So, now we're getting there...do skip over the last third if you prefer to keep things a bit more to the imagination, but you do need the very last part for chapter six. Oh, and thank you for all the wonderfully encouraging reviews helping to keep me motivated, including the lovely Guests who I can't reply to directly. They mean so much. Now, where were we?
The afternoon light streamed in through the kitchen window and bounced off the copper pans that sat on the stove giving the illusion that they were the crown jewels of the room, deliberately illuminated in celebration of their wonder. In truth they were severely underused and when they did see action it was merely for boiling up some potatoes or vegetables to accompany the casseroles and stews that they'd found were best suited to their capabilities. In a rare moment of culinary inspiration, Charles had attempted a cheese sauce to accompany a bit of fish, but it hadn't ended well for him or the pan. It was, in fact, the reason the original set was missing its third member, it being deemed unsalvageable, and also how he knew the settee was not a good place to sleep. And he'd only discovered that because rather than owning his misjudged attempt, he'd stubbornly held his ground, maintaining there was an error in the recipe he'd used. Had he fully appreciated at the time that not only had Elsie used the very same set of instructions successfully in the past, but that the slender notebook in which they were neatly written had been handed down to her from her mother then he may have given way sooner. But he hadn't and in sheer exasperation she'd suggested a night apart might help him see how upsetting his pigheadedness was to her. By midnight discomfort and exhaustion had forced him to admit his error and beg forgiveness, relieved when it had been granted immediately.
But thoughts of that episode had long since faded, Charles' current irritation only extending to the fact that whenever he crossed the kitchen the light reflecting off the two remaining pans half blinded him. He was rushing a little which wasn't helping his mood. He'd felt sure he'd planned carefully enough to ensure sufficient time to bring together the various elements in order that he could meet her at the allotted time, but it was going to be a close run thing he realised now. If only Moseley hadn't been scampering up to the Abbey after lunch and kept him talking for so long, cursing under his breath at his own compliance in the resulting discourse. But it couldn't be helped now and with a final flourish everything was ready.
The weather had held for which he was extremely grateful. The whole plan rested on a warm evening with only a gentle breeze to cool them. The items he'd gathered needed to be deposited on his way but it was only a brief detour and he was confident that if he adopted a brisk pace all would be well. He lengthened his stride as best he could and as the great house came into view he breathed a sigh of relief, the tiny form of his wife in the distance scurrying towards him.
As he caught up with her, he couldn't help but feel pleased at the perturbed look on her face, a sign that she was none the wiser.
"Charlie, what is going on?" she demanded as soon as they were in earshot of one another. "Miss Baxter said I needed to go to the cottage immediately but wouldn't give any indication as to why. Are you hurt?"
He chuckled, "No, no. I'm perfectly well. I just have a surprise for you, that is all."
Taking the basket from her hand, he turned and offered her his arm which she took with a note of suspicion. Ignoring this he asked after her afternoon and soon the recounting of tales of Miss Sybbie's adventures downstairs had distracted her sufficiently that she didn't notice as they took a slightly different route, not turning into the lane but keeping going until at last they reached a clearing in the trees. She stopped mid-sentence and gasped at the sight laid out in front of her. A small wooden table and chairs sat on the small jetty that jutted out into the lake, a blanket folded neatly across each one ready to be deployed as the sun dipped in the sky. By the table a wicker hamper was open and even from this distance she could see a generous selection of cold meats and cheeses, a chunk of bread ready for slicing, and what looked like two bottles of beer.
"What is this?" she asked, turning her wide eyes to Charlie.
"Oh, nothing too much," he offered modestly, taking her hand and leading her towards one of the chairs, holding the back of it so she could safely be seated before taking his own. "You work so hard, my dear, and tolerate this old grump of a man that I thought a treat was more than overdue."
Her softening expression warmed his heart and reassured him that he'd done something right. Not that he was expecting to have his efforts admonished, more that he may have misjudged whether this would be enough to make amends. He voiced as much and felt the touch of her hand on his as she leaned over.
"I'll not deny you can be a curmudgeon at times," she said, a curl of a smile on her lips, "But nor would I deny that I love that part of you as much as any other."
Sitting back to let him take the lead, she expressed delight at the little details he'd taken care to include; the napkins carefully folded at the bottom of the basket, the candle in a jam jar that decorated the table, even the butter knife that had nearly got missed in the rush. He laughed as the two glasses of beer he poured for them were met with a sternly raised eyebrow but he just raised a toast to them 'making up for lost opportunities', hoping his meaning was all too clear.
This section of the lake was secluded from the rest, the reeds having been allowed to grow up along its edges. It meant that it escaped the gusts that often whipped up across the wider expanse of water although that didn't completely protect it on a blustery day. The ripples on the surface marked where the stream that fed the whole estate's water system ended its tumultuous journey down from the hills; its gurgling providing a pleasant backdrop to their relaxed conversation and the small silences as they indulged in increasingly amorous glances at one another. As their light supper concluded, Charles noticed how her eyes kept flickering down to the small wooden dinghy tied up alongside the platform and sensed it was giving her cause for consternation.
