OK, I lied. This is the second to last chapter.
Charles took out his watch for the fifth time as he meandered along the path between the cottage and Downton village. He did not wish to return home too soon, but he was also afraid of returning too late. He had left Elsie alone with Mr. Branson, at the latter's request, and he wanted to give them enough time to speak privately, but he wanted to arrive as soon as he could after Mr. Branson left to be able to comfort her if she needed him. Charles looked at his watch again, turned purposefully toward the cottage, and walked briskly back home. Elsie was alone, her handkerchief in her hand, and he joined her on the settee, putting his arm around her shoulder.
"Oh, Charles," she murmured through tears.
"Shhhh, Elsie. It's all right, my dear."
"Will I ever stop missing the dear boy?" she asked. "Poor William." Elsie turned to her husband and wrapped her arms around his middle, letting her tears wet his waistcoat.
"I don't think you ever will," Charles rumbled. "But it's less painful as time passes, I think."
She nodded. "I've just had a bittersweet moment."
"I know."
"How do you know?" she mumbled into his chest.
"Mr. Branson told me what William said just before we were married, when I questioned him about why he wanted to give you away," Charles admitted.
"Why didn't you tell me?" she wanted to know.
"I thought it would mean more coming from him, so I asked that he tell you someday."
Elsie couldn't help smiling. "I believe you're right, Charles."
"And he was right, too. 'A warm shadow,' I believe he said. 'Her presence unnoticed, her absence felt keenly.' I promised myself that day never to take you for granted again, love."
"And you've kept your promise," she told him, but then her eyebrows drew together. "That wasn't the day you paid me that strange evening visit, was it? When you came to my door, but would not come inside or even stay more than a few minutes?"
"The very one," he confirmed. "I was a bit overcome after my conversation with Mr. Branson. I thought of all the times I had taken your care for granted and I wanted to say so many things, but in the end nothing even remotely eloquent came out."
Elsie laughed softly. "You just said 'thank you.' I didn't know what had come over you."
"Well, now you know, my Elsie." Charles squeezed her shoulder briefly. "Thank you for loving me, then and now."
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A few hours later Charles found Elsie on the settee with a book on her lap. She wasn't paying much attention to the book, however; she rested her head on the back of the settee and wiped her nose with her handkerchief.
"Are you still feeling sad, love?" Charles asked, sitting down beside her.
Elsie looked up and smiled ruefully at him. "Not anymore. I'm afraid I've caught a cold."
"You'd better go to bed then, Elsie," he commanded gently.
She didn't like to agree without an argument when Charles spoke to her in that tone, but she knew he was right. She allowed him to help her up and walk with her up the stairs and into their room. Though Elsie protested briefly, Charles insisted on removing all of her clothing himself, dressing her in her nightgown, and tucking her into bed.
"I'm going to make you some tea, my dear. Is there anything else you need?"
"No." Her eyes were already closed.
When Charles returned with the tea, she was fast asleep, so he drank it himself, sitting up in bed and watching over his wife.
Charles didn't like to see her ill, but he got some satisfaction out of caring for her over the next few days; now that they were married he was permitted to return, in some small measure, the favor of her nursing him through illness so many times over the years. He could understand now what Elsie must have gone through when he had ignored her warnings about overworking himself and nearly had a heart attack, and again when he had the Spanish Flu. Charles knew that Elsie would be well again before too long and he was still uncomfortable seeing her ill. How would he feel if her recovery were uncertain? And if he had to hide his regard for her and his worry, and go on working just as always? It must have been a dreadful time for her. Charles made her many cups of tea, brought her water and headache powders, prepared food for her, and read to her when she was awake. He kept clean sheets on their bed and changed her nightgown every day so she would be comfortable. And while she slept, he watched her. It didn't matter if her hair was stuck to the side of her face and her nose was red and she snored. She was beautiful and he felt lucky that he was allowed to care for her like this. It was one of the hidden freedoms granted by marriage.
After several days, Elsie began to feel better. She was still tired and her cough lingered, but her appetite returned and she didn't sleep quite as much. Charles brought her some tea and sat in bed chatting with her.
"I'm glad you're feeling a little better, love," he told her. "Soon you'll be up and about again. I think you should stay inside for a while longer, though. It's rather chilly outside right now."
Elsie nodded. "We can sit on the settee under a blanket and you can read to me."
"Certainly, if you like," Charles agreed.
"I like having you read to me." She smiled at him over the rim of her cup. "I don't think I would have been cured so quickly without your reading me poetry every day."
He chuckled. "Well, we've gone through all the sonnets, but I'm sure there are plenty of other things I can read to you."
"Sounds lovely."
"You've told me you like to hear me speak, my dear," Charles remarked. "But you ought to know that I love your voice as well."
Elsie smiled. "Do you?"
He nodded. "I do. I have for a long while."
