My thanks to chelsie fan, for her wonderful beta work, and to deeedeee for all the shortbread advice.
His lips on her fingers made her breath catch, and the decorated tree was practically forgotten for a moment. No words, just a lovely feeling that spread warmth from her hands right through her body. Eventually, slowly, he dropped her hand and she could hear his breathing, his face surely mere inches away.
Suddenly that warm feeling that had blossomed in her twisted into a painful longing to see him. To know the look in his eye when he'd preformed that simple but devoted act of touching her. She wanted it in that moment more than she'd ever wanted anything.
"What is it, Elsie?"
She was full of frustration and joy all at once, and it must have shown on her face.
"I wish…" her chest tightened and she couldn't say the rest of it. Another idea occurred to her instead. She lifted her hands up, praying he'd understand. "I want to look at your face," she said. "Might I touch it?"
"Of course you might," he responded.
Somewhat awkwardly she reached for him, and he guided her hands to his cheeks for her. She smiled when he did, before her mouth turned back down into the concentrated little frown she adopted whenever she was focusing particularly hard. She moved slowly, her thumbs starting around his jaw line, feeling the faintest hint of stubble, probably still invisible to the eye, but not to her. The cleft of his chin and up his lips, lips that had kissed her so softly over and over. He didn't move; he just sat there next to her, mesmerized by this new kind of looking. Her hands were soft, gentle, but purposeful as she traced his nose, one she'd seen on his face for several decades but had never felt before now. Not wanting to linger anywhere for too long, lest she make him self-conscious, she moved on to his eyebrows, wiry and wild as they'd always been. Angled up, though, like she'd rarely seen them. Only when he was exceedingly happy or intrigued did they do that. She'd noted that the day of Lady Mary's wedding, the day he'd looked so proud, stated so firmly how pleased he was. She thought on this as her fingers traced his hairline, greying now like her own, but less – the words 'battled into submission with Brilliantine' came to mind – than it used to be.
Slowly she dropped her hands away from his face, contented now. Seeing him this way had partially satisfied that little piece of her that had wished so hard to know how he looked at her. The way she'd dreamed he looked, she thought. The way…the way she wanted him to look at her.
"Better?" he asked after a moment.
"Yes," she said, letting out a breath. "I think so."
"Good," he said, touching her cheek and kissing her softly. She smiled against his lips and cuddled into him again, as he wrapped one arm securely around her.
"There is something else our Christmas Eve is missing," she said after a time.
"And that would be …?"
"As far as I know, our kitchen does not have any biscuits, and that is practically sacrilegious, if I know you."
He laughed, a great belly laugh, and gave her a little squeeze. "You know me too well. What sort of biscuit did you have in mind?"
"Well, we ought to start with your favourite," she said sensibly.
"You want to bake a shortbread?" he asked in surprise. "Isn't that a rather difficult one?"
She scoffed at him. "You are forgetting one important element, Mr. Carson."
He paused, unsure of what she was referring to. She fumbled to grasp his hand before pulling him to his feet and towards the kitchen.
"You have a Scottish wife," she replied smartly.
"Just three ingredients?"
"Just the three," she replied, "Oh, some people put a bit of salt in it, but it's no improvement. Bless Beryl for stocking us up with the correct sugar. That woman is thorough."
"She is," said Charles, surveying the shockingly large collection of baking ingredients that had been laid out on their counter. She'd asked for sugar and he'd presented her with half a dozen unmarked containers, unable to figure out which was which. They all seemed like possibly sugar to him.
"Next time, we ought to insist she label them," Elsie had groused at the time, pinching each one between her fingers until she found the powdered sugar. Charles had filed that thought away for future reference. A written label wouldn't do her any good, but a physical one…
"Charles?"
He realized he'd been lost in their prior conversation and had completely missed whatever she'd just said.
"Sorry, what's that now?"
"Were you away with the fairies? I asked for a mixing bowl. We're going to need a very large one."
"Right!" He snapped back into paying attention with more vigor than strictly necessary, and his wife hid an amused smile from him.
"First, you beat the butter and sugar together. Once it's creamed properly, we can add the flour."
"Creamed properly?" He asked, as she unwrapped the pound of soft butter and dropped it into the bowl.
"'Whipped into shape' was my mother's preferred expression," she said. "Would you add a half cup of sugar to this?"
Keen to be of help, Charles painstakingly measured out the half cup. Elsie bit her lip as she listened to him fussing.
