A Chelsie Christmas
G - Gift
December 7th, 1926
"Are you going to linger here all day?" Elsie said, coming into her parlour to find Charles still occupying an armchair and reading his Lordship's breakfast paper.
"Why ever not?" He glanced over the top of his glasses at her, lowering the paper a little and his breaking into a grin as he took in her form, an armful of linen and that straight, firm back.
"And you can't stop grinning at me too," she laid the linen on her desk and started to sort through it. "Honestly, if anyone saw that lapsidasicle expression."
"They would think I am a contended man."
She raised her eyebrows at him, giving him a pointed look whilst inwardly overjoyed at his happiness.
"Surely you have chores."
"Half the village is closed down," he folded the paper in half. "Unless you have something I can help you with."
"I'm labelling which need repairs and setting them aside for a quiet day in January to occupy my staff. Should you wish to help."
He sighed, "Not really. Any glasses to polish?"
"Why don't you check the wine cellar?"
"Already done, just waiting for your menus and then I'll make the wine choices."
She smiled at that, "Choose something wonderful for the two of us perhaps, for our Christmas Day, I should say night." She piled the linin into a cupboard, "We will eat here at lunchtime again?"
"Of course, and then maybe a light supper for just the two of us later in the day. Perhaps open our presents then?"
"I have to wait all day," she teased. "How cruel."
"Elsie," he warned, watching as she stretched to reach down something from the top shelf. "Should I help?"
"I'm fine," she carried the box down, almost tripping over his feet as she went to set it down on the floor. "How many mince pies have you had?"
"One."
She glared at him as she knelt on the rug.
"Three." He grudgingly admitted. "But it's cold out."
"And mince pies keep you warm, do they?" She huffed as she searched in the box for her menus from the previous few years.
"Course, comfort."
"You can't hide in here all day."
"Not distracting you, just reading my paper. Having a cup of tea. Is my company annoying?"
She pushed against the chair to get up to her feet clutching the menus, "I need to go through these alongside Daisy's, make sure nothing is too similar too close together."
"What does Thomas have planned for this ball?"
She rolled her eyes, "Mr. Barrow now. And why don't you ask him?"
"I will not." He got abruptly to his feet, pacing the room, standing by the high window and staring out of the frozen pane to the frozen grounds. When he started whistling she dropped one of her books loudly to the desk and he stopped.
"Charles," she said again, staring at his back. "Why not get started on our decorations, back at the cottage? We haven't done it yet."
He frowned, "That's my job?"
She glared at him again, "Why? Is that yet another one on my list?"
"You know what I mean, we should do it together."
"I suppose," she carried the box back over to the top shelf of her cupboard, placing it down, turning to return to her desk and bumping into him. "Oh, for goodness sake, Charles, you're under my feet."
"Well I am sorry to be an issue."
"That's not what I mean. You surely can't be happy in here all day, with little to do, it's not in your nature."
He opened his mouth to admit he felt a bit useless when there was a knock and Molesley came in.
"Oh, sorry to disturb. Mrs. Carson, Mr. Carson. Didn't realise you were here."
"He's on his way home," she said pointedly. "What can I do for you?"
"Just letting you know I'm taking a couple of the boys with me, Mr. Barrow is sending us into town to help clear the road."
"Now there you go," Elsie said, turning back to Charles. "Something helpful."
His eyes narrowed, he was once a grand Butler, now clearing roads. "Yes, I suppose."
"You could supervise," she suggested and Molesley grimaced, unseen by them both. "In your new role as community whatsit. Thank you Mr. Molesley, make sure the boys wrap up warm."
Once the door closed Charles flounced back to his chair, "Clearing roads," he exclaimed, "honestly."
"I told you, supervise."
"Nobody wants me to, not now."
Her heart clutched at that, "Sweetheart," she rested her hand on his shoulder, found the right words to convince him, to soothe his ego. "A man with as much natural leadership as yourself would be wrong not to supervise, instruct… get the job done quicker."
"And done correctly."
"Exactly."
He looked up at her, "Should I turn by here later? Walk you home?"
"I'll be fine," she said quickly, "I will see you at home tonight."
He got to his feet, slapping the chair arms, "Right you are."
She slipped his scarf around his neck, "Now. Keep warm, and don't do too much, remember you aren't twenty-five."
"Yes, yes." He found his coat, sneaking another mince pie from the plate and into his pocket when she wasn't looking. "Well, have a good day."
"I'm sure I will," she said, ushering him toward the door. "Bye love."
"Goodbye," he kissed her cheek, and set off after Molesley.
"Very grateful for it Mr. Carson," Mrs. Greenwood said, hovering by her front door and leaning her bent body against a wooden cane. "Not that I have many visitors these days mind. Always grateful to the grange, always grateful of your wife sending the hampers. She's very kind."
"She is indeed." Truth be told he had never really been one for casual chatter, especially not to the local residents. He preferred to keep to himself, stay focussed on his job and his immediate acquaintances. There seemed little need for it all really, and, after all, Elsie was so much better at feigning interest. However, standing there and catching a glimpse inside the old woman's damp terrace brought affection, sympathy wormed its way into his heart. There but for the grace of God went he, old, alone, lonely. "Anything else I might help you with, Mrs. Greenwood? The fire perhaps, should I build it up?"
"Oh, no need," she batted the idea away with her free hand.
