Chapter 4 Preliminaries

Elsie

They hardly had time to gather themselves after the train had come to a stop before a porter appeared to collect their bags and invite them to follow him to the car that would take them to the hotel.

Elsie was impressed. "What excellent service!" she declared, appreciating the luxury. And yet in some small corner of her mind she could only shake her head at the disparity between what she usually experienced and this glimpse of first class existence.

"That'll be His Lordship, not the service per se," her husband informed her.

She noticed that Charlie took the special treatment in stride. As the butler of Downton Abbey he might have on occasion and in a pinch or during the war when labour was short have had to carry a few cases for His Lordship or perform some other menial service. But in all his years as butler Elsie had not seen him carry his own cases. It was a perquisite of the position that a junior footman or a hallboy carried the butler's luggage, shined his shoes, pressed his trousers, made his bed, and tidied his room. He might even have had his own valet, masquerading as training up a hallboy to more useful service, though Mr. Carson had never availed himself of this, finding it more bothersome than worthwhile. So here and now he might appreciate His Lordship's arrangements and still be complacent about the service itself. The housekeeper did not enjoy similar benefits, which made Elsie appropriately grateful to be relieved of the burden of her case.

"And a car?" She almost balked at the prospect. What had His Lordship been thinking? But she got in – into the back seat, a place she'd never before occupied. Charlie got in beside her and they were away.

The Victoria Seaview Hotel was one of the great seaside resorts that drew visitors to Scarborough and flourished because of the eternal magic of the sea, and it lived up to its name - it was on the sea. Mesmerized by the dark waters, Elsie tore her gaze with some little difficulty to take in the place where she and Charlie were to begin their married life. The building itself was not so impressive, a rather unimaginative work of architecture, but the public rooms were sumptuous. There was a sitting room with a great fireplace and a very elegant dining room.

"Of course, there are restaurants aplenty in Scarborough," Charlie said, as they passed the dining room, "but we can start here. If you like."

Elsie appreciated his consideration.

He had only to sign the register, all other arrangements already having been attended to. "You have our finest, Mr. Carson," the desk attendant assured Charlie.

"I feel like we've stepped through the looking glass," Elsie murmured, her eyes never at rest as they followed yet another porter up the expansive staircase.

"I never liked that story," Charlie said, a little distracted. "There is something peculiar about Mr. Carroll."

The room was very fine indeed, though Elsie had little with which to compare it, not having been in many hotel rooms in her life. She had come to the position of housekeeper through the ranks of housemaids, not as an attendant to a lady in which role she might have travelled and seen a bit of this side of life. It was different in those days. Anna had doubled as housemaid and lady's maid to the Crawley girls. But in Elsie's time, the lines were more rigidly drawn. And there were simply more maids about. Nor had her experience widened as housekeeper, for the focus of that job was to keep the house, whether the family was resident or not. Ladies maids might travel the world, or at least see London and, in the case of the Granthams, Scotland. Housekeepers saw only the house for which they were responsible. But it didn't matter how this room stacked up to other rooms in this hotel or any other. What mattered was what Elsie Carson – she was still getting used to the name – thought of it. And she thought it was grand. It was like one of the bedrooms on the gallery at Downton, which was to say much larger than the cramped quarters in the attics.

Though the room was a sight, Elsie went straight to the windows. There were three large panes through which early evening light streamed, glinting off the sea. The waters of the North Sea were deep and dark and cold, and they were agitated, swirling, active. Which was only as it should be, Elsie thought. That was part of the mystery of the sea. It had character and one always had to wonder about and be wary of that which lay hidden in its depths.

A clinking sound behind her distracted and she turned to see Mr. Carson tipping the porter.

"Very generous," she commented, once the man had left.

Charlie crossed the floor to join her at the window, but did not respond to her words except to give her a look. Of course he had given the lad a generous tip. He knew both what was expected and what was right when it came to service. He always appreciated good work. And … he was in a very good mood.

"Look at these curtains," Elsie said, fingering the heavy velvet that framed the windows. "You could make another one complete from the amount that's pooled on the floor."

"We're facing northeast here," Charlie said, "and I would wager there's a bitter wind comes in off the water in the cold season. That extra will cut the draft." He glanced at the walls. "I doubt this place is any better insulated than the Abbey."

"We should have curtains like this at the Abbey," Elsie said, being well acquainted with drafts.

Charlie shrugged. "The dog would be lying all over them."

"Or worse," Elsie quipped, with a twinkle in her eye.

They laughed.

"There's an ensuite bathroom," Charlie said, in a tone that suggested a treat.

"Let's have a look!" Elsie led the way. She was interested in the novelty, but it was a distraction, too, for the main feature of the room proper was the bed in the middle of it and the thought of that made her heart beat just a little faster.

"Oh, my." The bathroom was a room unto itself, which it probably had been. And this one was a fairly recent innovation, for the porcelain of the sink and the large tub were gleaming. Oh, the bathrooms in the servants' quarters at Downton were not so bad. A bit dated perhaps, installed in the last years of the last century, but kept sparkling clean under the supervision of successive housekeepers – Mrs. Dakin and then Mrs. Hughes. But this one had been updated recently. The polished soaker tub gave Elsie pause. On a rare occasion at Downton, usually when the family was away for the season or had gone to Duneagle, and the house staff was reduced accordingly, the housekeeper of Downton Abbey would allow herself the luxury of a good soak. But that was a rare thing. There were always too many people wanting to use the facilities. After a day like this one, she would have welcomed such an indulgence as a way to slide comfortably into a good night's sleep. But she would have to forego it tonight. Tonight had its own imperatives.

