Twenty-four:
Love is Eternal
The two words that Elsie Hughes Carson never ever ever wanted to hear in her lifetime again were 'emergency' paired with 'surgery'. Twice, she had heard them uttered (by two very different doctors with two very different approaches), and twice, she had been to the brink of death. Anymore and she would begin to wonder if the good Lord even wanted her on the earth at all!
But as she became aware of her surroundings again, sound was the first thing she regained. She heard soft talking from Dr. Clarkson and a nurse; she heard gentle words of love and encouragement from Charles and Fiona. She heard the soft fussings of Gracie, then Fiona murmuring that she would take the baby out for a feed. Elsie felt like she was floating, not really part of the world yet, but not really apart from reality, either. It was an odd feeling, unlike the utter pain and devastation of the surgery before. Perhaps Dr. Clarkson knew what he was doing as opposed to the country doctor in Scotland?
She could hear Charles, all deep rumbling voice and calming timbre; she heard Fiona, exchanging sharp words with him. She heard soft whimpers and cries from Gracie, but did not feel like she could open an eye – let alone move.
"Mrs. Carson," she heard Dr. Clarkson say in a gentle but clinical tone much later, "you take the time you need to rest. I know you're not quite all here with us, but you just take all the time you need. Everything has been handled; you need to focus on healing." A warm, gentle pat on her hand, and then she was alone again.
When she finally opened her eyes, it was dark on the ward; not even a candle to be seen. She shifted, wincing a little, as her stitches tugged. God only knew how long she'd been out – she had a hazy recollection of an argument with Dr. Clarkson about whether or not she needed to be cut open again, and then she had gone to sleep under the anesthetic. Maybe she'd never really had a choice: Charles would have made it for her, erring on the side of caution.
Her husband, ever loving, ever cautious. What he must think of her now.
An opium user, half a bloody woman, scared and pathetic and not worthy of him or his love; that was what she was now. She wasn't his wife anymore, not really: they'd been at one another's throats, then forced separation… Elsie would not blame him if he'd found someone else in the meanwhile. If he loved someone else now.
Her heart could survive being broken again.
She took a deep, shuddering breath, then surprised herself – and her bravado – by bursting into tears.
Violet Crawley could not abide silly sentiment. She had seen men and women brought to their knees, slaves to their passions. Mr. Carson was one such man, and she hated to see the way he had fallen. And for a sharp-tongued Scotswoman, as well!
The fact that her daughter-in-law had also been taken in by Mrs. Carson's nonsense incensed Violet. The woman was a canny schemer, that much was for certain; in order to get Mr. Carson wrapped round her little finger, she'd had to first entice him, then work her wiles on him – and the very idea of Carson in bed with the woman made Violet shudder.
Now they had another baby, another mouth to feed, another burden on the estate. Carson had been tapped out on his wages and Robert had offered him an additional stipend to provide for Fiona, with the assumption that she would be put to work immediately upon her seventh birthday. Mrs. Carson and Cora had prevented that; what had been a sound investment then was now overdrawn. Surely Mrs. Carson could be made to see sense when her husband could not handle his own child.
Of course, the house was all a-titter with word of Mrs. Carson's return and her subsequent interment at the hospital; the woman had writ herself quite a legend. Violet had never been taken in by any of her sob stories, nor had she really cared at all for the woman. So her husband had died, so she'd had to begin working in service, so she'd been 'assaulted' by the housekeeper, so she married the sodding butler, so she'd had a miscarriage, then two, then three… and then she was gone. It had been so beautifully peaceful without her. But now she was back and causing troubles and mischief again.
Violet was ready to lay down the law, and god help anyone that stood in her way.
And now, because of Cora's misplaced generosity, the wench was in a private room in the hospital! How bloody dare she?
"Lady Grantham," Dr. Clarkson said as he came down the corridor, file in hand, "I did not know to expect you – I'm tidying the last of my files before I leave for South Africa."
"Abandoning Mrs. Carson, are you?" Violet inquired ascerbically.
