He gathers her to him, close. She feels the anguish in him, the sorrow. She doesn't want to hug him too closely, too fiercely; she can't afford to encourage that, not tonight, not with him feeling this way. Tonight she must care for him, mother him, even. She rubs his back in smoothing circles and gently sways from side to side, rocking him, as much as she can be said to rock this giant of a man. It's almost as if something is breaking apart inside him, this good man, this kind man, and she resolves again to confront the one who's done this unforgivable thing to her man. He shifts, begins to move in her arms; she loosens her grip, softly encourages him to finish preparing for bed. He shuffles to the sink, brushes his teeth, rinses. She encourages him to drink a cup of water; it might help his head in the morning. It might not, but it surely cannot hurt. She eases him gently through the door, along the corridor and at last they are in their room, together, private, closed off from the rest of the world. She turns down the bed, guides him with tender hands under the sheets, pulls the covers up, but at this he protests, starts to raise up.
"Why aren't you coming to bed, Elisabeth? Where are you going?"
" I need to finish readying myself for bed. I'll only be a moment, though." She gathers the few items she'll need to finish her own modest toilette and comes to stand by the bed. "I'll only be a moment, Charles, so don't you get too comfortable, leave me with no room in our bed, alright?" She smiles down at him so tenderly that even those who know her best wouldn't recognize her. He grins happily at her and moves closer to the wall.
"Don't be long, Elisabeth."
"I won't," and she closes the door gently behind her. The effort to stay calm and loving for him when she is deeply, inexorably angry leaves her trembling. Tomorrow, then. Tomorrow she'll interrogate Donal, Tavey if necessary, and find out exactly who taunted her man. She wants to know which of those wastrels down at the pub tried to sow the seeds of jealousy and discontent in him, tried to ruin the beautiful, loving peace they'd found in one another. Her fists clench and unclench reflexively. They could have no idea the mischief they tried to cause. If she hadn't told Charles, if he'd been any other kind of man. She shudders; no reason to think on that, not now. They could know nothing about a man like Charles. "Nothing," she murmurs fiercely. They could not begin to imagine the gentleness, the seemingly bottomless depth of feeling he had, for her in particular. They might have thought to have some sport with him, no harm done. Well, they'd have forgotten, then. They'd have forgotten all about Elisabeth Hughes and her unholy temper. That thought gave her more than a bit of comfort. She'd remind them tomorrow. She'd remind them and no mistake.
*CE*
She enters their room noiselessly, thinking him to be asleep, but as soon as she closes the door, she hears him rustling about in the bed, moving closer to the wall in order that she might have enough space to join him.
"It's been an age, Els," he says impatiently, childishly. "It's been an age," he says again, as if she hadn't heard him the first time. A half smile plays about her lips. The way he goes on about her, well. It's not only Charles Carson who has an ego. Not anymore. But she allows herself this small (not so small) pleasure of delighting in his attention. It makes her feel young, powerful, alluring, even. She is interested (she's always interested), and she knows it would take naught to gain his interest, but she'll leave that for another time. Tonight will be gentle, tender. She'll leave the other (and here she smiles wickedly; she turns her face for fear he'll read it in the moonlight) for when they return home.
She takes off her dressing gown, hangs it on the knob of the bed, and settles herself in beside Charles. He reaches for her immediately, and she settles him against her breast, much as she had the time he'd had that nightmare. She rubs his back; he places tender kisses in the valley between her breasts, tries to press against her, but she shushes him gently, croons to him.
Thou'rt the music of my heart
Harp of joy, o cruit mo chruidh
Moon of guidance by night
Strength and light thou'rt to me.
Bheir me o, horo van o
Bheir me o, horo van ee
Bheir me o, o horo ho
Sad am I, without thee.
In the morning, when I go
To the white and shining sea
In the calling of the seals
Thy soft calling to me.
Bheir me o, horo van o
Bheir me o, horo van ee
Bheir me o, o horo ho
Sad am I, without thee.
When I'm lonely, dear white heart
Black the night and wild the sea
By love's light, my foot finds
The old pathway to me.
His breathing is softer now, more regular. He burrows into her more closely. He'd sleep right on top of me if I let him, she thinks fondly, like a great beast of a cat.
"I understand, Els," he says groggily. "I may be drunker than a lord, but I still understand." He starts to struggle, but she rubs delicate fingers across his face, his back.
"Of course you do, mo ghradh, of course. Don't trouble yourself," she croons. "Lie back and rest. I'll be with ye all night and every night after."
"They all wanted you, you know. But I was the one. I was the one," he mumbles and he keeps chanting it to himself until he slides over into a deep, snoring oblivion. She drops a kiss on his head and continues to rub his back until she too drifts off, not into oblivion, but into dreams of anger and vengeance.