A/N: Hey all – so. Yes. Okay, I am going to admit it: I forgot about the "Maybe you should start callin' me 'Elsie'" moment in E1S6. I address it here – I hope it makes sense/you give me a free pass. ;-) I am sort of approaching their "day off" as a momentary oasis; a little island of a day where they could just be without the worries of their changing status and of the changing status quo, of what intimacy of ALL sorts is going to do their relationship, how they perceive themselves, each other and how others perceive them. They just sort of existed in that short time. And then – reality crashes down around both of them. How do they sort it out? ~CeeCee
As Winter Becomes Spring, 1925
Untangling the String
Things just weren't right, and he wasn't entirely sure why. Between he and Elsie. There was nothing wrong, really; things were as they always had been: they each worked from the time the sun rose until when it set, sometimes separately, sometimes in concert, passing each other along the way. Pausing momentarily, sometimes a bit longer, to share a story, a smile, a bit of gossip about the house or the village; to hash out a solution to a problem; to settle a row among the staff.
They even took a glass of wine together most evenings now, nothing as languorous or uninterrupted that lovely afternoon in January, but still, near-daily respites from the hustle and bustle of the world beyond his pantry or her office. Everything was as just as it had been, for decades.
The March winds were blowing around the corners of the grand house before it hit him: that was it. They were acting just as they always had. But things weren't the same. He had proposed. She had accepted. They were engaged. There were going to be married. Things must be different now, and were going to be very different in the imminent future.
His mind, and his body, kept going back to that kiss: the softness of her cheek, the momentary tenseness then softening of her body towards his, and the desperate, underlying constant desire since those few moments had occurred to repeat them, expand upon them. To explore whatever else there was they could give to each other. But all of that had to wait. He realized that now. As much as he wanted to orchestrate another afternoon like that, he realized how reckless, how foolish it had been, in many ways to even attempt it. He didn't regret it; no, not at all. He cherished those hours they had, not just for the momentary physical closeness, but for the time they had spent together. However, their lives didn't really allow them to repeat it.
Until they were married, until there were in a space they called their own. They were too conspicuous of a pair in both house and the village to have any anonymity or privacy, other than behind closed doors. And their current doors simply didn't stay closed very often.
He had retreated back to his old ways, to their old ways, without realizing it for weeks, nearly months. He even chastised her just this week for suggesting that he call her by her given name. His heart had nearly stopped at the thought of him uttering it in front of the staff, or the Crawley family, though nothing felt more right than saying her name. It wasn't proper. And it was private. He saw the puzzled look on her face but didn't know how to express what he felt. It was all wrapped up in his wanting her, and he was worried about offending her, about scaring her. About being disrespectful, or inappropriate.
And now, he sat at his desk, puzzling at the retreating figure of Beryl Patmore. There was something there. Something she wanted to talk to him about, something he suspected had to do with Elsie. And why a wedding date hadn't been set. He put it on the top of his list to get to the bottom of it, no matter what.
He wanted to be a married man as soon as possible.
oooOOOooo
She was a complete jumble inside. A snarl of nerves, insecurity, fear and raging independence. She unpinned her hair by the solitary light of her bedside lamp, unraveled it without thinking, going through the mundane motions as she did each night. Began brushing through it, grateful that it was still plentiful and mostly brown, though a paler shade than it had been when she was young, like water added to paint.
She sighed and took stock of herself in her vanity mirror. The contours of her face, both familiar and alien: when did she get so old? Her cheekbones were still there, her eyes still bright and alive and intelligent. But everything else had softened, even as she grew more strong-willed and stubborn. Am I stubborn? Or am I just afraid?
She pulled the brush through her hair again, then slammed it restlessly down on the nightstand. She began plaiting her hair for bedtime, then examined her neck, her chest, dotted with age spots here and there. She ran a hand across her breastbone. It was still relatively smooth. And then she thought about Charlie touching her in exactly the same way, in the same place, and her entire body clenched. It was delicious and terrifying and intoxicating and made her feel like someone was about to push her down a steep, icy hill on a sledge.
She thought about what Beryl Patmore had told her about her conversation with Charlie (though, apparently, there weren't allowed to use each other's Christian names in the hallowed halls of Downton Abbey). Her heart soared at his talk of love and pride of her. And the rest of her had ended up here, staring at herself in the mirror, her body and mind a woozy cocktail of lust and fear and trepidation.
She thought of her Mam, her much-loved voice still fresh in her mind. A brief, blunt conversation they had, a few years before she died, when they had started talking about Becky, and what her future looked like. Elsie had found the place at Lytham St. Annes. Her mother thought it was too dear.
"Elsie, lass, how'd you ever afford it?"
"Don't worry, Mam. I've done the numbers. I can, just. It will all be fine."
The two women were sitting at the familiar family table. Becky was outside, feeding the chickens. Well, mostly just chasing them.
"Yer so sharp, me girl. It's like God gave all the brains to you so…" Mam sighed, looking tired. Elsie didn't know what to say. She knew she'd acquired knowledge and wisdom far beyond anything that anyone she grew up with had, or could. She felt the guilt of it, the burden of it – and the privilege of it.
"Not at all, Mam. I'm no smarter than anyone else, I've simply applied meself to the tasks at hand," she shook her head, sipped her tea.
"Nay, yer sharp as the tip of a knife, my love, no doubt. And ruled by yer brains, and yer sense, which is why ye have the independence ye do. Though I know ye thought strongly about going t'other way with your Joe Burns those years ago."
"Aye, I did. Joe Burns was, is, a good man," she sighed. She didn't regret Joe, not really; it was remembering a different version of herself.
