The soft sound of soil being turned over, the squelch of the garden fork's metal prongs being pushed into the ground, the quiet grunt of effort as her husband toiled in the warm early summer sunshine had lulled her into a light doze. The upturned wooden crate he'd fetched for her to rest her feet on had been extremely welcome, her ankles swollen from a morning of dashing about, anxious to finish all of her tasks so she could slip out for a while longer than usual. She'd smiled as he'd fussed over her, going back inside for a cushion for her back, concerned the hard slats of the bench wouldn't provide adequate comfort. She'd watched him for a bit, his shirt sleeves rolled up, his collar uncharacteristically open at the neck and listened to him recount his morning, her fingers subconsciously running smoothly across the arms of the seat. Like many of their belongings it had been salvaged from the great house, or in this case the Rose Garden, the decision having been taken that it was passed its best. Charles had sought permission to procure it for their own modest kitchen garden and his retirement had given him ample time to sand it down and give it a fresh coat of paint. The small project that had given him an excuse to consult with the man in the estate's workshop about the right way to go about it, keen to apply as much diligence to the task as he would to any other. When it was finished they'd discovered it had been a bit of a squeeze as they'd sat down together to try it out. But cosied up alongside one another, her leaning into him, her slender hand slipped into his, it had been one moment of quiet joy in a year of many. And its current position up against the back of the house, where Charles had reasoned it would be in sun most of the day, had proven to be her preferred place to spend her midday dinner break.
She'd only intended to close her eyes briefly, a wave of weariness taking over now that she'd stopped, and so was only vaguely aware that after a time the garden had fallen silent save for the flutter of a bird overhead, the buzz of a bee or insect flitting between the blooms of the cut flower bed. From somewhere inside, the crash of a plate shocked her awake, a mutter of irritation drifting out through the open window above her head before Charles appeared with a tray.
"Elsie, dear?" he said, "Are you awake?"
She nodded, smiling as he passed the tray laden with their lunch to her. He turned back into the house, his head dipping slightly to avoid bumping his forehead on the low doorway, and shortly returned with one of their oak dining chairs. Putting at an angle to the bench, he sat down heavily.
"There's space here, Charlie," she offered, indicating to the other half of the bench.
"I'm quite alright here," offering the smallest of smiles, "Besides I'm hot and dusty from digging. I'd only get your skirts dirty."
Placing the tray down on the bench instead, she passed him his plate, two slices of crusty white bread, thick spread of butter on each and a wedge of cheese. Before accepting it, he jumped up remembering something and moved to the small cold frame that butted up against the wall of the old outhouse. Lifting the lid and propping it up, he pulled a few leaves of lettuce, commenting that he was surprised they were doing this well so early in the season.
"Well, you do take a great deal of care over them," Elsie replied truthfully.
He brushed the implied compliment aside as he flick a tiny clump of soil from a couple of the leaves and added them to their plates, an additional crunch to their sandwiches.
"Don't let Mrs Patmore know I didn't wash those," he remarked as he took a large bite. "I can't stand to be lectured yet again."
She laughed. It was true that the cook had started to take more than a passing interest in her husband's efforts at growing fruit and vegetables. At first Elsie suspected it had been merely a topic on which to tease him, the once mighty butler toiling the earth, but when he'd shown himself to be quite adept at it, she'd taken to offering advice on the best use for the produce instead. And whilst Mrs Patmore meant well, it seemed to irk Charles, the idea that he couldn't manage by himself. Elsie offered a few words of comfort but seeing him bristle at the attempt changed the topic.
"What are your plans for that bed?" she asked, gesturing to where he'd left the fork stuck into the ground.
She listened as she munched on the last of her sandwich before starting on the small number of raspberries and strawberries that Charles had managed to harvest that morning, smiling as he became increasingly animated about his plans for carrots, potatoes and cauliflower, intermingled with peas and radish. The alteration in their conversational pattern over the last year was stark. The hours previously spent hiding their affections from each other, and more likely themselves, by focusing on the detail of running a large household had been replaced by something simpler, more intimate. Elsie often missed him up at the house particularly their mid-morning tete-a-tete about how the day was unfurling and what adjustments would be required as a result, but she wouldn't change how they were now, the small domestic matters that consumed them. Even the way he blustered about snails and slugs and the methods of repelling them from the new plants gave her further enjoyment.
"What is it?" he asked, pausing long enough to notice her changed expression. "Have I amused you?"
She chuckled lightly, "No more than usual, my dear Mr Carson," putting her empty plate back on the tray and shifting to stand.
