Charles Carson was not a man who considered himself to have experienced a great deal of luck in his life, preferring to think that any fortune that had come his way was, in fact, the result of a good deal of diligence and hard work on his part. Of course, his birth had been one of a happy accident in so much as he was loved and cared for by both his parents and was conscious of it. His interests were nurtured, his education instructive, and he never went without food nor clothing. But it was that early sense of security that had been the cause of such disappointment as he entered the world; the discovery that not everyone was so kind or had his best interests at heart. Life on the stage had been a hard wake up call, the loss of his young love shattering any notion that he was destined for the domestic bliss he'd witnessed almost daily. And then he'd entered service, embittered and having lost his zest for life. No, he was not a lucky man.
And then he'd fallen in love all over again, quite unexpectedly so, and it seemed that maybe the universe did wish him well after all when he discovered that love was returned. To others it would probably not be seen the heart swelling, desperate passion of the American movies, but it was deep and true and external.
Which was why, as he glared at his pocket watch somewhat desperately in the hopes the hour was not quite as late as it was, he wished that Mrs Milicent Carter-Mayfield, who had accepted a last minute invitation to dinner, would hurry up with her hat and coat.
As he waited, stoic and unmoving as a butler must be, his mind once more returned to the look that he'd seen grace Elsie's face more than ten hours ago. Not that grace was quite the right word as that suggested something simple, pure, elegant even. Whereas this has been, what? Flirtatious? Amourous maybe? Certainly enticing. At first he'd imagined she simply had a nice dinner planned, a decent bottle of claret opened to be shared in front of the fire with them both snuggled together on the sofa. It had been a warming idea and one he was keen to realise, but then there was that look. And then later, when he'd accidentally witnessed a private moment between Lord and Lady Grantham - nothing too intimate, just a kiss - it had set his thoughts racing and he was only partially ashamed to admit they were ablaze.
He forced himself to focus on what was in front of him, an efficient nod of goodbye as the woman finally crossed the threshold out into the cold night air and headed towards her waiting car. He glanced up and gave silent thanks for a bright moon, one that would speed his own journey home. And from that moment he operated on muscle memory alone; the bolts of the heavy Abbey door slid shut, the lamps in the outer hall extinguished, the grateful thanks as he was thanked and dismissed by his Lordship, the instructions issued to the hallboy, and then his descent to the downstairs where more orders were given. He barely heard their calls good night as he rushed to his pantry and hurriedly donned his overcoat, scarf, and hat, and was back down the corridor towards the courtyard door before anyone could delay him further.
"Someone's in a rush," he heard Mrs Patmore comment somewhere behind him, "On a promise, are we?"
Charles harrumphed his response but didn't stop. He'd noticed a downturn in the cook's inuendo since she'd married. He and Elsie had chuckled over it many times but right now he didn't much care and so ploughed on. There was always tomorrow to deal with her cheek.
As he rounded the building and began to cross the open parkland with its tall cedar trees creating all kinds of intricate shadows in the moonlight, he felt his calm return. He was now minutes away and he needed to steel himself for whatever delights lay ahead. But he didn't let his pace drop, instead concentrated on keeping his stride long and movements brisk. He barely heard the hoot of the owls or saw the swoop of bats as he entered the woodland, nor the scurry of little creatures As they were disturbed from their nocturnal rituals. By the time he reached the lane though, he was obliged to slow down, not wanting to arrive breathless and overheated. He took the last hundred yards more sedately so that as the warm light emanating from their cottage windows could be seen, his heart rate was on far better regulation.
There was nothing unusual about the sight of the front door, nor anything remarkable that happened when he turned the handle and entered the hall. Instead there was a familiar quiet and the faint smell of something bubbling on the stove. A sideways glance towards the sitting room told him the fire was lit but that the room was empty. He felt his shoulders drop and his anticipation with it. He should have known that it had been a dream, the hope of something when really things were as they always were. Cosy and content but nothing more.
