Calling Stumps Chapter 2—Retired: Hurt, a downton abbey fanfic

Calling Stumps: Chapter 2— Retired— Hurt.

A/N: Well! I didn't see this chapter coming either! I have been quite loath to return to writing anything Chelsie at all, because I just do not want to ruin that Happily Ever After note that I believe I left The Acquisition of Memories with. Romance needs to stop right on that little peak of pure bliss with rosy visions of a perfect future for all left on permanent display. Moving beyond that means that this little piece here is a different type of story all together —perhaps it is more an ongoing love story now, filled with all of the drama and angst and hurts of the lives we lead. I am not sure how prepared I am for that style of writing, or how far I should go on with this sort of thing for Chelsie. The last chapter in Calling Stumps did not really involve them per se— it was a Thomas and Charles moment. So, I am still reticent about the need to post this here at all… But, here goes, anyway— because it is finished and I do think it is a little study of Charles and Elsie that endeavours to move them into and out of new spaces and aims to see them both to new levels of personal growth and understanding— of themselves and of their partner. And so, I do hope that this somehow lifts itself out of pure fluff-dom to be a worthy piece about the depth of human connections and some parts of the human condition. Because that is why I write, really— to try to understand. So, perhaps there really is more I need to learn from these two old boobies and their various trials. I don't know…

I do reference things in here (turns of phrase, moments shared between Charles and Elsie) that were first developed in the aforementioned honeymoon fiction. I have tried to make this piece stand-alone through what I have described of these moments here. But again, I hate having to do this whole 'reprise of facts' thing— it is clunky and normally annoying to read, for new and regular readers alike (Remember this in at least the first four books of Harry Potter, that still assumed that many people had not yet bothered to read the previous books in the series?— great for kids... I guess, but very tedious for me :/— maybe a bit like my author notes, hey?!) So, I do apologise if I have fallen into this reprise trap with my writing and I would actually recommend you read my version of Chelsie post-wedding adventures in The Acquisition of Memories first, because I do take Chelsie into non-canon places and present their characters based much more on what we saw developing in them by the end of S4.

Anyway, reviews are always cherished and often reread by me when I need some sort of affirmation in my life. I thank you in advance if you can spare the time to leave one. (Fine words indeed from a DAFF reader who is sporadic with her reviews at best— I know!).

Kind regards,

BorneToFlow. : )

oOOo

Chapter 2: Retired — Hurt.

Early Evening. Saturday 24th July, 1926—After the Abbey versus Village annual cricket match.

Lavender steam twirls and drifts across the clear water's surface.

'Come, Charles. Let's get you out of these sweaty clothes.' Elsie directs him as she adjusts the flow of the spigot of their bathtub up in their new shared rooms at the Abbey. Elsie finishes vigorously rubbing a substantially sized rosemary sprig between her hands to release the pungent oils and drops it into the slowly rising toasty warm water before she turns back towards her sun blest and grubby husband. Having overseen the last of the return of the crockery and glassware from the refreshment tent at the end of the annual Abbey versus the Village cricket match, Elsie remembered this little post-match ritual Charles had told her about on their recent honeymoon, and so she made a point of clipping a decent sized sprig of the herb, plus some fresh lavender flowers with the scissors on her chatelaine from the shrubs that line the servant's entrance courtyard wall. Downstairs is all in hand for the evening, with Barrow, Baxter and Daisy taking care of the final light supper for the family and the staff before locking it all down and trudging off to their own weary rest. All of the old guard have taken the opportunity to retire early for the evening with leftover cucumber sandwiches and cakes on trays taken to their rooms after an eventful, hot and tiring day down at the Downton Cricket Field.

Charles looks utterly exhausted. He is uncharacteristically slumped—somehow looking like he has been messily draped across the little dressing chair in their bathroom, one leg crooked across his opposite knee and fumbling with his uncoordinated and heat swelled fingers at the laces of his white canvas and leather sports boots. Elsie smiles lovingly at the semi-glazed eyes of her sunburnt and battle-wearied man.

"Here, let me, Love. Where did you put the metal cleats?" she asks quietly as she sees to the laces and tugs the shoe and damp sock from his foot. His barefoot slops off of its resting place and he sighs with relief as the cool of the bathroom tiles soothes it.

"Aaah…Huh? Mmph. Bates. Boot room." He manages to in grunt out monosyllabically, but he cannot quite bring himself to lift the other leg yet to repeat the same procedure with his other shoe. He looks ready to collapse straight into bed, but they both know he needs to soak his old bones for a good while yet if he is ever going to rise on time for duty in the breakfast room tomorrow morning.

Elsie brushes his hair back from his forehead with one hand. It is almost crispy with the dried salt of his sweat, but it softens as soon as she touches it, like the top layer of heat-dried sand on the beach before it dissolves into a drift of disappearing granules. But here, the remains of his pomade soon warms to her touch and she can sweep his drifting forelock backwards and hold it in place once more as she leans down to kiss his oily brow. "You smell to high heaven, my man" she states blithely against his hot skin.

