A/N: It's been a bit. Are any of my Chelsie peeps still out in the ether? If so, suspend some disbelief and come along on a spooky season ride with me. I've missed you all! xxx
October
In hindsight, Charles thinks he should've known ages ago that the woman he's in love with is a vampire.
The clues have always there. To begin with, there's her hair color. It never went gray, but merely turned a redder shade of auburn, while his own turned from jet black to fully silver throughout the years. Then there is the matter of her complexion, which always remains so pale despite hours of walking to and from town, church, and more summer upon summer. She'd always chalked it up to being a Scot, but the doctor would have a ruddiness to his own cheeks by mid-spring, so Charles always felt that to be a poor excuse. And as they aged, it appeared to Charles that while he'd gotten a bit slower, needed a bit more time to get around the big house, Elsie continually flitted along at what he thinks of as breakneck speed, and she's always less exhausted than he come nighttime. Most nights, it's him nearly nodding off during their regular wine or sherry that sends them to bed, never her. And then there's the lip, always worried and raw…
Perhaps it's the time of year, all things ghostly and dark, which makes his thoughts turn once again to this. But Elsie is upstairs with one of the new girls, training her up because Anna is away with Mr. Bates and Lord and Lady Grantham, and he wonders.
He hears Miss Baxter's voice trickle down from the servants' hall, with a lightness to it that didn't exist before; Charles suspects it's because she and Mr. Molesley have been spending more time together, and while he doesn't understand the appeal that the schoolteacher has for the lady's maid, he envies the ease with which they both allow their newfound feelings for one another to show in small glimpses throughout the day. He and Elsie aren't like that, he thinks - nor should they be. They're the example, after all, the model for the young people. Although now he wonders if it isn't them - the Bateses, Molesley and Miss Baxter, even Daisy and Andrew - who might truly be the models, showing him and Elsie how it always could have been if they'd only allowed it.
Outside of his pantry, the wind picks up, and he notices leaves of all colors blow past the windowpane. Too much ruminating, Charles tells himself, and he turns his mind back to the problem at hand: he needs to find a sensitive way to approach Elsie with his questions. He can't keep going on like this, suspicious about something that seems wholly impossible one minute and then thinking the next that he's going mad.
It has taken him five years to even accept that there might be actual truths behind these suspicions, but now that he has managed to surmount a good deal of his self-doubt, thanks to some rather questionable research at the library, he has not a clue about how to open the conversation. Another one of the things he had always found peculiar was her uncanny ability to know about simply everything going on around them, including a very strange understanding of how his own thoughts progressed.
He wished to God she could read them entirely.
January
Elsie knows there's something amiss with Charles.
She's noticed a change in him since he'd proposed, and she naturally presumed it had to do with everyone knowing their current circumstance. He is a very private man, her Mr. Carson, something to which she could naturally relate. Telling him about Becky had been excruciatingly difficult, despite the fact that she trusts Charles like no other, and the fact that he believed it to be her deepest, darkest secret has only filled her with shame since that night. It had never occurred to her that she'd have to share the other one with anyone who wasn't from home.
Going into service had certainly been the most promising escape from her reality, promising a life full of routine, relative privacy, a small circle of friends, and no expectation of outside family interfering with any of it. Joe Burns had given her a turn when he'd come back into her life, but she'd cleverly managed to avoid his meeting anyone from the abbey. No - her secret had remained just that, at least for the past forty-five years since leaving home.
Elsie couldn't believe it when her acceptance of Charles's proposal tumbled the way it did from her lips. Never before had she been so completely devoid of all self-control! Decades of keeping her true feelings a secret vanished in the course of ten seconds, and now she realizes the complete trap into which she's fallen. She's made an oath that cannot be unbroken - nor does she want it to be, as it was borne out of nothing but love. But the truth of it all is undeniable:
Somehow, some way, Elsie has to convince Charles - her buttoned-up, conservative, Church of England butler - that she's a vampire. And then, as if getting him to believe that wasn't enough, she has to convince him not to leave her.
March
Two more months have passed, but nothing's been said. The wedding plans are rolling along, albeit with some difficulty. Elsie, who'd spent next to no time throughout her life dreaming of having a wedding, finds it hard to care as much about things like the dress and the flowers as everyone else seems to. She's been spending her days focused on the cottage instead, which is to be a wedding gift from the family. It needs a bit of sprucing up, so her mind is often filled with thoughts of curtain brocades and quilts as opposed to gowns and roses. Practical things, sensible things. That was how she always found her center whilst at Downton.
