A Chelsie Christmas
L - Laughter
December 12th, 1926
He woke her in the night with the light from the bathroom down the hall; she'd always had to be alert as housekeeper, aware of the slightest creak of the floorboards in the night, ready to pounce upon whomever was doing something they shouldn't.
Bleary eyed she'd turned onto her back, sighing in her sleepy haze and then keenly aware of the sound of him bringing up the contents of his stomach.
She sat, listened for a while, concerned yet embarrassed to hear it. Deciding she needed to stop fretting and get on with things she found her dressing gown and went downstairs to the ice of the kitchen. She boiled the kettle, mixed a teaspoon of baking soda with warm water and placed it on a tray alongside two cups of Chamomile tea; he'd never been much of a fan of it but it might help calm his stomach.
When she returned to the bedroom the bathroom light was still on and she could hear him brushing his teeth. She was sitting with the lamp light on when he came in, pale and almost bent double.
"Goodness," she exclaimed upon seeing him. "You look quite ill," she hastened out of bed and helped him to it, pushing up pillows behind him. "Drink this?"
"What is it?"
"Baking soda."
He pulled a face and pushed the cup back to her.
"Now come on, it'll help your stomach. Then drink the tea."
"I can't swallow anything. What a sight. What an embarrassment."
"It's nothing I haven't seen before. Now, hush up and drink." He took the cup. "Best do it in one go."
He grimaced but did as she advised.
She rested a hand on his forehead, "Your temperature is up again, perhaps I should send for the Doctor."
"It's the middle of the night."
She glanced to the clock, after three, she could perhaps wait a couple of hours and then go herself to Dr. Clarkson's.
Charles coughed and spluttered into his handkerchief, and she rubbed his back as he sat forward struggling to regain his breath.
When it had finally subsided, she helped him lay down, still propped up on three pillows and his chest grumbling.
"We need to put something on it." She went to the bathroom cabinet, finding the ointment she required, and going back to him. Sure fingers unbuttoning his pyjama top before spreading the menthol over his skin, rubbing it in deeply to have the most affect.
"You'll get it," he said, as if warning her to sleep elsewhere.
"No, I won't." She wiped her hands on a tissue and re-buttoned his top.
It seemed odd to him, watching her do it, feeling her touch him. Her hands had only ever been on his bare chest when they were alone in bed together, finding secrets in the dark. Her hands lingered then. He closed his eyes, feeling the heaviness of them, that dizzy feeling he seemed to have carried all night. He no longer felt so nauseous but his stomach wasn't settled and his head felt the weight of a boulder on his shoulders.
He was vaguely aware of Elsie getting into bed next to him, of the lamp going off and then no more.
She was laughing. He could hear it as clearly as a bell, the sweetest sound he'd ever come across. It made him smile, and he did so very rarely. He followed the sound down the hallway, seeking her out, there was more laughter, giggling, and he realised she wasn't alone.
He marched into the hall, the smile disappearing as he noted other maids with her.
"What is the meaning of this?" He said, annoyed with himself for the sharpness of his tone; he hadn't meant to snap.
The girls scurried away with a flurry of 'Sorry, Mr. Carson' ringing in his ear.
She had stayed where she was. A half smile still upon her face, he could see the tendrils of dark hair, the odd shine of red when she caught the light a certain way. And those eyes. He had found himself wondering about her eyes when he was alone; it was a dangerous thing to ponder about a woman when alone.
"Miss. Hughes?"
"Mr. Carson."
"What was so very amusing?"
"Just a joke, Mr. Carson, one of the hall boys told me."
He stiffened at that, not least because he didn't approve of hall boys chatting to the maids, never mind telling them inappropriate jokes. But it was more than that, he didn't like the thought of her being alone with another man.
"Well," he said, "I'm sure you have plenty to attend to, Miss. Hughes."
"I'm sure I do."
She disappeared out of the room and he thought he heard her giggle again as she walked away. He had thought on the sound of her laugh for weeks afterwards, perhaps more on his reaction, the feeling it evoked in him was far removed from his sensibilities and it made him feel altogether queer. Like there was a hole in his stomach.
When Elsie woke again it was because Charles was dreaming, muttering something and then an odd, strange laugh. It had startled her and she'd sat up in bed and placed her hand on his chest until he'd settled. She could feel his heart beat and she closed her eyes counting each one.
The longer her eyes were closed the more pronounced the beat seemed to become. Like a thudding in her head. She had never dwelt on it before – thought on it, yes, but never dwelt – but the sudden realisation that even Charles Carson was mortal had shaken her. One day he would die, maybe before she did, and she wasn't sure how she felt about that.
It was the natural cycle of life, of course, to live and die and she was no fool, she knew it came and went like the rhythm of the tide. And she knew, just as certainly, that he loved her with all his heart. He had made it abundantly clear many times over and as clumsy, and short sighted and feeble as he could be at times, there was something much more beneath the surface and one day at a time she was drawing it out.
Perhaps it would be better if she didn't go first, though younger she had no grand desires to be left alone, a widow, but she knew somehow she would manage it better than he would. He had always seemed to her so reserved, almost aloof. In the early days, she thought his only interest the work, that there was nothing more to him. He never laughed, he barely smiled and he was so very harsh with those below him.
