A Chelsie Christmas
F – Fire
December 6th, 1926
"…light of my life, fire of my loins. My sin, my soul."
"You're soaking," Charles said as he opened the front door and watched Elsie down the path to their cottage door. "I didn't think to have seen you. Come on." He takes her arm as she comes in, moving behind her to slide her coat off. "It's really coming down."
"Yes," she removed her hat, shaking the melted snowflakes from her hair. "Her ladyship sent Anna and I home whilst we could still manage it."
"I would have come to help."
"I know," she handed him her basket. "Here, you could help me with this."
"Happy to, rather dull day."
"Oh?"
"I have never read so much in my entire life."
"I can think of nothing better than a day spent inside reading by the fire."
He huffed, "Yes, well. Rather different when you have no choice."
"Oh darling," she said softly, coming to stand beside him and patting his hand as he emptied the food from her basket. "My apologies. I'm short tempered."
"No harm."
She nodded, "There are potatoes in the pantry, should you want to peel them, be a help. I'll prepare the meat, vegetables, I thought we'd have stew."
"Good idea. Nice and warming."
"I can make dumplings," she rolled up her sleeves, her fingertips defrosting thanks to the hearty fire he had burning in the lounge. "I can make good dumplings, oddly enough."
"There's port, perhaps a drop in the sauce?"
"Yes, why not. Ghastly weather outdoors, let's make a pot of stew and enjoy it for days to come."
She bathed as it simmered; lying still in the bath and closing her eyes for a moment. The ice was in her bones and Charles had poured her a stiff drink and filled the tub, though she had added a few drops of the lavender oil Beryl had gifted her the previous Christmas.
Relaxing she sighed in pleasure, lifting her legs slightly, the water silky against her thighs. It made her stomach shift, something deep and tangible, and her eyes shot open at the sensation. She clamped her legs together and pulled herself to sit; she was a wife and an old one at that. Mrs. Hughes never had such temptations.
Charles tapped against the door some time later, "Warmed a towel for you," he said, hanging it on the handle.
"Thank you," she called in return, automatically reaching to cover her breasts, which was ridiculous really, for he had seen her naked several times but always in the dark, always in their bed beneath the sheets.
When she heard him downstairs, humming below her, she got out and took the towel from outside the door and quickly dried her body.
There was some debate in the bedroom on what to wear. Had she been alone she might have put her nightwear on, but then Charles might not approve. She was standing wrapped in her robe when he came in.
"Oh, sorry, wasn't sure you were out."
She pulled her robe tighter, keenly aware of her nudity beneath the material, of the damp towel on the chair.
"Won't be a second."
"You're dressing." He loosened his collar, slid out his tie, opened the top buttons. "It's chilly up here. I shall have to light another fire for bed but it means getting to the outhouse for coal."
"Don't," she said, "We can make do with the one downstairs." She breathed deeply. "The truth is I was debating how terrible it would be to put my nightclothes on, how disrespectful you might find that at dinner."
They sat by the fire with their bowls of stew, one on each chair facing the warmth. Charles lifted a pyjama clad leg to push a log further in, quickly pulling back before any flying embers could catch his slipper.
"Good dumplings," he said.
"I did say. Grandma Hughes taught me, I remember that well."
"Your Gran was a good cook?"
"A hearty one, traditional."
"Mine too."
They sat in silence for a while after, watching the fire, the snow piling up outside.
"It has to stop soon," he said.
"Times like this I wish I had a rocking chair," she replied.
The dishes were left by the sink waiting to be rinsed; they'd had a glass of red wine and now Charles poured two more. It made him brave.
When Elsie passed him, squeezing between his body and the table where he stood pouring the wine, he felt the warmth of her body and it made him swoon – he never thought men could. Usually when he had feelings, thoughts, such as this he'd mention something of an early night or simply take himself up to bed at a suitable hour and she'd follow and things would progress.
But tonight the world was frosted over. And they were right there in their little cocoon by the fire and he wanted to stay. It was magical. Enchanting. Like being in a snow globe.
