She's beside him at last, his arm draped over her protectively (possessively; now that he has staked his claim to her, he takes every opportunity to protect that boundary) and her body molded to his. She relishes the warmth, hugs herself in even closer to him, as she's agreed to his request (his foolish request, she thinks, and yet she can't say no to him, in spite of feeling ridiculous, undressed even, but when has she ever been able to say no to him since this thing bloomed between them?) and is wearing his pajama top. She is shy, reluctant; the inappropriate nightwear doesn't help the situation. There is a tension between them, not uncomfortable, certainly not angry, perhaps more a hesitation, as though each has something to say, but is waiting for a more opportune moment. There won't be one, of course. The warm dark, she has discovered, is the best time to talk of difficult things between them. She doesn't have to look him in the eye in the dark, and although she never had trouble with that before, now sometimes she falters, particularly when she must speak of her feelings. She would be easier talking to him at home, where they are completely private and alone. It could wait, she suppose; yes, it could wait until they get home, but she's afraid to let this silence grow between them, afraid if she doesn't speak now, she never will, and she really must apologize-
"What are you thinking, Els? Out with it," he says gently. They are so close she can feel it rumbling through her chest. "You're stiff as a board my girl."
His voice is so tender and loving that that alone almost undoes her; the secret dark part of her sometimes doubts the depth of his love for her, sometimes whispers that another woman has written her name across his heart and that he has settled for her, for this, but he proves to her again and again in word and deed how true and loving he is. How much hers he is. You know that, she thinks impatiently. You already know he is to be trusted. "I was thinking," she hesitates, "I've been thinking of last night and this morning."
"Yes, well," he murmurs. Now he is the one who tightens. "I've been meaning to talk with you about that. I wanted," and he takes a deep breath, blows it out and the force of it disturbs the small loose curls near her ear. "I want to apologize, Els. You tried to warn me and I didn't listen-" He cannot finish because Elsie flips to face him (and he spares a proud thought that the bed doesn't squeak a bit with the new slats), a fierce look on her face.
"Charles Carson," she hisses, "you've nothing to apologize for. It was a nasty trick he played on you. A very nasty trick and" and the tears threaten to fall. "Had I known, had I any idea that you would encounter him, that he would-" and despite her best efforts, those treacherous tears fall.
Charles takes a deep breath, wipes away as many of the shining tears as he can with the pad of his thumb. "Ah, love. I understand. I understand all too well." His smile is thin, melancholy.
"Understand what? What do you understand?" Her heart clenches with fear and she grabs his hand in hers.
"I admit I was far gone last night, but I do remember some of what happened. Some." He sighs deeply, then continues. "I understand I was a figure of fun," and here she draws herself up, ready to defend him fiercely, but he quiets her with a gesture. "I was, love, but it was more than that. It was anger, really. Jealous anger." There, he said it. He feels like a fool. A boorish man of the type Andrew Drummond turned out to be is worth none of his time and yet, because of Elsie, he must bring up that unpleasantness, must root it out. He doesn't want to carry this home with them. He'd thought it was finished this morning, but clearly the woman has been worrying herself over it. And, truth be told, it had bothered him as well. A small, hateful voice reminds him that he's seen worse instances of her temper.
"Jealous?" Elsie scoffs. She simply can't believe it. It's been an age, donkey's years since she'd laid eyes on that man. "I can't believe it."
"He wanted me to know, Els," and the nickname slips off his tongue. "He wanted me to know…about the past," he finishes delicately. He understood jealousy, oh yes indeed. He also understood crude, loutish behavior. Even now the image of that man's hand on Elsie's arm squeezed his temples and caused his hands to tingle with anger and yet he had allowed her to finish it, known she would, known she had to. For her and for them.
Her face is lowered now, her chin tucked nearly into her chest. He realizes, belatedly, that she is embarrassed; no, more than that. She is ashamed, and his heart lurches painfully. "Elsie," he says gently. "Elsie, look at me." He strokes her cheek with his finger. "Will you no' look at me, lass?" And his dreadful Scottish accent shocks her into looking up at him, laughing shakily. "That bad, eh?" And he grins, such a lovely, painful sight.
She bites her lip, turns her head toward the opposite wall. "It's just that…that-"
"You don't have to say it, Els. You don't have to say anymore. We never have to speak of him again."
"That's just it," she says in frustration. "We do have to speak of him, at least long enough to rid ourselves of him once and for all. I'm shamed by his behavior. I went over there this morning to…to…"
"Peel the skin off him?"
Elsie cuts her eyes at him, smiles in spite of herself. "I suppose so," she says demurely. "But the strange thing is, when I finally got over there, I didn't…I couldn't-" The tears threaten again; gods damn that man. It's not as if she's crying over him, the sodding bugger.
"From what I saw, you did a fine job, woman. That slap alone was worth a thousand words."
Elsie looks up, shocked. "You saw that?"
"I did indeed. I'll wager I saw most of your encounter with Mr. Drummond (and he says his name with such exquisite distaste) and I was, as I said, very proud. Very proud of you, Mrs. Carson." And he kisses her lightly on the lips.
"Well I'm not very proud of myself, Charles. He deserved more of a tongue lashing than I gave him and that's a fact. He got the better of me, though I don't know why." She gives him a pained, quizzical look. "I wanted to tell him so much. I wanted him to know what a fine person you are, one who can't be sullied in spite of his tricks. I wanted to tell him , oh I don't know! I wanted to tell him how it was between us, but it's hard enough for me to talk about that with you, much less that bamstick!"
"Elsie, I'm not sure what you just called that man, (and she opens her mouth to tell him, but he holds up a hand) and I'm not sure I want to. You were marvelous this morning. Donal was ready to get between the two of you, but I held him back. I knew you could finish him and you did. I'm more than proud, love. And what you said about me, us. Well, I'll never forget it. Not as long as I live." And he kisses her again and again, soft, tender kisses that soothe and settle her.
She kisses him one final time, then turns and spoons against him. "Good night, mo ghradh. I love you."
"I love you, Els." He waits until her breathing is more regular, then whispers in her ear. "You're sure you don't want to tell me how it is between us?"
She nudges him sleepily. "The ego, Mr. Carson, the ego. I'll tell you tomorrow. When we're home." And she sighs a deep, contented sigh.
Charles smiles in the dark, burrows in more closely to his wife, his heart and soothes himself to sleep with visions of tomorrow.