As always, my thanks to chelsie fan.

Charles entered the Bateses' cottage the next morning to see his wife going carefully down the stairs, one hand on the railing and a mountain of laundry balanced with the other. Her cane was nowhere to be seen.

"Do you think that…wise Mrs. Carson?"

She almost dropped them at the sound of his voice. She'd been so focused on not falling that she hadn't heard him come in.

"Really, Charles! Please announce yourself! You know you scare me half to death when you don't."

"I'm sorry," he apologized quickly, "and might I take those off your hands?"

"I would appreciate it," she admitted, letting him take them from her. "It was a bit…ambitious of me."

He was glad she said it, not he. "What were you planning on doing with them?"

"Washing them. There's a laundry room in the basement, I think."

"Is there now?" said Charles, looking down the narrow basement stairs in abject horror. "Elsie, if you'd walked down these, you'd have broken your neck!"

"It can't be that bad," she responded. She hadn't considered the stairs to the basement being even more difficult than the main staircase.

"It is - even just walking them, never mind carrying a load of laundry! Did Anna ask you to do this?"

"No," admitted Elsie. "She's still asleep. I thought-"

"You'd get started on the washing," finished Charles crossly.

"Well, yes."

He studied her features for a moment, trying to see past his worry and anger at finding her in such a compromising and vulnerable position.

"That was very kind of you," he said finally. She could not hide her surprise at his response.

"Oh?" she said hesitantly, sensing there was much more to it than that.

"Yes," said Charles, for it was true. "But I wish you'd waited for me to come along and help you."

She bit her lip, knowing he was right, but feeling defiant anyways. "And what do you know about laundry, Charles?"

"Not a thing," he admitted. "But I'm very good at carrying things and ensuring you don't go pitching down a flight of stairs. As your husband, would you grant me that?"

Her bottom lip quivered, as if she were about to cry. Silently she nodded. How foolish he must think her, trying to go beyond her means. How completely and utterly foolish.

"Elsie…"

Her eyes closed, but a few tears leaked out anyways. Charles set the bundle on the ground and took her by the shoulders.

"I'm sorry," she muttered, shaking her head. "You must think-"

"You've done nothing wrong," he interrupted her softly. "I just don't want to see you get hurt."

"I know. I'm just…I don't know."

He pulled her into a warm hug, and suddenly she didn't feel quite so silly for crying anymore. "I do know," he rumbled into her hair. "You're marvelous, remember?"

She laughed through her tears into his chest. "Yes, marvelous."

"And you amaze me with what you're doing, Elsie, truly," he told her. "But you frighten me, too."

"I don't mean to frighten you," she said quietly.

"You don't have to do everything by yourself," he pointed out. "What if I help you with the laundry? Is that so terrible?"

She let go of him to wipe away that last of her tears. "I suppose it isn't."

"Well, then," he said, offering his elbow to her. "We've work to do."

"This is completely beneath you," she said, shaking out the sheets one by one.

"And it's not beneath you? When was the last time you were a laundry maid?"

"I did the linens in a pinch at Downton all the time, Charles." And she had. Whenever the laundry maids fell short (barely slips of girls that didn't stay in the big house, but rather came in from the village three times a week) it had been up to her to make up the work.

"Drying and folding maybe," he conceded. "Not the scrubbing, I'll reckon."

"Not the scrubbing," she admitted. "Not for a very long time. I preferred cleaning the house. As much as one can prefer it." She picked up a washboard and placed it in the laundry tub when Charles stopped her with a hand upon her wrist.

"You're forgetting something."

"I am, am I?"

"Yes," he replied. "Your fingers still have bandages on them."

"Right. That." They'd been on for so long, and hurt so little she'd gotten used to them, almost forgotten about them.

"Let me see them?" he asked, rubbing tiny circles on her palm with his finger.

"If you insist," she said, surrendering her hands to him. "They aren't painful."

"Mmmhmm," he hummed, carefully unwrapping them, one by one. "They do look better. The blisters must have drained at some point…"

"Seem to have callused over now," she remarked, touching them experimentally.

"So it would seem," he agreed, relinquishing them to her. "Well, Mrs. Carson, I'm no doctor, but I think we can tentatively give them a clean bill of health."

She nodded with mock seriousness, "My thanks."

He matched her tone, "My pleasure."

Her expression stayed ever serious. "Don't think this gets you out of helping with the scrubbing."

