Home Again

Christmas Day, 1924

Charles Carson hurried down the stairs on Christmas morning, just after dawn. He'd awoken with a start in the wee, blue-black hours of the night, in the large chair in his study, the house so still and so silent and so peaceful around him.

He had dragged himself off to bed, expecting to be asleep again before his head hit the pillow. But it was all for naught. He couldn't get the image of Elsie's face, the light in her eyes, when she realized what he had been asking her. The warm touch of her hand against his cheek. The feeling of her fingers laced with his, a secret between them in the crowded great hall.

He had tossed and turned, feeling much like he had over fifty years ago, as a young man taken by a dark-haired beauty with a wide smile. Back then, the days, the hours, the minutes were framed around catching a glimpse of her as he came off the stage, or walking alongside her in the park, their shoulders barely touching. The first time she'd taken his hand, he'd not slept for days.

Young Charlie Carson's heart and body had ached for the love and touch of Alice Neal, but it had been a useless pursuit. He'd always thought he was glad to set that part of himself aside for good, but he realized now how foolish that was.

This terrible, dizzy delirium he currently found himself in made him feel he'd broken into his lordship's wine cellar, decanted a particularly fine vintage, then drank it all himself. But unlike his love for Alice, which burned quick and fast and bright, what he felt for Elsie had been burning low inside him for years, embers just waiting for the right prodding to fully alight. He wasn't sure how his old body would stand it, but it felt somehow wonderful, even though he wasn't sure how he was going to make it through the day without falling into his Christmas pudding.

It was as if the air around him was singing along with his heart.

Wait.

There actually was the sound of singing floating through the air, coming from the kitchen, Daisy's girlish voice mixing with Mrs. Patmore and Mr. Molesley's huskier tones, along with several others.

"Good King Wenceslas looked out, on the Feast of Stephen…"

And it was probably the boyish, besotted, overtired way he felt this Christmas morning, but he began singing himself as he walked into the room, the joy of belting out the traditional carol filling his being,

"When the snow lay 'round about, deep and crisp and even;

Brightly shone the moon that night, tho' the frost was cruel,

When a poor man came in sight, gath'ring winter fuel…"

The kitchen burst into shouts and cheers and the song continued, verse to verse, as Mrs. Patmore, Daisy and the other kitchen maids busily preparing breakfast for the family, Mr. Molesley in the corner singing along, Andy moving back and forth through the servants' hall.

Right before the final verse, Mrs. Hughes and Miss Baxter appeared in the far doorway. His heart swelled when Elsie smiled across the room at him. She looked as if maybe she hadn't slept very much either, her face softly lined and dreamy-eyed. She looked beautiful.

The cries of "Happy Christmas" from all around hadn't even died down when a mild voice piped up from behind the two women in the doorway.

"Don't stop singing on my account," Mr. Bates grinned at all of them, then at his wife, who was standing next to him, shaking snow off of her coat.

The Christmas wishes switched to delighted greetings, and Mr. Molesley and Daisy started a round of "Joy to the World". Elsie was bustling her way through the staff towards him.

"I like hearing you sing. Happy Christmas," she looked up at him, briefly touched the sleeve of his coat.

"The happiest," he sighed, and just looked at her for a long moment.

And was surprised to have it interrupted by Mrs. Patmore, pushing cups of strong tea into each of their hands.

"Off with the pair of you, for a few minutes at least," she was smiling. "No one'll notice you with all of this ruckus, at least until breakfast time. Go on, shoo!"

He felt himself flush but Elsie just shook her head after the cook. "Well, Mr. Carson? Shall we take a moment away from the ruckus, as Mrs. Patmore suggests, possibly starting gossip that rivals Mr. Bates' return?"

"I've said it before, many a time, but it bears repeating: 'impertinence, thy name is Elsie Hughes,'" he smiled down at her.

"Actually, thanks to you, it won't be for very long," she walked primly away towards her office, and he followed. As if he'd do anything else.

oooOOOooo

Once they were in her office, she gazed around at all of the gifts still strewn about that needed to be doled out or placed under the tree upstairs, in a few instances. She smiled, loving the way the piles of presents made the space cozier, warmer.

They took a seat across from each other at the little side table, where they'd chatted, plotted, argued, rejoiced, discussed, devised, gossiped and otherwise gotten into each other's hair for the past thirty years or so.

They both sat and sipped their tea in the near-quiet. Elsie could hear strains of "O Come All Ye Faithful" beginning in the hall and they grinned at each other. And then he reached out and took her hand in his.

Neither of them said a word.

They just sat there, listening to the muffled carols and happy chatter from the staff.

She sipped the strong, good tea her friend had made for her, and enjoyed the warmth and pressure of his hand in hers.

She kept expecting the door to pop open, or for someone to rap on it, like sudden gunfire. But, Christmas miracles of miracles, it didn't, and no one did.

He finally cleared his throat, and for some reason, her heart started pounding. She glanced over at him. He looked almost bashful, but finally spoke:

"You mentioned…you mentioned you had a Christmas gift for me?"

She grinned, and her heart soared nervously. "Aye! Indeed I do. And I best be giving it to you now, before our luck runs out," she stood, setting her teacup down. Her eyes scanned the boxes, until they settled on a smallish one on her desk. "Ah, here it 'tis."

She sat back down and pushed the box across the table. She suddenly felt very shy about giving it to him. She had been certain, so certain of it, when she selected it. After her confession about Becky, about the sadness in his eyes when they couldn't go in together on the house. She kept reminding herself she was a woman, and she was fundamentally poor, and that if there was action to be taken, it had to be his action, as the man. The world insisted on it. But her pride insisted on some form of expressing her heart.

And now her heart was in the box. No; that was wrong. Her heart was pounding in her chest, her heart was sitting across the table from her.

"It's not a house, or a marriage proposal," she said quietly. "But it's as true as I could do, before I knew either of those things were entirely possible, though I suppose I had hope."

He looked at her for a long minute, opened the wrapping carefully, lifting the lid off the box, revealing a simple, attractive silver pocket watch inside. He picked it up, and inspected it, first noting the inscription on the front, merely his initials. He turned it over, and that's when her heart leapt into her throat. She could see him reading what she'd had gotten inscribed there:

So many moments, never enough time. ~EMH

And when he looked back up, there were tears in his eyes. She felt the same in her own. He stood and switched his watch on his chain for hers. She stood, stepped closer to him. She suddenly felt the need to explain herself, to frame the gift in some way –

"I suppose I was hoping that –"

"I love you," he interrupted her. "With all of my heart."

"And I love you, Charles Carson. I have for a very long time."

And then his arms were around her, and she leaned into him, pressing her face against his chest, smelling a mixture of aftershave and soap and silver polish and tea and his own smell, at once so familiar and exciting, and it was the smell of coming home.