The wind whipped around their ankles as they lined up, 45 degrees to the front door and ordered by rank. Three motor cars stood ready and waiting, or more precisely two did. The Sunbeam limousine that would carry his Lord and Ladyship was loaded, with Bates busy checking the cases to ensure all was in order, whilst Anna and the Moseley's were talking in a small group by the car that would follow behind. The remaining vehicle was yet to welcome its driver although Charles could discern his voice from deep within the house.
"Are we to wait here all day?" Elsie muttered under her breath, her skirts lifting as a gust took them. "We'll all blow away at this rate."
Mabel, one of the day maids, sniggered at the comment but quickly smothered it as Charles' head whipped around to see what was happening, his brow raised towards his wife, instinctively knowing that if something had been said then it would be from her lips. But any words of chastisement were thwarted by a sudden arrival.
"Carson," Last Mary breezed as she stepped out onto the drive and moved towards him, "May I wish you and Mrs Hughes a very Merry Christmas."
He gave a deferential nod and Elsie did the same.
"It won't be the same, m'Lady," he replied, "But I'm sure we'll manage."
Elsie held back from giving an eye roll as their exchange continued in this vein, during which time Mr Talbot appeared with Miss Caroline in his arms and Master George at his heels. He crossed directly to their car and began to help the children in, his quiet words to them met with their giggles and smiles, before he called out to his wife to hurry along.
"It'll be night before we make it at this rate," he remarked, holding the door for her as she climbed in.
"Well, you are the one insisting on driving the entire way rather than getting the train with the others," Lady Mary retorted, settling herself in the passenger seat and checking her hat in the driver's mirror. "Remind me again why I ever agreed to this?"
"Because, my darling, it'll be an adventure," he declared, shutting his own door with a sharp bang. "Besides, Bertie reckons his new Rolls can out do any car of ours and we can't have him thinking that now, can we?"
The sudden roar of the engine drowned out the sound of her reply and with a flourishing wave goodbye and a screeching of wheels they were off, a cloud of gravel thrown up behind them as they raced off down the drive. And had the servants had any gossipy thoughts as to the nature of the Talbot marriage, they were distracted as the departure of Lord and Lady Grantham got underway, each thanking Mr Carson and Mrs Hughes respectively, wishing them the best of the season before they too were off, albeit with less dramatic flair.
Charles watched the cars until they disappeared through the gates, Elsie dismissing the shivering chorus line behind him. He felt a pang of loss at their leaving knowing that the Abbey would now stand cold and empty for the next week, and although he'd been persuaded that they'd be sufficient staff to ensure it's security, he regretted that perhaps the heyday of the Downton Christmas may be over. And then there was a far more sobering thought that even if those days did return, he may not be there to see them. It was in this state of melancholy that he felt her slender hand slip into his to offer a sympathetic squeeze, and it was met with appreciation.
"I'm looking forward to it just being the two of us for Christmas," he said with complete sincerity.
"I know, Charlie," she replied kindly, "But it doesn't make the past any less of an attractive place to be."
They stood side by side, differing thoughts of what had been and never would be again. The regret that came from the simple acknowledgement of time passing, the years that had rolled by unnoticed; and then the utter relief that there were good times still to be had and that they would be seen and revelled in for their preciousness.
Eventually, Elsie tugged his hand encouragingly and they moved back towards the house, and with each step reality returned until, with a sad smile, he let go. They unconsciously smarted themselves, skirt smoothed and waistcoat pulled down, as if they'd been coming from a dalliance on the hayloft rather than a shared moment on the driveway. Charles held back as they reached the front door, his arm ushering her to go first as was only proper, but she stopped and turned to him instead. It was one of their spots, a place where the risk of being seen or overheard was so small as to make it safe. Exactly when they'd discovered that the protruding porch provided adequate shelter from prying eyes above and listening ears inside she wasn't sure but she knew they'd shared nearly a dozen brief kisses in the shadows with her up on the step so neither had to strain too far at all.
He faltered when he realised what she was doing and his eyes darted about to check for danger. But of course there was none.
"I've mislaid something, Mr Carson," she said, her voice laden with something he couldn't quite make out despite the apparent innocence of the comment.
"I'm sorry to hear that, Mrs Hughes? Perhaps I can help you in finding it?"
"Oh, I'm sure there's no need for that," she replied dismissively, and then added, her voice reduced to whisper, "After all, these things have a habit of turning up."
Her lips brushed against his cheek and with it her warm breath mingled with his own. And then, before he could manage a coherent thought let alone a response, she slipped inside and was gone.
Did she know? Well, of course she must, he mused, pushing aside her abandoned black day dress and sitting down heavily on their bed, running his hand over the pillow to rid it of its creases. What else could she have meant in that tone that served only to tease and tantalise him. And now the pressure on him had been raised, expectations verbalised, and it was down to him to deliver.
He imagined she thought he'd gone looking for it, the tiny bunch of mistletoe, to confiscate it. Maybe she thought he disapproved, or had merely indulged her desire to follow a tradition better suited to young counting couples than to them. But it hasn't been like that at all. He'd felt nothing but dismay the morning after to discover it had been removed. He'd been hoping for a repeat performance but its unexpected absence had sent him down a spiral of chastisement, panicked that he'd overstepped. Their kisses had been innocent pecks, sweet and numerous, until his lips pressed a little harder, for a little longer until she'd sort of moaned and he'd snapped. He'd believed she'd wanted it too, enthusiasm making up for finesse, but maybe it had been too much after all and she hadn't been keen to encourage a repeat performance too soon. But then why had he found it, quite by accident, in the sideboard and not discarded on the compost heap?
It was in this vein his thoughts had travelled and a scheme of his own had developed and now, starting to unbutton his waistcoat and shirt underneath, it was to that he resolved to return to.
"And hang her attempts to do anything else", he declared, albeit to himself.
He pushed himself up from the bed and went through the motions of changing, the heavy dark suit of Mr Carson the butler efficiently exchanged for the more casual tweed of Charlie, husband and, with a fiat wind, prospective lover. He checked over his appearance in the long mirror, smoothed down his hair where it had ruffled up, and gave himself a smart nod of satisfaction.
He crossed to where his dressing gown hung on its hook on the back of the bedroom door. It was old and worn with more than one or two pulled threads. Seeking out its pocket he carefully pulled the green bunch free, and checked it was none the worse for having been stowed so unceremoniously. The red ribbon was still neatly tied and several berries remained. More than enough, he brooded darkly, as he concealed it in his hand and headed downstairs.