Sorry, I've been such a naff updater lately, had my last proper exam today and only mocks to go next week so I should get a lot better soon. This is probably another unlikely situation.
The week had been hard; it would have been hard enough anyway, trying to ascertain how many staff they were likely to lose in the immediate future and to cope with the grim feeling that had settled among the rest of the staff, but it was made ten times harder by the fact that she was perpetually trying to avoid Charles. She had gone to bed early every evening to ensure that they could not meet at the end of the day as they usually did. It seemed stupid to hide from her best friend at the time she most needed comfort but she had been frightened by the possibility of what would happen if she did see - she knew what kind of comfort they would both need. And she had been right.
She was still breathless from it. So was he. Their bodies still pressed up against each other. As the chemical happiness receded shuddering out of her system, she felt a flush of sadness and even of anger. They had just made love again. No, she had made love to him- only that she knew. What he had done to her, here against the wall of his pantry, heaven only knew. Up against a wall... God, forgive her. She screwed up her eyes, trying to block everything out, but it wasn't easy to block out the cold feeling of the wall on her bare wrist or the locking of his grip on the other one.
She had gone to him out of necessity, some trivial household matter that she didn't think could have waited until the morning: an error of judgement on her part to single him out when most of the other servants had gone to bed. He had looked at her with fire in his eyes. It was then that she realised they had not been alone together since he had left her alone in her bed a week ago. All through there discussion neither had been capable of stringing a coherent sentence together. Finally they caved in. As she stood to leave he rose with her.
"Mrs Hughes?"
"Yes, Mr Carson?"
Upon the silence that followed, she turned to look at him. The fire had returned to his eyes. A gratitude for the high collar of her dress hiding the flush that crept down to her chest sprang up in her- rather foolishly, really, she could be sure that it was nothing he hadn't seen before. She opened her mouth to excuse herself but was prevented from saying anything by his lips on hers. The sheer force at which he came to her pushed her a clear few paces backwards; she would have fallen if it hadn't been for meeting the wall with a dull thud. She could have said no then, hands firmly on his face and removed his lips from hers. But she didn't. She couldn't have: not because she wasn't strong enough, although she probably wasn't, but because she simply didn't want to.
And so, there they were. They eventually straightened themselves out, they hadn't troubled themselves with removing their clothes; the urgency of their last encounter having returned with a vehemence. Neither spoke as they did so, Elsie trying desperately not to cry. She noticed his face, he was watching her with concern. She bit lip.
"I'm fine,"She told him, the tears that sprang to her eyes as she said it belying her.
He continued to look at her, his disbelief evident. Tell me the truth.
"Really," she insisted, "Honestly."
"Elsie." Tell me.
The firmness in his voice only served to make her anger resurface.
"Well, how am I supposed to be?" she asked incredulously, "When we've...we've...twice? Twice! And not a word said to me about how you, how you feel... about me!"
His face was unreadable. She felt that she had to push harder.
"I mean, how do I know if you feel anything for me at all or if you're just using me for convenient pleasure!"
"Do you really think that I would do that?" he asked in a quiet voice.
"I didn't used to," she admitted, "But now I'm not so sure."
It was hard not to look hurt. That was, she supposed, because she was hurt. He too, looked perturbed; angry, even.
"Do you think this is easy for me?" he asked in a quiet voice.
"You haven't seemed to find sleeping with me too hard, these last two times." It was out before she thought. A palpable hurt this time flashed in his eyes, frightening her.
"I'm sorry." she mumbled after a few minutes of the most volatile silence she had ever known.
A few more moments passed before he spoke again.
"I do owe you and explanation," he conceded, "Would you sit down?"
So now they were back to the stilted niceties of everyday conversation. Quite a step backwards from making love. Against a wall. She bowed her head to disguise her blush at the reflection. Still she hesitated. He looked at her gently.
"I'm not about to ravish you again," he told her.
She smiled at her own foolishness.
"Of course you're not," she acknowledged and sat.
The weigh of his sitting down beside her reminded her of his weight lifting from the mattress beside her a week ago. He had woken her as he disentangled their limbs but she had kept her eyes closed; she didn't quite know why.
"Elsie," he began after a few moments uncomfortable pause, "I'm frightened."
She was going to have to wait for him to elaborate, but found he did not. Frightened, that was understandable: she remembered the fear flooding through her as she quickly stripped her bed of it sheets the morning after in case one of the housemaids found them when they were cleaning. She washed them herself the next night in the deserted laundry.
"Of what?" with a gentleness that surprised her.
Of everything.- his face screamed. Seeming to consider this statement, he rubbed his hand across his brow.
"Of most things at the minute," he confirmed, "The war mainly; and what it could do to this house and the family, and us, the servants. And us."
She raised an eyebrow at the latter.
"I wasn't aware that there particularly was an "us"." It sounded rather more dry than she'd intended it to.
"How can you say that?" he questioned incredulously, "After the last two times we've be alone together for more than ten seconds?"
"Quite easily," she countered swiftly, "When we've followed our encounters with such overt affection."
The sarcasm was rife and she meant it to be. Another memory crawled its way into her consciousness: hearing his voice at the door of this very parlour one morning that week and all but throwing herself into the next doorway to avoid his gaze. The remark seemed to have made the desired impact: he looked decidedly stung.
"I don't," he continued carefully, "Go about showing my feeling particularly well, I grant you. Especially when they're strong."
She didn't know what to say, probably because she had no idea what he was saying to her. He seemed to be waiting for a response though, and so she asked him:
"What are you saying, Charles?"
His breathing was deep and rhythmic.
"I'm trying," he told her, "To tell you that I love you."
It would not have surprised her if her jaw had fallen out of its socket, but she managed to control herself. Instead, she felt tears prickle in her eyes. His expression, having so recently be furrowed and clenched was now plain. And honest. And tense. It occurred to her that he probably had no idea why she was crying.
"You never said," she whispered by way of an explanation.
The look he gave her almost made her completely lose control of herself and bury her face in his shoulder.
"I'm saying it now."
Oh, thank God every fibre of her being seemed to chant. It was too late to stop the solitary tear on her cheek. Tenderly, she took his hands in hers, wrapping their fingers together. Oddly, it felt a hundred times more intimate than anything they'd done up till then. There was still a tension: he was waiting for her to speak. Instead she leant in close to him and rested her head inside his shoulder and lay against him. They stayed like that for a long while. Finally:
"I'm in love with you, Charles."
Silence, then:
"I'm glad."
A kiss on the head.
"Will you go back on your word?"
He seemed affronted, and rightly so.
"Elsie, I can't believe that...-!"
Then he realised that she was giggling.
"What's so funny?" he demanded, the imperious butler back in charge.
"I was talking about your word when you said you wouldn't ravish me again."
He relaxed, gradually. She couldn't help but grin at him.
"You are a wicked and wanton woman, Elsie Hughes," he informed her.
She laughed again, Miss O'Brien and Mrs Patmore would have a field day if they ever knew such a statement had been uttered.
"But you'll go along with it, and humour me anyway?" she finished hopefully, turning to sit facing him, still clasping his hands.
"No," he told her firmly, "But perhaps if you marry me."
Fair deal, the voice in her head said. No, this was serious. She looked at him, he seemed to realise it too, there was no hint of teasing in his expression.
"What happened to being illicit?" she asked, raising an eyebrow.
"I got sick of having to avoid you."
Amen to that.
"And you're sure?"
"I just asked you, didn't I?"
Yes, true.
"Yes, then."
I am absurdly matrimonial. Probably one more chapter. Please review.