten ground crunching beneath her feet. It was autumn and though proper snowfall was still many weeks away, they had already seen a frost or two, the earth heaving up in tiny hills along the path they walked each day.
"What's brought this on?" He said, sniffing against the cold.
"I overheard the young ladies during their lessons today — Lady Mary's got the idea in her head, and rightfully so I suppose, that she'll be Countess of Grantham one day."
"I don't see the trouble with that — she's certainly not mistaken."
"Well, perhaps not but she's taken to convincing Aoife that she's to be her Lady's Maid."
"Elsie, I'm sure it's merely child's play. I hardly think young Lady Mary is capable of making any such suggestion out of offense."
Biting her lip — which had already grown dry against the cold night air—Elsie placed her thoughts carefully. "I'm not so sure it's all so innocent, Charles. Lady Mary's got Aoife trained to wait on her hand and foot and Aoife calls her m'lady."
"I'm sure they're only playing, Elsie. I don't think you need to get quite so tightly wound over it."
Elsie stopped, "Well I am, Charles."
He sighed, "What do you propose for a solution? Send her to school in the village, then?" He huffed, "How do you suggest we orchestrate such a schedule — with both of us being up and our presence required at the big house at dawn I hardly see how it would be possible for her to get into the village for her lessons."
Elsie pursed her lips — she hadn't considered the logistics of such a proposal, but now that the conversation had started her mind filled instantly. "I don't think it would be impossible — not between the two of us."
Scoffing, Charles straightened his back, "It would be up to you, Elsie. As I have agreed to take on the position of Butler at Downton Abbey I can hardly go back on my word — nor would I want to. As you know that will leave the bulk of the child-rearing to you." He cocked his head slightly, "As it ought to be, seeing that you are the child's mother."
She stepped back, covering Aoife's head with hers, almost as though she'd been slapped. He was hardly wrong to say it, but something in his voice made her recoil in disgust. Had he never considered that she, too, worked hard and sought advancement in her position at Downton? Had it ceased to matter to him once she succeeded in bearing him a child — had her aspirations ever mattered at him at all?
"Are you implying that I ought to leave service?"
He threw his hands up, "It seems like the only solution."
"Hardly is! We could hire someone to come on, a governess."
Charles tutted, "Hire someone? With all our lagniappe income? Last time I checked our ledgers—"
She took a daring step toward him, her voice edged, "Oh — that last time youchecked our ledgers — and when was that, Charles Carson? You know right well I keep track of our accounts — even before we were married! Half the time the only reason I talked to you back then was to check your ledgers."
Even in the shadow of the path she could see his eyes narrow at her. Charles Carson was not a hateful man, but when provoked, he had a temper that could cut sharper than a knife — and leave just as jagged a scar. He didn't speak, he just stared her down — which she took on as a challenge to continue, throwing him another jab.
"Did it ever cross yer mind that I might want to advance at Downton as well? That I came to Downton for another reason other than to be seduced by you over a sherry glass?"
"You won't speak to me that way—"
"Won't I, Mr. Carson? Ever since I gave you a bairn it's as though you've forgotten who I am — I am Elsie Hughes. I came to Downton Abbey to be Lady's Maid to the Countess of Grantham. I am good at my work, and valued by the Crawley family — so much as you, even if I wasn't running around downstairs when I was still in nappies —" Aoife began to stir in her arms in response to her mother's raised voice. Without missing a word of her speech, Elsie's hand came up to soothe the child back to sleep, "Perhaps I want to be housekeeper — did ye ever think of that?"
"Perhaps you did — but now you've a child to think of—"
"I've a child!" She said, "I've a child and you've a career in service to nurture, is that it?"
He didn't speak for a moment, just raised his chin and looked up at the night sky — an endless canvas of stars, the punctured darkness and tiny points of light seeming to loom maliciously above them.
"I've a family to support — just as my father did."
Elsie's lips curled up into a sarcastic grin. "Just like your father, aye? Must be why you reminisce about him in such fond terms — how he'd knock you upside the head for slouching, aye? A swift kick in the arse for giving cheek?" She was breathing heavily now, her voice rising, "How he'd slap your poor Ma clean across her pretty face if she didn't have dinner on the table when he come home from the big house at night, expecting to be waited on hand and food after she'd spent all day waitin' on everybody else!"
Her hair had begun to come undone, and she blew it out of her face as she turned away from him, heading down the path. "God help us both, child, if his aim is to be his father."
