A Chelsie Christmas
I – Ice
December 9th, 1926
Later, he trembled as she undressed him, tenderly and silently removing each soaked item of clothing that clung to his skin. He was pale, like the ice itself, and, though she wasn't one for religious fervour, she prayed for his wellbeing.
"We'll soon have you warmed up," she said, her voice not betraying her fears that perhaps they wouldn't. "Get you into the bath first."
He nodded, he would have protested and stood, determined to do it himself, but the truth was he didn't mind her attentions and he was still in shock.
"Come," she said, tapping his bare shoulder. "You do the rest, I'll fill the bath."
She found her lavender oil and added it to the water; he'd consider it too female but she thought it might soothe him some. That and a drop of brandy, short and sharp.
He wrapped a towel around his waist before she turned to face him, hiding himself from her. There was a nasty cut on his arm which she'd bathed but the angry red line stood out as he was still so pale.
"Here we go," she said, "you can get in?"
He nodded.
"Good," she dried her hands on a towel. "I'll let you then…" she indicated the bath, "…and be right back."
Charles had started the day well. A second coat of paint on the chair, the snow was melting so it was a brisker walk into the village. He felt healthy, pink cheeks, a red nose and whistling a little when he was alone and passing the edge of the woods that surrounded the estate.
The bakery was open so he purchased fresh bread and two iced buns as he knew how much Elsie enjoyed them.
In the square children were back, school closed, rushing about with makeshift sledges. He stood back, frowning at their chatter, but when he saw the joy in their faces he thought of Lady Mary's children – the first time George saw the snow, and now, little Violet only just six months old and so very beautiful. So like her mother at that age.
In the butchers he checked their order for Christmas week, determined they too should enjoy the festivities. Their first Christmas together had been coloured by his momentous decision to step back and his concerns over his health, the fear he would be little more than useless to her. He wasn't an introverted man, he didn't spend his days sitting around ruminating on where he went wrong or what he could possibly do next. He just did. He got up every morning and went out and kept himself busy. That didn't mean there weren't days where he missed the drive of it all, that constant demand to keep up with. But life was a balancing act, and you could look back or move forward, and he had always been focussed on what was to come.
"Mr. Carson," Jack said, passing him in the street. "Good morning."
"Good morning," he was genuinely pleased to see the gentleman. "How has service been?"
"Ah good enough, men drink beer whatever the weather."
He smiled at that, "I'm not sure if that's good to hear or not."
"It's good for me, Mr. Carson. Can I tempt you to an early morning tipple?"
"Afraid not," some things had changed but his sensibilities hadn't. "I have a meeting at ten."
"Committee?"
"Yes, we cancelled earlier in the week, and I have some things I want to raise. In fact, you might be of some use…"
Jack frowned, his face already turning into a grumble.
"What I mean is," Charles quickly explained, "your knowledge of the village, the residents. I'd like to discuss something with you, if that's possible."
Jack nodded, "You know where to find me. What use I can be…"
"Can I come in?" Elsie asked gently, tapping on the bathroom door.
"Of course," he sat up in the bath, arranging himself so there wasn't too much on show. It was foolish really, she knew every inch of his body now and he hers.
"Here," she carried over a small glass of brandy. "Drink it, it'll do you good, for the cold as well as the shock."
"Thank you," he took a sip, looking up at her. She wore the worry in a furrowed brow and wide eyes. "I'm alright," he said, "really."
"You will be," she pressed kiss to the top of his head. "You rest here, warm up." She touched a hand to his shoulder, "I brought up your book, it'll take your mind off things."
"You're a kind woman, Elsie."
"I'm not alone. I'll get started on dinner, call me, should you need me." She moved to fold his wet clothes, piling them neatly in her arms. "I'll take these to wash."
"Elsie…"
"Mm?"
"Did you ever think there would come a time in life where we would be comfortable like this, me in the bath and you there…?"
"No, Mr. Carson, I didn't. But I'm very glad we are."
"As am I." He took another sip of brandy, "I don't know what I would do without you."
The committee, though supportive of Charles' plans in theory, were of little use when it came to ideas on fundraising. They saw it in small terms, small potatoes Elsie would have called it, he needed more, he was thinking on a bigger scale.
They were concerned with the Christmas party, both of them, as there would be one for the village children on Christmas Eve and one for the entire village a week prior to that. The topic up for debate was whether old Giles Norman could play Father Christmas for the ninth year in a row, or whether it was time for a change.
