She holds the towel against her chest, then lets it fall open between her hands. She takes a tentative step towards him.
She deepens her voice a touch, softens it. "I expect your bath water is getting cold. Wouldn't you like to be warm and dry?" She swallows. I feel ridiculous, she fumes. "Would you like me to dry you off?" He stands immediately, causing even more water to slosh out of the tub. She'll have a time getting the bathroom back to rights, but she can't help but smile at his enthusiasm. He looks so young to her in this moment: water streaming through his hair, down his face, such a lovely sweet smile. He reaches for her, but he's still a bit unsteady on his feet. She rushes to him with the towel outstretched.
"Careful, you daft man! The last thing we want is for you to fall getting out of the tub!" She folds him up in the towel at the same moment as he crushes her to him. Well I'm wet now and no mistake, she fusses inwardly. She puts some space between them and begins rubbing his chest and arms with the towel. "Come along, then, my man. Step out of the tub now. Lean on me, that's right." She manages to get him out of the tub where he stands (surprisingly obediently) while she continues to dry him with the towel. Not thoroughly, though. She can't bring herself to dry him completely. She towels him off in her usual rough, practical way, but he puts a hand on hers to stop her, leans down to kiss her, but she pulls away before he touches her lips.
He grunts in disapproval, and she places a hand on his chest. "This is not the time or the place, Mr. Carson. You must finish readying yourself for bed." She is imperious, even stern.
"How d'you mean? I'm ready for bed now, Mrs. Hughes," and he winks at her. (Good lord, he's teasing me! Mrs. Hughes indeed.) It would be titillating if he weren't so drunk on whisky (and a secret dark part of her files this feeling away for another time).
"You may think so, Mr. Carson, but you must finish drying yourself-"
"I rather liked your doing it," he says slyly, and tries to pull her in more closely.
"Be that as it may," she returns briskly, "but you must finish drying yourself. You've no tooth powder in here, nor a brush and you'll need both before you're truly ready for bed." He pulls back abruptly, draws himself up with as much dignity as a giant drunken unclothed former butler can muster. He makes as formal a bow as he can manage, given the circumstances.
"My apologies, Mrs. Hughes," he says, only slurring slightly. "I would not want to offend your delicate sensibilities. She snorts. If she'd had any delicate sensibilities, this evening would have strained them to their limits.
"Finish up, then. I'll bring your tooth things and your dressing gown."
He looks down at her, disappointed. "Why do I need my dressing gown, woman?"
She laughs in spite of herself. "You don't want to go charging up and down the halls naked as a wee bairn, do ye?" She thickens her brogue on purpose, knows it delights him. She needs him back in a jolly mood if she's ever to get him the few steps from the bathroom to their little room. She turns toward the door, then turns over her shoulder, looks up at him through her lashes. "You'll wait here until I get back, won't you?"
"Indeed I will, dear lady. Indeed I will."
*CE*
Back in their room, she changes quickly, then grabs his dressing gown and toiletries and quietly makes her way back to the bathroom. The house has that hushed, silent feel that she remembers from Downton, from staying awake, waiting up for him. She'd not admitted it at the time, but those few moments of the day she spent with him were so precious to her. Those were the only times she could reveal even a portion of herself. It had been tempting, when Joe visited her at Downton, very tempting, if only because he knew her as Elsie Hughes. But she'd been unable to accept him, in the end. He was a good man, a kind man, but he wasn't her man.
She opens the door to the bathroom and slips in. "You've changed," he booms.
"Shh," hisses Elsie. "They're all asleep now." She gestures to the dressing gown she's draped over her arm. "Hang the towel, Charles, and we'll get your dressing gown on."
"Charles, is it?" he says in his best attempt at a whisper. "Whenever did you start calling me Charles, Mrs. Hughes?"
She rolls her eyes. Heaven's above, he's still on that. Well, I suppose it can't hurt to humor him. "Forgive me, Mr. Carson, it's late. I must be more tired than I thought."
He edges toward her, holding the towel in front of him. "And come to that, why are you on the men's hall? You should be behind a locked door in the women's corridor." He's grinning, and yet, the part of him that she's come to recognize, the gentle kind lover he's become is not shining through his eyes. There's an edge to his playfulness.
"You've been ill, Mr. Carson. You've been ill, and I've been helping you. Now, put your dressing gown on, brush your teeth, and then I'll tuck you up in bed. You'll get some rest then."
"I don't want rest, Mrs. Hughes." He's very close now, towering over her in fact, and she is… not afraid, not exactly. "I met someone tonight, down at the pub. Why was I down at the pub again?"
"A rare night out, Mr. Carson. Put your dressing gown on."
"I met someone who knew you."
"Did you now?" She guides one arm into the sleeve, then the other.
"Yes, I did. He told me he knew you quite well." She stiffens at that, wracks her brain to think who on earth would be bold enough (cruel enough) to hint at something like that. And what of Donal and Tavey? Would they have heard as well? Surely not, or they'd have come home with scraped knuckles at the least. "It was a long time ago." He meets her eyes, and there is a fierce light in them. He grasps her by the shoulders. "It was a long time ago, and it doesn't matter now. You're mine now." His grip tightens on her shoulders. "You're all mine now."
She's unnerved by the strength of his grasp, not entirely certain how she'll extricate herself, but she senses something from him: anger, sadness. He only wants to be reassured, then. He only wants to be sure that she loves him alone. "Yes, Mr. Carson-"
He squeezes her. "My name, say my name. Forget all of that nonsense and say my name."
"Charles," she whispers. "Charles."