Chapter 26

Another Picture Postcard Day

She woke early, as she nearly always did, as dawn began filtering through the curtains. There was so many things different about this morning than any morning before it that she lay for a moment taking stock. She heard a bicycle stop outside, followed by a muted thump by the front door, and then squeaky wheels retreating. That'd be breakfast from the hotel.

She smiled a little, sighed, watching the sky change from indigo to pink to orange and pale blue. She felt Charlie's slumbering bulk behind her, not quite snoring, but that deep breathing of someone still fast asleep. Each exhale tickled her neck, made her loose hair dance a little.

She sat up, absentmindedly plaiting her hair, took stock of her body, and thought back to what her Mam had said to her all those years ago, about the weight of taking on a man, a husband. She wasn't sure she felt that, exactly; it was more of a settling, of certain loose bits and pieces of her, things she wasn't sure she had use of before yesterday, finally finding where to land inside of her. Physically, she felt more present than she ever had in her life; parts of her throbbed and pulsed, in a sore but pleasant way: her lips, her breasts, and the more insistent throb between her legs.

And it was more than her body, it was her mind and heart: she deeply valued her independence, and nothing would change that; but she admitted to herself, as she lay there listening to the rumble of her husband's breath mixed with the more distant rumble of the surf, that, for a long while before he proposed, she'd wanted more from Charles Carson than what their special but limited friendship at Downton would have ever allowed.

This is what she had wanted, and it was too difficult to determine exactly when things had changed. When she stopped being satisfied with intellectual stimulation, the teasing and jokes, and camaraderie, and genuine affection, all of those things that each meant something but didn't add up to a whole. Even her own reticence and insecurities about the physical and practical intimacies of marriage, of a certain amount of submission to another person: she hadn't really understood, had she?

She had sent poor Beryl Patmore on an unfair errand – she had been unfair to all of them: Beryl for putting her in that awkward position, herself for not trusting what could be and was already happening between she and the man she agreed to marry, and most of all, Charlie: he, who had known, anything less than all of it, everything, would have been a sham. There would have been no point to it; they may as well simply carry on as they were.

But, thankfully, she was here. She sighed again, contentedly, and pulled her knees up to her chest, wrapping her simple cotton nightgown around her legs, as she had done when she was a small child.

"Where are you going?" His sleepy voice behind her, his hand reaching for her.

"Nowhere but here, thank goodness," she replied, and looked over her shoulder at him. He was propped up on his shoulder, his hair in disarray. He sat up, began unwinding her braid.

"I just tidied that up, and now ye're unraveling it," she chided him, as he combed his fingers through her waves.

"You set too much store on 'tidy', I think," and now he was pulling her back down towards him. She went willingly.

"Says the man who, at least three times a year, takes every single piece of silver at Downton and obsessively spot polishes it all," she retorted, lying back down next him, face to face.

"I wouldn't say 'obsessively', I don't think, just as it is needed, as befitting a house such as Downton," his face creased in a way that was all too familiar from the past few decades, and she started giggling. He raised his eyebrow at her, and she laughed even harder.

"I can honestly say, Charlie, I didn't expect to be talking about silver polish on our honeymoon. But somehow, it's romantic," she finished, and her laughter had dried up. His face was close to hers, and she traced her fingers along his eyebrows, his hairline.

He kissed her and then began running his hand through her hair again. He spoke in a much different voice than a few moments ago, "I won't tell you how long I imagined what you looked like with your hair down, just like this, because we are here now, and that's all that matters, all that can matter. So I ask for your forgiveness in advance, as I don't expect you'll be able to keep it tidy when we're on our own if I am allowed my way."

And she was instantly struck by an obvious truth: he too, at some point, maybe long before she had, had been less than satisfied with what they were allowed to have with each other, by society and each of their places in it. That, for all of the independence she worried about shedding, it had been on him to take action; she knew all along he would have to be the catalyst of any great change in the status quo. That was the weight he carried.

"This all took us too long, didn't it?" She moved herself closer still, pressed into him.

"I am only grateful that we are here now," and his voice left no doubt that the breakfast at the door would be kept waiting a bit longer.

oooOOOooo

A life, so long lived by, for and within the established rules, suddenly given permission to break them all. Well, at least most of them. The celebratory champagne was still sitting in the ice box, which didn't bother him any; he felt woozy on freedom not even twelve hours into his honeymoon.

To be sure, this punch-drunk feeling was almost entirely due to the physical proximity and availability of one Mrs. Elsie Carson. Years of restraint, propriety and uncertainty falling away in space of hours, in this haven by the sea. He knew, practically speaking, that a honeymoon was a respite from reality, and that their lives would shift once again upon their return to Downton, but he relished the privacy and the anonymity they had in Scarborough, in excess.

Oh, and all of the time.

So much time.

For two people who had spent nearly three-quarters of their respective lives in service, even one whole day without obligation was largesse. They had an entire week.

This morning he'd slept until the sun was over the horizon, and awoke to his wife's face in profile, a half smile on her face. He had felt desire and love and contentment in equal measure. And, proving that last night was not a fluke, or something she considered with worry or regret or disgust, they had made love again as the sea birds cried plaintively outside.

And now she was sitting across from him, as she had for years at Downton, but with so many differences it was laughable: she was in her nightgown, her hair loose and falling over her shoulders, eating grapes and cheese and bread as if they were her final meal. Neither of them had eaten since yesterday's wedding lunch, and he was hungrier himself than he'd been since he was a young man. Acting like a besotted boy makes one hungry, he grinned and tucked into the food as well. He certainly was besotted.

"Charlie."

"Hmmm?" He sipped his tea, then added more milk. It was very strong. He knew that's how she liked it.