He kissed her when he passed her wine across, lingered with it so she knew and then parted, both sipping the rich liquid. Then he leant in again and she returned it and he felt his dreams coming true.
He spilled his wine on his pyjama shirt in his haste and she laughed at his clumsiness, the still damp tendrils of her hair falling loose from the pins she'd put in.
Putting his glass aside Charles cursed the mess.
"Maybe you should take it off," she bravely suggested, "I could clean it some."
He mumbled, fumbled, still new to all this. With no words to voice his needs, or even how to explain to himself what he wanted, he allows her to unbutton his top. He watches as her fingers move from one white button to the next, at the striped material falling open; there should be cool air on his skin but instead it's her breath.
He wishes what was in his heart could find way to his head, to his throat, to tell her of the throbbing need she brought to him. There had been similar feelings in his youth, he was a virgin but no stranger to lust, and to finally be able to love her in such a way.
Charles sucked in a breath when her heads brushed over his shoulders, pushing the material aside. "It shouldn't take much," she had said and then he lost control.
There were so words to find so instead he pulled her to him with such passion she gasped into his mouth, his hands were everywhere at once and it made her heady with desire. Had it been like this before?
She dropped his shirt to the floor.
"Charlie," she breathed, tilting her head back as he kissed her neck, "in the unlikely event somebody should appear at our door perhaps we should retire."
"I want you here," he said, and she doubted he had ever been so clear or strong. He looked at her, one hand holding her head, his fingers threading through her hair, the other on the curve of her back. "Is it too forward of me?" For he had shocked himself with his words; where had this man come from? A friend, a husband, a lover.
"We are husband and wife," she offered, thinking of the risqué books she'd consumed over the years.
He kissed her again, grateful for her kind, gentle nature. Unbelieving still of the fact she loved him in return, the full force of it hitting him in unexpected moments.
He bid her to move, and then he was on his knees and looking up at her – expectantly and full of wonder.
"Wait," she said, and his deflated expression caught her heart. She left him only briefly to turn off lamps and then it was better, then it was comfortable. The orange light of the fire. His chest glowed golden and she left her hands on his shoulders for longer than was necessary. She had never fully taken the time before to appreciate physically who he was, this man that shared her life, her heart. Being married and being brave did not always go hand-in-hand, but they were getting there. Intimacy, after so very many years of loneliness and singledom and tiny frozen bedrooms, was not easy to adopt.
With forethought he used the blankets from their chairs, laid her down on pillows, took his time. The pad of his thumb on that spot at the base of her neck before he'd even undressed her.
"My darling, darling wife," he was reverent. There was all the time in the world. Tiptoeing fingertips down her chest, finding the lace that held the top of her nightgown together; buttons and ties and layers that had kept her separate from him for far too long.
She whispered something when he was between her thighs, and he could feel the heat of the fire on his back and in his loins and her voice like thick honey at the back of his throat.
Elsie. Two syllables. El – sie, and the word slipped over his tongue as a leaf dances upon a stream. He tiptoed over her name time and again, as his fingers did the same to her skin, losing himself in her, in where they were and what they were doing.
Her groan brought him to his senses and he had a sudden need to please her, to make her happy, to impart some of the joy in his heart to hers. For a fraction of it could cure the world's ails.
Hands on her hips and stilled movements made her lift her head from their makeshift bed and eye him curiously. Even more so when he guided her movements, both wide-eyed, they should have been embarrassed, she should have stopped him because it was different, but oh it felt so good. Wondrously so.
He fell awkwardly onto his back, and she was on top of him, ungainly at first as her legs moved into a position she had never known; she pressed against his chest, ashamed of him seeing her body naked and up close.
But when he moved his hips she cried out. It touched somewhere inside she'd never felt before.
And then the clumsiness was gone because she wanted more of that deliciousness, longed for it, and her body found ways of living she'd never even dreamt of. How perfect nature was. To bring two people together in such a way with no guidance other than the sweetest of delights.
The deep dark aching of loneliness was banished and the fire burned.
Lying on her side facing the fire, Elsie breathed deeply, exhaling slow and steady. So this was what marriage was.