True to her word, Elsie set Charles up with the washboard and demonstrated the correct technique for washing sheets. She was too old for this - they both were – kneeling on the ground and scrubbing, but she'd set out to do it, and she wasn't about to quit. Once she'd demonstrated for him, she leaned back on her heels to allow him to try.

"You're not doing it right," she said, after listening to him for a few moments.

"How can you possibly know that?" he asked, turning to her.

She smiled. "Doesn't sound right. Heel of your hand, remember?" She shuffled over to help him, taking his hand and placing her tiny one over it. "Like this, Mr. Carson," she said cheekily, guiding him.

"Ah." He said, not watching the washing at all, but entirely mesmerized by her. Her firm grip on his hand and the determined way she set her mouth. Her body was pressed right up against his so that she could reach over him, and he could feel her warmth through her dress.

"And then you move over, take the next piece," she said, moving his hand, "and repeat." She finally let go of his hand and leaned back, letting him try for himself. He momentarily mourned the loss of her touch.

"I think you might need to show me again," he told her.

"It sounds all right now," she said, puzzled. "It's not difficult once you've got the technique.

"I suppose," said Charles, disappointed it hadn't worked. "But you might check anyways."

There was something flirtatious in his tone. Enticing. She decided to play along. "All right," she agreed, moving closer. She ran her hand lightly down his arm until she was covering his hand again.

"Like this, Mrs. Hughes?" he asked, smiling to see her blush slightly.

"Little bit firmer," she retorted, fully aware now of what he was doing. She pushed into the back of his hand to make her point, and it slipped, splashing a decent amount of soapy water on the two of them.

"Oh!" she exclaimed, touching her front, which was now wet.

"I'm sorry," said Charles hurriedly. "I'll get a towel." There were several hanging up to dry and he snatched the nearest one. He turned back to see her exploring the extent of the damage to the front of her dress. Charles cleared his throat awkwardly.

"Here," he said, pushing the towel into her hand, "perhaps you ought to…"

"Yes, thank you," she said clumsily patting her front dry. "Did it get you, too?"

"Some."

"Here," she reached out to give the towel to him, but he'd moved closer than she anticipated and she wound up hitting him in the chest.

"You missed one spot," he told her, noticing the soapsuds that somehow had ended up in her hair.

Carefully he wiped them away with the towel, smoothing out her hair with his fingers once it was gone. "That's better." In the very dim light of the basement, slightly damp and more than a little bit uncomfortable…all of that didn't seem to register for him. Only she did. He wasn't even sure how it happened really, one minute he was staring at her face, fingers still in her hair, and the next minute they were kissing as if their lives depended on it. Not the cautious little kisses they engaged in before bed. Far from it, in fact. He found her more than willing to match him, passionate and unrestrained. It was an inappropriate time, an inappropriate place, and a thoroughly uncomfortable position, awkwardly sprawled on the hard basement floor, but neither of them could bring themselves to care.

A great crash forced them to remember where they were,* and suddenly the moment turned from delight in panic.

"We must-" started Elsie.

"Upstairs," interrupted Charles, already pulling her to a standing position. The two of them flew up the stars as quickly as they could manage. With slight apprehension, Charles opened the bedroom door.

"Anna?" asked Elsie, frustrated beyond measure that she didn't yet know what had happened.

"I'm fine," said Anna weakly.

"You're on the floor," replied Charles flatly, effectively providing his wife with an explanation and Anna with a retort in the same breath.

"I might have fainted when I stood up," admitted Anna.

"Let's get you back in bed," said Charles, picking her up as if she weighed next to nothing, easing her back into bed, and tucking her in securely. It was an action Carson the butler wouldn't have dreamed of doing, but Charles hadn't hesitated. He would end up pondering this change at a later date.

"Are you hurt?" worried Elsie from the doorway.

"I don't believe so."

Charles reassured his wife with a gentle hand on her hip. "I'll let you take it from here," he told her. "But call for me if you need me?"

"We will," replied Elsie, "The laundry-"

"I'll see to it," he said. He leaned over and whispered so that only she might hear. "Though it will be considerably less enjoyable without you."

She blushed prettily, slightly flustered, but desperately trying not to show it in front of Anna.

"Very well," she said primly, her tone not matching her face one whit. Slightly amused, Charles took his leave.

"Laundry?" questioned Anna incredulously, once his footsteps had disappeared.