He huffs out a small laugh and finds the energy to command a little more speech than previously, just because trying to make his Elsie-love smile gives him life. "Thank you, my dear. At least heaven still features somewhere in your mind when you see me in my cricketing whites," and he manages to somewhat listlessly waggle his impressively ruffled brows at her before he wraps his arms completely around her waist and pulls her closer to him between his legs so as to bury his face into the softness of her cotton covered belly. He sighs out a shuddering breath and just breathes in the summer warmth that still clings to the black of Elsie's day dress. He can smell the musk of her floral sweat. It is different to how it is when they make love. It is her work smell— touches of tea and honey and melting butter shortbreads, and scones with jam and cream on a day such as this. Lemonade and mint iced water too. And now there is also the heady aroma of rosemary and lavender oil surrounding his heavy head as she continues to run her delicate but hardy fingers through the sweaty mop of his hair. The chains of her chatelaine tinkle lightly together near his ear and that familiar and homely sound makes his eyes prickle instantly with the hot tears he has held at bay all afternoon.

Elsie senses the shift in him, even though she cannot see his eyes. His head is a solid weight upon her but she can feel that softness of vulnerability seeping from his very pores. It shimmers in his frame. She reads it from his body—that sense of him and his current state of mind and heart that she has so quickly and more deeply become attuned to in this last month or so. She sees it in the different lilt to the set of his shoulders or the flicker of a twitch of a muscle beside either of the deep pools of his soft brown eyes. Sometimes, it is in the prickling of the hairs upon his forearms. Sometimes it is in the rill of a shiver moving rapidly across his whole skin— barely perceptible. And sometimes, as it is now, it is merely in the timber of his inhaled breath. She senses more things than she ever thought could possibly be shared between two people without the power of speech being involved, and all of it since they married and they opened up this new language of touch and intimate closeness between them.

"Oh, my man" She whispers softly to him with quiet love and understanding and her gentle words seem to rip the first wracking sob forcefully from his whole body and he clutches large fists full of fabric at her hips and grips her even tighter to him as he tries to muffle his uncontrollable sounds of loss into the depths of her skirts. He feels shocked and helpless and childlike in his grief for what is ultimately just a silly little game.

But Elsie knows. It wasn't silly. It isn't. It never was. Elsie knows—because finally this year she has opened herself up fully to learning more and more about her man—including many things about this strange and arcane sport that means so very much to the man now uncontrollably hiccoughing his cries of distress into her open arms. This year Elsie finally took the time to truly watch the men play their game and to watch her man play today, knowing it would be his last, and knowing that she could entrust Miss Baxter to oversee much of everyone else's particular needs within the shade of the refreshments tent. And Elsie does have at least some inkling as to how Charles feels about his final outing for the Abbey and about falling just short of at least a half-century haul of runs today— and of his disappointment at being stumped in a runout on a play for a second run that likely should not have been attempted at all. And she knows because Charles has relished in telling her some more of the game he so loves in this last month. And she has listened closely to him because she really does want to keep knowing him better and better. And so she did see how it all played out for him today.

Some of it Elsie can still only guess at it, for she does not know what the exchange between her husband and Thomas actually involved. Still, she senses some of it, because she saw the set of Charles' shoulders as he left the verdant field of Downton for the last time as a player— the silent and stoic butler in his wilting starched uniform of white— but walking tall and proud towards the crowd. And everyone stood for him, Abbey and village people alike, all knowing that he is to retire from the Abbey and from cricket come the winter. All of them rose, Lords and Ladies and hallboys, gardeners and stable hands alike, and even the Dowager Countess steadying her rise with her silver-topped cane and ubiquitous air of imperial greatness. All of them. They all rose as one to their feet and graciously applauded Charles Carson for his every effort over all of these years at Downton. And she saw Charles' eyes darken, even from a distance and she knew he had to cease looking at her loving gaze or he would just crumble out there in that moment, right in front of everyone. And she saw the draw on his lips as he fashioned and refashioned his proud mien into a grim and barely realised smile of appreciation shadowed ever so slightly with a sadness of regret that 'this was it'. Elsie saw that sliver pass over his eyes. It was something that he just could not quite hide, at least not from Elsie's eyes. And then she saw how Thomas applauded him as well. And she noticed how that young man drew some sort of strength from it all, drew it up into himself so that he could turn to face the next ball and then play on with all that he had to give until the very end of the day when stumps were finally drawn— carrying the bat* for Downton Abbey— A century and fifteen runs: Not Out. But Elsie will not ask what was said between the two men as Charles turned to leave the pitch. She will not ask it of Charles. Not now. She does not really need to know. Whatever they shared out there on the field together was for them alone. Yes, Elsie Carson understands so much of what all of today means for Charles. And she had wondered briefly beforehand how it might all play out for him today, and part of her had known that no matter what the result on the score sheet from today would be, a win or a loss or a draw for the Abbey, that it would all come down to this moment in the end. Gentle and real and close and violently felt within this private space of theirs— together alone.

