A/N: It's been a while, but for those of you still with me, I appreciate it. This is part two of Christmas Eve. There will be about 30 chapters to WPIP and then maybe a couple of Epilogues or if the muses are happy a teeny sequel at some point. I am not happy with the next chapter of The Workhouse and am re-writing a stretch of it so I am working a bit on this again as a happy place in the midst of that storm. For those of you who might be reading TW, it is mostly written and our lovely couple will find their way to one another amidst some angst which I know is painful, but as Elsie once told Beryl not every life is carefree. Now, on to happy times at Christmas with Charles and Elsie. If you've forgotten where we are, I'd skip back a few chapters. This chapter is totally from Elsie's point of view. Caution: No beta!
It is in her nature to be observant; such is the business of historians and archivists. They are observers of people whether those who lived in the past or those who live in the present and Elsie Hughes is a sharp observer of people. She thinks that her skills as an observer stem back to having been Becky's protector when they were children, when she kept a keen eye out for anyone who might tease her sister or cause her to cry.
The party seems to spiral and swirl in front of her like the drawings from the Spirograph that Becky enjoys and like the lines intersecting, people mingle and conversations mix. Elsie catches snippets of many of the conversations and files away just enough bits and pieces to answer the questions that she knows Beryl will ask when they finally settle down for a quiet glass of wine over the Christmas turkey and trimmings tomorrow.
Thomas appears happy. There is a twinkle in his eye and rosy color to his cheeks that Elsie hasn't seen in longer than she can remember. He's leaned against the grand piano as Jimmy Kent entertains a small group young social climbers with Christmas carols. Elsie enjoys listening to him play; it's nice to have a handsome young man entertaining them and he and Thomas are engaged in a conversation that appears to amuse him. And Thomas is laughing; really laughing and it is not the artificial laugh that he often puts on in public gatherings, but a real laugh, the one that she sees when it's just the two of them together. From what Elsie can hear, Jimmy's regaling Thomas and the small group of bright young things that is gathered around with stories of his various escapades during his short-lived playing career. Much to Elsie's amusement, Jimmy is quite animated, with lovely eyes and a smile that is wider than the Thames. But his teeth are just a bit too straight and his hair flops just a bit too perfectly over his forehead which causes him to push it up and back in the most charmingly boyish way. Perhaps Charles is right; maybe Jimmy Kent is just too much of a good thing to be true.
One of Beryl's staff approaches with a silver tray filled with flutes of expensive wine and Elsie thanks him as she gently plucks one and lifts it to her lips. As she allows the liquid to wash over her palate, she watches Robert Crawley hold court, his sister, and his wife flanking both sides, as they engage a small group of guests in conversation. Robert is an amiable sort with genteel manners, polished speech, and expensive tastes in art and wine. In so far as Elsie knows, he is a good man and has committed no great sins, though she is sure that like most people, he has chapters of his life that he hopes remain unpublished. He is an Eton man and has walked the halls of Christ's Church, though Elsie cannot picture him a great statesman or an academic like many of his fellow alumni. He is a peer by inheritance, a custodian of the family title, and that role suits him. He enjoys his charge as keeper of the family history, in holding up an ancient family name among other equally prestigious and ancient family names. It is the other part of his father's bequest to him, the financial burden associated with maintaining a country house, the London house, the expenses of an aristocratic family and such that Robert is less suited to. He hasn't much of a head for business; he's a figurehead at Downton Limited and everyone knows that his older sister Rosamund is truly the business mind of the family.
Rosamund is the one who is sharp as a tack. She is the one who has her finger on the pulse of the world and on the family business, the one who like her mother knows all of the family secrets and where the skeletons are buried. Robert seems much more suited to the life of a country gentleman rather than the life of a London business magnate. If times were different, if rules were different, perhaps Lady Painswick would be the head of the family instead of her brother.
Elsie notices as Robert's secretary Jane Moorsum makes her way across the room from where she has been engaged in a rather intimate conversation with powerful banker Horace Bryant, one of Robert's colleagues and a man that Elsie finds more than a bit pretentious. Mr. Bryant is a nice looking man, well dressed, well spoken, and with the proper credentials of a gentleman. He's well educated, belongs to the proper clubs and his home is located at the proper address, but like Jimmy Kent, Horace Bryant isn't what he presents himself to be. Mr. Bryant believes himself as more important than he really is, and though he is well educated, he will never be a peer and though they may borrow from his banks and allow him to move in their circles they will never truly accept him no matter how much he may try to convince himself that they do.
