A/N: Hey guys (ladies, more probably). So, this is it. This is THE END. The last chapter of this story of mine.
This author's note is long, so I understand completely if you choose to skip it. I wanted to write it, however. I kinda need to. I won't lie - this ending wasn't exactly what I had in mind, at first. Way back in July when I started writing this story, I had two ideas for an ending: the first, the original, that takes place after Charlie dies, with an unexpected graveside meeting between Elsie and Mary. The other, once I decided against such a melancholic ending, swung in the other direction: happy sentiment. It was to be the penultimate chapter, originally. A happy scene with all of our faves; the christening of Mary's third child, a girl, named after the Dowager, with Charlie and Isobel as godparents. A happy if sentimental ending scene, with nearly the whole crew we love in attendance.
Neither makes sense anymore, though you may see some version of either or both appear in a later story, if I have more to say about these guys (I might. I just might). I called this story "A History of Moments" because that's what life is made up of. The obviously significant ones, and the ones that seem forgettable, yet aren't. All of those beads, big and small, we string onto the necklace of life. We can't possible remember everything. We are each left with our chosen (consciously and unconsciously) moments.
I don't know you guys. You don't know me. Yet, here I am. Yet, here you are. And you. And you. Reading something I typed an hour or a day or a week or a month ago. It's not a new thought, but it's true: these words connect us, even briefly. We've shared something. I, sitting here at the computer at 1 p.m. on a rainy Thursday afternoon, am connected to you, reading this as you ride the stationary bike tomorrow morning. Or scroll through this story on your phone at 1 a.m. two weeks from now, rereading your favorite part. Or as you try to read JUST ONE MORE CHAPTER before you pick the kids up at violin. I've cried writing this. Cried because I adore these characters, and cried because this story has been pure THERAPY for me this summer into fall. In and of itself, but also because it's sparked some pretty amazing conversations and interactions with a variety of people in my life, about love, romance, feminism, classism, democracy, intimacy in every form, discrimination and ageism, just to name a few.
In the end, I tried to remember what this story is about: these two people, these two characters. Their shared moments, the moments that impacted their lives as they wound themselves together. Those moments of all sizes. And that each witnessed the other person's life in these moments. Just that. Which is so much, really. It's everything.
Okay, I am done.
Except...thank you. Thank you. Thank you.
~CeeCee
The early hours of New Year's Day, 1928
She woke up with a gasp, her heart pounding. Her eyes flew open to the near-darkness of the now-familiar room. Bluish moonlight, reflected on the thin layer of icy snow coating the world, shone through the bedroom window. She rolled over, reaching for Charlie. He wasn't there. She pushed herself up and out of bed, worry creasing her heart. She threw her dressing gown on, padded out into the sitting room, where the lonely light of one lamp was the only source of illumination.
"Charlie?"
He was sitting on the well-worn velvet loveseat, his long legs stretched out in front of him, hands crossed over his stomach, the left over the right, his head tilted back. Even from where she was, she could see how bad the tremors were. He was trying to quell them with his good hand, but it was only a partially successful attempt.
He raised his head, gazed at her. He looked tired, defeated.
"It's so...," he trailed off, shrugged a little angrily, squeezing his hands together tighter. "I couldn't sleep, and I didn't want to wake you."
"How ironic," she mused, walking over to his side, and stroking his face. "It wasn't you who woke me; it was the absence of you."
He gaze up at her, and she could see his dark eyes were still stormy with anger and frustration at the betrayal of his body. "There will eventually be a time, likely not too far into the future, where I won't be here anymore." The fear was talking now, and she tried to ignore it.
"Aye, eventually, I can't argue with that. It's an eventuality none of us can avoid, though I suppose some have tried," she kept her voice light. Pragmatism flowed through her veins as surely as blood did, and she knew that chances were far more likely she would end a widow, than he a widower, thought she dreaded the thought of that day. "But I'll enjoy ye, while you're here, if you don't mind?" She leaned over and kissed his forehead.
He sighed, put his good arm around her waist. She transferred her kiss to his lips for a few seconds. When she pulled away, he looked more like himself.
"Tea, then?'
He nodded, his face softer. "Yes, thank you."
As she put the water on to boil, he hoisted himself from his seat and grabbed two large mugs, which were far easier for him to use with his left hand than a fussier cup and saucer. He hovered a little, and she knew he was regretting his sharp words, and didn't know how to make up for them. Not the truth of them; but the unkindness in them, the unkindness borne from his own frustration. But he wasn't wrong - some day, hopefully many years from now, she would wake up with the moon still in the sky, in her bed, alone. He would be gone, and she would still be here.
Over sixty years of sleeping alone. Not even three of sharing a bed, her nights, her days, with this man beside her. And yet, it was hard to imagine the loneliness of his permanent absence. How quickly love takes root, in the end, once you let it, she thought, and had to smile. She could have missed this. So easily. She grinned at him a little as she fixed the tea.
"You're crowding me, Mr. Carson," she stated as she added milk.
"I'm sorry."
