A Chelsie Christmas
U – Under the Mistletoe
December 21st, 1926
"It suits you," Beryl said, glancing up to the sky to try and guess as to what the afternoon weather might bring. "Being married."
Elsie blinked at the sunlight, shining off the snow. "Where's that come from?"
"An observation. You're what, over eighteen months in now?"
"Did you think we wouldn't be?"
"Goodness no. When either of you makes a decision you stick to it, so both of you together it would be like trying to separate magnets."
Elsie laughed at that image: a flash of memory of being in their bed, his body above hers; strength, fluidity, intimacy.
"We wouldn't have entered into it if we weren't absolute."
"We all know that," Beryl breathed deeply. "And, it suits you, both of you. Marriage. It's settled you. It's softened him." She laughed, "Of course he was always soft, really. You know what I mean, you always had him wrapped around your finger."
"So you say."
Their baskets clashed against each other as they walked.
"You know it to be true."
Elsie smiled at the ground, at the footprints in the snow. "I would never admit it," she said softly, "sometimes I'd catch him looking at me. I ignored it, pretended it wasn't happening. And then I started looking back and he'd snatch the glance back, turn away from it. For years and years we played that game."
"And now you're finally together?" Beryl said softly.
"Yes." She swallowed, looking ahead to the house they walked towards. "And you're right, marriage does suit me. Us. Both of us." She smiled broadly, feeling giddy, for it was almost Christmas and there was snow on the ground and love in the air and she was alive. "I feel very, very happy."
Beryl shifted her basket from one hand to the other, gently holding Elsie's arm, "Oh, what I wouldn't give for that."
"You and Mr. Mason, though, you're…"
"We're…." she shrugged, "Treading gently I suppose. Slowly. Maybe it will never be more than friendship."
"Would that be enough?"
"Perhaps. Would it have been enough for you?"
"I suppose so, it could have been." She reflected on that "But then I would never have known what I know now, and that would be such a waste."
"It's very kind of you to make the donation," Charles said, reaching to shake Dr. Clarkson's hand. "I do appreciate it. Having your support, a man with such presence in the village."
Clarkson's eyes widened, "Nothing compared to you. And you've been such a help in the hospital, the boys have really enjoyed your company. Do you realise that?"
Charles frowned, "Not particularly. I've only read to them a couple of times."
"For most it's the most attention they've had – a supportive male figure, don't underestimate the importance of it."
"Good morning, gentlemen," Isobel said, carrying a box into the pub. "I believe this is where we're bringing donations."
"Good morning, Lady Grey," Clarkson said, tipping his hat.
"This is very generous of you," Charles said. "I didn't expect for you to…"
"Of course I'd help, you were wonderful yesterday. And this is a worthy course, I'm still part of the village, Carson." She said, "So, shall I take these somewhere?"
"Everything is being stored in the back room, your Ladyship. Shall I show you?"
"I can find my way," she smiled and headed further inside the pub.
Charles caught the look on Clarkson's face as he watched her go, something he recognised in himself, a wistful kind of longing. Too long suppressed, too easily let go.
The Doctor was embarrassed when he turned his attention back to Carson, rubbing the whiskers on his chin. "I best be… What time are things beginning on Christmas Eve?"
"Early afternoon. Around four, four thirty, didn't want to be too late with it being children."
"Understandable," Clarkson said, still distracted. He shook his head, reading the look on Charles' face. "Embarrassing," he said.
"Not at all."
"We were close once, friends. Different since she er, well, you know."
"I believe I do."
"You were wise, Mr. Carson, very, very wise."
Charles thought on those words long into the day.
A lifetime ago. He was thirty-nine. He felt old at the time, it's all down to perspective he supposes. And she arrived. Summer in winter.
Two seasons later, he remembers that night. Christmas Day and everyone was giddy, acting outside of their usual behaviours. It unnerved him. He liked things in neat boxes, he liked people to behave correctly, and when he couldn't control it that was what bothered him. And he felt he had little control at Christmas.
It was late before he turned off the lights downstairs. He liked it this way, the early hours of Boxing Day and the house was settled and silent. He would move through the rooms, checking things over, breathing in the dust and memories – it felt like his, as if he was one with it.
It startled him in the hall, when he saw a figure move towards the kitchen. Like an angel, so light of foot, long hair tied back into a tight plait swinging in the shadows as she moved. He held onto his breath, just in case it disturbed, as if his air could slice the moment in two.
He'll never know why he didn't do more. The mistletoe there, hanging by the foot of the stairs – a silly Christmas Day joke from the hall boys that he'd let pass.
She had come back carrying a glass of water, paused beneath the mistletoe, as if she sensed someone was there. He had hung in the shadows, a lonely man falling in love and too proud, or too distracted, or too disengaged to admit that was happening.
He let the moment go.
Let her return upstairs to her room without saying a word.