She feels it with him. Keenly. She understands because she has felt it for herself. Felt it all inexorably building within her in the days leading up to the match. She had thought at first that it was just her picking up on Charles excitement and latent trepidation as he prepared himself mentally for the match and she had bustled madly about them all to organise yet another flawless event for the Abbey while showing Baxter how it is all done. But just like Charles, today was the beginning of the inevitable end for them—her own last hurrah. Her last dazzling high summer event at the helm. And such a simple little thing it was for Elsie, really, coordinating the running of the refreshments tent. She could run it blindfolded after all of these years. And even though her day was yet another resounding success, whereas The Abbey team's and Charles's time out on the field was not, it was still such a silly little thing—a trifle—that should not have made her feel such potent and stinging loss when the last crates of glassware were lifted by the short-term hired help onto the flat top trucks to be returned to the Abbey along with all the other various goods and chattels of the day. All of it is so small in the scheme of things, she thinks. But still, it was strangely precious to her—that cool and fluttering cream tent filled with laughter and light-heartedness for one superb day out in a manicured summer field of Yorkshire—all glistening gloriously in the heated sunshine. Sparkling and lovely, just as her Charles was today— standing out in the field playing his little game for boys of different ages. Tea parties and bats and balls. That is all. That is all it is at the end of the day— all the silly and pretty little games that we have played. All of these long years. All of these little games they have played that somehow have come to mean absolutely everything to them. All of it coming together on this shining day. And Elsie knows that their lives have been built around these fleeting days of triumph and shared losses. And now it is all gone and everything is slipping away. And as they age, she knows that the losses will start to far outweigh any major wins in life that may remain for them to share. It is the way of things. She knows it—this slipping away. And Elsie grieves for all of it, just as her Charles does.

Elsie keeps rubbing Charles' head and across the back of his collapsed but stiff-muscled neck and shoulders as he continues to heave his breaking heart onto her belly. Her own warm tears drip slowly and steadily into his already messy hair. One or two drops land on the side his temple and slide slowly down his cheek, causing a clear track to form through the film of grimy dust that has clung to the sweat on his sun-chapped skin. And Charles feels her pain too and he squeezes even closer to her because he just hates that she is hurting and that he is too distraught right now to help her in any other way than by clinging onto her ever tighter in his need. But he no longer worries that his weakness in a moment such as this is what hurts her. He just knows that her heart aches for all of this too and that her heart will naturally and unavoidably ache for his pain just as much as his heart aches for hers. He knows that they feel the same sense of breathtaking loss of everything that was and everything they ever were together at Downton.

And her heart does ache for him, desperately, because she understands her Charles so well and she accepts all of his losses and tears as her own. It is all just so much more than it ever was before. It overwhelms her sometimes— just how much there is to feel. And she has learnt so many new things this year— in this short month or so that she has been married. So much of life has opened up that she never thought she would know. There have been so many things about her darling husband to uncover and to cherish. She has learnt to read him even more closely and clearly than ever before. And right now, she can feel him actively stopping himself from mentally kicking himself for his weakness. She knows he does that for her because she insisted that he feel no shame about such things. And so he stops that useless struggle and collapses himself even further into her and weeps uncontrollably and for all that he is worth, for all that is already gone, and for everything else that they will both leave behind in the months to come before they are finally able and ready to retire. Elsie knows. She knows. And so, she swallows hard for him, and for her sake too. And she takes it all for him—tries to carry all of his pain right now as he mashes his fevered forehead against her withered womb. She can still hold it all inside there for him. She can. She still has that within her.

And Elsie sees it now, what she has to do. She has learnt it from her enthusiastic man as he educated her about the innings system and all the ins and outs of cricket when they had spent the odd half day walking out together to some inter-village matches. It had been under the guise of studying Downton Village team's tactics on behalf of Lord Grantham in the lead-up to this big day. But really, it was more of an excuse for them to continue their long slow courtship in reverse that had begun so sweetly on their honeymoon in London and Scarborough. These free Saturday afternoons together this last month making them feel the pull of retirement together even more strongly as they picnicked and read and laughed and talked and mildly canoodled together as circumstances might allow in the thick summer sunshine. And through it all, Elsie has come to appreciate one particular aspect of the sport that makes the most sense to her. Charles had joshed with her about it and had rippled with boylike glee, all fluttering fingers and happy grins shining into her face, as they had recently sat together discussing the finer points of wicketkeeping at the Ripon cricket field. He loved that she would finally and properly watch him play this position in the field and that it might unsettle her even further as she appreciated her dashing man dashing about and looking quite dashing in his dashing cricket whites, he had beamed and joked with her.