"Let us pack up and tidy everything into the boat, ready for our trip back," he suggested, enjoying how she cleverly masked her fear at the implication by busying herself with the task.
There was little they could get past each other, he mused, as they worked together. Too many years of sideways looks communicating what needed to be done, when and by whom. Endless encounters with both errant hall boys and stuffy Dukes not to know instinctively what path the other would take and how they could support each other in the decision. It made their marriage more secure, but surprises were harder to achieve.
With everything stowed carefully away, her eyes continuing their worried glances downwards, he caught her off guard by drawing in, his arms wrapping around her, a loving kiss to her forehead. A sigh escaped her lips as the warmth of his skin radiated through his shirt and waistcoat, the jacket long since abandoned on a nearby tree branch.
"I wish I'd had time to change," she lamented, her head resting against his chest. "If I'd known, I mean." He frowned as she continued, not understanding. "Here you are, relaxed in your day suit, arms strong and tanned from the garden, and me a frumpy old maid in black."
He stepped back and took her face in his hand, "Elsie, you are not a frump, not by a long chalk." He caressed a thumb across her cheek, "You look as beautiful to me now as when you wake in the morning with your hair tousled across the pillow."
He bent down to place a delicate kiss on her lips, tracing a path across to her ear and to the spot just behind that he knew she liked. "And, my dear wife," he murmured, "You are not a maid anymore."
His words combined with his tongue flicking gently across her neck were enough to bring a flush of heat to her face, and seeing her arch her back in response, he willingly picked up on her silent call to continue. He began to kiss and nip at her neck, running his hand down the length of her spine until it reached the small of her back where he pushed her firmly but gently towards him, their hips connecting. The movement garnered a soft moan from her lips, his desire growing as the sound of it lengthened and repeated as he held her tight, and he couldn't help but find her mouth once more, kissing her with an intensity that had him working hard not to sink them both to the ground. His hand moved to run across her decolletage but found its effect restricted by the frustrating high cut of her dress.
"Elsie," he breathed heavily, reluctantly pulling away, "Shall we go home?"
His eyes captured hers, the heat of passion clearly visible in them, but she hesitated. "By boat?" she asked, feigning a confidence he knew she didn't have.
He chuckled, "No, on foot. I wouldn't do that to you," seeking to reassure her. "The fisherman who owns the dinghy said we were safe to leave everything here until the morning. There's an old tarpaulin to cover it all up in case it rains," he explained.
"Oh, my man," she gushed in relief, "You really do think of everything," rewarding his forethought with a kiss that, had they been in their marriage bed, they would have struggled to surface from.
But surface they did, and as he hurriedly covered the boat, she fetched his jacket, and together they walked hand-in-hand along the path that took them the quickest route in the direction of their cottage. They didn't speak, there was no time or need for that, just clung to one another as they kept their want for one another in check just long enough. Charles didn't know how they made it up the path without surrendering to it but they did. As he burst in through the front door, flinging his jacket in the vague direction of the coat stand, missing completely, he turned and pulled her towards him, grasping her lips in a kiss that took both of the breath from both of them. As it deepened, he felt her walking him backwards down the narrow hall, directing him with her mouth as her hands reached upwards, her fingers searching for the pin and ripping it from her head, letting her hat drop to the floor unceremoniously.
"Elsie, the door," he muttered, his mouth not leaving hers
"Closed," her husky reply.
His hands tugged at her waist and reaching the foot of the stairs, he pulled away to turn her, his mouth reconnecting on the back of her neck as his hands moved upwards to the long length of buttons that would need releasing. He let his tongue trail a path along her neckline as she braced herself, a hand of the wooden bannister, the other on the wall. It had the effect of pushing her lower half towards him which, combined with an escaping moan of pleasure, almost had him reaching for her skirts to take her right there. Controlling himself, he managed to release the first button from its hold before they were both startled by a loud and heavy knocking to the front door.
"Mrs Hughes! Mr Carson!" a high pitched voice called out, "Are you there?" More knocking followed, "Please, Mrs Hughes!"
He felt her move, slipping from his hold as she instinctively moved towards the door, her hand brushing his arm as she passed. Not once since she'd come to know that voice some 20 years earlier had she been able to ignore it whenever it asked for help. And so he watched as she reached for the latch, pulling into it towards her to reveal the scared and desperate face of Anna Bates, clutching a sleeping child to her chest.
"Oh, Mrs Hughes, thank God! It's Mr Bates. He's taken a tumble and I can't lift him."
And with that all thought of intimacy, of discovering one another once more, dissipated into the evening air, both offering words of comfort as they let Anna lead them, a hat, pin and jacket left discarded on the floor.