Elsie returns Andrew's gaze coolly. "Well, you could have had little doubt of it after last night," she says archly.
"Whatever could you mean by that?" He cuts off her retort by stepping back, pulling the gate as wide as it will open. "Forgive me, where are my manners. Won't you step through?"
Arrogant, insufferable pig. She steps lightly through the gate, then turns slowly to face him. Think Elsie. Think. He's trying to wind her up, make her angry, embarrass her. And Charles, for that matter. She wills herself to remain calm. So many arguments through the years, so many angry exchanges. She'd learned to control her temper, to use its power to the best possible advantage. A trick she's relied on many times in the past is to remain silent. Very few people can resist filling in the empty space.
"I met your husband last night down at the pub." Apparently Andrew was among those for whom silence is unnerving.
Elsie waits another moment. "So I gathered."
"Charming man; very English, though." He smiles disingenuously. "I hope you don't mind my saying so."
"It's been many years since I minded anything you said."
Andrew nods his head, as if to concede the point. "We were talking of old times, he and I. The stories I could tell, Elsie."
"It's Mrs. Carson now."
"So it is, so it is. And how long have you been Mrs. Carson?"
"I don't see that's any of your concern."
"I'd heard near about three months, is that right?"
"Very nearly."
"And is it a happy marriage?"
"Again, Mr. Drummond, that is none of your concern." Her temper is boiling now; it's becoming very difficult to remain calm in the face of his insolent, almost cruel manner. She'd thought to find at least some remnant of that lovely young lad in his eyes, but all she sees there is a man made bitter through time and circumstance. She's no room for pity, though. Not after last night.
"Only I wonder, you see. What possible reason could you have to visit me this fine morning, especially since you'll be returning to Yorkshire tomorrow? Did you want to reminisce, Mrs. Carson?" And he leans over threateningly.
She draws herself up in that rigidly beautiful way she has. "Certainly not. I came, well, I don't know what I came for. You're not the man I remember, Mr. Drummond. It seems I was mistaken." She turns to go, but he puts a hand on her arm. The shock of it more than the grip is what causes her to stop, to hesitate.
"Well you're certainly the not the lass I remember. The Elsie Hughes I remember wouldn't glide over here so stiff and formal, so English. She had a fire in her, that one. And I do remember the fire, that I do." And his hand travels up her arm.
The restraint that she's developed (so hard won) evaporates in an instant. She jerks her arm out of his grasp and slaps him, hard, across the face. He's stunned, he is, and before he can gather his wits, she begins.
"How dare you. How dare you." Her voice is rising, becoming shakier with each syllable. Her anger is a red flame that licks the feet of Andrew Drummond and makes him hop. "Charles Carson is a fine man, a good man. A sight better than the likes of you (and here she puts an uncomfortable, acid stress on the word). You've no good reason to go dredging up the past in such a sly, despicable way. You're a cruel man, Mr. Drummond; you've become a cruel man." Curiously, she finds herself choking back a sob. "I've only come to satisfy myself; you were after causing grief, Mr. Drummond, but you weren't to know about Charles Carson. It's clear you've never taken measure of a man like him." She hadn't known, she couldn't have known the cart pulled up just a few moments before, that Donal and Charles had walked up the path, come through the gate, had seen and heard most of the argument, that Donal had made to put himself between Elsie and Drummond, but Charles put a hand on his shoulder, held him back. Donal looks back, incredulous, to see a look of love and pride on Charles's face so open and honest that it embarrasses him that he's seen it. Charles shakes his head, whispers. "Let's let her finish it, then."
Elsie starts to walk away. "Hold on there, lass. I was only having a bit of fun. Besides, he seemed a mite too proud for a husband, if you ask me."
"Fortunately for you, no one did ask you, sir." There's no mistaking that voice, that smooth, elegant voice that captivated her almost from the start. "I've good reason to be proud of my wife. Very good reason." And he fixes Andrew Drummond with a such a look of contempt and pity that the man has to turn away. Charles smiles (and who can blame him? He's always been proud of her fiery Scots temper, even those rare times it was directed at him) and turns to Elsie, makes a slight bow. "Mr. Brodie and I came in the cart, thought we might escort you home. Mrs. Carson, are you ready?"
"I am indeed, Mr. Carson." And she takes the arm he's offered her, smiles up at him, and in spite of the nausea, the splitting head, the lingering after-effects of all that alcohol, he feels better than he has in years. He turns, can't resist a parting shot to this poor devil of a loser.
"We'll take our leave, then, Mr. Drummond. I don't expect we'll be seeing you again. Please give our kindest regards to your wife." And they walk towards the cart, coolly, gracefully. Charles takes a moment to help her into the cart with small, elegant movements, settles her in, then sits as Donal readies the horse to make the short drive back to the farm.