And, of course, this all proved to be quite true today. But equally, Elsie feels pleased that she can actually appreciate the excitement of the flurries of play in cricket that she once had seen as annoyingly sporadic and completely nonsensical and without purpose. Now she finds that she marvels at the reflexes and fearlessness of the players facing down the hard-catapulting spheres of tightly bound cork and string and leather. She likes the solid-sounding thwack of the willow striking the red leather ball and all of the excited calls of the men calling to each other to finish the plays. And she loves and always has done really, how it all echoes about the circle of trees around the field and sounds somehow like a loved one calling out to you across the loch and fen.

And she has proven to have a natural affinity for understanding the various strategic plays and positioning of the field and the decisions on how to bowl and when to change tactics, which is the concern of any good captain. Charles was not surprised by this, not by any means. But most especially, Elsie now likes watching the wicketkeeper at work, for the keeper seems to face much danger, what with being so close to that swinging bat and those balls rocketing by that they must be ready to block and stop. She loves how they then suddenly rise up tall and take in all of the states of play across a whole field as they to try to bring the ball home and hit the stumps to get the batsman out. It is like seeing her Charles standing ready and to attention at work, but instead of remaining upright at all times and silently gliding and bending deferentially to fulfil each moment's need, the wicketkeeper squats and crouches like a poised and focused animal who suddenly pops and strikes—flashing into movement in a split second of intensity and sure decision that requires amazing reflexes to stay safe from harm, whilst all the time being placed right in the maelstrom of all the action. Her Charles at work—all stillness and quick decision and careful precision in the action. And then Charles had joshed with Elsie that it is fitting that his housekeeper should feel such an affinity for the wicketkeeper's role. But he was more right about her than he could have imagined at the time, for she feels it most keenly now. Now she is all of these things to Charles— she is still and poised and she is catching and holding on firmly to all of that big ball of sorrow that his heart has smashed out into the world and which he can no longer contain as he retires early tonight—hurt. And only his keeper can decide right now what to do and what not to do with it all next.

'Oh, my darling man. A chagair,' she repeats quietly as she wraps her arms around his head and holds him tightly and safely to her womb. **And she tries to wrap all of his sweetness and all of their strength together up into one ball. She tries to gently coax all of the rest of this rough strife out from his heart—vulnerable and trusting—as he lays it all out before her. And she tries to bury all of his grief inside this fine and private place they share as her hands move back to gripping and then smoothly stroking and sliding through his hair, trying to polish the shine back into the silver of him. She tries. She tries—tries to hold it all for her man as he finally starts to let go of all that he has ever known at the Abbey. It has been his life and it is all wrapped up so very tightly with her life too, deep inside her. And now the floods of change are finally washing over him completely and rushing headlong through him and he has no hope of holding any of it all inside of himself anymore.

And so he sobs into her skirts and it shakes the keys of her tinkling chatelaine with every heaving breath he takes and the beauty of the sound of her and the honeyed smell of her and the solidity of her being so close to him now— keeping him safe— it overthrows him and he feels like he is drowning in all of his grief for all that he knows he is about to lose when they leave the Abbey forever. He aches all over. Horribly. And Elsie's eyes still drip hot tears onto his head. But slowly some sounds also rise from deep within her that are lilting and floating like her tinkling chatelaine. They sound whimsical and sweet and completely nonsensical. Faery language.

***Ba-i-u-o-ho, Ba-i-u-o-ho, Ba-i-u-o-ho, Ba-i-o-ho-Ba. Charles feels them vibrating through her lower belly, softly humming onto his aching head that he keeps trying to bury deeper and deeper into the softness and the strength of her. She sings the memories of a lullaby sung long, long ago to settle her, and it seeps into all of the cracks across his breaking heart.

Ba-i-u-o-ho, Ba-i-u-o-ho, Ba-i-u-o-ho, Ba-i-o-ho-Ba. She wants to give him what she can, to soothe the little boy inside him and to soothe the great man she knows today as only a mother and a wife can do. And she sings just as he had hummed his wordless little tune for her and for all of her own grief that had spilled over not so long ago on that long dark morning in Scarborough when she finally let the truth of her past be known to him. She has not sung this tune in years.

Ba-i-u-o-ho, Ba-i-u-o-ho, Ba-i-u-o-ho, Ba-i-o-ho-Ba. Not since she and Becky would use it as they huddled together and calmed and cuddled each other within their little room at Nunnington Hall, when they ventured out into the world and into service after their Mam had died so soon after their Da. It was theirs alone and Elsie has never wanted to share this part of her heart with anyone but those she knows are born right into her own heart.

Ba-i-u-o-ho, Ba-i-u-o-ho, Ba-i-u-o-ho, Ba-i-o-ho-Ba.The last time she sang it was for Becky's own little ones, so many years ago when they were just wee bairns and in short pants, and whom Elsie would visit whenever she could in those early days. And she had rejoiced with Becky then and felt glad that these little bairns would always know their place inside her heart, because their Aunty Els, who was never with them often or for very long, Aunty Els sang the same song to them that their Mam did.