"What is so funny?" he frowned, adding the half cup carefully.
"I was just thinking. Back home the measuring cup cracked when I was little and instead of replacing it we just used to eyeball it instead."
She reached for the whisk on the counter and began to whip the butter – which was now half melted by now from sitting near the stove - and sugar together with surprising force.
"I sense this was a popular dish in the Hughes household," said Charles, watching her work briskly.
"Aye, it was," she said, thickening her accent without even noticing. "Made every week without fail. Saturdays, usually."
"And you helped? I assume your mother made it."
He hoped he wasn't prying too much. They'd never talked about her childhood or much of Scotland at all beyond idle words about what the countryside was like whenever the Family went up to visit. Happily for him, she smiled at her memories and didn't seem to mind his asking.
"Most of the time, yes. Though once I was old enough, I often made it by myself. Lorna never did have a head for baking…It required patience and a bit of math, but she tended to be a bit...well…" She trailed off uncomfortably, wanting but not wanting to go there. Charles sensed her unease and brought them back to the task at hand.
"How long does it take to cream?" he asked, sure that she must be getting tired by now.
"Until it's finished," she teased. "Otherwise the shortbread will have a sort of dense texture, and it makes incorporating the flour a right pain." She stopped her vigorous mixing for a moment. "It's still fairly yellow, yes?"
He peered into the bowl to be sure. "Yes," he affirmed.
"Then it has a ways to go," she panted. "Goodness, I'm beginning to see why Daisy was so keen on that kitchen mixer."
"Let me have a go. I think I've got the idea."
"Very well," she said, relinquishing the bowl to him. "I won't say no to a break."
He wondered if she knew that her accent was still thicker. Making shortbread brought her home in a way, and he wanted to leave that window open as long as she would permit.
"I must admit, it's more difficult than I thought," said Charles, struggling to get the movements right without dropping the bowl. "You made it look so easy, but it's very dense."
"When it stops feeling that way it's about finished," she told him.
Charles tried to mix it more quickly, but it always made the bowl slip from his grip and he returned to a slower, steadier pace. Elsie shook her head at the sound. "Come on!" she chided him. "Are you telling me the grand butler of Downton Abbey isn't any stronger than a new kitchen maid at whipping a bit of butter?"
He furrowed his brow, reminding himself that she was only teasing and it was good just to see her happy again. "I'm not the grand butler of Downton Abbey anymore, my dear," he managed. He tried to pick up the pace again, but she moved to stop him.
"It was a joke, Charles. Besides, it comes out terrible if over-stirred. Give it here." He handed the bowl to her, and she used her finger to sample a bit of it, prodding at it with her fingertips before popping a bit of batter directly into her mouth. Charles felt himself flush for reasons he couldn't – or didn't want to – identify.
"I think that might be it," she said. "Any more and they tend to go flat."
"I didn't know you knew so much about shortbread."
"I have messed up this recipe six ways from Sunday, and done it correctly considerably more. I think I shall go to my grave with the recipe rattling around in my head."
"I'd rather not think of that," he said, looking rather pained. "Not for a long time."
"Very well," she agreed, putting the bowl down. "Not for a long time."
"Good," said Charles, "now what?"
"Now, we fold in the flour. Why don't you measure out two cups? Then we it mix it in carefully."
Once again, Charles was very meticulous in his measuring, but he came up with precisely two cups of flour. She shook her head at how slow and painstaking he made such a simple task, but it garnered no response from him this time. Silently, she combined in the flour, focusing on getting it even, before asking him to get the flour tin again.
"Do we need more?" he asked, puzzled.
"It's for the counter top," she replied as if this were perfectly obvious.
He frowned at her tone. "For the counter top?"
"Yes, you silly man. Unless you'd like to knead the dough permanently into the kitchen counter?"
He huffed. "Well, how should I know? You're worse than Mrs. Patmore chastising Daisy!" He winced immediately his harsh words, and tripped over himself to apologize. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean for it to sound like I was comparing her situation to – Dear, God, I'm so sorry." His head and shoulders drooped as he mumbled his apologies over and over.
Elsie dropped the dough she'd been balling up and bit her lip in her embarrassment. She wasn't offended, as clearly he worried she might be. Instead she felt properly ashamed of herself. "My apologies, Charles," she said softly, "I only meant it as a bit of a laugh, but I've offended you."