He shrugged his coat from his shoulders and took his time in tidying it away, his hat hung on its hook, his shoes swapped for his leather slippers. He smoothed down his hair as he let the excitement that he'd let build up in his mind dissipate and reminded himself that whilst tonight at least he may not be the luckiest of men he was, for the most part, a happy one and that would have to be enough.
"Elsie," he called out, "Elsie."
He heard a shuffling on the floor above and headed towards the stairs, his foot on the first step as she called down, "Be there in a minute. The stew should be done if you can make a start on serving up."
He heard himself muttering as he followed her instruction, two thick tea towels rolled up and used to lift the cast iron pot safely from the oven and place it carefully at the centre of the dining table. Searching around for a serving spoon, he began to ladle it onto the plates which had been already warmed and left waiting. He couldn't help notice the bottle of red wine that sat waiting and the thick wedges of bread alongside, and he sighed in resignation. It was as he'd first thought, a lovely dinner for two.
"You're later than I thought you'd be," Elsie said as she entered, taking her seat and waiting for him to join her. "I imagined they'd be wanting to be in bed early tonight, what with all the things to be done tomorrow."
He nodded in agreement and set about explaining the cause of his delay and they fell into an easy chatter between mouthfuls of food and sips of wine. They shared a joke at Mrs Patmore's expense and commented yet again on Mr Moseley's eagerness to see Brancaster, and couldn't help but share their thoughts on various matters concerning the family. So that, as they rather commonly wiped their plates clean of sauce with the last of the bread, they were both very much at ease.
They retired to the sitting room and took up their usual spots, him in his chair and her at the end of the sofa closest to the fire. They shared a quiet moment before Charles couldn't help but enquire after her evening and why exactly she'd been so eager to have him home.
"Oh," Elsie said dismissively, "Just that we always seem to eat so late. I was attempting to make a change."
"That could be more easily resolved by simply eating at the Abbey," he reasoned, his hand moving to release the straining buttons of his waistcoat. "And it would save us the work of cooking for ourselves."
"True," she replied, taking a sip of her wine, "Only then we get back even later with no time to sit and enjoy our home."
"Well," he sighed, resting his head back and closing his eyes, "You're right there."
He could almost feel the weight of the day leaving him as he stretched out his legs and settled himself deep against the cushions. He could admit to himself that the day had been one of changing emotions and they'd taken their toll, his ageing bones suddenly feeling heavy and worn out. He was vaguely aware of Elsie shifting on the other side of the room, the recognisable sound of her skirts swishing against her legs as she stood and fetched her book. It was then with some surprise that he felt her gently lifting his hands from where he'd rested them on his stomach and his eyes flew open as she slid into his lap.
"What are you..." he stammered, his voice cut off as she pressed a finger to his lips and her eyes darted upwards, his own unable to resist following.
From the beam above his chair was a ribbon, neatly tied into a bow and holding together a small bunch of green foliage interspersed with white berries. He'd missed it before but then he'd had no reason to look.
"Is that..." he half whispered.
"Mistletoe," she confirmed, her voice low as she leant in, her hand tracing a path up his arm and across his shoulder, coming to rest at the back of his neck.
"I see," he said awkwardly, not quite sure what to do next despite the rather obvious implication, "Are you...?"
"Hoping for a kiss?" she finished, teasingly, "The thought had crossed my mind, Mr Carson."
Charles could feel his heart beating rapidly in his chest, his breath growing more shallow as the delightfulness of their current predicament sank in. He hadn't read it wrong after all. He'd been right to hurry, to let his mind wander, to imagine his wife pressed against him and her hands tempting him into submission.
"You want me to kiss you," he managed at last, his hands shifting to grasp at her hips and to bring her body closer to his. "Under the mistletoe."
"I do," Elsie confirmed, her lips drawing into a wry smile hovering above his own. "If you do, that is."
"Oh, I do, Mrs Carson," he growled, their lips near touching, "Mostly assuredly, I do!"