Chapter 7 The Second Night (Saturday)

Elsie

Elsie was both more and less at ease about the prospect of this evening than she had been the night before. They were both better rested and they had a routine now. While the thought of … the act … still sent a thrill up her spine, they wouldn't be fumbling over the extraneous details about where to undress or which side of the bed to take. But last night they had been optimistic and eager, and tonight there was no getting away from the fact that he was looking increasingly grim. Last night she had been worrying about herself, still aflutter over his response to her body when finally he came face to face with it, but confident that her husband would play his part without incident. Tonight she was worried for him.

She watched as he drew the curtains with more dogged determination than carnal enthusiasm. This was supposed to be fun, wasn't it? But there wasn't a spark of fun in his demeanor. She supposed she knew why he'd declined the alcohol at dinner, but she thought this a mistake. A drink might have lightened him up a little as the champagne had the night before.

That morning she had lovingly folded the beautiful nightdress he had given her, her fingers drawn to the rose and the thistle, and been overcome by his thoughtfulness, his perceptiveness. Tonight, as she drew it out, her eyes grew wet again, a reflection of the joy this slip of fabric had given her. It had been her last regret and, if he hadn't quite anticipated her feelings, he had discerned the need for a woman – his wife, her – to have something new and pretty to wear in such a moment. Charlie Carson had his shortcomings, like everyone else, but he had virtues aplenty too, and such consideration counted high among them.

She lifted her gaze from the gown to him, by the window, struggling with the curtain, a frown on his face. How she longed to rush to his side and throw her arms about him, let him know that she had everything she could possibly have wanted and that this other thing, while important, was not important at all, that he needn't agonize over it.

Dropping her eyes to the gown once more, she thought about emerging from the bathroom in it and sashaying across the room, hand on hip, tossing her head in a sassy way. Could she manage a 'Come hither' look such as Theda Barra had displayed in that film she'd seen? It was a thought, but a desperate one. She didn't think she could carry it off. You're not Lady Mary, she told herself firmly. Worse luck, at least as far as distracting men went. And what would he think of that, anyway? She was herself and could only be herself. If only they could just be themselves together, they'd be getting on better.

It was darker in the room to begin with tonight because it was later, but with the curtains closed it didn't matter. She was quicker to change and was out before he was back. Again he'd put on the bedside light. She went ahead and got into bed, noting that the maid had done a good job with tight corners. Thinking of the maid made her blush, recalling the damp sheet she'd rolled up and put aside after last night's fiasco. Though perhaps she's used to it, Elsie told herself, thinking of the maid. But not from the likes of us! And then, but why not from the likes of us!

And so the debate raged in her head, but she put it aside when the door clicked and opened. Her heart went out to him. It did. There was none of the eager anticipation, the slightly alarming sense of hunger unsatiated, power straining at the leash, of the night before. No, tonight he was deliberate, as damning a word as ever there was in the context of carnal activity. He did not think to conceal the shaft of light from beneath the door this night.

As he came to bed, Elsie smiled at him, she hoped in an encouraging, inviting sort of way. And then she reached over to fluff his pillows, just to take her eyes off him and thereby to diminish the tension he must be feeling. Oh, how she hoped he could manage it tonight!

Charlie

He had been holding himself in check since mid-afternoon. Though he'd begun to enjoy himself and even relaxed a little, sometimes forgetting for minutes at a time what had not happened the night before, as the day wore on his mind turned inevitably to what was to come. He'd not been concerned enough about it yesterday. He'd just assumed. Well, he would not be so nonchalant this time. Last night he had let his emotions get right away from him. Desire and eagerness and … hunger … had trumped discretion. Then, with all his safeguards down, he'd lost control, peaked too soon. He wouldn't make that mistake again.

So, no wine at dinner. It was a sacrifice and he felt it keenly. There had been some enticing options available. But there was a greater objective here and, in its pursuit, no sacrifice was too great.

