A/N: The song Charles sings is called I'll Lay Ye Doon, Love, and appears below with liberties generously taken by this author. I had envisioned a song that was a bit bawdier, but the songs I found were TOO bawdy for Charles Carson to sing, even when exceptionally drunk on good Scotch and deliriously in love with a certain Scottish woman.
They hear him before they see him.
Elsie and Moira had enjoyed a quiet evening. Janet put the boy to bed early; Tavey had gone with Donal and Charles to the pub. Elsie had managed to pull Donal aside and instructed him to keep a sharp eye on Charles. She didn't trust those lads down at the pub, not at all. Not if memory served, and it usually did.
Donal smiled, squeezed Elsie's arm. "To be sure, lass, we'll only go for an hour or so. No need to worry. I'll look after him."
"See that you do," she said sternly.
"Aye, that I will," returned Donal and he kissed her the cheek.
"Away with you now. And don't let on that I said anything."
Donal gave her a smart salute; it's no wonder where the lad gets his cheek, she thought, and he turned to leave the kitchen.
She sighs over her knitting; that had been nearly four hours ago.
Moira looks up at her; she'd been going over a pair of Donal's trousers. "Worried, are you?"
Elsie looks up, startled; she hadn't realized she'd sighed aloud. "Not especially," she says lightly. "Are you?"
Moira snorts. "Of course not. They're all three big enough and bold enough to sort themselves, I should think." After a pause, she adds, "Besides, it'll be good for Charles to spend some time on his own with Donal and the lad. He'll not have been able to make too many close friends, I should think."
Elsie stiffens, as she always does at any criticism of Charles. "And why would you say that?"
"And how many close friends do you have?" Elsie opens her mouth to reply, but Moira holds up a hand. "Besides me, I mean."
"Well," Elsie falters, "there's Mrs. Patmore. She and I are quite friendly."
"Oh really. And do you confide in this Mrs. Patmore, a woman you're so close with that you won't even refer to her by her Christian name?"
"That's just our way; that's the way it was up at the big house. You know that," she says, exasperated.
"I know it. I thought you knew it. A man needs friends, an occasional night out. It's good for them. Good for us, too," she snorts. "Does he have any friends at home?"
Elsie worries her lip. "There aren't many in the village he can talk to, no," she admits reluctantly. "He has a few acquaintances in London and they exchange letters, but" she trails off. "Do you think there's something wrong in that?"
The anxious look in Elsie's eyes makes Moira curse her sharp tongue. Donal's always after her to hold her peace and she dearly wishes she had. It can't be easy for either of them, always having to be in charge, always riding the fence between upper and lower, not fitting in either. They'll have only ever had each other, not that they much realized it until recently. Now it's Moira's turn to sigh. "No, lass. It's not wrong. I only meant I was that glad that Donal and Charles have taken to one another. It's good for the both of them."
"You didn't think they'd get on, did you?"
"And what makes you say that?"
"Admit it. You thought Charles too much of a stuffed shirt."
"I'll admit to no such thing. Charles is a lovely man. Now, Mr. Carson, on the other hand. I might have considered him a bit of a stuffed shirt."
Even Elsie has to laugh a bit, even though it is disloyal. "Well. Charles is lovely; you're right about that," and she smiles at Moira.
Moira smiles back. "I can see that, lass, and it makes me glad. It's no more than the both of you deserve. How you waited as long as you did I'll never understand."
Elsie stares pensively into the fire. "I don't understand it myself, except to say it was there and it wasn't." She looks up at Moira. "Does that make any sense?"
"Well and from what I could gather Mr. Carson was always one for doing things right and proper." She's about to continue, but she hears something that sounds suspiciously like singing. Very loud singing.
I'll lay ye doon, love, I'll treat ye decent
I'll lay ye doon, love, I'll fill your can
I'll lay ye doon, love, I'll treat ye decent
For surely he is an honest man
I maun leave ye noo, love, but I'll return
Tae ye my love and I'll tak' your hand,
Then no more I'll roam frae ye my love
Nae mair tae walk on a foreign strand.
Elsie jumps up, rushes to the window and peers out. The moon is full tonight, and she can see them stumbling up the road: Charles propped up on either side by Donal and Tavey, waving his hat around and singing with all his might. Moira's right behind her, doing her best to stifle the mad laughter that threatens to escape. Oh, this is a sight she'll not forget. I should say being in Scotland has loosened him up a bit, she thinks merrily. Neither Donal nor Tavey looks worse for wear, except for nearly having to carry Charles along the road.
I'll lay ye doon, love… I'll lay ye doon, love.
"Oh for heaven's sake," mutters Elsie, and makes to go outside. Moira puts a hand on her.
"Don't go out there now, lass. Seeing you out there will only make things worse. Put the kettle on; we'll make him a nice cuppa." Elsie pulls a face, but Moira pushes her toward the kitchen. "Trust me, lass. Put the kettle on." Elsie stalks angrily into the kitchen, and Moira turns back to the window, stifling another giggle. Now all I have to do is keep her from killing him tonight and keep the state of his head from killing him tomorrow. Not quite the visit she expected out of her new brother-in-law, but who could blame the poor man, really? He'd spent all those years living for somebody else, through somebody else. He finally had the chance to take something for himself. Is it any wonder he's grabbing at life with two fistfuls? She sighs. It will be a difficult night, but she thinks they can make it alright. They love each other, that's for sure and certain. And we love them, she thinks fiercely. And she hums a bit of the tune he's singing (for surely he is an honest man) while she waits for them to make their slow, laborious way up the lane.