"Do you have enough coal, firewood?"
The old woman cast a glance behind her to the grey lounge, "Ran out a few days ago, but it's been cosy enough."
Charles knew that was a lie; he'd woken up in the early hours asleep on the lounge floor with Elsie's head on his chest, a dwindling fire and a biting chill in the room. He had woken her, bid her to go to bed, and she'd stumbled her way upstairs wrapped in a blanket. Luckily, he was prepared and all the fires in reasonable condition, he managed to get a spark with just paper and got one burning in the bedroom before he climbed into bed beside her. Immediate sleep.
"Let me help," he said, "I will gather resources, that is if you don't mind, and get you in tiptop condition."
He trudged home, the air pinching his cheeks after a couple of hours out in the snow. There were logs enough in the outhouse and he loaded them onto his wheelbarrow, wondering just how bad his back would be after pushing it back through the snowy streets. They could spare a bag of coal too so he loaded that on. Come to think of it they could probably spare food. He searched the cupboards until he found a suitable old biscuit tin and laid mince pies inside, fresh ones Elsie had brought home only two days since. There was enough stew for days so he poured some into a small pan, wedged it between the logs and secured it with two of Elsie's aprons he found in a drawer. He'd have to be careful, take his time.
"You needn't 'av, Mr. Carson," Mrs. Greenwood fussed, ecstatic as he set to make a fire and the stew warmed on the hob in the kitchen.
"Nonsense, it's winter, almost Christmas. And you just ask if you need anything," he piled the logs high, settled back on a chair as he watched it start to flicker. "Consider it a gift."
"I do indeed, I do indeed." The old lady wobbled on her cane as she made to sit on the chair at the corner of the room, by the front window, a view to the world. "So very kind of you both. I don't get out much you see, certainly not in this kind of weather."
"I understand." He knew her boy had been killed in the war, her husband had died a good ten years before. It struck him how he had never really considered poverty on his doorstep, but of course there it was, and he was blessed by God to have a good home and a good wife. "As I say, anything you need. Look it's getting going now, should soon have this place warmed through."
She chuckled, "Thank you. Fancy, a man about the house, and a butler at that."
"Well, I don't know." He got to his feet. "I'll check on that stew."
"Now don't put yourself out –," she made to stand, her frail body struggling.
"Don't you bother yourself, I can get it."
The kitchen was cluttered with old furniture and he pondered briefly of bringing Elsie here come her next afternoon off, she would have this place spick and span in no time. He found a bowl, filled it half full and carried it through to the hungry woman.
"You found your way around," she said, taking a hearty spoonful.
"Yes, years of training. May I enquire as to the belongings in there?"
"Been trying to clean it for years, never get it done. Happen you might want anything, help yourself."
Charles didn't think any the rubbish was worth more than the scrap man but he didn't want to appear rude. He wandered in and took a cursory look before going back to the lounge.
"That rocking chair…?" He asked.
"Yes, take it, take it, by all means."
"You don't have need of it?"
She had already eaten half of the bowl of stew. "Not at all, been in there for donkeys years. Have it. A thank you." She smiled. "A gift."
"Well, I was perhaps thinking… for Mrs. Carson you see. Bit of a surprise."
She tapped the side of her nose, "Secret's safe."
He lumbered the creaking chair home perched on the barrow, feeling foolish and praying he wouldn't bump into anyone he knew. It was dark by then though and the snow refreezing which kept people indoors.
Elsie never went in to the outhouse, she had no need and besides it was Charles' domain; so, he hid the chair there. He would assess it come the following morn, perhaps it just needed a clean and tidy. Or maybe he could paint it, find a nice cushion, tighten up the bolts. Be just the ticket.
"Charlie?" Elsie called from the kitchen and he hurried out, locking the door behind him and pocketing the key.
"That time already?" He said, coming indoors. "Good day?"
"Yes, I suppose. And yours, how was the clearing? Mr. Moseley said he lost sight of you."
He took her coat and hung it, watched as she rinsed her hands in warm water.
"Do you know I happened to get talking to Mrs. Greenwood."
"Oh, that lovely old lady?"
"She is, isn't she? In fact, well, I rather helped her out."
Elsie took the pan of stew from the larder, "Have you been eating this?"
"I took some for her, and logs, coal, mince pies too before you chide me."
She smiled softly, "My dear, that's awfully kind of you."
"She was at a loss," he shrugged, "seemed the right thing to do."
"I always knew you had a good heart behind all that bravado." She lit the stove, "I'll change before we eat. Are you alright?"
He stretched his hand, "The cold weather, you see." He pointed out.
"I see," she took his hand in hers, rubbing the palm with her thumb. "Sorry if I was short this morning."
"Not at all."
"I brought treacle sponge, call it a peace offering."
"My favourite."
"I know. That any better?"
"A little." He watched her face, took in her height, the wonderful fragrance she always seemed to carry with her. "I managed to get a gift today."
"Oh? Sounds like you were giving them out too, quite the Father Christmas."
"Don't quip anything about round bellies," he huffed then they both laughed. "And I meant I got one for you, a gift."
Her eyes widened, "How thoughtful." She imagined another book, at a push a new shawl, he wasn't all that adventurous. She stood on her tiptoes to kiss his cheek, "Being here with you will be gift enough."
"Amen to that."