It wasn't until she had taken over as housekeeper and inadvertently caught him laughing one day. He was reading a book in the middle of summer, it was a Sunday afternoon, and he'd been out in the grounds reading on a bench. She was taking a stroll and she stopped when she heard his deep thrum of laughter; it had made her smile. She had watched him for a few minutes, from afar, and then walked away and never told a soul.
Beryl had teased for many a year that she had him wrapped around her finger. She had always rebutted the comment with serious disapproval, the truth was she knew she did, and she enjoyed it because it meant he cared. It meant there was something there beyond the normal working relationship.
She rose, washed and dressed and built the fire in their bedroom. Charles would stay here for the day, like it or not, and she would fetch the Doctor and pray the fever would soon pass.
"I don't want to go on stage tonight," he said, his head rolling at the noise of the theatre. His heart ached, or his chest did, and the object of his affections was standing on the stage singing, blowing him a kiss.
Alice. Sweet Alice. She had introduced him to love, and with her he had gotten as close to intimacy as he was ever likely to. Before Elsie. He could hear her giggling as they had kissed behind the curtain, and his hands had bravely ventured to her dress, the feel of her hard-boned corset beneath, the frill of undergarments, so very different from a man's.
He frowned, thrashing an arm in the air as he watched Charlie lead off stage. And then he was older, and Charlie was marching off down the train station holding Elsie's hand.
He woke with a thump, for a second disorientated and feeling he had fallen onto the track. His body shook as if dealing with the physicality of the fall.
"Darling," Elsie said. "The Doctor has left some medicine, I'd like you to take some now you're awake."
He was groggy and she had to lift his head up, support his neck as he drank, and she wondered if this was where life would go if the tremors in his hands led to more.
"Thank… you…" he said, eyes closed, head lolling about as she laid him back down.
"You're welcome."
She screwed the lid on the bottle, listening to his shallow breathing again as he settled back to sleep. She had a chair by the fire, the scarf she had been working on for Becky to keep her busy. There was an undercurrent of guilt as she thought of the work she had missed of late, but come hell or high water she would not have left him today.
When he'd been rambling in his sleep, delirious, she had almost cried. That was not like her. But she recalled her grandfather on his death bed having lost his mind and she prayed the same wouldn't happen to Charles; he was such an intelligent, proud man and she loved him for that.
"Where's the baby?"
His words surprised her, and she looked up sharply to the bed, finding him staring at her with wild, unfocussed eyes.
"Which baby?" She asked gently, convinced he was actually asleep.
"The boy, the baby. You were feeding him at the fire." He flopped back to the bed, "I let him go," he cried, "in the river."
She put her knitting aside and went to him, holding his hand.
"There is no baby and you saved the boy in the river. You're dreaming, it's your fever."
"It's truth."
"Sleep," she softly insisted. "Just sleep and recover."
"It was our baby." He mumbled, "I wanted it."
She pondered on that as he slept. There had been times, when they were young, when she'd wondered every now and then if he felt more than he said. A few times she reckoned she caught him looking at her in an odd way, watching as if daydreaming.
Not that any of it mattered now. But she did wonder of his regrets at times. If he'd asked thirty years ago they might have been parents.
He longed to kiss her. The thought raged in his mind like the insistent pounding of his own heart. He wasn't brave enough and she had made no signs of wanting it.
But standing there in his parlour with her having accepted his proposal. He wanted to kiss her. As overwhelmed as he was.
He would ravish her, drown her in affection. Undress her slowly, revealing to himself this long dreamt of prize.
"Elsie…" he whispered and she looked up again, the day darkening and her eyes tired from sitting by the fire.
He was still asleep and she wondered of what he dreamt that made him say her name.
Yawning she got to her feet and stretched. The expression on his face made her smile and she was glad that whatever he was dreaming it was certainly bringing him joy.
The fever broke late in the afternoon and by early evening she had convinced him to have some soup.
"Feel like a child," he complained as she held the bowl and fed him. "Where's the respect gone? The dignity?"
"It is only your wife, Charles, being ill does not diminish you in my eyes."
He gave a soft smile at that, "Dear Elsie," he said before she put another spoon of soup into his mouth. "I need to apologise."
"For?"
"I fear I've rambled. I might be now."
"It's fine, you've been quite unwell."
"I've let you down."
"By being ill?"
"If I die first, I need to apologise for that. I suppose this wasn't what you signed up for when we wed."
She rolled her eyes at his melancholy. "In sickness and in health. I made my vows. And I would hope you would do the same for me if I ever caught such a bad chill."
"Most certainly," the thought of her being ill and confined to bed made him feel worse than his own illness. He would never harm a hair on her head. "Nevertheless, I shall apologise."
"Charles," she put the soup bowl aside once he'd finished. "You're being silly." She kissed his forehead, "I love you, no matter what. That's what being a wife is." She looked down at him, tidying the front of his hair with her fingertips, "And I am immensely proud to have you as my husband. So, don't go thinking of leaving me just yet."
"No…" he was at a loss for words. Still so tired, drawn and heavy. He felt her kiss him again, lingering this time as she pressed her sweet lips to his forehead.
He drifted back into sleep, dreaming he heard her praying for his health by the fire.