"I know, El, but then ye'd lose that freedom ye have now, of mind, of heart – and, my dear, of body. I know we ne'er speak on these things, and there's not much point in it now, given the life you've chosen. But lass, know this: when you give yourself to a man, even a man you love, you give up a part of yourself. You submit to the weight of him, who he is. They are bigger than us in all ways, all that matter, at least. Yer life is free o' that weight."
She finished the braid and contemplated her choices. Charles Carson was a big man. In every way. Did she want the weight of him? This wasn't just about…well…the natural physical things that happened between man and wife, though she let Beryl Patmore think that was it. Or, most of it. This wasn't just about the deep embarrassment and insecurity she felt about her aging body. This was about taking on the weight of him, the intimacy of him. Trusting him. Relinquishing some of her independence to him.
She closed her eyes. Let her hand drift off the end of her braid again, across her breast bone, felt her beating heart beneath the skin spots and the softness. Her strong heart. That loved Charles Carson, very much. That was afraid but pliable and independent but willing.
She wanted to be a married woman. And to be Charles Carson's wife.
oooOOOooo
Here they were, again.
Behind one of their closed doors, with at least more than a moment together, while the celebration for the Bateses' carried on in the servants' hall. She had stopped him from leaving, because he seemed ready to. And she saw, underneath the reserve and the practicality, when he thought she was rejecting him, rejecting submitting to him, to this, to true intimacy, his own fear and worry and insecurity.
But they got there, in the end.
"I've never been so sure of anything," he said, and he face softened into something she'd not seen in a while.
"Well then, Mr. Carson, ye want me, ye can have me, to quote Oliver Cromwell, warts and all," her heart was pounding, but this was her promise to him, and to herself: she would trust this man with all that she was. She stepped towards him, and he leaned down, hand on her cheek. He kissed her, more briefly than that lovely afternoon in the winter, then kissed her forehead. She rested her head against his chest, listening to his heart, relishing all of the places their bodies met.
She wasn't sure how long they stood there, holding each other, listening to the tinny Victrola music wafting down the hallway, mixed with laughter and singing. She suddenly realized she wanted another kiss, though.
He spoke before she could. "Elsie."
She leaned back from him, but didn't let go. For once, it was her eyebrow shooting upwards.
"Yes, I know. I am not changing my mind about how we should address each other when we are working, however, this is something I want to say to you, as the woman I love: I am sorry. Sorry we didn't speak about this sooner," he looked down at her and she was startled to see tears in his eyes. "And….and I was worried, after speaking with Mrs. Patmore, that you…that you had changed your mind. Or that…that you had never loved me in the way I had hoped, or the way that I love you. So…I put this conversation off. Because I was afraid. Of losing this."
"No fools like old fools, both of us," and she felt the tears welling up in her eyes, but also a bit of laughter, loose and a bit mad-feeling, bubbling up as well. "We'll both do better, I hope, going forward."
"We should be getting back," he said, with a sigh, letting go of her.
"Aye, we should, as we always must," she replied. She missed his arms around her already, the fear and love and lust his touch brought a giddy combination no potable could match.
They both turned towards the door with some reluctance. She desperately wanted another kiss first, though. His hand was on the doorknob, and he chance would be gone once he swung the door open.
She opened her mouth, having no idea what would come out, when he glanced back at her.
"I assume this means we can move forward with wedding plans?" Now his eyebrow was arching into its accustomed spot.
"Yes. Yes, we can," she nearly lost her courage, but then put her hand over his on the door knob. "Wait." She wasn't sure if he heard her, despite how close they were. The word fell like a puff of air from her lips. Her whole body was tingling.
He looked at their hands together then at her, and his face changed again. She felt her breath shorten. The look was dangerous and lovely and way too many more things to handle in this office in the bowels of Downton Abbey, with the entire staff yards away.
He didn't speak. He waited. For her.
She took a deep breath. Stepped very close to him. Put her hand on his arm. Charlie...she thought. Then said, quite deliberately, "Mr. Carson, I would like to kiss you, if I may?" She pressed the important words ever-so-slightly, hoping he would understand what she was asking for, what she was telling him.
"Yes, of course," his voice sounded so different than it usually did, he may well have been a different man. She knew she was becoming a different woman, with each moment. This is what Mam had meant. The weight of it.
He remained very still, while she moved; her hand slid up from where it was on his forearm and landed on the nape of his neck, where those bristly short hairs she'd thought about were, feeling so like she'd imagined. She pulled his face towards her and stood taller to reach him, and when their mouths met this third time, she suddenly realized what all of the fuss was about: there was no politeness in this, just breath, and lips, and a soft, delightful wetness, and a rising in her lower belly that seemed to be reaching somewhere, somewhere, somewhere…
And she pulled back because part of her wanted to find out where that somewhere was, even if it was a touch frightening, because it was also exciting, but not here, not now, and she was looking at him, with her hand over her lips, which felt wonderfully sore, almost chapped.
He was regarding her with a dazed but happy grin. A lock of hair was drifting down his forehead. She stepped forward and pushed it quickly back, meaning to move away quickly, but he grabbed her around the waist with the arm that wasn't busy with the door knob.
"You're looking less than entirely tidy yourself, Mrs. Hughes," he kissed her again, quickly, and let her go.
She smoothed her own hair back into place by touch, let out a shaky breath. "I do believe, Mr. Carson, there's another thing to add to your list of 'not to do at Downton.'"
The both smiled at each other as their breaths slowed. The listened to the revelry down the hall, and she heard a romantic number start up on the Victrola. Gershwin, maybe, or Berlin. She wasn't sure.
"A Gershwin tune," he said, opening the door, reading her thoughts. "A fine song writer, even if he is American. Care for a dance, Mrs. Hughes?"
"I'd love to, Mr. Carson. I really would," she walked down the hall beside him, so they could rejoin the party.