They work alongside each other comfortably. Although Charles is less experienced with tools, with repairs, he is a quick study and soon he is sawing away on a thick piece of lumber that will become one of the new bed slats. The morning sun through the slats of the barn makes beautiful fingers of light, and Charles is surprised to feel contentment, pleasure, even, in this manual labor. He would never reveal this to Elsie, not ever, but he felt superior to Joe Burns, farmer. More than superior, more than condescending. He could never even admit to feeling jealousy, burning jealousy, when he thought of her arm linked through that man's, his hand on her back. He had felt such relief when Elsie admitted refusing him. Of course he hadn't woken then; his conscious mind stubbornly persisted in refusing to acknowledge what his subconscious knew to be true. He loved her. Powerfully, frighteningly, with a submission to her wants and feelings that was totally alien to him. So powerfully, in fact, that he broke a bed. He grins in spite of himself.
He's finally sawing in rhythm with Donal; I'm improving, he thinks, with no small amount of pride. He's pleasantly surprised to discover that he enjoys Elsie's family. In spite of his reassurances before they left England, he was afraid; afraid they would not warm to him and even more afraid that he would apply that misguided notion of class to them. And that doing so would somehow bleed into his marriage and ruin the good feeling and intimacy that he and Elsie had built over the past few months.
But he hadn't. And their intimacy hadn't been ruined. Quite the contrary, he thinks smugly. After all, here he is in this ridiculous situation with his brother-in-law and, far from being embarrassed, humiliated, he is curiously proud. He has to refrain from strutting around the barnyard like the preening rooster he's seen about. Absurd! They'll likely finish these slats in another hour or so, then perhaps he'll take Elsie for a walk to the village. He does want to buy the boy some peppermints, something. And he wouldn't mind a few moments alone with his wife.
"Coming along, Charles?"
"What? Oh yes, fine. I should be done with this one in just a few minutes."
"Good man. We'll have this job done within the hour, I'd guess." The rhythmic sound of sawing fills the barn. "Say, Charles?"
"Yes?" He stops sawing his piece of lumber in order to turn and look at Donal.
"Care to go to the pub with me this evening? A bit of time away from the womenfolk wouldn't go amiss, eh?"
Charles nods his head. "Certainly. A night out at the pub would be a welcome change." Liar. You never want to be apart from the woman. And a night at the local? He shudders inwardly. He avoided the pub at home like the plague. Reminded him too much of his "years of stupidity." He never wanted to go back to the young lad he was. But Donal was family now, and likely Elsie would like to have a bit of time with Moira without him hanging about. Time to talk about whatever it was women talked about. But what would he talk about with Donal? Maybe they wouldn't have to talk at all. They would be in a noisy pub after all.
*CE*
The women are working together in the kitchen, preparing the noonday dinner. It's different, this, muses Elsie. At home I would likely be peeking through the curtains at Charles in the garden. A grin threatens; she takes a deep breath in hopes of disrupting it. Moira looks at her quizzically.
"Alright, there, Els? Work not too much for you, is it?"
Elsie is tempted to stick out her tongue as she used to when she was small, but she refrains. "Not at all," she replies crisply.
"It's only…well, housekeeper and all, it's not like you had to do much of the heavy lifting after a time."
Elsie draws herself up to defend the years of hard, backbreaking work she put into Downton when Janet's gentle voice breaks in.
"What was it like, working in a big house like that, Aunt Elsie?"
Sweet lass, Janet. How she ever survives in this house, I'll never know. "There's always some to do or other, but it were a rhythm, just like the farm." Moira snorts derisively. "It's true! There was a time for everything, and we always had it running like clockworks." She smiles at the memory. They were good together, even then, even before all this…other.
"Had you always worked with Mr. Carson?"
"No, not always," and she busies herself with peeling more potatoes. "I didn't come to Downton until…" she's surprised to discover that she can't remember automatically, "well, it's been over fifteen years."
"Fifteen years? I'd no idea," says Moira. "I hadn't thought it had been that long. My but time flies."
"What made you go for service? Why didn't you stay on the farm? I'd not like to be around all them people, all that bustle and to do." Janet shudders involuntarily.
Moira laughs. "Well, Els always was one for being different, weren't you, lass?" And she gives her an affectionate squeeze. Elsie gives her a shocked look. "Well, independent, then, if you like. You always did go your own way. And such a smart lass." Elsie pulls a face and rolls her eyes.
"Well you were. Always miles ahead of everyone else, even the teacher. Always so good in maths, neat in her work. She weren't satisified with farm life, neither. Anytime she had a free minute, she had her nose in a book. Still the same, I'll wager."
"Well, and what of it?" Elsie says archly.
Moira raises her hands in mock defeat. "Nothing of it." She turns her back, then says slyly. "I expect Charles is quite the reader?"
"He is. Why do you ask?"
"Oh, no reason. Just another way you two are alike."
"We're not chalk and cheese, but we're not all that similar, either."
Moira exchanges a look with Janet and starts to laugh. "What's so funny?" demands Elsie.
"Not alike? You're like bookends, you are."
"Oh, don't be ridiculous. We're nothing alike; what are you on about?"
Moira shakes a knife in Elsie's direction. "What are you on about? Not alike my eye. At any rate, I don't want to argue with you about it."
"Good," retorts Elsie.
"I only want you to know I'm that happy for you Els. I'm glad you found your bookend," and she laughs heartily. Even shy, young Janet laughs this time.
"You're both hopeless, you know that?"
"I know what I know, and you'll not budge me from it. Now then," she turns toward Janet expectantly. "Let's get on with it, shall we? This food won't cook itself up." And for a long while there is nothing but the sound of quiet activity and small snatches of song as the women work together to prepare the noon meal for their menfolk. And Elsie is surprised, deep down surprised that she could find such peace and contentment. She smiles, tucks her chin so the others can't see it, but she smiles to think of her man and the pleasure he'll take in the food she's made him with her own hands. Foolish notion, but there it is. She's had enough of them since she's become Mrs. Carson. And the odd thing is that she doesn't mind it. Not in the least.