As always, but especially now - my thanks to chelsie fan. And to deeedeee for this chapter. And to all of you that have supported me over this story's hiatus. We're back now...

Elsie was first to awake, or so she thought. She could hear Charles's steady breathing beside her, and somehow his arm had draped itself over her waist in the night. She savoured the weight and the warmth of it against her for a moment before deciding they probably ought not to be touching when he awoke. The instant she moved to get up, his arm tightened around her and his voice sleepily rumbled in her ear.

"Elsie Carson, if you think I'm letting you out of my sight for one instant this morning you have another thing coming."

"Charles," she breathed, thoroughly startled. "I thought you were asleep."

In fact he hadn't been entirely awake, but he rubbed the sleep from his eyes and then did wake properly. The sunlight streaming through the crack in the curtains confirmed that it was indeed morning. Reluctantly, he removed his arm from around her waist and sat up.

"Well, I'm awake. How do you feel?"

"Fine," she replied automatically. She sat up, too, wincing as she did so.

"Let me see those hands of yours, before I believe that," he said gruffly. Timidly she held them out to him. They did hurt something awful.

He took her wrists gently and turned her hands over, horrified at the abundance of blisters that had appeared on her fingers overnight.

"Can you feel them?" he asked her, his voice slightly shaken.

"They're painful," she admitted. "They don't feel quite…normal…Charles?"

"They've blistered," he explained. "Try not to touch them just yet."

Naturally, the instant he told her not to touch them, that was all she wanted to do. It was bizarre to feel decreased sensation, yet simultaneous pain.

"What should we do?"

"Mr. Andrews should have passed along a message to Dr. Clarkson to drop by this morning," Charles informed her. "Though neither of them know why," he added quickly at her worried expression.

Elsie nodded, her mind reeling as to how she might explain her peculiar injuries to Dr. Clarkson.

"Elsie…" Charles began softly. "I don't understand why either."

Elsie bit her lip, not trusting herself to speak. Last night felt like a bad dream, one that she had yet to completely wake up from. She had only made things worse, only worried him more. She, herself, wasn't sure she knew 'why.'

"Elsie…what…" Charles struggled to keep his tone even and non-accusatory, despite how fearful he was inside. "What could you possibly have been thinking?"

"I…I wasn't. I just…I wanted…"

That only upset him further. What could she possibly have wanted that would drive her out of their home in the middle of the night?

"You wanted…" he prompted, trying and failing to keep the urgency out of his voice.

"Out," she whispered, shaking her head. "I wanted out. Of everything. I've ruined everything, Charles. I'm sorry."

There was a moment of silence.

"Elsie. We're married."

"But-"

"Married, Elsie Carson. I made a promise and I fully intend to keep it. To love you, to cherish you, and to care for you-"

"And you gave up your life to care for me, Charles, and it's not worth it! Look around you. What kind of wife am I? And what kind of woman lets the man she loves give up his life for her? A cruel one, Charles. A cruel, selfish woman."

"I…what? Say that again?"

She was crying and she hated herself for it. "That I'm a cruel, selfish-"

"Not that part, before that," Charles insisted, sitting up much straighter. Had she really said that she…?

"What kind of woman…lets the man she loves… give up his life," she repeated, her voice shaking something awful.

"Elsie, I-"

A sharp knock at the door interrupted his protests. Charles almost threw up his hands in frustration when he realized who it must be. "That will be Dr. Clarkson," he said, sliding off the bed. "Come to see about you."

She was still crying, and Charles paused, taking her face in his hands, wiping away her tears with his thumbs. "We'll talk about this after," he promised her.

"Give me a minute?" she asked, inhaling deeply and trying to compose herself.

"I'll stall him for a moment," Charles agreed. "And we'll knock."

"All right," she said, rubbing at her face with the heel of her hand. "All right."

She heard her door shut, and then the sounds of the two men speaking in the hall. Several deep steadying breaths made her head feel somewhat clearer. She probably looked dreadful, but the least she could do was erase any signs she'd been crying. Their voices got louder as they came closer to the door, and Elsie thought she heard snippets of the words "snow," "accidentally," and "frostbitten." Then came the inevitable knock.

"Come in," she called, summoning as much of the old strict housekeeper persona as she could manage, and falling rather short. She sat up straight in bed, almost rigid as they entered, her face unreadable.

"Mrs. Carson," came Dr. Clarkson's Scottish brogue. "Mr. Carson has explained, somewhat. Might I examine you?"

What he had chosen to explain, Elsie could only guess at. How she longed to shoot him a questioning look, to be reassured that he hadn't told the doctor everything, but she didn't even know where in the room her husband was.

"Of course," replied Elsie, unable to completely hide her nerves.

"Shall I step out?" Charles asked hesitantly.

"I'd rather you stay, if that's all right," Elsie said, shuffling to edge of the bed.

"Certainly," said Dr. Clarkson, "now let's have a look at those hands, please."

Dr. Clarkson did a through examination of her hands and feet, before wrapping the blistered portions in gauze. He reassured them both that it was likely to be no permanent damage, and the greatest risk now was that of infection. He left them with a generous supply of bandages, so that they might be changed regularly. Just when Elsie thought they were through the worst of this uncomfortable exercise Dr. Clarkson asked what she'd been dreading most.

"I've one final question, Mrs. Carson. How exactly did you come to be trapped outside in weather like this? Without shoes?"