He paused before speaking in an even, measured tone, "I didn't mean to snap back. It is I who should be apologizing."
She considered him for a moment. Hurt and guilt and confusion filled the space between them. "Charles, you are allowed to be offended by what I say if the situation warrants. And you are also allowed to tell me what you think of it. I'm not made of fine china."
"I didn't want to upset you. I never want to upset you."
"Oh, dear," she said shaking her head. "Come here." She reached out for him, and wrapped her hands around his middle, pressing her head against his chest. "Charles you are going to upset me from time to time, just as I am going to upset you."
He sighed, hugging her close and stroking her shoulders with his thumbs. "I suppose it is not entirely avoidable."
"We haven't been able to avoid it for over twenty years. I don't think that's about to change anytime soon. It's normal, Charles. It's necessary, not the end of the world."
"No, I expect it's not," he agreed, some of the tension in his body finally releasing.
"But, Charles," she said, her voice a little bit heavier with emotion. "You must help me. You must say if you think I've teased or pushed you too much. You've never had any trouble with that before."
"Before you weren't…before you'd never been so…"
"Sad," she finished bluntly. "I know that was hard on you, and I'm sorry for that. I think I always will be." He held her tighter, trying to let her know she had nothing to be sorry for. She shook her head and carried on. "But make no mistake, Charles, I'm still the woman you knew before. You needn't be walking on eggshells quite so much."
"Very well," he said quietly. "No more eggshells."
"No more eggshells." She waited a beat before saying slightly meekly, "but flour, on the counter top? Please…and thank you?"
He chuckled, and hugged her warmly. "I'll see to it."
They made short work of kneading the dough, and Charles discovered he was actually quite good at it. Elsie made a point of praising his efforts to make up some for teasing him earlier. Eventually he'd rolled it out into a very neat little circle.
"Is it ready to bake?" he asked, looking it over.
"Not quite. Now you twist the edges. Here, I'll show you." He guided her hands to the countertop, where the shortbread dough lay and she began to pinch the edges up in a repeated little pattern. Charles watched in fascination.
"But won't those bits burn sooner?" he said.
"I don't plan on burning any of it at all, actually," she pointed out.
"Well, no- but- I just fail to see why the edges should be different," he explained.
"Perhaps because it's pretty?" she suggested.
"Pretty."
"It's just how it's done, Charles. Surely you of all people appreciate that."
He huffed good-naturedly. "You've got me there."
Elsie twisted the last of the dough, so it formed a lovely little border around the entire thing. "Now we score it and poke the holes. Would you mind?"
"That I can do," he said, picking up a knife and pressing it down into the dough. This part he was at least familiar with, having eaten many shortbreads in his life, and knowing how big to score the pieces.
"You should probably do the design too; it will likely be much neater than mine," she said, handing him a fork. Carefully he went about prodding their little creation forming a pattern of letters, one in the center of each slice…C…E…C…E…
"Would you like to see?" he asked her proudly after he'd finished and placed it into the baking pan.
"I suppose I must," she said, holding out her hands. Once again, he guided them gently and she ran her fingers over the pattern he'd imprinted. He watched her carefully, thrilled when her face broken into a smile when she realized what he'd done.
"Charles, that's delightful," she said happily. "Perfect. It just needs cooling now."
"Back home, how did you cool it?" he asked, keen to open the door to her past back up if she was willing.
"We'd just throw it in the loch for a spell."
He paused, staring at her.
"Don't give me that face," she scolded, not entirely able to keep a smile from showing.
"You could not possibly know what face I'm making," he protested.
"And yet I do," she said, grinning wickedly.
He sighed audibly, knowing she was almost certainly right about his expression. He shook himself slightly. "Right; let me just make some room in the icebox…"
He was already puttering around in the icebox when she started laughing. He stopped at the lovely sound ringing through their kitchen and turned towards her. She was shaking her head at him.
"We'll just set it out on the back step, Charles. It is the dead of winter. That ought to chill it well enough."
She opened the back door and bent to place the pan carefully down on the back step. It was clear of snow; Charles had diligently seen to that.
"There. It will chill nicely now," she said, decidedly pleased. She shivered as she closed the door, having let in a fairly cold draft.
He went to wrap his arms around her, to keep her from becoming cold herself, but she unknowingly dodged him as she made for the sink.
"For how long do you suppose?" asked Charles.
