As always, my thanks to chelsie fan.

Afterwards there had been hugs and kisses and well wishes from Anna, and Lady Mary and a (still slightly weepy) Mrs. Patmore. Mr. Travis had papers for them to sign, which momentarily filled Elsie with dread, until Charles reassured her that it would perfectly fine and she only need scrawl her initials. He dipped the pen for her and guided her hand to the correct line where she managed to form her distinctive curly "EH" from memory. Then, after thanking Mr. Travis happily, the Carsons found themselves trudging back to their cottage for the first time.

The snow that had started that morning had only increased in intensity, and the wind had picked up as well, so they spoke very little on their way back, instead leaning in on each other for support and warmth. After about twenty minutes Charles leaned over and murmured into her ear, "This one, this one belongs to us."

Belongs to us.

Immediately Elsie resisted the idea, for the cottage belonged to him. It was gift from Lord Grantham for his lifetime of service and he was simply sharing it with her. There would have been no cottage for her, had she retired on her own terms. The Grantham's were kind, and had expressed a willingness to keep her Downton to stay if her family had really not been able to take her in, but a place on the estate was great privilege, extended to only to the most loyal of butlers and she knew it. This cottage most certainly belonged to Charles. She almost corrected him, but then the words of their wedding ceremony came back to her…

'…all my worldly goods I thee endow.' He had married her. Nothing belonged to him, everything belonged to them.

"There is a little gate at the front," he told her. "It doesn't lock, but there's a little latch." He lifted it and swung it open from them.

"What colour is the gate?"

"Black," he told her. "Wrought iron, and it swings in. And after that there are only a few steps to the house."

The path to the house was currently a little treacherous with all the ice, and what's more he didn't want to stop holding on to her, so he wrapped his arm around her tightly and led her up the front steps.

"Here we are, Mrs. Carson. Our home." The pride in his voice was unmistakable. Finally things were going to be as they always should have been. She reached out to touch the door and found the handle, but before she could open it, he stopped her.

"What is it? Charles, it's freezing out here."

He cupped her cheek again with his hand, as he had in church. Elsie felt her stomach flip at his touch.

"Elsie, did you mind very much when I kissed you?" he asked quietly. "I hadn't asked and-"

"No," she interrupted. "I didn't." Suddenly she wasn't cold at all, but desperate from him to kiss her again.

"Then would you humour me and let me carry you over?"

"What?"

"Well, isn't that how it's done?" Charles said plainly.

"But your back," Elsie worried.

"Will be fine," he insisted. Taking her incredulous smile for consent, he picked her up and carefully lifted her over the threshold, setting her down on the other side.

"There," he said, shutting the door behind them. "That wasn't so terrible, was it?"

"It was perfectly lovely," she told him, before blushing at her forwardness. Flirting with him had always been easy, but she found it awkward now that she couldn't read his reaction to it. She turned away from him so he might not see how embarrassed she was, pulling off her hat and her coat.

"There are hooks on the wall to your right," he informed her, letting her find them herself. "And it seems we have elves."

She wrinkled her nose. "Elves?"

"Or a Mrs. Patmore. There seems to be a basket here on the table, and while I have not opened it, I'll eat my hat if it's not tea."

Elsie smiled. "She did promise something to that effect yesterday."

"Are you hungry?"

"Not quite yet. I'd rather see the house first, if it's all the same to you."

"Certainly," said Charles.

But it was cold still, and his first priority became the fires, which she could not help him with. She sat in one of the living room chairs as he worked, feeling rather useless. It would be completely beneath him or her to build a fire at Downton. That was a task for kitchen maids and hall boys. Now all tasks fell to them, and there was no longer a hierarchy or structure to slot every chore into. Having spent most of her adult life in service, Elsie had not considered how bizarre that might be, and for Charles it was certain to feel even more so. She wondered if she ought to say something, as she listened to him fuss with the fireplace, but elected not to. It wasn't something she really wanted to draw attention to.

Even after decades of not building his own fires, he certainly still remembered how and soon the room was warmer and more inviting. There is a woodshed in the back, but he knew it to be only half full, and half of that was rotting. More would have to be split soon. Perhaps retirement would be as much work as service, Charles thought to himself.

But it would be work he was for himself and for her, not work for the lives of others. He didn't think that would make a large difference really – work was work - but when he saw her smile and slip off her shawl, he felt a very different satisfaction from the one he'd felt serving the family.

"Warm enough?"

"Certainly, Charles," she told him. "Now will you show me?"