"I woke early, thought I'd get some of it started," said Elsie, waving off Anna's tone. "Mr. Carson was kind enough to give me a hand."

Anna, still groggy and slightly dizzy, was attempting to wrap her head around this fact. "Mr. Carson…is doing the laundry?"

"Just the sheets and things," said Elsie, finally stumbling into the chair she'd slept in the night before.

"Well, then," said Anna disbelievingly, "He shouldn't have to-"

"He asked to help," said Elsie, sternly putting an end to the conversation. "Now what is it you wanted when you made this ill-fated attempt at getting out of bed?"

"Water," croaked Anna meekly.

"I'll do that," replied Elsie automatically, holding out her hand. "You should have known better and called for-" she stopped abruptly.

"Are you all right, Mrs. Carson?" asked Anna, noticing the other woman lost in thought.

"I am," she replied, giving her head a little shake. "Just ask me for help when you feel dizzy."

"I will," came Anna's voice.

"That's better," said Elsie, almost entirely to herself.

Downstairs, Charles had finally figured out how to light the stove and prepared both tea and a pot of oatmeal. Standing in front of the stove had dried the remaining traces of their little adventure in the laundry room.

Elsie was most pleased to discover the warm, simple breakfast awaiting them when she finally came downstairs. Carefully she spooned the oatmeal into the bowls and placed them on the tray. Charles informed her that all of the laundry had been suitably rinsed and hung to dry, so there was no need for his wife to transverse those "blasted basement stairs again." He received a halfhearted frown for this comment, and Charles promised her it would be the last there was to be said on the subject. Before she went upstairs, Elsie had one last request of him.

"Anything you like," he told her.

"Cut three of the lemons into quarters, please," smiling at what she was sure was his confused face. His eyebrows furrowed together in that perplexed look he sometimes adopted.

"If you insist," he said, setting to work on the lemons. "I have errands to run if that would be all right with you?"

"I'm sure I can manage from here," she reassured him, picking up the tray with the trademark ease of a woman who had lived the majority of her life in service.

He surprised her by stealing one last kiss, leaning awkwardly over the tray in her arms and kissing her gently, but sincerely on the mouth.

"I know you'll manage or I wouldn't even consider leaving," he told her, before shooing her up the stairs.

"No," said Anna again, scowling at the oatmeal before her.

"Yes," said Elsie kindly, picking up a spoonful. "You may eat it yourself, or I will spoon feed you." Elsie raised her eyebrows. "I assure you one will be considerably more of a mess than the other."

"I'll be sick again," protested Anna. "Even just drinking water-"

"You won't be sick, necessarily," argued Elsie. "Besides, that bairn needs more than water, and you know that."

"Very well," said Anna, taking the spoon.

"That's my girl," said Elsie, placing a hand on Anna's shoulder. "Just a wee bit to start, that's all."

"I still feel as if I'm going to be ill," said Anna nervously, after a few bites.

"Wait here. I've just the thing."

"Go on, eat it."

"You're mad."

"It will work," Elsie insisted, brandishing the slice of lemon in Anna's face. "One good bite."

A wave of nausea swept over Anna again, making up her mind. "If you say so." She took the lemon slice and bit into it, juice spilling down her chin. She almost spat it out, but clapped a hand over her mouth instead and forced herself to chew and swallow. By the time she'd finished, she was panting slightly.

"That was positively vile," said Anna, after a moment.

"Wash cloth?" offered Elsie, holding one out, straight faced.

"Please." Anna took it, wiping the drips of lemon juice from her face. She paused for a moment. "I…do feel better."

Elsie simply nodded, saying nothing. She'd hoped the old wives tale was true, and certainly wasn't going to tell Anna she'd done it on a whim, hoping for the best.

Anna settled herself back into a lying position, yawning sleepily. "I want to go back to sleep," she said, half question and half statement.

"Then go back to sleep, dear," said Elsie, taking the lemon rind from her and settling into the chair. "I'll be here."

"This must be frightfully boring for you," said Anna apologetically.

"It's fine," said Elsie. To be honest, she feared spending too much time sitting alone with her thoughts. She'd had quite enough of that.

Anna sat up suddenly.

"Everything all right?" asked Elsie.

"Here," said Anna, rummaging beside the bed. "It's here somewhere…"

"What?"

"This," declared Anna, placing a pair of knitting needles, with a ball of wool trailing off it in her lap. "I've already cast on, but I can't bear to work on it at the moment. You make it."

"You're sure?"