"Out in the snow? I don't imagine very long." She turned on the taps to wash her hands properly. Before she was finished she could feel him behind her again, his hands running up and down over her sides, settling on her hips and pulling her towards him. She smiled and shook her head slightly, so he responded by kissing her neck, up to just behind her ear, leaving her slightly dizzy.
"You are in a state," she murmured, not knowing what to do with her hands anymore, not wanting to wet his clothing by touching him.
"Is that state unwelcome?" he asked, his face nuzzling her hair. He already knew the answer by the way she leaned back into him, pressing.
"No," she said, "but I find myself a bit restrained like this."
"Well, we can't have that," he said, turning her in his arms, and pinning her right back against the counter.
"My hands are still wet," she protested weakly, as his mouth found her neck again.
"Hang it," he muttered between kisses.
Very well then. Her fingers threaded through his hair, pulling his head up to kiss her properly on the mouth. There was something strangely exciting about being pinned so firmly against the kitchen counter, feeling his entire body pressing into hers. He moved slowly, still being careful not to overwhelm her, not wanting her to pull back, but if anything she leaned in, crushing her lips against his. He broke their kiss only to immediately start kissing her cheek, up her jawline until he found that sensitive spot behind her ear that made her shudder slightly. Happy that they'd found some equilibrium again, he grew bolder, kissing down her neck as her head fell back and her hands scrambled for purchase on the kitchen counter. Eventually she gave up and braced herself on his shoulders, her fingers digging into the fabric of his shirt.
He managed to undo several buttons of her dress, without letting her so much as move. She moaned as he pressed hot kisses through the fabric of her shift. The warmth of his mouth was replaced with a cool chill when he moved on to a new spot, causing her to remember why they were there in the first place.
"Charles." It came out breathier than she intended and he only groaned, and continued his path of kisses up her neck.
"Charles," she said more firmly. "It's going to freeze if we don't fetch it."
"Fetch what?" he muttered, entirely enraptured with the way she tasted, with the way she felt beneath his fingertips, and pressed against him tight.
"The shortbread," she said, not wanting him to pull away, but also not wanting all their hard work to be for naught. "It's going to freeze if we don't put it in the oven."
The oven had been heating since this entire baking endeavor had begun. Charles reluctantly let go of her, taking care to do up the few buttons he'd undone before going to fetch the shortbread. He opened the oven door to put it in as instructed, but as he pulled his hand out, his forearm brushed the top of the oven door, causing him to yelp in pain.
"Charles!?"
A sharp intake of breath was her response, followed by the slamming of the oven door.
"Charles, are you all right?" she demanded, frustrated that she was standing there, helpless, when clearly he was not all right.
"It's just a little burn," he said through clenched teeth. "I brushed my arm against the door.
She made a sympathetic noise and ushered him to sit down. "I'm so sorry," she said shaking her head. "I should have warned you about things on the top rack-"
"Elsie, this is hardly your fault. It was an accident."
She didn't seem to hear him; she was too focused on wetting a cloth with cool water for him.
"Here. Does it look like it's blistered? Purple?" she asked desperately, offering him the cloth.
"Just red," he assured her. "It will be fine, my dear. Thank you."
She twisted her hands together unhappily, not sure what else she could do in that moment.
"We should have some ointment in the medicine cabinet, but we'll want to get it cooled off first. Are you holding the cloth right on it? I know it's painful, but it's the best way-"
"Elsie, stop it," he said gently, putting an end to her rambling. "It's fine. Come here." She walked towards him and with his good arm he pulled her by the waist and urged her to sit on his lap. She complied willingly, forcing herself to take a breath. It wasn't like her to lose her head like that. What had come over her?
He took her hand and placed it on the cool compress. "Could you hold this for me please?" he asked. She nodded.
"The burn is about this large," he explained as he pressed a single finger into the flesh on her forearm. "Right about there. It's pretty red, but it shouldn't last."
"All right," she said, much calmer. "Is it painful?"
"It smarts," he admitted. "Perhaps you might distract me?"
"Did you have something in mind?" she asked, settling herself more comfortably on his lap, while keeping one hand on the cloth to monitor its temperature.
"I did," he said. "I was wondering if you could tell me the best way you've ever managed to ruin a batch of shortbread. Surely there's one or two that stand out."
She grinned at him. "I can think of one or two. Though the absolute best one has to be when I was nine and my Aunt Nan came from England to visit…Oh, and for this one it's important to note that we had about two dozen chickens back then…"
TBC...