A Chelsie Christmas

E – Eggnog

December 5th, 1926

There was a freckle, his favourite freckle, at the base of her neck. Right in the softness where there was a dent, a hollow, and the lines gathered (though he'd never tell her that) and he could touch it. His index finger, under her chin, the two vertical lines about an inch in length halfway down, and then below that they crinkled into tiny wandering tissue paper. And there it was, the tip of his finger on it, he couldn't feel it of course but he knew it was there and nobody else did. Not a soul in the world knew but him and that did things to his stomach that were unexpected when thinking of a freckle.

Oh Sunday, glorious Sunday. The word was a whisper upon his breath, dancing through his mind like a piece of silk in the breeze.

A white room, crispy cold and warm beneath the bedsheets. Upon it the blanket she lovingly made for his birthday, patchworks of his favourite places and colours. There was more love sewn into that spread than he could ever put voice to in the English language. He wondered, at times, passingly, how long she'd loved him.

He continued to lie on his side watching her. Who would have thought, even twelve months ago, he would have ever found the time nor inclination to just lie and watch his wife sleep? His wife. There was pride in that, still. And there were things he could be doing, should be doing; the garden for one, there was a gathering of leaves beneath the hedgerow he kept meaning to clear away. He had verses to go through, preparations for the Christmas Eve service.

She breathed deeply, her chin shifting on the pillow, her chest rising and falling.

"Blessed Sunday," he said, leaning forward to kiss her forehead. "Thank you for granting us slow waking mornings."

The service was well attended, despite the snow, and he was glad to see so many of the village there. Elsie stood a way off outside of the church, talking to other women and he watched her smile and laugh and missed her presence by his side in that warm cocoon of a bed.

"Wonderful job, Carson," Lord Grantham said, touching his old employee's arm. "Very nice arrangement in there, clearly this new role is suiting you. In fact, the entire village is decorated beautifully."

"Thank you, my lord."

"How are you these days, enjoying a slower pace of life?"

"I wouldn't quite say slower," he bristled at the implication, "but certainly different, in many ways. Will Lady Edith and Mary be returning for Christmas, that is, if my enquiring isn't too forward?"

"Of course it isn't, and yes, they both are. No doubt looking forward to seeing you too, you will attend the ball won't you?"

Charles gave a short nod of his head, "Mrs. Carson informs me there are to be some slight alterations to proceedings."

"Barrow has ideas, but he is settling down now it has to be said, settling into the role." He touched Carson's arm again, squeezing his coat, "Good to see you old chap. Take care."

He waited patiently as Elsie finished up with her acquaintances, hovering inside the church to keep warm.

She was brisk when she came in, pulling on her gloves, eyes shining. "That was a lovely service."

"I thought so too. Shall I walk with you to the house?"

"There's really little need, I can go with the rest of the staff." She caught hold of his elbow, leaning in to kiss his cheek. "I will be back around four, if you want to wait to eat, I thought we might have roast chicken."

"Yes. I can wait."

"Good. Until later."

He watched her walk away, standing in the entrance to the church as the small group of servants crossed the snow-covered path that led back towards the Abbey; leaving him behind.

"Mr. Carson seemed a bit put out this morning," Mrs. Patmore said, watching the last of the dishes carried upstairs for lunch.

"Did he?" Elsie looked up from her order book, straining over the top of her glasses. "Why?"

"Just a feeling."

"He was fine at breakfast."

"You cooked?" Mrs. Patmore said, an eyebrow cocked.

Elsie pursed her lips, "We had scrambled eggs. They were very nice. He fetches them from over at Higham farm."

"That's a distance to walk."

"He likes it, walks miles every week."

"Bored?" The cook asked, warming the teapot.

"No, I don't think –, he just likes to walk, the fresh air and such."

"And what's he doing today?"

"Relaxing I suppose, it is Sunday, the rest of the world don't follow our routine.

"Lucky them. Not thinking of joining him, are you? Tea?"

"Yes please, and in what way?"

"Having every Sunday off?"

She took hold of her teacup, "And would there be to run things?" She snapped, turning on her heel and returning to her office.

Charles' days of drinking were resigned to the dark corners of his mind, the history book of his youth. Yet as he took a leisurely stroll around the village before heading home he was drawn to the Grantham Arms for no other reason than it looked warm and inhabited.