And, after a few warm exchanges through the morning, culminating in a really quite pleasant snogging interlude after lunch, wholly indifferent to anyone who might be passing by and notice, he'd pulled back. Enough of the hand-holding, incidental touching, kissing. It was important to prevent any build-up of emotion prior to going to bed, lest he start at too high a level, as had clearly happened yesterday. Admittedly, their quiet day in Scarborough was as nothing compared to the acute tension of anticipation that had gripped him through their wedding day, but … he didn't want to take any chances. Fortunately, he had given her the nightgown last night and seen her in it, so didn't have that to ramp up his emotions. And there was no celebratory champagne this time either.

He was not half-disappointed by this more sombre approach. Since he'd first entertained the idea of marrying Elsie Hughes and more acutely since she had agreed to do him the honour, he'd been riven by competing perspectives on the act of consummation. That which he considered the baser side of his nature was consumed with the prospect of physical gratification – caressing, kissing, squeezing, penetrating, ejaculating… rapture! Whenever he had indulged such thoughts – and he'd had a difficult time keeping them at bay, even in inappropriate moments – he had been consumed by desire, self-indulgence, the sweet mystery of life. And shuddered just a little at his voracious hunger. Was this really how men felt? Were they, was he, really so in thrall to instinct?

The other side of it, fostered by a very staid upbringing in the Church of England and accentuated by decades of denial, recoiled from this physical, primal imperative, preferring instead to elevate the sexual act to a higher plain. In such a union was to be found the fundamental philosophical key to the mystery of life. This was no functional biological fact, but a communion of two beings, male and female as God had made them, in sanctified embrace.

Last night, he had let the beast within rule and it had, predictably he now saw, been doomed from the start. Tonight, he would approach the act with the solemnity the act demanded and it would make all the difference. This, he assured himself, would go down better with Elsie as well. No doubt he had overwhelmed her with his vulgar eagerness. He cringed a little now, remembering how he had seized on her question of what he would like to do to insist that they get right to it. Had she not conveyed hesitation in her reticence to act before darkness fell?

It was light outside now, too, but it was a little less evident tonight for being that much later. Once more, he turned on the bedside lamp, tugged the curtains closed, and gathered his things. He glanced up to see her disappearing into the bathroom where she would change into her nightdress, that sensual, beguiling, provocative scrap of fabric that concealed the smooth skin of ….

Shaking himself, he stepped out into the passage and into the common bathroom there. Again, he took particular care with his toilette, ensuring that he was as finely turned out as for a formal dinner, with allowance for the fact that he was slipping into pajamas. And then he returned to the room, feeling as he had the night before the growing tension of ardour in need of requiting.

She was already in the bed when he came in, sitting up, fluffing the pillows. Despite a determination to behave in a more gentlemanly manner, his gaze riveted almost immediately to her bosom, and when the fabric tightened over her breasts as she leaned over to put his pillow in place, he found himself breathless … and aroused. He did not try to quell it. After all, that was the ultimate objective. She turned to him, smiling, expectant, waiting for him to take charge and give meaning, tonight, to their marriage. He smiled back, ready to do just that, and approached the bed with an air more determined than excited.

Switching the light off cast them into that all-encompassing, and reassuring, darkness. For a moment, he hesitated. In his eagerness the previous night, he had shed his pajamas before crawling beneath the sheets and done so unthinkingly. It was a primal act, one in which the demands of modesty and decorum did not hold sway. It demanded nakedness. But perhaps he had been wrong there. To take his clothes off in anticipation might be too precipitous. On the other hand, if urgency became a factor again, then clothing would just get in the way. He resolved this conundrum by removing his clothes in a seemly manner, a contrast to his frenzied behaviour the night before. He put the discarded pajamas neatly on the bedside stand and then, slipping beneath the bedclothes, reached for his wife.

