The morning is bright and lovely, and it should be a peaceful walk to Peggy's farm. She still can't believe Andrew had married her. Of all the unlikeliest candidates, she was the most unlikely. Elsie shakes her head, but it matters not. What matters now is facing Andrew Drummond, the one she'd described to Charles as kind. The thought of it made her sick now; he'd been kind then, of course, but perhaps that was only because he was getting what he wanted. Had he been truly kind he'd have talked to her man about the weather, about the farm, perhaps asked him about London. He'd have shown respect: respect to Charles and through that respect for her. But he'd tainted a precious memory and he'd mocked and disgraced her man. Tried to, at any rate. He had a reckoning coming and it had to come from her.
She turns into the lane that leads to Peggy's home. Their home. She is nervous now. The righteous indignation, the fiery anger that had been propelling her steadily forward has been replaced suddenly by an icy feeling of dread. This was a bad idea, confronting him at home. Whatever had she been thinking? What would she do about Peggy? She stops, hesitates along the walk. It's so difficult, this. Peeling the skin off errant footmen, cheating tradesmen with wandering eyes and worse, well, that was all in a day's work. But this. What if she didn't have it in her? Andrew always was a smooth talker. What if he talked circles around her, ended up twisting her words? She thinks of Charles suddenly: his kindness, his love for her, his pride in her and in himself (which was justified, more than justified) and Andrew had thought to tarnish that, to take away from something whose value he couldn't begin to calculate.
She begins walking again, more purposefully this time. She reaches the front gate and makes to open it, but it swings back smoothly, almost of its own accord. Too late she sees the hand holding the gate open for her. She forces herself to meet his gaze.
"Hullo, Elsie. I wondered if I might be seeing you this morning."
*CE*
Oh gods. The light streaming in through the window is awfully awfully bright. He tries to move, to turn his face, but that slight movement sets off a wave of crippling nausea. He shuts his eyes tightly and tries to remember, tries to piece the fragmented story into a coherent narrative. Elsie. Where was Elsie? He sensed, rather than saw, that she wasn't in the room. If only he could call out to her, but that won't do. He's not certain he has a voice anymore, but if he does, he's certain that using it, however slightly, will crack his skull like an egg. Oh gods. How much did I drink last night? A sudden thought twists in his gut. Did Donal see him like this? Did Elsie? Oh gods. She'd warned him against drinking whisky, drinking anything really, but especially whisky. And he'd dismissed her concerns, assured her that he could look after himself for one night and now he's gone and done it. She's probably angry with him and rightly so. He wonders if she slept on the sofa last night. He couldn't blame her. He reeks of whisky and there's a sickly, bloated feeling about him. He cautiously opens one eye, takes in the pitcher of water and glass, the towel and the basin. So she's not so angry that she won't look out for me, he thinks. That's good. How can he make this up to her? To Donal and Moira? What if he behaved boorishly down at the pub, or worse, here? He wills himself to sit up, and with great effort he manages it. Oh gods damn, I've not been this sick from drink since I was a boy. Hazy images start to come back to him. There were drinks, lots of them, obviously. Congratulations on his marriage, toasts to Elsie (though that hadn't been strictly proper; a lady's name should never be mentioned in a public house, although she'd be the first to say she was no lady, but he knew differently—another way he'd shamed her last night). And then one man in particular asking after Elsie, how long she'd been at Downton, offering drink after drink. It had seemed rude to refuse; he'd said he was an old friend of hers, that he'd known her well during their youth. There was something too familiar about his manner, something about him, but whatever it might have been was eluding Charles at the moment. A drink. Water would be just the thing. He reached out a shaking hand for the glass and pitcher when Moira peeked her head round the corner. She said nothing, just glided noiselessly over to the bed and poured him a glass of water, which he drank gratefully.
"Where's Elsie?" Gods, even the act of whispering required supreme effort. He thought Moira looked a bit guilty.
"Out," she said shortly, but quietly at least.
"She's not here?" His agitation at her being gone made him forget to whisper.
"Calm yourself, Charles. She's only gone to the neighbor's. She'll be along soon." Moira definitely looked suspicious.
"Why would she do that this morning?" He drops his head sheepishly. "Is she very angry with me? I'm sorry, Moira, I truly am."
"Here now," she clucks, "you've nothing to be sorry about. The lads were just having a bit of mischief with you and Donal's that sorry he couldn't keep the drink off you."
"Entirely my fault. Els warned me about the whisky, but I didn't listen. Which neighbor is she visiting? And why?"
"Never you mind. Just drink your water and rest yourself. Would you like a cup of tea?"
"That's just what Elsie says when she doesn't want to tell me something. What is it, Moira? What have I done?" He starts to shift painfully in the bed.
"Now, now, Charles, I told you. You've not done anything. Something was done to you, that's all. But you're here now, and you're alright, or at least you will be. So rest easy. Elsie'll be back soon."
"There was someone at the pub last night. A friend of Elsie's he said. There was something about his manner that I didn't like, Moira, but I can't remember what it was. You're sure I didn't do anything to embarrass you or Elsie?"
"For the last time, no!"
"Then why has she gone to the neighbor's? She must be angry with me if she's gone off somewhere!"
"She's not angry with you, Charles, she's angry with the person who kept feeding you the drink. She's gone over to have a word with him!" Oh I could bite her tongue in two. Of all the fool things to say!
"With him? With the man who said he knew her quite well?" It's coming back now. Oh gods. And she's gone over there to confront him. Oh gods. "Is Donal with her?"
Moira shakes her head miserably. "No, she didna want that. But he'll be keeping an eye on the time, and he and Tavey'll go over in a thrice if she's not back by the time she ought."
Charles shuffles himself off the bed in painful, hobbling movements. "Please excuse me, Moira. I must get dressed."
"Dressed? You can't get dressed! You ought to stay in bed. Elsie'll be furious!"
With great effort, Charles rises, straightens his shoulders. "I must go after my wife."
I must go after my wife, she thinks. So calm and dignified, and yet he must be in terrible pain. He stinks of day-old whisky and he has that sickly, puffy look of a man whose had more than enough to drink, and yet, he looks almost regal standing there with his hair sticking out in tufts and a faded dressing gown.
"Very well then," she says brusquely, "give me your clothes."
"What?"
"Your clothes, man, the clothes you're planning to wear this morning. Give them to me and I'll give them a thorough going over. And you muns take a bath, for pity's sake. Do you need help getting to the bath?"
"Certainly not!" he huffs, and Moira would laugh if the situation weren't three miles beyond laughter already.
"Aye, then. Get yourself ready while I do up your clothes. I'll have Donal hitch the cart and you both can go to the Drummond place and get this thing sorted."
"Drummond? Andrew Drummond?" His eyes narrow with understanding. Moira nods. "I see." He takes another sip of water, then finds his clothes and hands them to Moira. "Well, I'll just begin getting ready then."
"Alright lad. You'll call if you need anything?"
"I will, thank you, but I'll be fine." Moira turns, closes the door behind her and for a moment, Charles falters. He knew there was something familiar about the man, something nasty and unkind in the way he implied how he'd known Elsie. And she'd gone over to see him. To peel the skin off the man, more like. Well. He would follow her and offer what little help he could.