"Here, take your tea and save your apologies for something worthwhile," she passed it him with a smile. "Everyone's short-tempered at three o'clock in the morning, I expect."
"You don't seem to be," he responded, as they walked back to the love seat.
"Well, then, don't encourage me," she retorted, and the hangdog look finally left his face. He raised his eyebrow at her as he sat. She joined him, leaning back and throwing her feet onto his lap. He grabbed her toes and immediately let go.
"Good god!"
"What? It's winter," she chuckled, taking a sip of tea. "Now Charlie, be honest: did you realize the apogee of your life would be sitting, wide awake, in a dark sitting room in the middle of the night, with an old lady's freezing feet on your lap?"
"Impertinence," he sighed, like a term of affection.
She shift so that she was leaning against him, tucking the offending appendages under herself. He placed his bad hand on her leg, and she put her head on his shoulder. They sat in silence for a few moments, the tiny nighttime sounds of the cottage creaking and popping around them.
"Well, we made it to 1928, at least," she finally spoke.
"Happy Birthday, Master William Bates," he responded.
"Indeed. A youngster who made quite a memorable entrance into this world. We should expect great things from him," she mused.
"I wonder what he will do," he replied. "Two parents who spent much, if not all, of their lives, in service. As much as it pains me to admit it, that likely won't be an option for him, attractive or otherwise."
"Well, he has a bit of time before he has to decide. Let him get all of his teeth in first, won't you? I suppose you've got the new Talbot's life trajectory all sorted before the wee bairn is even born?" She said with a smile. Lady Mary was expecting her third child in the spring, and had surprised and touched Elsie by asking, very early on, Charlie and Lady Isobel to be godparents. She knew how honored he was to be asked, but couldn't help teasing a little.
She took their empty mugs and set them in the basin. When she returned, he pulled her down on to his lap. He looked at her, his brow creasing a little. Unwound her braid with his right hand.
"I see it's still functional in some capacity," she said dryly, grabbing it, pressing the palm against her cheek. She could feel it's vibration, like a hurried, worried heartbeat.
He pulled her closer and kissed her, with care. It was very easy to fall into habit, and take this all for granted. In some ways, that was a luxury: to take her presence, here, with him, in the middle of the night, for granted. He disregarded his bothersome hand for a few minutes, to really, thoroughly, kiss his wife.
"The world is changing," he said, when she leaned away, put her head on his shoulder.
"Aye, it is, but that's nothing new," her breath puffed pleasantly on his neck, splitting his concentration between the meaning and feeling of her words.
"I suppose you'll tell me I am finally paying attention to change, that its been happening all along," he said.
"As it has, indeed. Mayhaps, as we get older, it just seems to happen more quickly. But that's what life is, no? Its not static, unchanging, or thank goodness, our lives haven't been, both by our own choices, and by happenstance, coincidence, fate, luck, or God, take your pick," she replied, lifting her head up, her much-loved face inches from his.
"What if I had wooed Alice, instead of Charlie Grigg, for example?"
"I can see it now, your illustrious joint life on the stage, possibly the silver screen..." she grinned at him.
"What if you had accepted Joe Burns' marriage proposal?"
"Which one?" Now she was laughing.
"The first one, of course," he replied, trying to sound stern. "You loved me when he proposed the second time, there was never a chance you'd accepted him then."
"So very sure of yourself," she responded, but her voice was soft. "There were many reasons for that choice, thank you very much, even if I was considering you, somewhere in my mind. But...mayhaps I did love you, even back then, though I didn't suppose anything could be done about it, not then, or for a long while afterwards. Besides, you were ready to abandon me when the blessed Lady Mary was going to marry Richard Carlyle."
"That was different," he replied, struggling to articulate what he felt. How necessary it had seemed to guide Lady Mary, how sure he was that Elsie would somehow, some way, still be part of his life, even if he had left Downton. His utter relief when Richard Carlyle's deviousness had made his decision impossible. Or maybe, he was always looking for an excuse to change his mind. "There still would have been..."
"Been what, exactly?"
"A chance. For something. Someday."
"Well, its comforting to know you had a detailed plan," she replied, and he grabbed her cold feet again. The both laughed.
"Maybe part of me did realize that the apogee of my life would be sitting in a dark sitting room in the middle of the night, holding a...beautiful woman's cold feet," he smiled at her, and then said more deliberately. "My wife's cold feet. Your cold feet."
"'Life is the acquisition of memories,'" she replied, staring warmly at him, wiggling her toes.
"Who said that?" He liked the sentiment.
"You did, you ninny," she laughed. "Years ago...I've forgotten the exact context, but not the words. See, I've been paying you mind for a long time, Charles Carson."
"If only I had known, I would have attempted to be wise more often," he replied. "You weren't the only one paying attention, Elsie."
"And it seems to me...it seems to me, when I take all of my memories out and give them a good look-over, you're in so very many of them, ye old booby," she replied, shaking her head a little. "And not just the big memories, lots of little ones, too."
"Like cold toes and tea in the middle of the night?"
"Yes, exactly. I knew you'd understand."
"Happy New Year, Elsie."
"Aye, Happy New Year, Charlie."