Elsie

He had set the tone and she offered no challenge to this. He had assumed full responsibility for the mishap last night, and thus the remedy, too, must be his to provide. Though she wasn't convinced he need shoulder the entire burden, she was still prepared to defer to his leadership in the whole business. He'd always been the keener of the two of them and that was a fact. He'd never had any doubts. And while she had sometimes struggled to grasp the mechanics of the act … the how, exactly … she was certain he had never stopped to think about it. Somehow, he believed he just knew what to do and she was prepared to believe he did. Perhaps for men, experience wasn't necessary. Perhaps they did just know. That didn't make much sense – almost everything you ever did got better with practice. But men just didn't seem to doubt that they could do anything, this least of all. Best let him get on with it then.

The seriousness of his demeanour this evening was, however, something else. She thought she could understand his abstemious behaviour at dinner, but … his vicar-like solemnity on their return to the room was something else. It didn't suit the act. After all, when you thought about it, was there anything sillier than sexual intercourse? She thought being able to laugh about it more likely to get them where they wanted to go, but … this was his game. She would follow along.

Despite his mood and their experience of the night before, Elsie was excited, and all the more so for being more comfortable about the whole thing. In a way, this was possible because of last night. It might have put the pressure on him, but it took the pressure off her, not least in distracting her from her own perceived shortcomings.

But mostly her own mood was a reflection of the revelation, not wholly new to her, of her love for and attraction to Charlie Carson. The glimpses of the man, the man who was so much more than the butler of Downton Abbey and so much more fun than that always staid creature – The Marseillaise! – renewed her deep desire for him. She wanted him to kiss her deeply, to probe her more thoroughly with his tongue and, … perhaps, in turn, to use her own tongue more actively. Well, maybe. And touch. She longed to run her hands all over him, to entangle her fingers in his fine hair, and … she was wistful about this … perhaps, if things went right, to know the intoxicating sensation of his weight upon her and then that still unfathomable experience of his coming inside her. And, she blushed at the thought of this, perhaps before that culminating moment, he might caress her breasts which she ached for as much as she did elsewhere for that union with him. The moment his outstretched hand touched her, she moved rapidly into his arms and turned her face to meet his, her lips already parted.

He had a hand in the small of her back and with it drew her more closely still and, though it had been the same last night, the feeling of an electrical current of elation swept over her in the realization that he was naked. Ought she not to have doffed her nightgown, too, when the light went out? Last night it had not gotten in the way and…ought she not perhaps to be as adventurous as he?

Oh! why was she consumed with practicalities at a moment like this! Did she not want desperately to lie, naked herself, with him? That desire, a primal impulse for flesh upon flesh, to be as close as two people can be. It was intoxicating, and she revelled in the sensation of such longings cascading over her, surprising and delighting her. Never before had she known such a sensual experience. Never before had she so readily surrendered her mind to the demands of her body.

And yet her mind was not wholly absent. With their bodies pressed so closely together she was aware, she could not but be aware of him, aroused and growing. What a relief! She didn't know that much about men and had been, she realized, almost subconsciously apprehensive all day that his failure previously might derail him entirely. But it hadn't. Not by a long shot. The oddest sensation came over her, an impulse to … to touch him, there, to hold him, stroke him, as she hoped he might her breasts. But she dared not. He might recoil at her boldness, her immodesty. Worse, such audacity might provoke another disaster. She could not chance it, so she left her hands where they were, abdicating any active role on her part. But she hoped he would not be so restrained, for her breasts yearned for his touch. Whatever happened would happen soon. She could feel the escalating tension in his body, a combination of long-suppressed desire met with powerful natural impulse. Yes!