Ba-i-u-o-ho, Ba-i-u-o-ho, Ba-i-u-o-ho, Ba-i-o-ho-Ba. She could never part with it to any other young babes she has known across the years in this great house. Not even dear Lady Sybil, whom she had adored just as everyone else did from the very day that Lady Grantham first saw her sweet and innocent and generous and wise old soul into the world, back when Elsie had just run so far from her homeland and back into the safe arms of Yorkshire and Downton. Back when Elsie worked so hard to curb anything that might remind her of her last and most harrowing times in Argyll.

Ba-i-u-o-ho, Ba-i-u-o-ho, Ba-i-u-o-ho, Ba-i-o-ho-Ba. And not even now with young Miss Marigold, or Master George or even the darling and sparky Miss Sybbie, who is so much her mother and so like Elsie, herself. She finds she just cannot sing it, not even for those much-cherished bairns. Elsie can sing this song for no one else.

Ba-i-u-o-ho, Ba-i-u-o-ho, Ba-i-u-o-ho, Ba-i-o-ho-Ba.And the lament that sweeps through her tones now is unavoidably tinged by the fact that she never did get to sing it to a little bairn of her own, one borne straight out of her own heart. But Elsie can still sing this song and it is only for one other. It is for no one but this man who is buried deep inside her heart and who is begging for her to help him feel reborn within her. She sings it to him. She sings it for herself again. She sings it for her Charles-love.

"""

Bà-i-ù-o-hò

Bà-i-ò-ho-bà

"""

Gheibh thu bainne bhuam

Chan ann fuar ach blàth

"""

Bà-i-ù-o-hò

Bà-i-ò-ho-bà

"""

Cha bhi mise bhuat

Mach air uair no dhà

"""

Bà-i-ù-o-hò

Bà-i-ò-ho-bà

"""

Caidil thusa luaidh

Is na gluais gu là

"""

Bà-i-ù-o-hò

Bà-i-ò-ho-bà

"""

And as she sings Charles's heaving sobs start to slow and quieten and he begins to settle. His tears finally cease and Elsie feels him relaxing his fervent grip around her waist and melting into her sounds that carry through her whole being and make her feel that at least the heart of who she is as a woman has found its true home and purpose after all of these years— to give life to something precious in this world: the living and breathing healing of the wounds in the heart of the lad she loves like no other. She has given life back to someone truly precious in this world.

And as Elsie's lullaby fades and the lament in his own heart is finally soothed and calmed to slack muscled exhaustion by words he does not know the meaning of and sounds he can barely even fathom for the depth of their unadulterated beauty, Elsie quietly bends and kisses into her beloved's hair and whispers an unavoidable truth into his waiting ear.

"Charles-love, if I don't move right now to turn off the tap, Mr Archimedes will be spinning in his grave in despair at our continued ignorance of water displacement properties."

Charles splutters out a sudden and hearty bark of laughter with the remains of what breath he has inside his exhausted and deflated lungs as he instantly recalls some of the joyful memories they acquired together on their recent honeymoon together. Then he heaves a huge sigh—in and then out again—as the breath of new life re-enters his soul as surely as Elsie's song just did. He finally lifts his head to gaze with red-rimmed and glassy, dew blessed wonder at this warm and witty lady—his Elsie-love— who has her eyebrow arched at him and a sweet smile tickling at the corners of her pretty lips, ready to burst into the sunshine filled expression of all of her love for him. Elsie—his infinitely strong and endlessly loving wife who can always remind him of all the good things he still has to cherish and hold onto in this life.

As Elsie returns from seeing to the spigot she shakes her head lovingly at her man as she whispers out a light chuckle across the top of her Gaelic endearment for him, "a chagair," for the sight of her crumpled and worn out man overwhelms her with good-humoured tenderness again. He looks mostly cleansed after that deluge of tears washed over him and through him, but there is a small and childlike innocence to him, despite his formidable bulk imposing its sure presence within their small bathroom. Charles is all unfocused and he reminds her of 'Diddle-diddle-dumpling' from the nursery rhyme— with one shoe off and one shoe on. My one Charles, she sings to herself as she thinks him into that modified rhyme inside her head. He makes her smile. And because he appears so pure and innocent and lovely sitting before her and trusting her completely with his broken heart, she continues to mother him as he seems to need her to right now. And with it, Elsie feels her own strength to carry on beyond the familiar walls of Downton begin to grow again inside her. It all returns to her more fully. We will be all right together, a chagair, anywhere. No matter what. And her eyes speak this silent truth to him once more and he just looks up at her and nods his understanding as she beckons him to calmer waters once more. 'Come, my very own Mr Archimedes, let's get you out of these mucky clothes and into that bath." And she bends to see to his last shoe and sock.

oOOo

"I've made a mess of your dress, Love.' He murmurs weakly.