But during the nighttime, she allows her mind (and, when necessary, her body) to wander. Decades ago, she'd managed to fall into a relatively predictable pattern of daylight hours spent awake and working and a few winks at nighttime to rejuvenate her energy. But sleeping with someone else will be an entirely different thing. Is he a light sleeper? Will he wake every time she's out of bed to take a moonlit stroll at two in the morning? What will he think of a sixty-three-year-old woman who needs a mere four hours' sleep in order to be refreshed?
She blushes. Maybe he'll appreciate that, she thinks.
And then there's the feeding! Thankfully, she's mostly been able to make do with whatever's been on hand. She prefers the roasts rare, which Mrs. Patmore always found appalling but nevertheless managed to provide when it suited her mood. The indelicate necessity of capturing a small creature here or there was always a secret, given Elsie's ability to escape the abbey soundlessly in the middle of the night when needed. Again, she's not sure if having a sleeping partner will now throw those habits into the spotlight.
All of this was only compounded by Charles and his passionate declaration that, yes, the kind of marriage he wants is one where they're sharing every aspect of married life, even those which are most intimate. She'd deftly masked her fears with a ruse of being ashamed of having him see her 'old self' in the nude - a concern which was truthful, in part; however, the parts of her body never exposed to any sunlight have also failed to show any signs whatsoever of aging over the past many years, so while her fear of presenting herself to him, completely unclothed, had merit, the purported reason for it was quite different.
He knocks on the sitting room door at half-past ten and pulls her from her worried reverie. She's thirsty, and the deep red Bordeaux she can smell in the decanter sharpens all her other senses. She can hear his heart beat slightly faster when he sees her, which is a precious ability that she thinks she might keep to herself even after all of the other confessions are out of the way. It's likely there will be no wedding anyhow, once it's all in the open, and the possibility is almost crushing to her. But she cannot begin a new life with a lie.
"We need to talk…Elsie." The name is still hard for him to verbalize, but he's been trying harder as their mid-May wedding swiftly approaches. "It's important."
"All right," she says warily. "Has something happened?"
He pours the wine, and it's all she can do not to gulp it down in one go, her thirst now compounded by some anxiety at the cautions tone of his voice. Whatever is on his mind is clearly weighing on him terribly.
"Not exactly, no." He takes a very deep, prolonged breath, then exhales slowly. When his gaze meets hers, he notes that the blue of her eyes has somehow become icy, although he feels no anger coming from her. "What…?" He pauses, unsure.
"What…," she prompts.
"What do you know about Scottish vampire lore?" He blurts it out so suddenly, then blushes deep red.
Elsie nearly falls out of her chair.
"What I mean is," he attempts again, clearing his throat and looking almost anywhere but at his betrothed, "have you ever heard anything about a creature called a - I'm sure I'll get this wrong, mind - a 'BaoBhan Sith'?"
He sounds it out with great effort, yet his pronunciation is still abominable. She can't keep the mirth from her face.
"Baa-van-shee," she supplies slowly, and he repeats after her. "And of all the things I thought you might ask me tonight, that was absolutely the last one I'd ever have come up with."
He appears almost sheepish.
"What's brought this on, then? You're no friend of old, dark legends, as I recall."
Her eyes glance at her bookshelf, where she houses her well-read copy of Stoker's comical Dracula. A male vampire, indeed! It never ceases to make her chuckle.
"No, but I - I came across it somewhere. The Highlands - where you're from, Argyll and all. And I wondered…"
His heart is positively racing now, and Elsie tilts her head in thought. No, he can't possibly…
Know?
"Why?"
"Why what?" he counters.
"Why were you reading up on that?"
He has no answer save a meager shrug, and they sit in silence for long moments, contemplating one another. It's a challenge, and Elsie realizes that it's the first one she doesn't mind losing. She closes her eyes for a minute, focuses on the sound of his heart racing, the scent of uncertainty and fear about him, and she accepts that he's somehow managed to divine what she never thought he could.
"Well, then." She helps herself to more wine, having emptied her own glass minutes ago despite all attempts to savor it. "I suppose this was always a conversation we needed to have, sooner or later. Before the wedding night, naturally."
He stares at her, open mouthed, her bold mention of the prospects of the honeymoon hanging heavily in the room. "Then…"
Elsie sits back, takes another sip. "Why don't you just ask me what you mean to ask, Charlie?"
Her voice is soft and full of love, and he's entranced. Still, the words don't come easily.