The mistletoe swinging from the ceiling.
When the hall boys came down the following morning it was gone.
There was no excusing her behaviour. If anybody had asked, which they wouldn't but still. This close to Christmas and the Housekeeper signs off early and disappears home. She had no excuse, she had no reason for it, or no real explanation as to why she suddenly made the decision. But there she was, halfway home, trudging through the snow with the milky afternoon light for company.
When she got close to the cottage she could see the light in the kitchen window, and her heart skipped, stomach jumped. He was home.
Sitting in his chair by the fire, reading the book she'd recommended, it was like finding a warm hug on a frosty day.
"Hello?" He'd said, looking up and taking his glasses off as she came into the room. "What happened?"
"Nothing."
"You're not ill?"
"No," she smiled, "just wanted to come home early."
"It's not even six. What about dinner?"
"I'm sure they'll cope."
She went through to the kitchen filling the kettle and putting it on to boil.
"If it were me, I'd chide you."
"Yes, you would." She turned, staring at him through one room to another. "What's that?"
He looked up to the ceiling. "That? Oh, something I saw in the village. I thought it festive."
"Festive?" She raised her eyebrows, pursing her lips. "We were not festive enough?"
He closed his book, "I saw Dr. Clarkson today."
"Oh yes."
"He came to the Grantham Arms to leave supplies for the party, donations. You know, I think he's in love."
She filled the teapot, startled by his words, "Not like you to notice such things."
"I'm not a complete philistine."
"No… but still, you don't usually voice these things."
"I felt sorry for him," he got to his feet, the top of his head almost brushing the mistletoe. "Unrequited love is not a joyful thing."
She walked towards him, the oddest look on her face. "I believe Mrs. Patmore might be looking for love, but possibly not in it."
"That thought disturbs me."
She chuckles, shaking her head as she stood before him. "Some things don't change, no matter the impact of marriage."
"The impact of it?"
"On us…" She rested her hands on his chest, lifting her face up to his, eyes wide as she looked up to the mistletoe. "Very festive."
He pressed his lips gently to hers, his eyes instantly closing. She watched him, as she often did, through hooded eyes, noting how he sighed with contentment. How his fingers moved over her back, hands wide as he pressed her closer to him.
He pulled back, letting out a breath, kissing her cheek twice, then down towards her chin.
She let her hands wander, because this really was what she had come home for. She could admit that now. Something had happened. Maybe it was the Christmas atmosphere, the fear, the shock of perhaps losing him after his heroics, or the sheer joy that came from the two of them freeing their inhibitions a little more every time.
When he kissed her lips again, the pressure increasing, she moaned and her eyes momentarily closed. Soft and tender, one light kiss, one heavy, the scent of him, the heat of him. This real, whole man in her arms. She'd never dreamed it would happen. Convinced she'd spend her years alone never knowing.
One hand slid to his hip, and she pressed the tips of her fingers into him. She noted every detail, every texture beneath her fingertips, every sound he made, every tiny thrill that travelled through her.
She was braver now, more assured in what she needed and wanted and liked. She tilted her head back, gave him the hint and direction until his kisses travelled, light as a feather down the sensitive line of her neck. Balancing her in his arms as she leant back, the tightness of her corset holding her back. She sniggered suddenly and he looked up at her alarmed.
She pressed two fingers to his mouth, "Just remembering the suspenders," she said, and his lips opened slightly as he remembered too. Then he kissed her fingers, kept his eyes fixed on hers as he did it. That was a first. Her hand yes, the back of her hand, but not her fingers. And then down to her palm, kissing the centre of her palm.
Elsie made an odd sound from somewhere deep in her throat.
He glanced cautiously to her face; her expression made him wish they weren't fully dressed in the middle of their lounge in daylight.
He tried it again, kissing her palm, breathing in the scent of her skin. And then, for some unfathomable reason, he parted his lips and his tongue darted out and touched the sensitive spot in the middle of her hand.
Charles felt her chest move against his, watched as she licked her lips.
For a second he remembered the girl in the dark hall, the girl he wished he'd kissed.
"Elsie," he whispered, and then he pressed his lips to hers again, hungrily holding her against him, every inch of him touching every inch of her.
"I love you," he mumbled and she hummed in response.
He wasn't sure which one of them tried it first, nor why they hadn't tried it before, but somehow the move he'd tried on her hand was happening with their mouths and it was the most wondrous explosion of pleasure. His tongue finding hers, the heat of her mouth, the soft wet gloriousness of it as they really kissed. This was finding passion.
When she pulled back she was breathless, eyes glistening as she stared at him.
"My…" she whispered. "My, my, my… so, that's what mistletoe does."
The peace of the afternoon settled around them.
She lifted her hands to his shoulders, pressing heavily against him.
"Does what happens under the mistletoe, stay under the mistletoe?"
"Oh, I hope not." He smiled, leaning in to try it again.