Chapter 6
That first night she slept in her old room in the servant´s corridor he slept on the other side of the wall soundly and deeply for the first time in five years. She was hurting and she had been hurt, probably in ways he couldn´t even phantom, but at least she was safe now. And even though his heart ached painfully every time he watched as her shoulders tightened and the look in her eyes became withdrawn as if she was locking herself up in a place far in her mind where no one could reach her, a deep sense of peace enfolded him from the moment he knew she was home again. And from that sense of peace stemmed a hope that began to guide his actions.
She had kept her promise and continued to honour the memory of her husband. She never told him anything of what had transpired between them. She didn´t have to. He didn´t need words to know what had happened to her. He discovered the truth slowly and painfully as the months wore on.
One afternoon, early after her return, she had come to his pantry, while he was busy making a selection of wines for a dinner party that evening. He had been busy, wanting to get the job done as soon as possible and she had been standing rather close to him, closer then she normally did. While they talked he continued with the task at hand, his pace swift and hurried, his hands moving quickly.
When he had turned around suddenly to check the label on one of the bottles, raising his hand to pick it up, she had stepped away from him in a sudden flash of panic, her hands shielding her face as if she was trying to protect herself.
He had stood there, frozen to the spot, watching how she took a deep breath to steady herself, her face flushing in mortification. The sudden reflex confirming what he had suspected, what he had known the entire time.
He had begun to suspect something, when on one of the first evenings in his pantry he had offered her a glass from the wine that was left from the dinner party. Her eyes had widened, her posture had become rigid and her breathing had become short and shaky. He could hear the wheels in her head turning as she thought of a reason to decline, so he beat her to it, telling her casually that he actually rather preferred a cup of tea at this late hour. She had calmed a little after that and from that night on he had unceremoniously poured the leftover wine through the drain.
He was determined he would no longer keep his feelings hidden. As by some miracle she had returned to him. Wounded and broken perhaps, but she had returned. And she would know she was loved. He never told her, he didn´t need the words to tell her, but he showed her in countless little gestures and actions. When she came down in the morning, her face grey and her eyes red he´d know she hadn´t slept a wink and that the little sleep she´d had, had been tormented by nightmares. On those days he brought her coffee in her sitting room after breakfast, just to get her though the morning and convinced her to take a nap in the afternoon when most of the bustle had died down.
When she came down with a nasty cold in the autumn he bought her eucalyptus balm, ignoring her protests. He accompanied her as she visited William´s grave every Sunday after church without fail.
He touched her as often as he could. For his part he needed the constant reassurance, the confirmation that she had really returned. At first he was very, very careful, not daring to go beyond brushing his hand across her arm as she stood near him. She had tensed the first few times, but gradually she had relaxed when he was near her. She stood closer to him and no longer startled when he placed his hand briefly on her back as he let her enter a room first.
One morning, as they were walking home from church she had slid her hand around his elbow of her accord, their shoulders brushing as they continued to walk. He had covered her gloved hand with his and had rejoiced in her trust in him. Not a word was spoken between them.
He remembered the first time he´d heard her laugh, really laugh again. On his afternoon off he had agreed to watch over Charlotte as Anna needed to go to Ripon. She had walked into the servant´s hall, the little girl perched on her arm already looking around her eagerly.
´Yes, there´s grandpa Carson, aren´t you happy to see him?´ Anna cooed, eliciting a delighted giggle from the baby. He had taken the infant from her, catching Elsie´s eyes as he rocked Charlotte on his arm, noticing she was smiling genuinely for the first time after she´d returned, all the tension leaving her face. She melted in the presence of the baby and after Anna had left they had fussed over the little girl all afternoon. After that day, trying to get her to smile became his first priority.
He had found a surprising ally in Isobel Crawley. He encouraged the tentative friendship that started to form between the two of them as much as he could, realizing that her eyes looked just that little less haunted after Mrs Crawley had come over for a lengthy cup of tea.
She healed slowly and he silently triumphed every time she hit another milestone. One evening, after a dinner party, she came to his pantry, a small smile playing around her lips. ´Was there any of that wine left?´ she asked casually.
´There is,´ he had answered, searching her face for any signs of apprehension or fear and founding none.
´It seems like a shame to waste it.´
She had returned to Downton at the end of summer. It took him all four seasons to bring Elsie truly home, but as they strolled over the grounds on another warm summer evening, he knew that he had.
´You´re looking at me,´ she stated, looking studiously at the path in front of her.
´I am,´ he agreed, equally solemnly.
She didn´t say anything after that, but let her hand drop to her side, allowing it to brush his´ before she tentatively slid her hand in his.
He intertwined his fingers with hers, pulling her a fraction closer to his side. No words were spoken between them. But he knew she had come back.