"I…I…"

"Sleepwalking," cut in Charles smoothly. "Ever since you were a very young girl, right, Elsie?"

Elsie swallowed in surprise. "Yes, that's right. Sleepwalking."

"Interesting," said Dr. Clarkson neutrally, and Elsie couldn't tell if he'd bought their story. Perhaps it was more believable than the truth.

"Well, there is very little I can do about sleepwalking," professed Dr. Clarkson.

"I'll be sure to lock the door from now on," said Charles.

"Very good," nodded Dr. Clarkson. "If there is nothing else then?"

There was a slight pause before Elsie shook her head firmly.

Dr. Clarkson suppressed a sigh. "Take care then, Mrs. Carson."

"Thank you," she replied, very much relieved that it was over.

"I'll show Dr. Clarkson out," declared Charles. There was no need, but he wanted a brief word alone. He quietly shut the bedroom door behind them.

"She is going to be all right, then?" Charles asked, still worried.

"Like I said, Mr. Carson. There should be no lasting damage to her extremities. Just be sure to watch for signs of infection, and in a few weeks it should be fine." Dr. Clarkson paused, knowing his next question should be phrased delicately. "I haven't seen Mrs. Carson in the village in some time."

"She prefers to stay indoors," Charles said, shifting his weight from one foot to the other.

"And does she eat well?"

It was uncomfortable, and Charles knew Elsie wouldn't like him to be having this discussion at all. He'd vowed not to, but that was before she'd walked into a blizzard in the middle of the night.

"She has been eating…less."

"Mr. Carson, it would not be unusual for someone that has suffered the loss Mrs. Carson has to have difficulty adjusting. To be, well, melancholy. It's quite common."

"Is there anything I can do about it?" Charles' desperation confirmed what Dr. Clarkson had already strongly suspected.

"If she were to exhibit signs of madness…irrational or manic behavior, then there are some rather extreme treatments in London that may help."

Charles scowled furiously. "My wife is not mad," he hissed.

"I wasn't saying that she was," said Dr. Clarkson, very calmly. "But I would be surprised if she was not suffering in some way emotionally. I'm just laying out the facts, Mr. Carson."

"Stick to the relevant ones, please, Dr. Clarkson," returned Charles shortly.

"Very well. If Mrs. Carson is indeed depressed – and since she does not wish to speak of it I cannot make a full assessment, but that is my preliminary opinion – then the best course of action is to try and make her feel useful again. She has spent her entire life being needed by others, and then that changed overnight. Bringing her back to that may help. How to do that is up to you and her."

Charles had softened some at Dr. Clarkson's speech. It made sense. But hadn't he been trying to engage her in things?

"I have…tried to," he said awkwardly. "But she doesn't seem very receptive."

"Start small," Dr. Clarkson advised. "And if nothing else, try getting her to speak about it to someone. I'm available if she wishes, but I believe she might be more open with you, Mr. Carson."

Charles nodded. Perhaps she would. "Thank you for coming, Dr. Clarkson," he said, offering his hand.

"It's good to see you, Mr. Carson," returned the doctor, shaking his hand firmly. "Let me know if I can be of any more assistance."

"I will. Good day, Dr. Clarkson."

Elsie didn't move when Charles re-entered her bedroom. They had a conversation to finish, but he didn't know quite how to begin it again. How many times had this happened between them? How many times had they come close to talking openly only to have one thing or another stand in the way?

"Elsie?"

She was frowning at him. "You helped me lie," she said simply.

"I'm sorry if it was presumptions, it's just-"

"No!" she interrupted. "I…I wanted to say thank you."

"You're welcome then."

There was another awkward pause and Charles took a seat on the bed beside her. "Elsie you don't have to tell anyone anything you don't want to. But I do very much hope you will tell me the truth."

Her nightgown, still rolled up past her elbows, left an expanse of exposed skin. Affectionately, he trailed his fingers lightly up and down the inside of her forearm while he waited patiently for her to speak.

His gentle touch was all she needed. She'd already said before; he was just asking her to say it again. "I love you. I'm sorry I was selfish enough to let you marry me so that you might care for me. And that's the truth," she whispered shamefaced.

He stopped running his hand up and down her arm and cupped her cheek instead. "Elsie, I married you because I love you and for no other reason."

There seemed to be no air in her lungs anymore. "But, but…" she managed.

"I tried to tell you. Before you left, remember? And you wouldn't hear it."

"I didn't think you could possibly mean it. I just thought…that you were being kind. I was leaving, Charles. Sometimes people say things they don't mean to be kind."

"And do you think I married you…to be kind?" he said incredulously. ""Elsie, I would be happy being your friend, or your husband, or your lover, so long as I'm with you. But I love you. That is why I married you."

"I didn't dare hope it was that kind of marriage," she said quietly.

"Our marriage can be any kind of marriage we want it to be, Elsie."

She was so acutely aware of his warm hand on her cheek and the other on her waist. She leaned into him, feeling for the first time like she had every right to enjoy his touch, free of guilt. She tipped her head up at him, deliciously bold. "Charles? Might…might it be the kind of marriage where you kiss me?"

He was so close; she could feel his breath against her cheek when he answered, his voice low and husky. "If that's what you want."

"Charles?" she murmured.

"Yes?"

"That's what I want."

In this, her husband was happy to oblige her, pulling her into a tender, loving kiss that left no more questions about his love for her, or her love for him.

TBC...