When eyes turned to Charles himself he made his excuses and left. He was quite sure the women could manage on their own and, more pertinent than that, he was a little frustrated with their small quibbles and gossip over the weather. Perhaps he'd been spoilt, no, there was little doubt about it, he had been. Elsie was intelligent and always willing to discuss bigger issues.
He took a stroll to the Grantham Arms, shaking his hat free of a few flakes of snow as he went indoors.
"What can I get you, Mr. Carson?" He asked, slapping the bar as his newest customer stood at it.
"Oh nothing to drink, I was just wondering if I might have a word, regarding what I mentioned this morning."
"It would be rude of me to do so without a beverage in your hand, we can offer you lunch. A cheese sandwich perhaps, that and an ale, nothing better."
Charles thought of the taste of wine on Elsie's lips the other night, there could be nothing better than that, kissing down her chest, her nipple in his mouth. Red wine, sweet breasts.
"Mr. Carson?"
"Yes, sorry… Yes, that sounds quite wonderful."
He took a seat in the corner, a small round table, and as lunch went on the pub filled. When it was rowdy and Charles had finished eating, Jack took a seat with him.
"The topic for discussion?"
"The thing is, with winter here and set to last for quite a while, I would like to do more."
"In what sense my good man?"
"The poor," Charles said softly, almost embarrassed to say the word. "Those in poverty."
Jack frowned, "Quite the task. Why now, why all of a sudden now? I mean," he sat back in his chair, casual, "not to be rude but none of your lot have ever shown an interest before."
"I realise that," Charles said quickly, "and the last thing I want to do is interfere in anything. Just to do something."
"Is this a project? To fill your time?"
"I rather think I can do more on the village committee than oversee bake sales," Charles said abruptly.
"Nobody doubts you're an intelligent man, but you've got a certain skills sets."
"You think this is a mistake? To get involved?"
Jack paused, taking in the measure of the man, eyeing him carefully, as if looking could tell him all he needed to know, the very soul of the measured, polite man in front of him.
"If you can do some good, then so be it. Glad to help where I can."
"I'm very grateful for that. The use of your establishment for one, may be of great use."
"I'm all ears."
She chopped onions and they brought tears, that's what she told herself anyway, when they slid freely down her face. She dropped them into the pan, let them sizzle and spit for a moment, stirred them with a wooden spoon and wiped her hands on her apron.
On her knees by the fire she twisted paper, packed it well, recalling her early days in Scotland on her bony knees on cold floors on the darkest mornings building fires. Everyone started somewhere. Within six months someone else was building the fires and she had an extra ninety minutes in bed, a maid now and already making impressions.
She wanted the lounge to be warm when he came down.
Sitting back, she watched the flames flicker and build. On the mantelpiece were photographs of their wedding, one from their time in Scarborough. Holding hands, building bonds. It made her cry again and she could admit she was now; she needed a brandy too, and perhaps something more solid, his chest against hers, his strong arms around her, for him to be whole and the Carson she'd known for so many years.
He was right. Life without the two of them together seemed unimaginable.
Andy skidded down the hallway, the back door slamming behind him, a streak of moisture left behind on the floor: melting ice, sodden shoes.
"Mrs. Hughes," he called and Mrs. Patmore scolded from the kitchen at his impertinence, marching out to chastise him again. "Mrs. Hughes," his voice rose a little and he slapped his hand against her door, more to stop himself from falling than to get inside.
"Whatever is the meaning of this?" She demanded, opening the door. "Andy, control yourself."
"There's been an accident in the village, Mrs. Hughes." He panted, his chest painful as he ached to get the words out. "Mr. Carson, the river."
Her mind flew in all directions – what on earth would he have been near the river for?
"Well," she said calmly, "no need to make such a scene over it all. Where is Mr. Carson now?"
She dreaded his answer, her heart already preparing for the worst, to hear he was dead.
"In the village, he's still in the village."
She glanced to Beryl, "You can manage, Mrs. Patmore?"
"I reckon we can yes."
"Right then," her shaking hand as she reached for her coat from the back of the door was her only giveaway. "Perhaps you'll escort me, Andy."
Charles left the village with a new sense of responsibility. There was perhaps little he could do in the world, little to make a mark, but perhaps that wasn't what it was all about. Maybe sometimes you just had to do what you could in your little corner. He had earned his right to have a place amongst the best butlers in England, his name was spoken in his circle with respect and, occasionally, reverence. But beyond that, now those days were over, he realised it meant very little in his heart's musings. Love, that was what mattered. Not just for Elsie, but friends too, the family, his home. All of that mattered.
A young boy sprinted in front of him, seemingly appearing from the hedgerow, sodden and with a bleeding forehead.