"Sshhh…shhh..shuuush now, a chagair, it is no matter. Here now." She seems to still be singing to him in a whisper through the thickness of his bleary,heat-affected mind.

Elsie assists her grief weakened man into the tub and he settles into the water's warm embrace with a murmuring groan and a sigh. He immediately cups some water to throw over his tear-stained face and hopes fervently that the lavender and rosemary oils will rinse all traces of his vulnerability away before the morning when he must strap himself back into his uniform and erects his stiffened professional resolve once more. But for now, his back is rounded as he lifts his knees up to his chest to rest his weary head upon them and hugs his arms around himself.

And Elsie knows she cannot leave him just yet, so she kneels beside the bath and rolls her sleeves back to see to cleaning up her beautiful mess of a man. She scrubs at his hair with a lather of soap and rubs and massages for quite a while across his sore shoulders with the slickness of the foam. And all the while she works and tends to him she quietly sings her song. Ba-i-u-o-ho, Ba-i-u-o-ho, Ba-i-u-o-ho, Ba-i-o-ho-Ba. Ba-i-u-o-ho, Ba-i-u-o-ho, Ba-i-u-o-ho, Ba-i-o-ho-Ba.Charles audibly sighs as she sluices jug after jug of fresh hot water from the tap over his whole head and back. Then she beckons him to lie back for a while with his head resting on a small folded up towel she has placed on the rim of the bath.

"Need to shave, love" he yawns out as he grasps her wet hand and kisses heavily into her palm in silent thanks for all of her loving care of him.

"Shhh, Love. Leave it 'til morning. You are too tired. Rest back here for a while and soak your muscles while I duck downstairs to see to our clothes in the laundry. Then I will help you out. You need to eat and rest."

"Not hungry." He has returned to mumbled and incomplete sentences.

"I know, Love, but you need to eat anyway, just something light before bed. Here," she hands him a glass of cold water from the basin, "You'll be needing this too, you caught a bit too much sun today."

"Mmph. Love you."

"I know, a chagair. Love you too."

oOOo

Elsie makes short work of the grass stains on his cricketing whites and the tear stains on her day dress. As she carefully squeezes the last water she can from his white knitted vest with the blue piping, she ponders further the aspects of the game of cricket that seem to mimic what she already knows about her man. And she wonders how much cricket has actually shaped who Charles Carson is today, and how much of Charles is just him— who he truly is at heart—and that the sport, in fact, did not maketh the man at all, any more than his role as butler might have. She smooths her hands over the ridges and strings of the soft cabling of his cuddly vest as she carefully spreads it out in the woollens drying table and she thinks at the very least that all of it has been like a mirror for Charles. Something to be held up before him so as to reflect some parts of him back upon himself, and that the game has then somehow sedimented his sense of self—sedimented his own identity within him. And so how could Elsie not come to love this silly little game right along with Charles if from within its depths and at every turn she can see new facets, and even some old parts of her beloved with fresh eyes again? And despite all of his grief today, and hers, Elsie feels such great pride now for how Charles' passion for all that cricket is will soon be harnessed to help other enthusiastic young boys to grow and to become good men within it and outside of it, as Charles Carson, the man, looks to coach a small schoolboy's IX side from the very school house they so recently celebrated their most lovely wedding day in.

oOOo

"I think I now understand what Madame Forfaitaire de Gelee Fondante must actually feel like from the inside."

"Och, get on with ye!" Elsie laughs lightly at his uttering of her special little name that he made up for her on their honeymoon. She swats his bare bottom with the towel she was about to hang up after having assisted Charles from the bath and dried him down all ready for an early bedtime. He had refreshed the bath completely with new hot water in the time that she was away downstairs—such luxuries! He is all soft and pink and wrinkly like a newborn bairn. A rather large newborn bairn! She thinks happily as she smiles up at him. She feels ever so glad that her playful and Cheeky Charles is slowly returning for them, no matter how exhausted he currently is. Then her smile just broadens as she takes in his beautiful nakedness, all somehow floppy and rounded looking at the same time right now. The great big lump of melting jelly! and she huffs out another loving laugh for her little-diddle-dumpling man. She eases him into his stripy light cotton pyjamas and kisses the tip of his nose and then the dip between his clavicles as she finishes with the last button at his neck. "Hmm," she sighs into him, starting to fully feel the wilt of the long day take its hold on her body too, "I maintain that you have learnt enough of how Madame Gelee feels from the outside, my man" she joshes in a semi-seductive manner with him. She feels him harumph out a small chuckle for them as he hugs her to his body again.

"Never," he states surely, but they both know that neither of them actually has the energy to prove that fact to one another this evening.