One thing that Elsie is convinced of is that her host's eyes light up when he sees his secretary approach. She has heard the rumors. In fact, she and Beryl have gossiped about the fact that Robert Crawley has been known to have a wandering eye even though they've never seen evidence that anything has ever come of it. Elsie genuinely likes the Crawleys and she hopes that the sparkling look she sees from Robert as Jane chatters with their little group is only a by-product of the champagne he's drunk and not a dalliance with the pretty secretary standing beside him.
"They're looking very friendly with one another don't you think Ms. Hughes?" The voice behind her is smooth and smoky, yet not as polished as Robert's or Charles's. There's a bit of an edge to the man's words, a sarcastic, challenging sharpness that Elsie instantly recognizes. She closes her eyes and takes a deep breath in before as she feels the man slither up beside her.
"It's Christmas. Everyone is friendly," she answers noncommittally.
"Come now, Elsie, don't you think Miss Moorsum and Lord Grantham look particularly friendly?" Elsie feels her stomach sink at the man's use of her Christian name.
"If you will excuse me Mr. Carlisle." Elsie drinks the last of the white wine from her glass and places it on a nearby tray and selects another glass as she moves to the other side of the room.
She spots Charles and Violet occupying two old leather chairs in the corner by the fireplace. Theirs is the only conversation she can't hear, but she doesn't really mind because the affection between the two is telling. Unlike the stiff formality of many of the conversations around them: men posturing over who has the largest stock portfolios, who will make the next great company merger, and women who are measuring up their daughter's prospects against one another, Charles and Violet are simply enjoying one another's company. Small, quiet conversation that isn't proud or boastful, but concerned, thoughtful, genuine, and familial. By the way that the two are huddled together, Elsie might swear that the two are plotting something.
Suddenly, Charles looks away from his conversation with the Dowager and catches Elsie out. The corner of his mouth tugs into the most exquisite boyish grin as his brows raise slightly in amusement, and his head drops low in acknowledgement; the familiar gesture tells her Yes, I've caught you out. Elsie smiles back in response, a double blink of eyes and a dip of her chin in girlish flirtation.
"That girl is smitten," Violet smiles.
"I'm smitten," Charles corrects her, his baritone voice floats across the syllables all whisky and velvet. Charles marvels at his good fortune. The deep forest green ensemble Elsie has chosen for tonight suits her well and sets off her dark auburn hair just so. To him she is the most beautiful woman he's ever laid eyes upon and he cannot wait to make her his wife.
"Do you think that she will agree with what we've done? I fear she will think that I have interfered? Cora often does." Violet's concern has gone unheard and she purses her lips at Charles having ignored her; Violet Crawley is unaccustomed to being ignored, but when she catches the way that Elsie is looking at Charles, her ire subsides. She knows that at last, he has found a woman who loves him as he deserves to be loved, wholly and completely. Unreservedly.
"Young love," a tinkling laugh fills Elsie's ear as a smartly dressed woman clinks a wine glass to her own.
"I'm hardly young, Mrs. Crawley," Elsie answers back, a hint of playful sarcasm in her voice.
"Well, we're not old."
"Mmmm, no we're not are we?" Elsie agrees as she sips on her wine. "Where's your lovely husband?"
"Talking shop with Richard Clarkson and a group of others in the smoking room," she sighs. "Doesn't that sound pretentious? The smoking room."
"Aye, ineed" Elsie answers in a brogue so thick that it could be cut with a knife and both women dissolve into intoxicated giggles. "Happy Christmas."
"Happy Christmas to you Elsie. You look very well."
"I feel well," Elsie confirms. "Though I'm not sure how much is owed to the wine and how much is to the Christmas cheer."
Isobel thoughtfully gazes across the room before speaking. "I think much of it is owed to that handsome gentleman who cannot take his eyes off you."
"Is it that obvious?"
"It is and I think that it is marvelous." Isobel's smile is infectious and Elsie breaks into a most luminous smile herself. "So have you set a date?"
"We've thought about April, but with the medical scare and all, I've been thinking that I might like to move things up a bit. I know that I've been given the all clear as it were so it's not that but, but when the nurse called Charlie my husband, well, it just felt so very right."
"Of course it did and so it should. When I got engaged, I was so in love with Reginald, I felt sick. I was sick with love, literally," Isobel laughs in sweet reflection.
"Aren't we the lucky ones," Elsie replies warmly.
"We are indeed. Let me know what the verdict is won't you. I mean if the wedding gets moved up. I hope that we will be invited."
"Of course you will be invited and I hope that you will come. I'll let you know," Elsie assures her. Elsie senses that she's missed out on something; that while she and Isobel Crawley aren't cut from the same cloth, if given the opportunity they can be great friends.