"Now then," Charles said, catching hold of him. "Almost had me off my feet here, what's the rush?"
"Tommy's drowning," the boy gasped, "the ice broke, on the river. He fell." The boy was clearly in shock, frantic and too upset to even cry. "I think he's dead, he's dead and mam 'ull kill me."
Charles squeezed his shoulders hard, the bag with his bread dropped to the snow, "Where? Show me where right now!"
He had followed in a hurry, no thoughts of his age or health, shoes and trousers wet before he even reached the bank down to the river. He slipped behind the boy, no more than nine and thin as a rake.
There were others at the water's edge, a couple still out on the ice, grasping at twigs.
"Get his father," Charles shouted at them. "Go now, two of you, fetch his father, get more help!"
They fled and he threw his coat off, sliding on the ice in his leather soles before it even hit the floor. It was bitter out there and, though he hoped for the best, he feared the worst had already happened.
"He's only four," one of the older lads who had remained on the ice said, "we kept losing him. We tried, mister, we tried."
He ignored him, reaching down into the water, searching, his eyes growing used to its clear depths – it can't have been that deep, not really, they weren't too far out.
Without real thought he dropped into the water, every inch of his skin stinging and his heart instantly constricting as the blood in his veins struggled to function.
He floundered for no more than ten seconds, searched for the floor, found the mud with his feet and slipped as he stood. Arms searching, fingers freezing, he waded in the small area where the ice had broken away.
The entire event could have taken no more than sixty seconds but when his fingers closed around a frail wrist it felt like forever. He yanked and pulled the boy up, almost throwing him onto the ice and then launching himself out of the water, his legs still strong and sturdy. He bent, clasping the bedraggled being to his chest, sliding back to the edge, wrapping his jacket around him.
He was tiny, like a kitten in a bucket. He'd seen it too often.
He was rubbing the boy's chest when the others ran down towards them, uncertain of what he was meant to do and then falling back onto the snow as they took over. Jack was there, he remembered that, and someone was fussing with his wet clothes and then he didn't remember much at all.
His body gave up and he laid prone, eyes closed, brain still ticking away as he listened to them.
"Get him warm. Fetch his wife."
Fetch his wife. Bring my wife. I want my wife, my Elsie.
"Thank you," he said, finding her in the kitchen. "I feel much better now."
"Good," she said, buttering bread for dinner. "I'll make a pot of tea, lace yours good and strong. Go sit by the fire."
"I'm fine."
"Yes, you are, but you're a foolish old man and you'll go sit by the fire."
He did as she asked and closed his eyes, exhaustion sweeping over him. It was soothing, being there, in their home, with the sounds of her cooking, the smells of it. Their furniture, their things, the plants she'd bought, the décor they'd chosen.
She put a teacup and saucer on the table by his arm, bending to poke at the fire and feeling his eyes on her body as she did. She bent to his feet, took his slippers off and rubbed his toes.
"You need socks on," she instructed, "I'll go and fetch some."
"Not just yet," he held his hand out and she took it, kneeling in front of him.
"It's liver and onions for dinner, one of your favourites."
"Thank you."
Her eyes were tender, "You silly man," she said, then quickly rose, leaning in to kiss him, hold him. Falling into his lap. "You silly, silly man." She kissed the side of his head repeatedly. "I thought you were gone."
"Not yet." He sat her back, finding a more comfortable position so he could look at her properly. "I just need to sleep it off, it was a shock, adrenaline, you know."
"You can't go diving into frozen rivers."
"Clearly not."
"The villagers will have an entirely different view of you; you saved that boy's life."
"Not out of the woods yet…" he reflected. "They had a view of me?"
"Of course," she brushed back his damp hair with her fingertips, "Mr. Carson. Ice in his veins."
He rolled his eyes, "That's quite the impression. You think this will change it?"
"I think perhaps marrying changed it somewhat, but yes, this will certainly have changed it."
He stroked his thumb down her cheek, "I love you."
"I know." She loosened her hold a little, it was disconcerting to have him so emotional, so vulnerable, usually he said that when he was naked and cuddled up against her. "I must take the pan off the heat else it will be burnt."
He squeezed his hands against her back, "I really love you."
"Yes," she smiled kindly, "I know. And I love you too. So don't go jumping in any more frozen rivers, or there'll be trouble."
He nodded his head, letting her loose and watching as she finished preparing their meal.
She held him tight that night, close, until she woke for work and he was asleep with his head on her chest.
Soon the thaw would arrive, as it did for all things.