Charlie

In lieu of experience or driving instinct, one could always count on organization. A step-by-step approach, yes, that would ensure an orderly progression and ultimate success. He had followed such a program the night before, but the flaw had been in too many items on the agenda. Tonight would be more streamlined. He had fixed the process in mind. Kissing came first, with the advantages there of both experience and ease. They'd done it before. This might be accompanied by exploration. With his hands he could map her body, venture out from the safe territory of the small of her back to the more enticing contours of her buttocks and … her breasts. The thought of her breasts was almost enough in itself. A groan escaped him every time he thought of them. He longed to touch her breasts. Then her thighs and … what lay between them. Process. After that, the mechanical process of getting into the correct position, rolling her onto her back, climbing over her, poising between her legs…. It sounded so simple. Then … entry, about which, really, he had no idea, but passed over this as likely to be obvious. Finally, thrusting to climax, surely the easiest part of all. He was almost ready for that part now.

Wait. There was something else. Her nightdress, that pretty sheathe that had in itself almost undone him when first he saw her in it last night. Oh, he was glad she was already in bed tonight when he entered the room, relieved not to view a repeat of that dazzling pirouette she had performed. … Stop thinking about that! Back to business. That nightdress had to come off. Practicality suggested it need only clear her hips, but that wasn't the proper way of things. A true marriage dictated that they lie together without impediment or disguise. And … he just wanted to see her, feel her naked, exult in the touch of her skin from tip to toe, a complement to the union of their bodies.

Right, first the removing of her shift, then the intimacy of the flesh. Without lifting his mouth from hers, he groped for a handful of the skirt and began to tug it upwards. His fingers feathered over her backside and he was distracted, paused to spread his hand over that enticing cheek, and then to use that leverage to push her hard against him. Oh! They must get on!

Now she had hold of the nightdress at her back and was pulling it upwards, lifting her hip to make this possible. And he scrabbled for the hem at the front to hasten this liberation. And now his fingers brushed a fine thatch at the head of her thighs and he moaned. That was her. Just beneath his hand. And in a rush he knew the urgency he had felt before. He moved firmly against her and she responded instinctively, shifting onto her back and opening her legs. Frantically he followed, swinging one leg over between hers and then the other, teetering there, desperately trying to balance himself in this awkward position. There was no time. He could not wait. He felt the pressure building to eruption, inexorable and wholly beyond his control. He had only now to find her. His hips had taken on a force of their own, thrusting against her, and then….

The first time, discretion had been possible. He had been able to pull away. She hadn't even realized what had happened. He'd had to tell her. And he could slip off to the bathroom and wash up – and she could remove the damp sheet – and that was the end of it.

This time, she was in the thick of it for he had gotten that much closer to success. The act, premature again, drained him, literally as well as emotionally, leaving him hardly enough energy to climb off of her. He fell away from her, letting his own weight carry him over onto his back where he lay, eyes closed tightly against the inky blackness of the room and against his consummate humiliation.

How could this have happened again?! He had feared it all day but not really believed that it was possible. The only good thing about it, if it could be characterized as good, was that she understood this time and was not frightened that he had taken a heart attack. So instead of anxious inquiries, she was silent, and he was glad for it. What could she say? There was nothing to say. It took minutes for him to recover, for his breathing to return to normal, such was the exhilarated state to which he had climbed. And such was the … disappointment. He had never been so frustrated – and furious – in his life. This was not to be borne! And yet bear it he must for his broken heart kept right on beating traitorously and his lungs kept expanding and contracting. He could no more control them than, apparently, the sexual reflex. At length he sighed mournfully. He was finished.

Elsie

Elsie had a number of things to sort. For one thing, the mystery of the mechanics was now much dispelled. She could see it now. They had nearly got there. No doubt the process might be made to function more smoothly, but the details were clear. That was something.

Their very progress had, however, left her a little uncomfortable. Last night, when things had gone awry, he had shifted away from her and she had known nothing until she felt the damp sheet. Tonight she had, as it were, caught the full blast. She was less surprised that the wet was warm than that it should be so sticky. She'd had no idea. Of course. And there was quite a lot of it, it seemed. This didn't bother her. It would be easily wiped away and what residue there was on her nightgown would rinse without difficulty.