Elsie lowered Aoife into her bed and tucked the covers tight around her. Love blossomed in her chest whenever she looked at the child; it had since the moment she'd first set eyes on her. It was a love that she knew was special between mother and child, and while she revered it, there was still an aching need in her to be — something more. While the noble work of raising children was, supposedly, the answer to this need, she felt somehow incomplete — it was what made her so cruel and defensive with Charles. The guilt, at times, consumed her — and if not consumed, then transformed her into a bitter woman — and she knew, a bitter mother. She tried to push it from her mind because it shamed her deeply. Her poor mother would be grief-stricken to think she had raised a girl who would ever feel so unfulfilled by marriage and children. And what about the Crawleys, who had been so generous to her and Charles? Making allowances for them — was she ungrateful? It pained her to think that Lady Grantham would think her taking advantage of her kindness, her generosity — her faith.
She pulled the bedcovers up and tucked them beneath Aoife's chin. She moved to get up from the bed, but felt Aoife's hand reach for her. Lowering herself back down, she closed her eyes, humming a soft lullaby under her breath as she coiled a strand of Aoife's hair around her finger.
And Charles — oh, her sweet man. What would he think of her now? She blinked, feeling hot tears fall against her cheeks. She'd said such cruel things to him— and with no reason. He'd only told her the truth, hadn't he? Her expectations, her desires were the perverse ones, not his.
She heard the front door close — he'd returned. Her stomach lurched. Without even taking her coat off, she crawled under the covers next to Aoife, wrapping the child in her arms. Even in sleep, the girl instinctively burrowed into Elsie's embrace, her tiny snores rising up into the quiet room. Elsie cried softly, praying she wouldn't wake her, and turned towards the window. By the time Charles pushed Aoife's bedroom door open, she'd finally cried herself to sleep.
He didn't want to wake her, certainly not disturb Aoife at such a late hour, but the hurt was still raw that he couldn't allow her to fade away from him, not this time. Not after what she'd said. Did she really believe it? Think him capable of being the tyrant that his father had been? It nearly sickened him to think it — to think that she was sitting idly by waiting for the day he grabbed Aoife's arm a little too rough, or whipped the back of his hand across her face. His throat burned — he wasn't that man and he never would be, but what did it matter if she didn't believe it?
He pushed the door open, it's creaking announcing him before his footfalls. Sitting at the foot of the bed, he placed a hand gently on her shoulder, shaking her ever so slightly to coax her from her sleep. She startled, looking over her shoulder at him, wide-eyed in the dark.
"Come to bed," he said gently. She balked at first, but as he slid his hand along her shoulder to her neck and up to cup her face in his, she nodded and quietly slid out of Aoife's bed.
They walked wordlessly from her bedroom to theirs, Charles turning down the gas lamps along the way. She stood shivering in the dark, watching as he carefully shut the door to their room, uncertain if he was ready to turn and face her. Her tears came again, and she shuddered out a breath. At the sound, he went to her, pulling her tightly against him. Relief flooded through her and she wept against his chest. He pushed her away, gripping her by the shoulders. Imploring her with his gaze, his mouth hunted for words momentarily before smashing into hers, kissing her hard. She reached up and held his head against her, desperate to feel him. He pushed her back toward the bed, fumbling to nudge his hand up beneath her skirt.
As she fell against the covers, she whimpered—a sound somewhere between grief and pleasure—and he ran a hand up her thigh and unhooked her garter, his thumb running along the curve of her hipbone. She reached down and grabbed his wrist, and for a moment he demurred, thinking that she didn't want him — but when she had his hand in hers, she brought it between her thighs and pressed it firmly against them. He looked up to find her gaze, but her eyes were tightly closed, tears hovering in the corners of them. Leaning up, he kissed them away, and she rose up to meet his mouth again, her breath unsteady as she cried.
He laced his fingers around her knickers and pulled them down, letting them fall to the floor. One hand bracing his weight against the bed, he used the other to undo his belt and push down his slacks, which fell between his legs and the bed, left to wrinkle. As he held himself above her, she let her eyes flutter open. They were the bluest when they were wet, and though he hated to see her cry, he was nonetheless stunned by their incandescence. He scouted her face, searching it for a glimmer of hope as he joined with her — and her soft exhalation, the way that her body welcomed him, pacified him for the moment. He rocked smoothly against her, and she writhed beneath him, her arms lacing around his neck and pulling him down, pressing his head tightly against her breast. He kissed their fullness, the silk of her skin pressed against his stubbly cheeks — he instinctively pulled his face back, not wanting to scratch her.
He felt a low moan rise up in her chest, and he let the sound carry him until they both road along the crest of his release. She bucked, her entire body tensing against him; the small whinny in her voice which he knew was her call of felicity bringing him to a deep sigh. She held him tight against her as they gulped for breath; she inhaling his exhalations until they were together in synchronous respirations, a lover's chorus.
Glimmering with sleepy lust, she blinked the remaining tears from her eyes and ran her fingers through his hair. He lifted his face from her chest and regarded her a moment before gently kissing the upturned corners of her mouth.
