As always, my thanks to chelsie fan. This chapter deals with depression, consider yourself forewarned.
Charles had never appreciated Mrs. Patmore's cooking talents more in his life. The woman churned out six meals a day and then some, including suppers that looked and tasted fit for royalty. Now Charles stood in his own kitchen, trying to get the hang of flipping a pancake and hoping it would be fit for human consumption.
He managed it eventually (no need to tell Elsie it was his third try), and she gave him a watery smile when he put it on the table in front of her.
"Thank you," she said. She always said that, no matter what he put in front of her, but pancakes were the most difficult breakfasted he'd attempted yet, and he was eager for her opinion. Apprehensively, she poked at it with her knife and fork, eventually taking a bite and chewing thoughtfully.
"Well?"
"It's good, Charles. Very good." Her words were kind, but her tone was flat, leaving Charles wondering if she was indeed telling him the truth. He took a bite of his own. They seemed fine to him.
"Did you sleep all right?" he asked her, as she poked at her food.
"Fine, thank you."
He'd never known her to be quite so clammy. He fished around for more questions, but figured they would likely only get him more token pleasantries.
"Elsie-"
"I'm actually not very hungry," she interrupted, setting her cutlery down. "If you'll excuse me."
"Oh..." She was already up and heading back into her bedroom, leaving him standing in the kitchen not knowing if he should protest or not. She'd had only three bites. He starred at her closed bedroom door for a little while before returning to the kitchen to finish his breakfast. And then hers.
Charles had thought it would be impossible to avoid each other in a house so small, but when she shut herself away in her bedroom it was almost like being alone. She came out for meals, she was pleasant and polite, but she never spoke more than necessary. He asked her if she'd like him to read the paper to her. Maybe go for a walk? Come to town with him the next time he went? Every time she quietly dismissed the suggestion.
"There's no need, Charles." He was getting so weary of those words. Them, and "not today, thank you."
He couldn't help but feel like he'd broken some cardinal of rule of being a husband that he wasn't aware of. She didn't seem angry with him. Every time she spoke she was kind and placid. But the words were always empty; they weren't the words of the woman he knew. He almost wanted to make her angry, just to see if it were possible. An angry wife, shouting at him, might be preferable to this quiet, ghost-like person who had made herself as small and inconspicuous as possible.
Even knocking on her door seemed like an invasion of her space these days, but there was nothing for it.
"Elsie? Are you up? We're going to miss the service."
He heard mumbling, which he took as an invitation to enter. She was still in bed, when she should have been dressed already.
"Elsie, we're going to miss church if you don't move along," he said as gently as he could manage.
"I'm not going," she protested. "I don't feel well."
That had been her excuse last week. And the week before.
"Elsie, won't you please get out of bed? You promised me last week you'd go."
"I lied then. Leave me be, Charles."
She buried herself in the covers, and Charles was at a loss. He was sure if she would only come outside she might feel better, but she insisted otherwise. He couldn't just order her, could he? It felt as if she were hiding from him all of the time. An alarming thought occurred to him.
"Elsie? Is it possible you're ill? Maybe Dr. Clarkson ought to come."
"No!"
It was the most vehement response he'd received from her in weeks and it startled him a little. Was that the wrong thing to suggest? Perhaps it was rude. He was only worried about her, and if he couldn't figure out what was wrong, perhaps the doctor could.
"If you say so," he relented.
"And you're not to speak to him about me, please." The pillows muffled her voice, but he could tell it was shaky.
That was the next thing he was going to ask her, and clearly she'd anticipated that. He put his hand on her shoulder, gently turning her to face him and she did not resist. She was beautiful to him, always, but he worried about her so.
"Elsie, I'm just concerned about you; that's all."
She took a deep breath. "I'm perfectly fine. Go to church, Charles. Please."
"All right."
"And you won't speak to Dr. Clarkson?"
Charles suppressed an audible sigh. "If that's what you want."
"That's what I want," she affirmed.
Whatever it meant to be a good husband, he was fairly sure disobeying a direct request wasn't it. Perhaps he might bring it up to Dr. Clarkson without mentioning her specifically? He quickly dismissed the idea. That would be impossible, and she would be sure to find out about it, somehow. Then how could she ever trust him?
For the third Sunday in a row, Charles went to church alone.
She made him turn away every visitor who came to call. He protested, but she insisted, making flimsy excuse after flimsy excuse. He stopped pressing the issue. What else could he do?
She was too pale and too thin, and most days, she wouldn't leave her bed, no matter how much he coaxed her. Whenever she refused to get up for a meal, he brought it to her in her room, hoping she'd eat something, anything. He no longer took it personally when she refused something he'd slaved over; he just despaired silently whenever she sent him away.
Sometimes he snuck in when she was sleeping, which she did at all hours of the day now. Occasionally when she awoke she'd let him stay. She'd hold his hands and say nothing. It was the only time he felt useful, those few moments where she let him touch her. He was bold enough to stroke her hair one evening and she burst into tears, but she didn't ask him to leave. He just stayed there, stroking her hair wordlessly until she finally stopped. Every time he opened his mouth, he seemed to say the wrong thing.