Her head rested on Charles' arm offering a pillow, his other arm over her waist, her bare chest against her bare back. How decadent. How unexpectedly wonderful.
His mouth was on the back of her head, kissing her hair, his fingers stroking her skin where he held her beneath the blanket.
"May I ask something," she whispers, turning her head slightly, only when her face is by his she is silenced by his kisses. His mouth on hers, soft, pressing and insistent. She strains her neck, hungry to return his touch, her hair trapped between them.
She smiles, a shy giggle at the back of her throat and her hand pressing round to his upper chest.
His face is joyous, enraptured as he stares down at her. "Sorry."
"Don't be," she says lightly, "I'm rather enjoying your attentions. If that's quite right of me to say."
"I like to hear how you feel," his voice is low, eyes dark in the firelight.
"Overwhelmed," she whispers, "cherished. Loved." She bites down on her lip, watching his eyes follow her movement, "You?"
"Joyous." It is simple and true. "What did you want to ask?" He kisses her forehead, loosening his hold a little as she turns onto her back to look up him, rearranging her legs, her arms, brushing her hair back.
"Goodness, what a mess I am."
"What perfection," he says, propped up on his arm now to look her over. A red-faced grin, a giddiness that belays his age. He can see his pyjamas on the sofa and he feels decidedly mischievous over their actions, despite their age, their marriage, and the fact they're alone in their home. "Ask me anything," he kisses her nose, unable to stop touching her, unwilling to break their contact for even a moment.
"Something I thought of, as we were preparing dinner together."
"Go on," he settles down beside her again, holding onto her – he can't remember the last time he smiled so much, so freely – perhaps their wedding night.
"Was there ever a moment where you wondered if you had made a mistake?"
He frowned, "In life?"
"With us," she felt her cheeks warm as his expression changed.
"Only a concern we hadn't done it years ago." His hand flattened on her belly, "Why, did you?"
"Remember at the start, how terrible my cooking was?"
"It wasn't that –,"
"You don't have to pretend."
"Well," he sighed, "that was never your specialism." His hand started to move again, his palm ghosting over her ribcage, beneath her breasts, how she shivered when the side of his thumbs touched the underside. He seemed to like this place best, she'd noticed when they were curled up together in bed his hand would hover there. Nervous in the beginning, testing and wondering if she minded, and when she didn't, leaving his hand there for longer, allowing his fingers to trace that wonderful, glorious curve, soft as silk, heavy, whole.
It made her feel like a woman.
He'd never mentioned the scar. Clearly, it didn't bother him.
"You felt it was a mistake?" He asked hesitantly; there had been a time where he'd wondered. He sighed heavily, his voice shaking at the sudden coarse of emotion, "Please don't say you regretted marrying me."
She pursed her lips, her nose scrunching as she dipped her chin down shyly, "The cooking," she admitted, "it was… difficult…"
"Cooking is difficult. Mrs. Patmore makes it look easy."
"No, I mean, not just that, not just the act of putting it together but you, Charles, do you understand?"
"I made it difficult?"
"It doesn't matter now, because things are wonderful and I think, well," she smiled slightly, "I know that we are both very happy."
"Deliriously so. There aren't words," he admitted. He reached for her hands, kissing them together, worshipping, "I apologise, if I ever hurt you." He looked earnestly to her face, "You know, I am clumsy and restrained, it has always been so. I have never quite been able to find the words to get what's in here," he touched his chest, "out."
She lifted a hand out of his, touching his face, up to the glorious thick curl of his hair. "There is no need, we are finding our way. Even after a year, we are still finding it."
"And this is… good?"
"Good and right. It just made me reflect on it, tonight, how I never told you back then how I felt."
"And now you would?"
"I hope so."
"As do I…"
She squeezed his fingers, "I do love you, Charlie, with all my soul. And I do hope we can share anything of how we feel. The good and the bad."
He nodded, his eyes heavy from the warmth of the room and the intensity of their exchanges. "And I love you. You are the fire in my life, my darling sweet Elsie."