"Do you know how fine you are to me, Charles Carson?" She purred, hooking her finger onto his bottom lip. He reached up and clasped her hand turning his face to kiss it. He held her cool fingers against his mouth and, from somewhere deep within him, bubbled up a quiet sob.
"I don't know how to fix this," He said quietly, holding her hand against his cheek, "Which—is a prospect I find terrifying."
"Oh, Charles" She murmured, wiping his tears away with her thumbs as she held his face.
"My father wouldn't have either—" He said, his voice hushed, "And I think perhaps that's what terrifies me the most."
"You are not your father," She implored, "I am so ashamed of my words. I was so wrong to say those things—"
"I don't think you were, I think it was a warning. One that I would be wise to heed."
"Charles," She squeaked, "You aren't your father. You won't be, ever, I know that. I know you'd die before you'd hurt me — or Aoife—the way that he hurt you." She let her finger grace his earlobe, caressing it lightly between her thumb and forefinger.
"I don't know what to do, Elsie." He said, "I've — I've let you down."
"No, you haven't — you haven't let me down, Charles."
"I — I just want Aoife to have a good life."
"Oh, but she does Charles— and she will. "
"Perhaps," he said, swallowing his tears, "I've confused having a good life with — having an esteemed one."
Elsie softened, kissing his forehead before pulling him down to her chest. He cried quietly against her as she stroked his hair lightly.
"I think you've just spent your whole life worrying about what makes theCrawley's happy, what their life has demanded, trying to anticipate their every need and whim. You're spent all these years playing by their rules, by your father's rules, so you wouldn't have to hurt." She kissed his hair, "But what makes you happy, Charles?"
"I'm not sure I've ever known."
She softened, "But you have, Charles. You can't tell me that polishing silver is more appealing to you than seeing that little girl smile when she looks up and sees her Da's come home. That you'd rather puzzle over a wine decanter than watch that little lass puddle jumping in the garden —"
"I — Elsie, I don't know. I feel caught between —"
She sighed, "So do I."
"You do?"
Elsie nodded, pulling herself out from underneath him. She sighed, tucking her legs up under her and rubbing her tired eyes on the heel of her hands.
"I've been sick with worry over it. Thinking myself so damnable for wanting anything more than you — than Aoife."
"I know your work is important to you. It's one of the reasons I feel in love with you, in fact." He leaned over, needing to touch her again. He placed his hand on her thigh and caressed it gently as he spoke, "Your capability, dedication, your finesse — it marvels me still. I nearly couldn't work up the nerve to ask you to marry me, knowing how much you loved—love—your work."
"I love you, Charles. You mustn't ever doubt that."
"As I you — but how do we reconcile between our love and our duty—our purpose?"
She shrugged, brushing a cowlick off his forehead, "I don't know, love."
He sighed, running his fingers along her forearm, feeling the gooseflesh it gave her. "I never meant to suggest that you — that you should be satisfiedmerely by your position as Aoife's mother." He said, his eyes falling to his lap. He pulled his hand away from her. "If you — if you want to be Housekeeper, you ought to be. I think you'd be marvelous at it."
She smiled, "Thank you for that."
"I mean it, Elsie. Your aspiration is not out of reach."
"Well, maybe it wasn't when I was younger but —"
He shot her a look, "It wasn't then and it's not now. We'll manage. Whatever happens, we'll manage."
She reached out, taking his hand back and squeezing it gently. "You're a wonderful father—you do know that, don't you Charles?"
He shrugged, "I would hope to be."
She crawled across the bed and cuddled against him. He enveloped her in his arms and let his chin rest atop her head. They both sighed contentedly. Outside, a lonesome cicada sang through the cold wind. No doubt it would succumb to the frost by morning, but for the moment, the lilting sound of its spirit was tantamount to the din of two lovers holding one another tenderly against the void of night; with only the promise of daybreak to still their disquietude.
The room was warm with early sunlight and like a flower, Elsie found herself turning toward the window even in half-sleep. Charles' musky morning scent tickled her nose and she smiled to herself.
Suddenly there was a large crash of metal from outside their bedroom door, and both of them shot up from the bed, each stumbling over one another to reach for their dressing gowns. In his haste and still-slumbering mind, Charles managed to slip on Elsie's — which barely fit across his bare shoulders—and she was left to wrap an afghan around her, barely covering the chemise she wore beneath. He threw open the door to their bedroom and charged out into the hallway. She scurried behind him, their bare feet thudding against the hardwood. They rounded the corner into the kitchen, toward the sound, and both exhaled in relief when they saw Aoife.
Wearing one of Elsie's aprons, miles to big for her, she stood atop a chair at the kitchen table. She wore a stern face, her arms wildly gesticulating, sending clouds of flour up into the air around her. It hovered, like dust, in the light through the kitchen window. Charles made to step in, to reprimand her, but Elsie reached out and stopped him, her hand upon his arm.