"All hands at the pump I see."
"So what brings you down to the servant's hall?" Beryl asks as she bustles about the kitchen at a frantic pace shifting bits of this and that around on plates and platters to send upstairs to the party.
"Oh, I just needed a bit of quiet I suppose," Elsie answers in response.
"And you think you'll get it down here?" Beryl asks incredulously. The cook is in her element; a field general in full command. It is rare that Elsie is afforded the opportunity to see her dearest friend in this way, kitted out in kitchen whites with a full complement of staff buzzing about her. The kitchen at the Fox is quite different; it is a family kitchen, full of personal touches and antique but quite serviceable equipment. Beryl wears her everyday clothing, dishes up everyday pub grub rather than the nibbly bits that the Crawley set has ordered for tonight, and rather than an army of staff to carry out her orders, she has the new girl Daisy, William, and Bill for help if she needs them.
Elsie smiles and lightly taps her finger tips on the countertop in front of her.
"I'll leave you to it then," Elsie offers quietly as she turns away leaving Beryl and her staff to finish with the last flurry of catering for the night.
Elsie has visited Grantham House several times and the old servants quarters more than once on her little escapes to visit her friend for a gossip, but tonight there is something different about the place and she isn't sure what. Something is drawing her to walk the corridors in the basement; ghosts of the past are calling to her. She passes several rooms that are locked and wonders what they once were. Perhaps they were linen storage or the store cupboard. She comes to a room that is clearly marked 'Mrs. Peyton, Housekeeper' and the door is slightly ajar. Light creeps into the room from a small window just below the street level elevation of the house and Elsie is just able to find the light switch to turn on the lights.
The room is small but comfortable with classic, feminine but practical furniture and pictures of children she assumes must be Mrs. Peyton's own line a bookshelf. This is an working office there is no mistaking it, but it is tidy and well-kept. Elsie has met Mrs. Peyton on several occasions and she is an affable, efficient woman who can organize a party for five or fifty on a moment's notice. She remembers Charles saying the same thing of one of her predecessors, his aunt Maggie. Elsie immediately feels at home here and turns to look across the hall to find a tarnished plaque. She makes out the letters "Mr. Carson." Elsie smiles fondly for she knows that these are the offices of the butler and the housekeeper of Grantham House. These are the rooms in which the plans for grand parties were made, confidences shared, and a romance blossomed. Charlie Carson, the last of a long line of butlers at Grantham House occupied the office just across the corridor. Elsie is curious as to what lies behind the closed door. Perhaps one day she will find out.
Elsie takes a seat in a plush floral fabric wing back chair and kicks off her shoes. She curls her feet up under her and listens to the house around her. If she dared to admit to anyone, even to Charles, that these old houses have their own language and speak to her, people would think her mad and Charles would at the least think her sentimental. But as she listens to Beryl barking out orders to her staff and poor Daisy, the young apprentice cook she just hired on, Elsie closes her eyes and thinks of what the house would have been like seventy years ago. She pictures a kitchen with cranky cook not unlike Beryl, a servant's hall filled with kitchen maids and footmen bustling about, and Charles's uncle and auntie herding them all like clowder of wild cats. She warms at the domesticity of it all; husband, wife, and their "children."
"I wondered where you'd gotten off to." Charles's voice stands out above the din of the house and she smiles. He's come looking for her.
"You can almost hear it can't you?" Her voice is soft and sweet an intoxicating mix of holiday sentimentality.
"Hear what?" Charles stands in the doorway with his shoulder propped against the door casing and a soft look in his eyes.
"Keys jingling on a chatelaine. The butler commanding his footmen. Do you ever wonder what it would have been like to work in a house like this? To have been a servant in the engine room of the whole works?"
"Oh, I don't think that I would have been very good at it."
"I think that you would have been very good at it. What with the pomp and circumstance of all of that," she smiles as she gives a nod upstairs.
"Perhaps," he admits with a smirk. While Charles isn't one of the family, he has to admit that he does like style and presentation when the occasion calls for it. "I hope that you've not gotten too tired. This is our first big night our since your surgery."
Elsie doesn't respond but simply watches as Charles reaches into his waistcoat pocket to retrieve his watch and with a flick of his wrist he flips it open and frowns. "No wonder you're tired," he grumbles.
"I never said that I was .."