Each night, he eventually returned to sleep in his own bed. Eventually, the overwhelming silence bred in him a bizarre form of insomnia, and he spent hours pacing when he should have been sleeping. He had always been a man prone to pacing. It got out the nervous energy, helped clear his head so he might think. How long could they go on like this? He wasn't sure. But it was clear something was missing, something was wrong. Every time he asked, she withdrew further, seemed more upset. Desperation started to settle over him. The sorrow that had somehow completely engulfed her and her bedroom had crept beneath the door and into the cracks of his heart.
His pancakes were delicious; there was no need for her to sugarcoat her praise of them. But every second of eating them was torturous because she knew that she ought to be the one charged with making them breakfast.
And lunch. And supper.
It ought to be her flipping pancakes and doing the washing up, only letting him help if he absolutely insisted. That was how it was supposed to be. She'd heard him all morning, clattering around the kitchen, cursing under his breath when it wasn't right and then finally presenting the result of his efforts with pride and hint of trepidation. A simple thank you for his efforts didn't seem sufficient to her, but it was all she had to give.
After a few bites she felt her frustration level rise quickly beyond what she was capable of managing. All she had to give fell so short of what he deserved. She excused herself as quickly as possible, no longer hungry.
Only behind her bedroom door did she let her tears fall - silently, save for the odd sniffle. Not only was she a wife incapable of making them breakfast, but also apparently she was not even able to keep him company while they ate it.
She was avoiding him, and she knew it. She imagined trying to explain her frustrations to him, and even in her head it just sounded like condescending, ungrateful drivel. There wasn't anything he could do anyways. Why bother him with it?
She found herself unnaturally irritable - over everything. Every creak of the floorboards or clattering in the kitchen drove her mad. It was only a matter of time before she bit his head off over something innocent. Best she say nothing at all.
At every meal she had to force herself to feign some enthusiasm, and over the weeks she grew wearier. She cared less and less about protecting his feelings on the subject. Every single bit of food was a reminder that she was dependent, inadequate in this way. She knew in her heart that he didn't resent her for it, but she resented herself. Surely, soon enough, he would, too.
Every time he offered to take her somewhere or have someone call on them, her dismissals became more mechanical. She didn't want to see anyone; it was exhausting enough just tiptoeing around him. The thought of going out was even less appealing. She barely had the energy to make it from her bedroom to the bathroom and back again some days. Going into town would be a task so enormous she grew tired just contemplating it.
She knew she was slipping. She could feel it, slowly. She spent more time in bed, more time asleep, and far too much time thinking. She missed him. Though he was right beyond her door virtually all the time, she wanted nothing more than for that door to stay shut.
He still touched her from time to time, with an affection that she relished, but felt she did not deserve. Every gentle touch, every chaste kiss on her cheek was his being a dutiful husband, reinforcing that she could not be a dutiful wife. She was sure she was not a dutiful person anymore, let alone a wife. She simply existed. Surviving, but not living. Taking, but incapable of giving.
He just kept giving. They didn't really speak anymore, not about anything meaningful at any rate. She would wake sometimes to find him beside her, his weight sinking the bed slightly. Sometimes she reached for him, hoped for some sliver of comfort that he was still there, that he had not abandoned her. He always was there to hold her hand or stroke her hair. She opened her mouth to apologize to him, but all she did was cry instead. He stayed for every minute of it, but she sensed that her immense unhappiness was unsettling to him. She heard his pacing in the hall, and her heart ached. He must be miserable; she was sure of it. How could he not be at this point?
Late that night, Elsie buried herself as far as she could under the covers. Foolish, ungrateful, selfish, cruel woman! She'd taken advantage of his feelings for her and trapped him in this horrible place. If only she'd said no. How she wished for his sake she'd said no.
She replayed the way he'd carried her over the threshold of their home and the way he'd occasionally kissed her goodnight. The thoughts still gave her butterflies and a glimmer of false happiness.
Then that feeling warped itself into overwhelming guilt as she replayed her memories over and over. His chivalry was simply an innate part of him, another part of the obligation he felt to her. Even in an unconventional marriage Charles had always been the kind of person to do things by the book. He'd carried her over the threshold because "that's how it's done." Hadn't he said that himself? He'd kissed her, cared for her and worked for her all because that's what he believed a husband did. He was everything a man ought to be, and she was none of the woman he deserved.
Elsie hid her face in her pillow to muffle her sobbing. No matter how hard she cried her tears could not come close to expressing how sorry she was, how much she wished things were different.
And it would never get better. Never, because it was all so fundamentally wrong. He belonged at Downton. He belonged in his post where he had been happy, doing what he'd trained all his life to do. Now he was miserable, and all because of her and her selfish, stupid, decision. Because of one second of weakness in the bedroom of her cousin's house when she'd agreed to all of this. She'd taken advantage of his kindness, and it had brought them both misery and unhappiness. She may deserve it, but he didn't. The knowledge that she was responsible for his suffering suffocated her.
She wanted out of their arrangement. She wanted out of her own skin. She wanted out of this life. She wanted to release him from everything and breathe again. She wanted out.
Almost without being aware of it, she had gotten out of bed and was now padding down the hall. She wanted out. Out, out, out.
The back door opened silently once she found the handle. Her tears, which had been so hot on her cheeks, froze almost instantly. The snow beneath her bare feet was deliciously painful, and after a few steps they started to go numb, which was even better. Each inhalation brought into her lungs air so cold that it burned, and still she walked. Without purpose, or direction, or any sense of herself, Elsie walked out into the night.
TBC...