They are finally, blessedly alone. The remainder of the day had been pleasant, routine, but with a light frisson of heightened awareness between them. They've had no opportunity to talk privately during the day. Elsie had seen what the effort of fetching her at the neighbors had cost him, and she had sent him straight to bed when they returned home. She had known how truly awful he felt when he didn't even protest. While Charles slept, she spent her afternoon chatting companionably with Moira and tending to her great-nephew Donnie. He was a lovely little lad and Elsie spared another painful thought, a tender what if. What if they had pursued this spark years ago? What if they had married, had at least one child? A feeling of almost delicious pain seizes her heart. But we didn't, she thinks firmly. We didn't. We each made the same choice, the choice to stay in service, to ignore our personal feelings for so many long years. But, (and her spine stiffens automatically) we should be grateful that we even get this. It won't last forever. We have only a few years together, a very few, really. To waste even a fraction of that time playing at what ifs is wrong, blasphemous. She smiles at the little lad as he reaches up for her hand, wants to show her another of his treasures, his secret places, and she banishes, for now (for always she hopes) those myriad regrets that she cannot change and walks along in delight wherever her young nephew deigns to take her.
*CE*
Moira outdid herself preparing a grand farewell feast for Charles and Elsie. Elsie hovered round the edges, helping where she could, picking up tips for her own cookery (which, she freely admits, is not very good, although Charles is too kind to admit it. He cheerfully eats whatever she puts in front of him, no matter how dismal).
Charles has been up for an hour, possibly two, going round the farm with Donal. He never thought to have a brother-in-law; as an only child, then much, much later as head of his own unusual household, he had always been solitary, alone. Elsie was really the only person he could have a chat with, the only person who was permitted to view even a glimpse of the real Charles. He'd had friends, of course. Not many in the village; only one really. He could count Mr. Bates as a friend, although he would never dream of confiding in the younger man. Anna is most like a daughter to him, but she is really more Elsie's than his. Elsie had often accused him of worshiping Lady Mary, but it was never worship, nor blind love. It was simply loyalty to the house (and he can see Elsie rolling her eyes); perhaps not. He does have a soft spot for Lady Mary; he would even if the only thing she'd done for him was bring Elsie into his life. He has some general acquaintance in London; fellows he writes to occasionally. They were certainly surprised to hear of his retirement and subsequent marriage. They'd heard him speak of Mrs. Hughes, of course, and if any of them shared a wink and a knowing smile regarding the news, they'd very gallantly not shared it with him. No, it was obvious when he reviewed the very small catalogue of his friends that he has very few real friends. But, he brightens, he can now add Donal to that list. He is surprised by how comfortable he feels with the man, how naturally they have befriended one another. Donal understands what it's like to be married to one of the Hughes sisters, and the thought makes Charles smile. Yes, this has been a wonderful visit, in spite of last night's embarrassments and this morning's events. He is not angry with Elsie, far from it. He is proud, so proud that she would be angry on his behalf, that she would go alone to face a spectre from her past, one that had been a pleasant, kind memory, but had twisted in the passing years. He knows that Donal does not understand it, does not understand Charles' refusal to interfere, but then Donal has never seen Elsie independent, fierce, free. He's not seen her protect herself time and again from a host of would-be assailants. If anything, and he chuckles lightly, if anything, it was that odious man who needed protection from her. But thoughts of Andrew Drummond are sobering, and there are things the two of them need to discuss. He feels it between them. He is (again, always) looking forward to bedtime, curling together in that ridiculously small bed and there in the close warm dark he can tell her everything.
*CE*
Dinner is a festive affair, with people talking over one another, laughing, passing this plate and that, just the kind of informal affair that Carson the butler would have shuddered at presiding over mere months ago. But Charles was delighted to observe, though he still felt shy of participating, happy instead to watch Els and her sister spar over some hapless bit of nonsense, to hear Tavey make sly references to some of the most notorious aspects of their visit, to meet Donal's eye across the table and find he can interpret those looks precisely. He has a family now, a true, honest family, something he'd never admitted needing, but finds humbly satisfying. His heart is full for each of them and he's so grateful, so thankful that he's been allowed to share in their obvious joy in Elsie and (he must admit it if he's being scrupulously honest) in him as well.
But all too soon the evening is over, the remnants of dinner tidied up and then to bed early because they must be at the station by 9. But he can't be too sorry, because now he can escort Elsie to their small dark room, he can help undress her, wheedle with her, cajole her into wearing his pajama top rather than her own rather severe nightgown (now that he's seen it, now that he's felt more of her skin against him during the night, he finds he cannot stop thinking about it, desires nothing more than the feel of her bare legs against him). There will be time, then, time to talk, to lay these final ghosts to rest.