"It suddenly occurred to me: we've nothing to do today," she looked as if she couldn't quite believe it.

"We'll think of something, I'm sure," his eyebrow, up; her eyes, rolling.

"And somehow, I've got the reputation for impertinence," she swatted his arm. He grabbed her hand, kissed it gallantly. Was rewarded with another eye roll. He then wondered how he missed something he'd not had until now. But he had. He had felt this missing from his life, from her, for what seemed like forever.

"Well, if I remember correctly, the last time we were seaside it was because you somehow hornswoggled me into a trip to Brighton with the entire staff of Downton, foreswearing anything educational or historical as an alternative," he began, smiling at her. He'd not soon forget that day, wading into the water with her, taking her hand, with intent. It was the day he began planning for this day, this eventuality, in earnest. Difficult to believe it was nearly two years ago.

"I've not a clue what you're on about," she replied, sipping her tea primly. "We both know that you cannot be persuaded if you're in a mind to do something. I remember something about the Crystal Palace, but to the best of my recollection, you came up with that seaside trip all on your own."

"In any case," he continued, intentionally ignoring her cheek, "What do you think of a day at Scarborough Castle, with a picnic on the cliffs nearby? We can learn something of the local history and take in the views, which are something to be seen, according to his lordship."

"Well, I think that sounds lovely, Charlie. I best go tidy myself up for all of Scarborough to see. And you must leave me tidy, understand?" She took the last sip of her tea, and stood. She came around to his side of the table, leaned over and kissed his forehead.

She sighed, her cheek pressed against his head. "I love you, Charles Carson. And I am so glad I can tell you so, when I have the mind to." And she went off to the bedroom, to pin up her hair.

oooOOOooo

The views from the Castle were spectacular – his lordship had been right on that account. Both the north and south bays of the city were viewable, and Elsie loved the sight of the tiny, colorful houses and cottages, seemingly stacked in rows along the beaches and cliff side, and the tranquilly bobbing boats dotting the dark, glassy water.

Charlie got entrenched in the Castle's history, ferreting out unusual and obscure facts from one of the guides, who was more than happy to share his knowledge with so enthusiastic an audience. Elsie's pleasure came not from arcane statistics from centuries ago, but rather in watching her husband's delight in the same.

Her joy came in being a tourist for the first time in her life, the idea of leisure time so foreign and delectable, as so many things on this honeymoon were turning out to be. She'd never regret her time at Downton, if only for it as a means to provide security for her sister, and her own chance to be Charles Carson's colleague, friend, lover and wife, though there were many other people who made her life happy there as well; but as democracy reared it's not-always-welcome head in England, she could understand why sharp girls who reminded her of herself when she was young were now becoming secretaries, or teachers, or journalists, or working in smart shops, or a myriad of other pursuits, rather than a life in service: time.

Time was precious, and time was never promised; and with a life in service, her time, for so much of her life, had not been her own. Now, for a few days, at least, she had a wealth of time. And she intended to cherish it.

Such as sitting in the tall grasses on the Castle grounds, on a gentle hill dotted with other picnickers, leaning back on the blanket they had brought, watching the clouds hurry across the blue sky. They could hurry, but she wouldn't. A few children were flying box kites in the sea breeze, their shrieks of intermittent triumph and failure cutting through the afternoon air. She noticed Charlie watching them with a rueful smile on his face, and she nudged him.

"Go ask yon lads if you can have a turn. I am sure they'd let you," she nudged him, grinned.

He smiled sheepishly at her, but he hopped up and wandered over to them, and she could hear him speaking to them in a teacherly but kind voice, showing them how best to keep the kite aloft for the longest amount of time. She watched his tall figure run, holding the kite as high as he could, encouraging one boy with a mop of dark hair to hold the string tight, tight, tight! And she thought how he'd never been a father, nor a grandfather. And she shook her head, thinking that he'd been and still was a great many things to many of the younger people in their lives, just as important and influential as any paternal figure. Life gave you plenty of room for regret, but not enough time for it. It was best to carry on without it.

She grinned. The kite was flying high, and going even higher.

oooOOOooo

They returned to the little light blue cabin and an enormous tea was waiting for them. They laughed to see so much food after their late breakfast and picnic lunch and decided to let it wait.

"Let's go dip our toes in the surf, shall we?" He suggested, and the both stepped outside onto the little sitting area where he drifted off to sleep the night before. Toes properly prepared for a walk in the sand, they made their way to the foamy surf, nodding to other happy late-afternoon strollers and sunbathers.

They watched the fishing boats come in, after a long day's work, headed towards the marina down near The Grand. The golden light soon was tinged with rose and orange, but neither of them made a move to head back to their cottage, not yet; the sea held them in its thrall.

He glanced over at her, and she at him.

"That day at Brighton, after Lady Rose's ball, when you offered me your hand," he finally said. "I already loved you, of course, but it was that day, on that beach, I decided I must do something about it, or die a fool."

"I didn't know," she moved closer to him, and he put his arm around her.

"How could you have? How many moments have there been, in our long lives, that might have spurred me into action?"

"My, my, how was I to know my entire life hinged on a bit of well-timed flirting?" She laughed, but it was gentle.

"That, and a well-placed seaside postcard."

She gasped. And started laughing, looked up at him. "I just wanted the staff to have a nice, relaxing time, feel the sand on my own feet. Look where it's got me."

"I still have it."

"The postcard? Ye never do."

"I do indeed. It was like a love letter with a message I didn't quite understand."

"Aye, well you seem to understand it just fine now," she splashed him a little with her foot, and he leaned down and kissed her, as the tide came in.