"Wait," she whispered, watching their daughter.
"It's my kitchen!" Aoife said to her imaginary league of scullery mades. She hadn't noticed her parents in the hall, and her game of make-believe was in full swing. "Now stop dilly-dallying and get to work on those pies!" She picked up a wooden spoon and stuck it into a bowl, filled with whatever she'd pulled out of the cupboards, "Oh for heaven's sake, Mirabel, you're making a pie not standin' afor Parliament!"
Charles stifled a laugh, "What—is she?"
Elsie's fingers came to her lips, hiding her smile, "Oh my. . ."
"Elsie, my dear, I don't think we have to worry about Aoife's game with Lady Mary." He slipped a hand onto her lower back, "Though, we may want to reconsider leaving her in Mrs. Patmore's charge."
They watched as Aoife stomped down from the chair and made her way over to the oven, pretending to open it. She tossed a rag over her shoulder and put her hands formidably on her hips. Out of the corner of her eye she saw her parents, and her stature shrunk with the anticipation of reprimend. She looked at them sheepishly.
"Good morning, Aoife." Elsie laughed, playfully crossing her arms. She stepped into the kitchen and surveyed: flour, sugar and a few broken eggs spattered the table top. As she moved closer, she saw that Aoife had a smear of butter on her cheek.
"You've been busy, looks like." Elsie said, leaning down to wipe the smidge from Aoife's cheek. "Is that Mirabel going to get her act together in time for luncheon?"
Realizing her mother was willing to play, Aoife's face lit up. "I don't know, Ma, she's impossible."
Elsie laughed, "Well, how about I lend you a hand— just tell me what's left to do. I'm no Mrs. Patmore but I can whip up a thing or two."
Aoife took Elsie's hand and lead her over to the table, chattering wildly. Elsie looked up and caught Charles' eye across the room. He smiled and, hands tucked thoughtfully behind his back, joined them in the kitchen.
"Mrs. Carson," He said — Elsie looked at him expectantly. He shook his head lightly, "No, darling, not you — our fine cook here."
Aoife looked up, smiling. "Yes, Mr. Carson?" She said, slapping her hands impatiently down on the table.
Carson tried to keep from laughing at his daughter's spot-on imitation of Mrs. Patmore's frequent annoyance with him. Perhaps Aoife could have a career on the stage with her clever antics.
"Shall I set the table?" He asked, straightening up and putting on his best butler voice. Aoife pursed her lips thoughtfully, then nodded.
"And you'd better get on it, Mr. Carson. Don't want to keep them waiting."
He bowed, giving Elsie a wink as he raised his head. Then, he turned and headed for the cupboard, pulling out their nicest china.
"Come here, love" Elsie said, reaching to retie Aoife's apron, which had begun to come undone. Aoife paused long enough for her mother to tie a knot, then turned toward her, the make-believe paused for the moment.
"Ma?" She whispered, "Can I cook in the big house when I'm growed up?"
"You can do whatever you please, Aoife."
"I know that," Aoife said, giving her mother bit of cheek, "But I don't want to be Lady's Maid." She curled her nose up.
"Oh no?" Elsie said, a bit taken-aback, "You don't want to be like your Ma?"
Aoife hugged Elsie around the waist, "I want to be pretty like you and wear big hats when we go to town, but I don't want to do Mary's hair."
Elsie looked up at Charles, who was standing next to the table, plates in hand. "But you wouldn't mind being in the kitchen? Cooking all day?"
"Not if I'm in charge," Aoife said, pressing her fists definitely against her hips, she turned back to Charles, pointing at him, "Hop to it, Mr. Carson."
Eyebrows flaring, Charles huffed out a laugh. "Straight away, Mrs. Carson." He threw Elsie a glance and she smiled back at him lovingly. Not quite ready to leave the previous night's conversation behind, she stepped around the table toward him, rising up on her tiptoes so that she could wrap her arms around his neck and press her lips against his ear.
"I think I fell in love with you again when you became her Da, you know. Sometimes you look at her and it's like you're seeing her for the first time — you get such a sweet face."
He smiled, hugging her closer to him. Looking over her shoulder, he chuckled at Aoife as she pressed her hands against the floured table; leaving tiny handprints behind. Perhaps she felt his gaze, as she lifted her chin, giving him a bright grin. He felt his heart tug; she looked more and more like Elsie every day.
Aoife turned back to her play and he held Elsie close, letting his eyes flutter closed. Around them he heard the rise of Aoife's giggles and outside, the low coo of a mourning dove. The sweet orchestra crescendoed around him as Elsie's soft sigh filled his ear. How daft I am, he thought, for thinking that home was a place with four walls and a stone floor.