He put the grate up carefully, before leading her over the fireplace so she might run her fingers over the stones and the mantel. Charles didn't know much about masonry, but it seemed well made. There was a dip in the floor around it, and a grate, so he didn't fear her accidentally walking into it.

"Very nice," she remarked, running her hands along the edge. "Big, too, it seems."

"Takes up about half the room, or at least it looks that way," he said. "But nice," he added quickly. "Shall we move on?"

And so he led her about the house, giving her time to sort out doorways and steps between locations. The house was small enough that it was actually feasible to count how many steps it took from the fireplace to the chairs in the living room, to the hallway and back. She marked out doorways with her cane and listened to his explanations of what everything looked like, from the picture hung in the kitchen to the upholstery on the chairs. She was so used to sweeping rooms with her eyes, taking in every object at a pace most people would find downright alarming, but this was so slow, so different. The pride and softness in his voice as he explained every last detail granted her some necessary patience as she learned each corner of their little home with her cane and her fingertips and her imagination.

When they got to the kitchen she sat down in one of the kitchen chairs, and Charles noticed how weary she looked.

"I'll made tea if you like," he offered, thinking perhaps they ought to take a break.

"Please," she replied. She was tired, though it was barely mid-afternoon.

"It's a lot to take in," he said. She frowned slightly, not knowing precisely what he was referring to. "The house, I mean," he added.

"It shouldn't be; it's just a cottage" she replied, her patience with herself fading.

"But it is," he pointed out. "It's a lot of…new information, presented in a different way." He was trying, in a rather roundabout fashion, to reassure her that it was all right to be overwhelmed by everything, which was delicate, seeing as she refused to admit that she was. She didn't reply. She simply listened as Charles unpacked the basket Mrs. Patmore had left them.

"Mrs. Patmore has outdone herself," he declared. "There is more than tea; there's enough food in here to feed an army."

Elsie smiled. "Did you expect anything different?"

"I suppose not. Well, what will it be then? Ham? Toast? That vile contraption of yours has made its way into the kitchen. I suppose that's Anna's idea of a joke…"

Elsie laughed, "You don't mean that, surely."

He had only been half kidding. "Well," Charles mused. "If you can find a way to use it without burning yourself or the house down, then be my guest, but I'll make some toast for use the usual way if you don't mind."

"I don't; I don't," she smiled, as the kettle whistled.

They had a lovely relaxing tea. As they were finishing and tidying up, Charles started to describe the view out the kitchen window, when he noticed she didn't seem to be paying attention.

"Elsie?"

"Mmm?"

"Are you all right? It's only…I can't really tell if you're-" he didn't want to say 'listening.' That seemed insulting.

"Present," she finished for him softly. "And you're correct; I'm not. I'm rather tired, I'm afraid. Perhaps you might tell me later?"

"Later, then," he promised her. "Why don't I show you your room, and you might have a rest or unpack some of your things. We can talk about everything else later."

"I would prefer that," she admitted. She stood, and without waiting for him, found her way to the doorway of her bedroom with her cane.

"This one is mine, correct? And yours is the one closer to the front door?" she asked him.

"That's right. Well done."

She smiled tightly. "And my things?"

"Are all in here," he reassured her. "Sitting on the bed, to your right. The wardrobe is right beside it."

"Hmm," she murmured, touching the wardrobe, and pulling out its drawers experimentally. "Thank you."

He wasn't quite sure what she needed him to do. He didn't want to offend her by asking, and he didn't want to abandon her by staying silent. He chose speaking, though in the most timid tone imaginable of the man. "Do you need any help? Putting things away?"

"I shouldn't think so. Probably better that I do it myself anyways." As if to prove her point, she snapped open the clasps on one of her bags.

"Right," said Charles, not sure if he was relieved or disappointed. "Well, I'll leave you to it."

He turned and moved to shut the door, but she stopped him. "Charles?"

"Yes?" he asked, hoping she might have thought of some way he could be useful to her. He turned to find her lying on the bed, her hands spread across the quilt adorning it.

"This bed…is enormous." It had to be at least twice the size of the one she'd slept in back at Downton.

"Yes, well…" stammered Charles, slightly flustered by the image of her sprawled out on the bed. It was not intentionally provocative on her part, but it was still her lying down (something he'd never actually seen ever before, now that he thought of it) across a bed, looking positively beautiful.

"Yes, well?" she prompted, sitting back up.

"That's what the Abbey had available to give us," he finished, hoping his voice did not belie how flustered she'd made him.

"So yours in the other room is the same," she concluded, sounding pleased.

He couldn't just lie to her. "Well, no…the one in my room is the same as the bed I had at Downton."

She frowned at this. "But then this ought to be your room."

