Anybody FFers still out there? One way to find out: add to an epic! Hope you're well! - D2

CECECECECECECECE

Sunday, 4 February, 2024

11:00 am CET

A gentle breeze at her back, Elsie gazed admiring at the deep blue sea in front of her. It stretched as far as the eye could see. Aye, this will do nicely she thought, as she gently tapped the small wooden box tucked under her left forearm. The one he'd entrusted to her, momentarily.

"You're going with me, aren't you?"

His voice, a little gruff, came from down and to her right. She looked that way now, finding Charles rolling up the second of his trouser legs. He squinted up in her direction for the sun was behind her now, high in the sky. As he did so, his ever-stubborn locks at the hairline of his forehead were claimed by the wind. She smiled, still charmed by their misbehavior as she had been for going on six years now!

"Aye, don't be daft. Of course, I'm going in."

Charles stood upright now, taking a moment for his lower back muscles to relax into their natural, preferred state before sweeping back those locks that he'd been fighting his entire life.

"It's just that we haven't discussed it —"

"Haven't discussed it? We've been planning this day, this moment for a year!"

"We haven't discussed it since we got here. The water, I fear, will be colder than anticipated."

Elsie transferred the container against his belly, wordlessly making clear that she expected him to regain its stewardship. As soon as she felt it securely in his hands she lifted her long skirt a bit on the left side so that she could see her feet as she kicked off her ballet pumps.

"You forget who you're married to, Mr. Carson. The Mediterranean — even in early February — is no deterrent for a Scots-woman!"

Both sans-shoes now, it was Elsie who took the first step toward the surf. Best to get this whole matter over with was her wish. "The day's gettin' on, Mr. Carson!" She said over her shoulder, urging him onward.

As he strode to catch up to her, Charles admitted somewhat under his breath, "Well, the Mediterranean in February is a deterrent for this Englishman!"

It wasn't that the water was cool for she'd been in much colder. Mediterranean salt water up to her ankles now, she chuckled a bit at Charles' audible response behind her as the soles of his feet contacted the wet sand. It made perfect sense to him in that moment, that Elsie was unfazed by the temperature of the water; her feet, as he'd been reminded repeatedly during their now five years of marriage, were truly blocks of ice.

It was never her intent to go in deep by any measure, just a wee bit from where the surf lapped upon the sand, so that Maggie could be safely on her way. They'd come to France to fulfill this, the grande dame's last wish.

Though Rosamund had dissuaded him from the start, Robert had wanted to come along, badly. Alas, the Granthams found themselves tied to home at the last minute. Much like the Royal family of late, they had two members needing medical attention at present: Cora's recent tiredness and weakness had her admitted to hospital and only yesterday she'd received the diagnosis of pernicious anemia. The stress of the last weeks worrying for her well-being caused Robert's ulcer to flare up. And the adorable new French bulldog pup, Cleo — a last Christmas gift to Robert from Maggie, delivered by the Spratt Family breeders — required surgery for somehow finding, chewing and digesting parts of an old cassette tape, including the tape itself! The pup was in the local animal hospital.

The Carsons, in the end, had made this journey alone as they and Rosamund recognized had been Maggie's wish all along — and all the more appropriate given that it fell on their anniversary. Only, the traditional gift of wood took on new meaning with Maggie's ashes stored inside a box of it.

They really had planned this trip over the last year. Charles insisted they take a "romantic" journey: train to Dover, ferry to Calais, another train to Paris and then the revitalized night train to Nice, with ground transport up the coast for the last leg.

Only the whole journey was far from romantic, what with his getting seasick ver the 90 minutes to Calais, they had to take a later train to Paris and even once arrived there focused on steadying him with a simple bowl of chicken soup as opposed to pastries or rich cheeses he would otherwise prefer in the city of love. Later, on the night train, the bunks were sized well for Elsie, not for him. So it was a relief when they finally arrived at the private estate turned resort on the French Riviera, and a good thing Charles had agreed to fly home from Nice.

Hand-in-hand then, they took a few steps forward into the water in this semi-secluded end of the main beach near the resort. There had been a very private cove on the resort property that Elsie thought might have been preferable but Charles made clear, if they ever would return during the warmer months, he'd wish to go swimming and emotions would prevent him from stepping in there. Perhaps then, best to save that cove for another time.

She agreed, knowing this last year had been so hard on him: friends getting older, dealing with new or heightened maladies. His own hand tremors escalating and simply missing Maggie — both her wisdom and wry English wit. She'd noted more than once in the last 12 months that life had made his gorgeous brown eyes blue.

Four of his steps to six of hers, Charles tugged at her right hand then, "This will do, Elsie." And she looked up at him, squeezing his hand in return. He fetched a little red notebook from his back trousers pocket, he'd been reading it more of late. It was a notebook of Maggie's that outlined all the things she truly loved about France — this particular corner of France — that together Elsie perceived as Maggie's justification to her family for having her ashes spread here. There was no real clarity as to why she'd selected Charles to carry out those duties, beyond having one last little bit of fun with him. For Maggie did know that French food was not his favourite. Foie gras, escargot, frog legs...the list went on.

One night, not long after the red notebook came into his possession via Mr. Murray, Charles was reading through it intently as Elsie had joined him in bed. Indeed, as he thumbed through he'd shared his disdain for what French people eat. When his mumbling complaints continued about French things more generally, Elsie flipped herself toward him, snatched the notebook from his hands and kept it out of his reach behind her as she — his one-time fiancé — began to whisper a number of French words she knew he did like: Champagne, chignon, cassolette, brassiere, lingerie, massage...until they together ended up doing something rather risqué.

Thereafter, the notebook held secondary meaning for Elsie, a turn-on, but not at this particular moment. He fumbled a bit, returning the box of ashes to Elsie's trusted hands as he remembered he would need his reading glasses out of his shirt pocket.

Spectacles settled on the bridge of his nose then, he turned to the page that had been designated for this moment. Placing his left hand over Elsie's right that once more held the box to her chest, Charles began to read. As he did so, Elsie bowed her head. Seeing the sun reflecting off of his wedding band, Elsie moved her left hand to cover his as Charles continued.

It was a short passage, heartfelt and with a little of Maggie's signature flourish at the end. With that, the notebook was returned to Charles' pocket, the lid of the box removed, and handful by handful, Margaret H. Grantham, née Smith, was returned for eternity to the place she loved the most.