Dr. Clarkson smiled a little. "My colleague, Dr. Henderson, is coming from London to take over my practice while I'm away," he explained patiently. "Mrs. Carson should be well enough for visitors today, but I was hoping Mr. Carson would beat anyone else –"
"Mrs. Carson and I must have a little chat," Violet said.
Dr. Clarkson narrowed his eyes. "You'll not be trying to make her feel any worse, now will you, m'lady?" he inquired. "She's had a narrow escape from death. You mustn't –"
"Why must everyone be so obsessed with Mrs. Carson's health?" Violet snapped. "The woman is a servant. If I had a cold, no one would be so worried –"
"A cold is rather different than what Mrs. Carson has gone through," Dr. Clarkson sighed. Violet wanted to punch him in the face, but a lady wasn't meant to do such vulgar things.
"We shall see," Violet said, gritting her teeth together. "She has managed to con her way out of doing many days' work and my daughter-in-law cheerfully still hands over her wages without thought –"
"Mrs. Carson, when she is able, does the work of three women," Dr. Clarkson argued. "That caused her to lose three pregnancies, m'lady – pardon my taking offense at you inferring that she is lazy."
"I will not give you pardon," Violet huffed. "Nor will I listen to you make excuses for the…" She ran through her entire mental vocabulary in five seconds – 'hussy', 'whore', 'slapper', 'slut', 'waste of breath', 'waste of space', 'lazy selfish cow' – and finally settled. "That woman," she finally finished with venom. "She is paid to do a job and she does not do it. I don't honestly know why the entire world hasn't collapsed with the way the higher classes are treated!"
"That woman has only just had surgery," Dr. Clarkson pointed out rather impatiently, "four days ago, and she's only just regained consciousness this morning. I would like to think that you –"
"And who exactly is paying her bill?" Violet shot back. "I will bet hard money that it is the Grantham estate –"
"You would be wrong, m'lady – Mrs. Carson's aunt has footed the bill, and will be forcing a suit of malpractice against the doctor whose surgery I was forced to correct," Dr. Clarkson snapped. "So please stop your insinuations which have no basis in fact. Mrs. Carson is very unwell and should not be released to work for at least eight weeks, if not more. She may never regain full mobility or be able to do the extra work that she's always done in the past. All because the doctor that did her emergency hysterectomy – removal of the womb, m'lady – did damage to a nerve cluster near the base of her spine. She is lucky to be able to walk. I would ask you to hold a civil tongue in your head; Mrs. Carson is not well and she may never be quite well again."
"I don't see that that is any problem of mine," Violet muttered indignantly. "The woman lowers the value of my son's household merely by being a part of it – she is a piece of work, Dr. Clarkson, and whoever saw fit to hire her in the first place should be sacked!"
"She's dead." The voice behind Violet was low, heavy, and full of betrayal. Violet turned to see Carson standing there, a pot of white poinsettia in his hands. "My mother hired Elsie, Lady Grantham. Now, if you will excuse me, I must see my wife."
And for the first time, seeing his face, Violet understood that she had well and truly overstepped.
"Hello, my love," Charles said softly, crossing the room to place the poinsettia on Elsie's bedside table. "It's Christmas Eve," he added gently.
She turned her head and looked at him with tired, sad eyes. "Is it? Has it snowed?"
"It did yesterday," he said, lowering himself into the chair at her bedside. "How are you feeling?"
"Miserable," she murmured. "How is Gracie?"
He took her hand, kissed her knuckles, smiled. "Her Ladyship called up a wet nurse and Gracie is thriving," Charles said. "Fiona has been caring for her when she's not with the wet nurse. She's a very good sister, Elsie –"
Elsie nodded and closed her eyes.
"Are you tired, love?"
"It doesn't matter if I am or not," Elsie murmured. "I cannot do anything but lie here in bed and be a lazy lump anyway. I'm forbidden from even rolling onto my side. Dr. Clarkson says I might pop my stitches, which is probably where I got the infection before."