"Why?" he countered quickly.

"Because you are a larger person than I, Charles," she said, as if he were completely daft. "And this was your cottage before it was our cottage so it doesn't make any sense that you would choose-"

"Maybe I like the size of my old bed?" he argued, though that was positively not true.

"I find that difficult to believe," she retorted, recognizing his defensive tone immediately.

"You know how I dislike change," he pointed out. That was true; wasn't it? She couldn't argue with that.

"And yet, in a span of three weeks, you left your post, retired, moved into a cottage, and are now trying to convince you me you chose to sleep in a tiny bed over this one?"

"Is that so hard to believe? Can you not take me at my word?"

"Do you expect me to believe after a life in service, in a bed that barely fit you-" he made a scoffing noise and she scowled. "Recall that I've seen you it, so don't you pretend it was anything otherwise."

"Are we to spend the first evening of our marriage arguing over the sizes of beds?" he growled.

"It's not about the size of the beds!" she shot back incredulously. "It's about…oh I don't even know what it's about!"

"Well, if you ever figure it out, do let me know!"

She pursed her lips, but said nothing. He took a deep breath and decided it was time for him to leave her alone. "Let me know if you need me," he said, as evenly as possible. "For anything."

She nodded and turned away. She had things to put away.

Mrs. Patmore had given them provisions for supper, which they ate together both ignoring completely their argument over the bedrooms. He wanted to tell her it was only right for him to give the more comfortable sleeping accommodations to her, as any gentleman would. Holding him back was knowing that his choice of bedroom revealed he'd taken for granted she would come and live with him. She would catch on to that immediately, and might not like him much for it.

She couldn't quite figure out why it bothered her so much, but it did. It was upsetting that he was so willing to make himself uncomfortable, so unnecessarily, for her sake. But she didn't know how to go about changing that, stubborn man that he was; perhaps it was better to let this particular thing go.

They made small talk about stocking the kitchen more fully tomorrow, about Mrs. Patmore's delicious meal, and about the view of the sunset out the back kitchen window. She let herself be distracted again by his lovely voice, painting a beautiful picture of their back yard. Supper turned into a cup of tea, and a cup of tea turned into yawning. By the end of the evening their argument was left mostly forgotten, and the washing up was left to tomorrow.

Even though they were both clearly exhausted, neither really wanted to part ways. They lingered in the hall between their bedrooms, both out of energy for conversation but still longing for each other's presence. There was no protocol, no rules, no anything to guide how to say goodnight. He found himself staring at her in a way he'd never dared to before. He loved her so, but was fearful he might ruin the precarious balance they had by saying it out loud.

Elsie could sense they were waiting for something, but what she wasn't sure. Eventually she reached out hesitantly, touching his chest with the flat of her palm. "Charles?"

He took her hesitant touch as permission to wrap his arms around her. This at least was familiar territory for them. She felt so right, pressed against his chest. "Yes?"

"I...I just wanted to say thank you… for everything."

"I'm glad you're here," he told her sincerely. She was so soft in his arms and she looked so lovely. He desperately wanted to kiss her. Unable to resist, he placed a very chaste kiss on her temple before letting her go. "Good night, Elsie."

"Good night, Charles." And with one long lingering glance at her, they went to their respective bedrooms.

He was already much more familiar with her, and as Elsie got ready for bed she found herself both elated and concerned. They had grown quite close over the years, as each other's confidants and dearest friends. She was terribly proud to be his wife.

But how was she going to be his wife?

What did Charles Carson want in a wife?

She lay there, unable to sleep, recalling the way her hands felt when surrounded by his, how gently he'd slipped the ring onto her finger that morning. She twisted it, uneasy. Charles was a fine man, she thought, an obstinate one at times, but an upstanding one without question. Gentle and intelligent and gallant.

Gallant.

Was that why he'd done all this? Was taking care of her a sense of duty for him? Was it terrible if it was? Yes. Yes, it was. That wasn't how they were, and she had said from the beginning being an obligation for him was out of the question. But somehow he had convinced her to agree to this, and she had found herself doing so very easily, because she wanted it. She wanted him, more than anything. The one constant in her life that never failed to make her feel safe, respected, and loved.

She had let that cloud her judgment. She didn't deserve him. He had been so giving and she took. Selfishly. Thinking only of what she wanted, of what would make her feel better.

He gave.

She took.

And now she was his wife.

She buried her head in her hands. It was too late, too late to take it back. She should have refused him. He'd given her a chance to - several, really. He'd probably hoped she'd take one, and then she hadn't.

Elsie Hughes you are a selfish, foolish person.

TBC...