He had been before of course, and knew his way inside. Once there though there was a slight fuss, a decision over what to order; not sherry in a situation like this, a bar crowded with gentleman having a swift one before heading home for lunch and an afternoon snooze. Perhaps it didn't suit him at all but he couldn't very well leave now he'd arrived.

He ordered a half pint of bitter and perched himself at the end of the bar where he had a bit of space to gaze around and watch over proceedings. He had never been entirely comfortable in these places, even as a young man, and that feeling of not quite fitting in but looking in remained.

"We don't see you in here," the barman said, Jack was around Charles' age and there the similarity ended. He was rough and coarse and salt-of-the-earth. Charles was smooth, refined and could often be judgemental.

"Thought I'd warm up before the walk home."

"The wife making dinner, is she?"

"Later perhaps. She will be." He puffed out his chest. "Quite a gathering in here."

"Ay, we do alright. Not missing your role are you?" Jack asked, and Charles wondered of his views on him, the haughty butler who was still managing to lord it over everyone now he was on the council.

"At times," he admitted, deciding it was better to be honest. "The feeling of being useful."

"Make thaself useful here, pour some pints."

Charles's eyebrows shot up, "I would have no idea."

"Thought your lot was trained in service."

"Yes, pouring wine, decanting, choose the right measure for the right meal."

Jack nodded, as if he understood. "Fancy."

"I am not at all sure any of your clientele would welcome a drop of sherry."

"Ah you never know, funny lot. Someone asked for eggnog the other evening, for his lady friend, never heard of it in here."

Charles nodded, "Popular with his Lordship's guests at Christmas but a little too rich for my tastes. I would simply prefer the whisky."

"You ever make it?"

"Once or twice," he lied.

"Make yourself useful then," Jack said, lifting up the hatch.

"You have the ingredients?"

"I won't know until tha tells me what they are."

The lounge crackled with firelight and whispers of roast chicken, Charles snoring in his chair and Elsie in hers working on Becky's scarf. She yawned, covering her mouth, sliding off her glasses and putting them aside. The light was getting too poor to work now and her eyes felt sore as she rubbed them.

She watched her husband for a moment, how his great lumbering body filled the chair. The red cheeks, that furrowed brow that never seemed to disappear. The muttering as he breathed in and out.

After a while she left him by the fire, putting away her knitting and retreating to the kitchen to tidy away the last of the dishes. Things were better now, not perfect but better, they had found their roles and a way to live together and it was working. There were things she still half resented but she was a wife now and that meant she had to accept certain truths, her having to be a domestic goddess one of them.

"You're awake," she said, startled when he came in behind her.

"Yes."

He stood watching her wash the dishes, slightly heavy headed from the slowly dispersing sleep.

"Charlie, may I ask you something?"

"Of course."

She looked at his reflection in the kitchen window, "You are alright, aren't you? Happy?"

"Of course I am, what a foolish question." He opened the fridge and took out a pint milk bottle filled with a creamy liquid. "I believe I may have made a new friend today."

"Really?" She dried her hands on the dishcloth. "Where?"

"In the pub."

She almost choked. "The…?"

"Pub. The Grantham Arms. Jolly nice chap who runs things, taught him how to make Eggnog."

Her eyes were wide, incredulous, she wondered if he was drunk. "Oh."

"There's some in the bottle for us, thought we might have a drop by the fire."

"Yes, let's."

She followed him back to the lounge and settled in her chair again.

"Sunday is my favourite day," he proclaimed, pouring their drinks.

"Really? You used to hate it. Said it was a waste of hours full of slow moving people with no incentive to do anything."

"Yes well," he murmured, "things change. I am a married man now, there is new perspective."

"Oh, and what would that be."

"Love, Mrs. Hughes, love."

She blushed, "Oh," and sipped the luxurious drink. "It's nice to have a new perspective I suppose."

"Lots of them. Your freckle for one."

She frowned and laughed at the same time, "My what?"

"Your beautiful freckle," he said with a chuckle and she wondered again just how many half pints of bitter he had sampled.

He shuffled his chair closer to the fire, closer to hers, sipping his eggnog and telling her all about that wonderful perfect spot in the hollow of her neck.