"Come, Charles, I have brought you up something special to have after supper, and then it's bedtime for you."

oOOo

Elsie had ample time to eat throughout the afternoon and so she settles Charles in at their little supper table in their sitting area. Their new rooms in the guest's wing at the Abbey, which Lady Grantham generously set up and tastefully furnished for them with additional pieces from the attics, have mimicked in some ways the setup they grew accustomed to in the opulent hotels they stayed in on their honeymoon. So, despite the busy work that they are currently undertaking to ensure a smooth transfer of the responsibilities of the running of the Abbey to Baxter and Barrow, Charles and Elsie have felt in some ways that they are still living in a dreamworld of wedded holiday bliss when they return to their rooms together of an evening. It is the best possible way that they could have approached their transition into the almost permanent leisure and simple domesticity that they hope to capture when they fully retire to their little cottage on the estate. Elsie sets Charles up with some soft and delicate little cucumber sandwiches and the fresh pot of tea she had brought up with her after her duties in the laundry were done and she had cast one last professional eye over the set up for the next morning that Baxter and Barrow were arranging.

"Eat now, Love," she keeps directing his every languid and listless move. Everything about tonight feels like the warm and cosy routines used for a child on the verge of catching a cold, even down to the simple-to-chew food. "I need to bathe myself, and then we can share the last of that strawberry and custard flan, hmm?" and she pecks him on the nose again. Charles slides the torpid weight of his hand heavily down the length of her arm as she moves away, and they squeeze each other's fingertips lightly just before all physical contact between them is lost for the moment.

oOOo

When she returns to Charles, clad in her special white cotton nightdress with the little blue cornflowers all around the neckline, he seems somewhat revived and a little more his usual self, if still a bit feeble in his movements. They share the last of the custard flan and he leans over at one point to touch the pink juice of the sweet summer berries that he sees sitting on her bottom lip. She kisses it onto the pad of his thumb and then leans across the corner of their little table to kiss him properly on the lips. He briefly rests his forehead against hers and sighs out his wordless gratitude to her. He knows she understands what this was all about today. They do not need the words.

"Come, a chagair, let's go brush our teeth and then into bed with ye."

"But what about my special surprise?" he says with a tone slightly reminiscent of childlike petulance.

"It's just a night cap, Charles. Teeth first."

oOOo

Once they are settled back against the headboard on their cool crisp sheets, Elsie hands him a small crystal glass, not much larger than a stemmed sherry glass, filled with a murky golden brown liquor.

"Hmm… ****Atholl Brose," he sighs contentedly as he sips at the oatmeal milk, honey and Scotch Whisky concoction, "I've not had it in years"

"Noh, nor I."

"What made you think of it? Visions of the rebel warrior and Lord of the Isles supping leisurely at a well?"

"Och, hardly! I don't know. I just saw Daisy stirring the pre-soaked oats again, all ready for our breakfast in the morning when I went down to the laundry and I decided to make it for us."

"Well, I hope you stirred it properly with a silver spoon."

"Fear not! O noble Sir Carson d'Clicky Knees, for as ye well know, your fair Lady Carson wields a mean old silver spoon and knows how best to tend to her weary warrior's particularities when it comes to homely bev-er-ages." She states with serious authority as she casts a wickedly glinting eye his way. Charles' belly jiggles up and down a little as he finally feels the lightness and fullness of his life again whenever his Elsie-love is by his side. Her light-hearted humour seeps through him with the same warmth of her song earlier and of the Atholl Brose—radiating its warmth through his raw throat and outwards from his stomach and through all of his veins it seems.

"Mmm…"

"Haah…" she sighs out finally as Charles leans over to kiss his fair Lady Carson "It's been a long day. It feels good to come home."

"It does. Thank you… for everything tonight, Elsie-love. You always seem to know just what I need," he says quietly. She shrugs off his gratitude, for she never needed it from him, not just for loving him—that has always been her absolute pleasure. "Tell me what that song means, a chagair," he almost whispers, as he places their glasses onto the side table and flicks off the bedside lamp before turning to wrap Elsie up into his arms.

"Och, most of it is just nonsense sounds, Charles, just noises in a lullaby."

"There must be more to it than that, Els."

"Well… the first bit is just a melody of sounds, and then the other repeated lines roughly translate as I will give you milk, not cold but warm; and then, I won't be away from you, apart from once or twice; and finally, You sleep my love, and don't stir until daybreak."

Charles's eyes blink with new tears of tenderness and gratitude for her. He gently clasps the sides of his lovely wife's face and in the silent gloom of their evening bedroom he looks deep into the infinite ocean of love inside her eyes as he guides her lips onto his.