"I am sorry," he said, clasping her hand between both of his, dwarfing it.
"For what, you daft man?" Elsie said, frowning.
"My part of the argument – I never meant to…"
"It's forgotten," she murmured. "You were right. I should never have taken the opium."
He paused, hesitant to tell her that she was highly dosed with morphine to keep her pain-free and immobile. She sighed and frowned at him. "Well, I can still be sorry for my part in making things worse –"
She shrugged her shoulders and sighed again. "None of this is your fault. If I hadn't gone and gotten with child, none of this would have happened. It's my fault, Charles. I'm absolving you of it all; if you want, you can toss me out. I'm no good to anyone like this. I might as well go to Jessop House, same as our Becky."
"Elsie, what on earth –"
"I cannae feel my legs," Elsie admitted. "You don't want to be married to a cripple, Charlie. Dr. Clarkson said it might happen, didn't he? And it has. So I wouldn't blame you if you just sent me away now."
"He also said it would be temporary, just a side effect of the surgery itself and the drugs," he reminded her gently. "Don't be so melodramatic, Elsie – it doesn't suit you."
"I heard her," Elsie whispered. "Lady Violet, in the corridor."
"You'd have to be deaf not to," Charles muttered, suddenly furious that the Dowager had upset his wife so very much that she was ready to give up entirely. "She was wrong, Elsie. All of it."
Elsie shook her head and looked away from him. "But she isn't. It hurts because it's true. I am worthless to the Family now; I cannae do anything – how am I to earn my keep?"
"You should not be worrying about any of that right now," Charles scolded in a gentle tone. "You should be worrying about getting better, so you can come home to our girls."
"Your girls," she corrected. "They are yours."
"Ours, Elsie Carson – they are ours."
She pulled her hand away from his, crossing her arms defensively across her body. "They would both be better off without me," she whispered. "I am no fine catch, Charles. I never was. I don't know what you ever saw in me –"
"Everything," he whispered. "I'd never loved anyone since Alice, not even Fiona, properly. But you came into my life, all smiles and kindness, and you gave my Fiona something that I could not, and I found myself under your spell, my beautiful love. To find that you cared for me, too… I am the luckiest man alive, Elsie Hughes. I am lucky because you have loved me. Whether or not you believe me is of no consequence, but it is the truth. I want you to come home with me, to our rooms, to our family. I want you to be happy, Elsie – that is all I've ever wanted."
"We'll probably lose our jobs," she sniffled miserably.
"Then we'll go find new ones," he promised. "I will take care of our girls and our Becky –" He didn't dare mention that Lady Cora was already making arrangements for Becky to leave Jessop House and come closer, to a care facility in York; he didn't dare mention that Lady Cora had been most accommodating, caring, and kind, despite the absolute bear he had been. Merely having Elsie back, near to him, was enough to soften him, to make him more reasonable. He understood now; she was truly his better half, constantly, gently, maneuvering him into a better position. Without Elsie, he was not a very good person.
"What good am I going to be to you or the girls if I cannae walk?" Elsie whispered.
"It will come back in time," Charles avowed. "It will – it just takes time," he added when she eyed him doubtfully. "And meanwhile, I will begin making inquiries about a walking stick –"
"You will never!" she snapped. "The last thing I want is to seem old enough to look an old crone – even if I might need it."
"It's either a walking stick or a wheelchair," he pointed out gently. "You will need help, possibly for a lifetime, Elsie. And there is no one in the world who wants to help you more than I."
She swallowed hard, refused to meet his eyes. "I wish you didn't love me, Charlie," Elsie whispered. "It makes everything so much worse."
"Well, you're stuck with me – you cannot get rid of me now," he murmured, gently turning her chin so she looked at him directly. "We will get through this, Elsie. Together."
It took a moment, a hesitation he wished he could erase, but her voice was low, soft, full of reverence and a longing desire when she breathed almost inaudibly, "Yes… together."
It almost broke his heart.
END PART TWENTY-FOUR