"It's half past ten …" Charles stops short of finishing as he closes his watch and quickly replaces it back into his pocket. He extends a hand and Elsie takes it as he tugs her up from the chair in which she's been sitting and as he does so he pulls her into his arms. He pushes a strand of hair away from her face and his fingertips dance behind her ear and down her neck. He pulls her in for a long, deep kiss. Elsie reaches beneath his coat and slips her hands along his waist. She isn't sure whether it's Christmas spirit, the wine she's drunk, the ghosts of Christmas's pasts, or the fact that her man is a fantastic kisser, but she wants nothing more than to be with this man as closely as two people can be.
"Oh, why don't you two get a room," they hear Beryl snipe affectionately from the kitchen.
"Come on, then," Elsie replies as she pulls away from Charles's embrace and reaches for his hand.
"Goodnight Beryl. We will see you in the morning," Elsie smirks as she wraps Charles's arm around her.
The fields are blooming with soft green grass and wildflowers like none she's ever seen. Beautiful delicate wildflowers in hues of blues, whites, and pinks are a magical carpet of colour as far as the eye can see and Elsie is running through them with outstretched hands, fingertips brushing along the scalloped faces of flowers as they smile back at her. The grass tickles her bare feet and her hair is loose and flowing, each strand a rich copper strand. She is blissfully happy and she realizes that she is running toward something warm and inviting,
Reluctantly, Elsie's eyes flutter open and she stretches. Tight muscles loosen and bunched ligaments straighten and the sense of melancholy that she's felt since her diagnosis and surgery seems to have lifted. It's Christmas morning and all seems right with the world. Last Christmas she was unhappy and unsure of how to break it to Joe that she wanted to end their relationship and this Christmas she has Charles and Joe has married a fine woman. Elsie turns to reach for her lovely man only to find the space next to her empty. The sheets are still warm; he's not been up and about too very long and suddenly the sound of running water fills her consciousness.
The bathroom is filled with steam and the sounds of Charles's singing. Though she adores his slightly off-key crooning she'd never dare embarrass him, so she stifles a giggle and enjoys his little impromptu serenade. Preoccupied with his shower, he's not noticed her and she allows her nightgown to slowly and silently fall to floor. Carefully slipping into the shower, Elsie nestles in behind him. Charles's hands pressed firmly onto the shower wall in front of him, he's leaning forward and Elsie's hands glide over the muscles of his back and down the taughtness of his thighs, her lips blazing a trail of hot kisses across one shoulder to the other. Charles groans his approval and can feel Elsie's smile graze along his shoulder blade.
"Marry me," she purrs, her cheek against his glistening skin.
"I thought we'd already settled that," Charles laughs, the rumbling vibration of the words warm against her flesh before he turns to face her. When they are face to face, Charles finds her eyes serious, pleading even and he reaches up to cradle her face with both of his hands.
"We have, but then I thought I might be … and in hospital when the nurse called you my husband … and last night you looked so handsome and …. well … I don't want to wait," her voice fractures and she doubt she's making any sense at all as tears spring to her eyes.
"Hey now," he murmurs before pulling her close for a deeply sensual kiss. When they break away, he whispers into her ear, "Let's finish our bath and you can put on those lovely Christmas pajamas that Becky sent to you and then we can talk."
"Well?" Elsie questions striking a pose in the doorway of their sitting room.
"Remind me to thank Becky when we see her New Year's Eve," Charles replies as he casts an appreciative eye over his wife-to-be in the skin hugging combination that Elsie's slipped into. He extends a hand for Elsie to join him. Charles pulls her into his lap and begins to tip-toe his fingers up her thigh.
"Seems Santa's been," Elsie observes the smartly wrapped presents under the tree. Charles hums noncommittally as his fingertips press lightly into each little embroidered snowflake and reindeer as he counts them one by one. He worked his way to the little zip at her chest and begins to fidget with it until Elsie stills his hand. "I thought we had something to talk over, Charles. You're trying to distract me."
"Elsie, we will. I promise. But later." The words are barely out of his mouth before Elsie is scrambling to remove herself from his embrace, but Charles holds her fast and tries to hide his amusement at the anger written all over her face. "Why don't you play Santa's helper? Hmm. See who that box wrapped in silver is for?"
Elsie reaches down and plucks up a box wrapped in silver iridescent paper and then looks at the tag to find her name written there. The frown that has been on her lips is erased and her lips are drawn into a half-smile. The thought suddenly occurs to her that this is her first Christmas present from Charles and she's intrigued. She wonders if he has gone for sentiment or practicality.
A/N: Thanks for reading along. We will follow the rest of Christmas and into New Year's Eve with the remaining chapters. I think Charles might have a few surprises up his sleeve. One never knows. I would appreciate a review if you're so inclined.