"You give me that, sweet Elspeth, and you have done all of that for me. It is beautiful, a chagair." And he shuffles them down onto the pillows ready for their much-needed sleep, but then he surprises Elsie a little when he keeps sliding further down the bed and down the length of her body and he silently reaches to undo the buttons at the front of her nightgown. She did not think he would have the energy to be intimate like that with her tonight. She is not sure that she actually has the will for it all right now, herself. Not tonight. Although she knows that she will not deny him the curative power of that intimacy which they have already found can sometimes occur when they share with each other in that way. She will not refuse him if that is truly what he needs. He is already running his warm hands lightly over her breasts and she can feel the slightly rough callouses on the curve of his index fingers and near the arched webbing of his thumbs from his efforts with the bat and ball today, and it makes her skin ripple under his loving touch. But then as he kisses first into the softness of one of her breasts, and then reverently onto the other he murmurs thickly into her sweet and milky-pale skin, "A chagair, sing it for me again. Please, pretty Elspeth." And he wraps his arms tightly around her waist again and lays his weary head heavily onto the bare warmth of her bosom where *****he on honey-dew hath fed, and drunk the milk of Paradise.

And he waits for her song to float straight from her heart into his.

Ba-i-u-o-ho, Ba-i-u-o-ho, Ba-i-u-o-ho, Ba-i-o-ho-Ba.

It seeps into his skin and soon he is breathing softly in rhythm with his love.

Ba-i-u-o-ho, Ba-i-u-o-ho, Ba-i-u-o-ho, Ba-i-o-ho-Ba.

He rests—safe in the knowledge that wherever they go from here, he won't be away from his Elsie-love.

Ba-i-u-o-ho, Ba-i-u-o-ho, Ba-i-u-o-ho, Ba-i-o-ho-Ba.

Not more than once or twice.

Ba-i-u-o-ho, Ba-i-u-o-ho, Ba-i-u-o-ho, Ba-i-o-ho-Ba.

He sleeps with love and does not stir until daybreak.

oOOo

Author Notes:

A bit more Cricketing terminology:

*Carry the bat- Strictly, used only of an opening batsman who survives until the end of the completed innings while all ten of his teammates have been given 'out' by the umpire.

So in this match, Thomas would have been said to have 'carried his bat', even though his fine efforts could not win the whole day for the Abbey team.

** From To His Coy Mistress, By Andrew Marvel. Also referenced extensively by Elsie's poet-lover, Charles, in 'The Acquisition of Memories- Chapter 19'. Appearing here once more because it is a part of their acquired and shared memories, at least in my headcanon.

***Elsie's Lullaby

I wanted Elsie to sing for Charles and so I found this beautiful little Scots Gaelic lullaby. Just go to this sweet rendition on YouTube by someone who just wanted to learn Irish and Scots Gaelic. Rose Sinn has a beautiful and pure voice and I can imagine Elsie sounding just like this —all dreamy and soothing— as she loves and calms her Charles. Rose explains a little about the mouth music at the start of the lyric too

www. youtube watch? v=0mgxPaNJD7c

Here is the full Lyric and translation:

songs/ gaelic/ baiuoho. php

Bà-i-ù-o-hò

Bà-i-ò-ho-bà

"""

Gheibh thu bainne bhuam

Chan ann fuar ach blàth

"""

Bà-i-ù-o-hò

Bà-i-ò-ho-bà

"""

Cha bhi mise bhuat

Mach air uair no dhà

"""

Bà-i-ù-o-hò

Bà-i-ò-ho-bà

"""

Caidil thusa luaidh

Is na gluais gu là

"""

Bà-i-ù-o-hò

Bà-i-ò-ho-bà

English Translation

I will give you milk
I will give you milk
I will give you milk
Not cold but warm

I won't be away from you
I won't be away from you
I won't be away from you
apart from once or twice

You sleep my love
You sleep my love
You sleep my love
and don't stir until daybreak

****Atholl Brose – oatmeal milk with honey and whisky

Of course Charles would immediately know what this little oatmeal milk toddy and its supposed history is— he is the best Butler in the land and he has lived side by side with this Scotswoman for many a year now!

This is the first useful link and traditional recipe I found for it when looking for a homely, comforting and 'return to mother's milk' type pick me up drink for Elsie to share with Charles. It tells mentions the suppose history behind the Earl of Atholl capturing the John Macdonald, Earl of Ross and Lord of the Isles (Kyntyre, Argyll, etc) by filling a well he drank at with a concoction of honey, oats and whisky. Macdonald liked it too much and lingered and was caught, or so the legend goes! Silly!

www. rampantscotland recipes/ blrecipe_ brose .htm

This second link is useful to see what a version without cream would look like. With cream it appears to be more of a Bailey's Irish Cream concoction. I think Elsie would make it with just the soaked 'milk' strained off the oats for tomorrow's staff breakfast. Hmmm… porridge at the height of summer— not really done in my country, but who can say for Yorkshire. Maybe the mornings are still chilly. Meh— it's fiction, they can do what they need to at Downton Abbey.

christinascucina atholl-brose-with-and-without-cream /

***** From Kubla Khan by Samuel Taylor Coleridge— another reference to a poem our Charles the poet-lover would know well. I was trying for a different connotation here than I previously argued for in notes attached to The Acquisition of Memories- Only Connect chapter. More mothering and universal, methinks.

I hope you liked it. Reviews are always lovely to recieve.

Kind regards,

BorneToFlow.