"The needles are large and there are only thirty stitches per row. It was meant to be a simple black scarf. I'm certain you can manage it. Just knit every stitch and then turn it."

"I'll drop stitches," said Elsie hesitantly, even as she touched the little bit of work on the needles.

"If you do," Anna yawned, "I'll pick them up for you after."

"All right," said Elsie, figuring the stitches. It was a soft wool, and it felt nice against her hands. Soon the needles were clicking away, slowly but steadily as she knit. Her hands remembered what do to, having made the motions many thousands of times in her lifetime. It filled hours and hours while Anna slept the day away, every single stitch a tiny accomplishment. By mid-afternoon, the thing was several feet long.

By the end of the evening, Anna had been ill only once, something Elsie considered to be a great success. She'd even woken up asking for more food, causing Elsie to put down her needles and go hunting through the larder for the makings of a "honey and cheese sandwich" as requested. Several more lemons, and endless cups of tea had made food bearable. She was chattier, too, talking about this and that with ease.

"I'd cast that scarf off if I were you," said Anna.

"Oh!" exclaimed Elsie, her fingers re-measuring it. "I suppose so…" she touched the knitting fabric again. "How many glaring errors have I made?" she asked, holding it out to Anna.

"None," said Anna simply. "It's perfect. If it's not so bold of me to suggest, perhaps you could give it to Mr. Carson for Christmas."

"It's not so bold..." said Elsie pensively, casting off. "He could use a new one. He might like this one."

"You made it. I can't think of anything he'd like more." Anna paused for a moment. "Well, not much that he'd like more."

"Anna! Now that IS too bold. You must be feeling considerably better."

"I am," Anna yawned. "I can't believe it's Christmas Eve tomorrow."

"Nor I. Thank you for suggesting this Anna," said Elsie, as she folded the scarf carefully. "It was very..." she searched for the right word until she'd found it. "Satisfying."

"I had ulterior motives," admitted Anna.

"Oh?"

"Yes. When I was very little, whenever I took sick, my mother used to sit beside my bed and knit. All day and all night long if she had to. She was quite the knitter, my mother. And I knew as long as Mama was knitting, everything was fine."

A lump had formed in Elsie's throat as Anna spoke. "Well, I'm glad to be of service," she said finally.

Anna switched the topic for them. "It's getting rather late – where do you suppose Mr. Carson is?"

"What time is it?"

"Past nine." Anna replied.

Elsie was slightly startled. She hadn't realized it had grown quite so late. "I don't know," she said worrying her lip. Surely his errands hadn't taken so long. In fact, she didn't even know what he'd gone out for… Usually he told her, even when she hadn't cared to know.

"I'm sure he's fine," said Anna, taking in the worried expression. "Went home and had a nap or something. You know how men are about shopping."

"I suppose so," said Elsie slowly, still worried.

"Hello!" Twin voices came from downstairs, causing both of the women to jump.

"Charles?" called Elsie, sure she'd heard his deep voice.

"John?!" chimed in Anna. Her husband took his time with the stairs, but there was no mistaking his gait.

"Anna, Mrs. Carson," he greeted them, with a grin that was practically tangible.

"But you aren't supposed to be here until tomorrow!" exclaimed Anna.

"His Lordship changed his plans, and I can't say I objected," said Mr. Bates, giving his wife a brief kiss. "You look much better."

"Mrs. Carson," said Anna in explanation.

"Thank you ever so much then," Mr. Bates told Elsie. "Truly."

"Not at all," said Elsie.

Anna shook her head at her husband, her expression one of exasperated affection.

"Well, we're both very grateful to you," said Mr. Bates, refusing to let her minimize the part she'd played. "I met Mr. Carson when coming off the train – he's downstairs waiting for you."

"Hide the scarf," hissed Anna, as Elsie stood to go. She tucked the folded scarf as best she could beneath the jacket over her dress. "That will do."

"Good night, Anna, Mr. Bates," said Elsie, with a smile. "Take care."

Downstairs, Charles was indeed waiting for her. He longed to touch her immediately, but restrained himself, offering her coat instead. "How was your day? How's Anna?" he asked, helping her into it.

"She's doing much better. Our day went well," Elsie said, buttoning her coat. "Very well. But very exhausting."

"Well, my dear, I'd say it's time we headed home then."

She secured her hat and slipped her arm into his. "Yes," she murmured, leaning into him gently. "Home."

TBC...