She was curious. "For how long? Can it be some clue to how long you've loved me?"
Charles smiled. "I think it might be. I remember some time ago you were telling me of your meeting with a man who had made you an offer of marriage. I thought you were about to tell me you had accepted him and would be leaving Downton, and I remember thinking how sad it was that such a lovely, sweet voice would be delivering such devastating news."
Elsie raised her eyebrows. "Lovely voice? Devastating news? This is something you've not told me before."
"The thought crossed my mind only briefly, and I forgot about it until recently. That was in nineteen-thirteen, I think?" Charles's expression had turned mischievous.
"Yes, that's right," she answered suspiciously.
"Then I'm ahead of you, Elsie. For you it was nineteen-fifteen." He looked very satisfied with himself.
Elsie gave him a skeptical eye. "It's not a contest, Charles. Besides, nineteen-fifteen was when I knew for certain. You were well behind me there - a full eight years!"
"Very well," he conceded. "Give me your equivalent to my nineteen-thirteen."
Elsie thought for a moment before speaking. "Nineteen-twelve."
Charles waited, but she did not elaborate. "And?"
"Once you said that the Crawleys were the only family you had. I was sad for you." She paused. "And I was jealous of the Crawleys."
Charles reached out and pulled her close to his chest, sending her empty teacup rolling across the blanket. "You're my family now, Elsie."
"I know, Charles. And I'm very happy."
He kissed his wife's forehead and loosened his hold on her. "Happy, perhaps, but your throat sounds a bit raspy again. You'd better quiet down and let me read to you again. What will it be next, Elsie? Poetry or prose?"
"Prose." Elsie smiled and climbed out of bed. She opened a drawer and pulled out a packet of letters tied with red ribbon.
"My letters." Charles smiled fondly.
Elsie untied the ribbon and flipped through the letters, looking for one in particular. When she found it, she handed it to her husband and settled in to listen.
Charles opened the letter and read.
"My darling Elsie,
How is it that I have written you hundreds of letters over the course of our acquaintance, but not a single one of them has been a love letter? Some of the letters I wrote you this summer were almost love letters, but I was not ready to call them that. They were letters of affection, I think, rather than merely friendship, but I believe it's time for you to receive a proper love letter from me. I only hope you'll forgive the rather unconventional mode of delivery.
I love you. I don't think I will ever tire of telling you so. I would spend every day doing nothing but saying, "I love you," but if I did that I would only be telling you and never showing you. I love you, but I also want to kiss you, to hold your hand, to make tea for you, to care for you when you are ill, to read to you as we sit in front of the fire, and a thousand other things. Once we are married, I plan to do just that, and anything else you would like. Until then, I will do as much as I can. It may not be much, but I hope you will know that you are cherished and loved, and that you are wonderful.
I wonder what you will think when I tell you that it was a letter that brought me to this place, that brought me to you. Do you remember the note you gave me to read when I returned to London after bringing Isis to Downton? You asked me not to read it until I reached London, and I meant my promise when I made it, but before I was far from home, I had talked myself into opening it anyway. That letter, probably the shortest you've ever written to me, impelled me at last to have done with my foolish denial and let myself love you. I was frightened when I struggled to forswear you, but at some point after I resigned that battle, I stopped being afraid. You cannot imagine, dear one, how much I feared you, or so I thought. What I truly feared was myself, and what might happen if I liberated my heart. I read your note in what I would then have called a moment of weakness and I was overwhelmed. I was no match for love, but I knew I was safe in your hands. If you had not loved me, too, I know you would have broken my heart as gently as you could, and you still would have stood my friend. But I have been blessed beyond what I deserve, in discovering that you love me just as I love you.
I have loved before, but never a woman so strong and true as you. There could be no other so strong and true, nor one so beautiful, for there is only one of you in this world. How lucky for me that I am the man you have chosen to be your husband.
Sleep well, my love, and dream of me. I will see you in the morning. We will meet in an ordinary place to fulfill mundane duties, but we will know that what we have found in each other's hearts is nothing short of extraordinary.
Ever yours,
Charles"
"Mmmm," Elsie sighed contentedly. Her head rested on her pillow, her eyes were closed, and a smile was on her lips. "It's even better when you read it aloud to me."
"That was rather good, wasn't it?" Charles mused. With a few exceptions, he hadn't thought much about his letters after they were sent.
"More than good," she told him. "Marvelous. I must have read it ten times before I finally fell asleep that night."
Charles folded the letter back up and set it on his bedside table. "Are you tired?"
She nodded, pulling the blanket up to her neck. "I love you, Charles," she whispered before drifting off to sleep.
"I love you, Elsie." Charles watched his sleeping wife, but after a few minutes he began to feel drowsy, too, so he kissed her forehead gently and then lay down beside her. It was the middle of the day, but they both slept soundly, easy in each other's company, even in sleep.
To be continued...
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