She bent down to place a chaste kiss on his cheek and, adding his plate and glass to the hau, proceeding to carry it indoors, her stockinged feet quiet on the tiled kitchen floor. As she piled items up next to the sink she felt his presence behind her, his large frame blocking the light flooding in through the door.
"Leave that," he said, as he crossed the room, his broad arms finding her shoulders forcing her to stop as he ran them gently down her arms.
She leant back against him, her head finding his chest. Marriage had changed them, as she knew it would, but his retirement had changed them more. They seemed to have more time for one another somehow. She could leave her work behind at the end of the day more easily than he ever could and so it had meant for calmer evenings where they could be Charlie and Elsie, not a married butler and housekeeper. She didn't think he'd realised how much more tactile he'd become supposing that, like most men, these things were beyond his noticing. But he had and it was delightful. It had hardly reached the tantalising highs that she imagined the younger generation managed to get away with in public these days but it was everything to her.
"Do you have to go yet?" he asked, his thumb surreptitiously stroking the soft skin on the inside of her wrist where it had ridden up just slightly.
"I have a few more minutes," she replied, turning around to meet him, surprised but pleased to see a familiar glint in his eye. "Why do you ask?" she asked, hoping he would pick up on her encouraging tone.
He gave a half grimace, the one that signalled his struggle between decorum and desire. She considered letting him suffer a little, wanting him to share what he was thinking in full knowledge that the words when they came would send a thrill tingling down her spine. But her own wish to be kissed and held tightly against him, to run her fingers through his already ruffled hair, the chance of hearing even the quietest grunt of passion from him was too much temptation, and she couldn't resist from standing up on tiptoes, offering her mouth to him in surrender. He obliged and met her halfway, gently at first, a simple pressing together of lips, before a sigh from her spurred him on, his tongue plunging into her mouth, his hands on her waist pulling her towards him. Trapped up against the hard ceramic sink, Elsie wrapped her arms around his neck, half clinging to him as her body responded in kind. She longed to feel his skin against hers, the soft tickle of his chest hair against her breasts and not for the first time cursed the many layers of fabrics that separated them from one another. She delighted as one of his hands wandered slowly southward, seeking out the curve of her bottom despite the barrier and pulled her closer. She suppressed a childish giggle as not even her skirts could stop the sensation of his rising desire for her. She heard the glorious moan that had consumed many of her dreams ever since she'd first learnt of it on their wedding night. Except now there was no awkwardness between them, only longing.
"Charlie," she whispered as his lips left hers and started a path down her neck, "Charlie, stop. I can't," her words laced with regret.
He pulled back just enough to see her face and gave a resigned nod as she explained quietly, "Her Ladyship has guests for tea. I can't be late back today. I left early as it was."
"I know, I'm sorry," he replied disappointedly and stepped, his hands returning to his side
"No, don't apologise," she said, shaking her head and capturing up his hands in her own and holding them tightly to her chest. "Never apologise for wanting me as I want you."
She reached up to kiss him, lingering just long enough to let him know she regretted that she had to leave. His dark eyes were set heavily at her and it took all her willpower to drag herself away from their gaze and head into the small hallway. A small mirror hung next to the coat pegs and she used it to check her hair, noticing how pink her cheeks were, flushed with the desire that had built up inside of her and that she was now forced to suppress. Satisfied that by the time she reached the Abbey the colour would have rescinded and she'd be the respectable housekeeper once more, she went to call out a goodbye, hoping he wasn't sulking too much that she was forced to leave. She started as he emerged unexpectedly from the kitchen.
"Forgot something?" he asked, holding up her shoes.
She rolled her eyes as she took them from him, holding onto his offered arm as she slipped them on her feet. "See what you do to me, Mr Carson? I'd have gotten halfway there before I'd realised, I'm sure."
"In which case, Mrs Hughes," his voice deep as he adopted his characteristic butler tone, "Let me look at you."
He stepped forward and pretended to check her over like he would one of the hall boys, brushing unseen lint from her shoulders before deliberately letting his fingers trail downwards, the lightest of touches to her nipples as they passed causing her to shiver.
"Ach, get away with you!" she laughed, pushing him away and reaching for hat, opened the front door and headed out. And, as she consciously sashayed up the garden path to the road, she rejoiced in the knowledge that his eyes were still on her and her own thoughts very much on her return.
To be continued? What do you think? This one-shot is my first foray into Chelsie but now I'm here I can't help wondering how future midday moments might be spent...