"I mean…You're from there…so little about your family, of course…"
He's stumbling through it, but she isn't bothered; after all, her sense of time and his are vastly different, something which has always given her an extraordinary amount of patience.
"…and then there's your hair." He pauses, glancing at it, watches as she brushes her hand over her locks.
"Which does not go grey," she whispers. "Of all the things…"
"Is that a…family trait?" There is a look of awe on his face as he asks, the words as near as he'll come.
"Only for the women," she acknowledges. "I know what you mean to ask, although I'm flabbergasted that you came to it on your own. The answer is yes, Charles."
His heart sinks as her eyes fill with tears.
"I'm so sorry, Elsie," he blurts, grasping her free hand in his own. "I should never have pried-"
"Hush." She cuts him off, squeezing his hand. "You had every right to ask. And now? Well. I'm sure now you wish to call it all off."
"Call what off?"
"The wedding, you daft man."
His eyebrows shoot up. "And whyever would I do that?"
"Oh, come now, Charles. I am clearly many things - one of which I never thought you'd surmise - but I am hardly foolish. You're so - traditional. Faithful. Never one to believe in…well, any of that. Never mind that what you probably think you know about those like me - although most of it's bound to be wildly inaccurate. But now that you know the truth-"
"Elsie Hughes." His voice is no longer hesitant, no longer a whisper. It's as if he imbued it with the formidable strength of the butler once again, but he's still her Charles this time, not 'Mr. Carson.' "The very last thing in the world I wish to do is to cancel the wedding that I've spent decades hoping could one day happen. I love you whoever, however you are. I don't mean to say that it wasn't a shock, or that I didn't think I was going daft for even suspecting it. It's just that after all this time..."
He kisses the back of her hand, his warm lips nearly searing her cold skin, and her ancient heart soars.
"You've remained so beautiful to me, Elsie, always. And there was always something about you. You mentioned something once, something about the 'old ways' when you were younger, when you were at home, and you spoke of it in such a way…Well."
"And you have many questions. Yes." She empties the glass once again. "And I owe you many, many answers."
September
Charles lies enraptured as a soft ray of sunlight illuminates his slumbering wife's forehead. She fits so perfectly in his arms, and it was a surprise to them both that she sleeps more soundly, and for more hours, with him than she ever did on her own. As far as she'd always known, that was never the way it went for her kind.
He's learned so much about her life - her whole life - since that night in her sitting room when the truth came to light. She told him about her lineage, about the terror of living in a community where one was either living within the confines of 'the secret' or on the outside. He has a new understanding of Joe Burns, whose own mother was like Elsie's - and how Joe, who'd not had a judgmental bone in his body, had loved Elsie with his entire heart.
The more indelicate aspects of her lifestyle were initially harder for him to accept, but what choice did he have? He allows her the privacy she needs, has made small concessions when required, and finds that enough things remain for them to discover in this life that he can often go days without thinking about the deep, somewhat dark secret that he now shares. She'd made him take an oath that night in her sitting room to never speak of it to another soul, and as he'd repeated the ancient words after her in a slow but steady voice, he'd known that the only other promise he'd ever hold as faithfully would be the vows he'd recite on their wedding day.
She stirs, and her eyes creep open, crinkling as she smiles up at him.
"How long have you been staring at me, Charlie?" Her voice is like velvet.
"A while," he admits. "There's something I've been meaning to ask you."
His fingers sweep aside a lock of her hair and she rests her cheek in his palm. "Go on, then."
"When I'm old," he begins. He chuckles at that. "Well, older than I am now… Will there ever be a time when you'd consider…I mean, would you be able to - to change me? To be like you, I mean?"
"I will die one day, you know," she reminds him, and he nods.
"I know. But not for many, many years after I will."
"It doesn't work that way, Charlie," she whispers. "That's the stuff of fiction and the pictures, I'm afraid."
She rises up over him, kisses him, her lips trailing across his scratchy cheek and down to his neck. Her tongue darts out, savoring the beating of his pulse, maintaining her control despite his somewhat frequent reminders that he wouldn't mind - might welcome it, in fact. But she knows that's a slippery slope, especially at his advanced age.
"I love you, Charlie. And when that day does come, I promise you that I'll find you once again."
He pulls her in closer, hugs her tightly, and inhales the scent of her: something earthy, like midnight air mixed with the smoke from the fireplace.
"That's an oath I'll hold you to," he murmured back.
Her lips brush his once more. "Naturally."
The End