She did not move to do either, however, for a far greater concern lay before her in the state of her husband. If he had been distressed last night, he was devastated now. It had been easy to make excuses the first time and yet he hadn't been convinced. Now there were no excuses left. Sympathy was out of the question. He would hear it as pity and if he wasn't finished yet, that would put an end to him.

And, truth to tell, she didn't know what to do or say. She knew about "women's problems." She'd never heard of "men's problems," not of this sort anyway. And so, flummoxed, she said nothing, waiting for him to chart their course. Only when she knew where he was could she make a plan. She was hesitant even to touch him, as much as she wanted to, lest he misconstrue her intentions. Pity. It must be avoided at all costs.

At length, he spoke.

"This is what is called poetic justice," he said, in a tone so reasonable that she was startled. "I made a principled stand in the face of your hesitation, drew a line in the sand over the nature of marriage, and pressured you to commit to a full marriage. It is only fitting, therefore, that I should be the one to falter – no, fail – when it came to it."

This statement elicited a sigh from Elsie. Oh, she felt badly for him. She did. But only he could be so pompous in his self-pity.

"Stuff and nonsense," she said, though she spoke the words more mildly that was usually the case. "You're much too hard on yourself, Charlie." She did not notice how easily the name had slipped from her lips. Now that he had broken the silence, she felt it possible to make a gesture and so slid a hand across his chest. His bare chest. Some men, she understood, were very hairy. He was not and she was glad. "Your expectations are too high."

"It is not unreasonable to expect … success…." He didn't have the words to describe the act and neither did she, so the euphemism worked for them both. "…on one's wedding night," he retorted. "Or the night after." And then he added, in a voice heavy with resignation, "Elsie, it doesn't matter how many perfect rehearsals you've had. The only thing that matters is coming through in that critical moment when you're on the stage before the audience. There's no excuse for stage fright once, let alone twice."

"But you're not on a stage," she said prosaically. "And there is no audience you need perform for." She knew he would object to that and he did.

"There's you."

She longed to say, But I don't care!, only that would have served no purpose at all and it wasn't accurate anyway.

"I don't understand," he went on, and the pained confusion in his voice pained her. "I don't know what's wrong with me."

"Nothing," she said firmly. "Absolutely nothing." There was physical evidence enough to convince her of that. Prematurity struck her emphatically as a function of his emotional state, which might be gotten over. If there had been nothing at all, he might have some grounds to worry.

"I thought this was supposed to be natural," he went on plaintively.

"Natural doesn't mean easy," she said. "Childbirth is natural, too. Yet it's excruciatingly painful and too frequently deadly."

He was silent for a long moment. "I'm not sure that's helpful."

"No," she agreed hastily. "You're right. It wasn't." It was more and more clear to her that they did not have the language for the conversation they were having and why was that? She sighed and rested her arm across his chest. "I only meant that it may be unrealistic to think this is easy as pie. But just because it takes more work than you and I might have anticipated doesn't mean we should give up on it.

"I don't know. I'm about ready to."

His discouragement discouraged her, but not entirely. While things between them had not unfolded as she and he both had imagined and expected – a traditional wedding night which encompassed the whole gamut of experience from preliminaries to consummation – they were to her mind making progress in a more gradual approach. And she was warming to the idea that such a course was not only necessary but also both practical and desirable. This business of intense physical intimacy had been preying on her mind ever since the glow of his romantic proposal on Christmas eve had waned. Her apprehensions about it had led them down some peculiar avenues and given them some troubles, troubles that now seemed avoidable to her if only they'd been able to address them frankly and to accept realities.

"If you don't mind, I think I'd like to go to sleep," he said, interrupting her thoughts.

Well, she did mind, because ignoring a problem never solved it. But there was no persuading him. Not tonight.

"All right," she said lightly. And then, seeing no reason to do otherwise, she got up and went to the washroom to clean up. When she returned a few minutes later, he did the same and by the time he returned she had straightened out the bed once more. They did not speak again, though neither one of them slept long into the night.