"Oh, my, indeed," Charlie echoed her, and she turned to find him smiling, delighted at her delight.

They withdrew to the room again and an air of uncertainty descended on them both.

Charlie

Elsie was right in her assumptions about her husband. Charlie was less awed by the courtesies being afforded them. He was grateful enough, but also more easily accepted them as appropriate acknowledgments on His Lordship's part of faithful service rendered. He had also travelled more and was better prepared for the unaccustomed amenities. While Elsie took in these wonders, his mind was elsewhere.

It was only seven o'clock or thereabouts and the sunshine that had blessed their celebrations earlier in the day was still with them. It had been a long day and he had been awake much of the previous night, but he was not fatigued. There had been many a long day in service, sometimes extending more than twenty-four hours. And this day was very different from working hours. There was still so much before them. The persistence of daylight might delay the culminating act, but there were other distractions.

He cleared his throat. "Would you like to go down to dinner?"

"Oh, I couldn't eat another bite," she said immediately.

Well, he agreed with that. There was a hunger within him that no meal could satisfy. Perhaps she realized this for she looked slightly discomfited.

"What would you like to do?"

He had been gazing at her, but her question prompted an instinctual response. His eyes shifted automatically to the bed, lingered there for a few seconds, and then returned to hers, almost before his own mind registered his action.

Her reaction came as swiftly and as free of pre-meditation as his involuntary one. "But it isn't dark yet," she said bluntly.

It was a matter he had himself pondered and, in that moment, a solution presented itself. He moved across the room and drew one of the heavy curtains partway closed and immediately light from the evening sun declined significantly. The room now lay half in shadow. Were he to pull the other curtain, darkness would be as complete as though night had fallen. Yes, this works.

This took her by surprise and he was both sympathetic to and a little chagrined at the startled look that crossed her face. But it was gone so quickly that he had to wonder if he had only imagined it.

"Yes," she said, smiling. "Yes."

But before either one of them could consider how to move on from that, there was a knock on the door. This puzzled them both. Charlie frowned, but it was not something they could just ignore, so with a little shrug of his shoulders, he crossed to the door and opened it.

Before him stood a waiter with a little cart on which sat a bottle in a container of ice and two champagne flutes. "Compliments of the Earl and Countess of Grantham, Mr. Carson," the young man said smartly. Charlie stepped out of the way and, as he did so, exchanged a look with Elsie. Of course. And he wasn't unhappy to see it either, although it had effectively postponed the thing he longed for most. Elsie, he noted, brightened.

For the moment he was distracted, watching the waiter expertly remove the foil and then pop the cork, without a drop spilled. He nodded approvingly, unable to avoid a professional evaluation. The glasses poured, he slipped the young man a gratuity and saw him out. Then he and Elsie were alone once more. With champagne. He picked up the glasses, handed one to her, and raised his own. He'd made his speech already, at the wedding feast earlier in the day, but a toast required words.

"To us."

Elsie's face was radiant. "At long last," she added.

And they both smiled before sipping their champagne.

"This is delicious!" she declared.

"Of course, it is." He indicated the bottle. "Only the finest from His Lordship." He paused. "At long last?" There was an inquiring note to his words.

She gave him a look. "I don't know much about these things," she said, in that flat, matter-of-fact way she had, "but I've always understood the general lines. Love, then marriage. We've taken our own good time about getting here, haven't we?"

There was a light air to her words. She was teasing him and this encouraged him. This was how they were together. "Well, then," he said, trying to echo her tone, "we've a bit of catching up to do." And without further ado, he leaned forward and kissed her, capturing sweet lips moistened with sparkling champagne. It was the first spontaneous act he had taken since their arrival.

They had to put down their champagne glasses, fumbling a bit as they tried to do so without dropping the things. And then they were lost in each other's arms, and in warm, soft, but probing kisses that took them to places they had not as yet explored.

* C&E * C&E * C&E *

His body would have had him sweep her into his arms, cross to the bed in a few swift strides and … and … tear off her clothes and his own? And then, with evening sunshine slanting in through the grand windows casting golden rays on their yearning bodies, make her his own right there? On the bedclothes, rather than beneath them? But…he couldn't quite see it. And he certainly couldn't see her falling in with that. Though he had no anxieties of his own, he was painfully aware of hers and this was the moment of truth. He wanted it all to go well for her, for this night together to cast away any lingering doubts about her desirability and his passion for her. Better to move slowly. And so, though it was almost physically painful to do so, he detached himself a little, not without a frisson of exhilaration at the fleeting resistance which met this move.

"Shall we…?" he suggested.

"Yes!"

For the slightest instant he thought perhaps she would will him to act impulsively, but then she was turning away and moving toward her case. Still distracted by her, he reached for his own and then remembered.

"I've something for you," he said, holding his wedding gift to her with both hands, and hesitating just a little. It was an intimate gift, something only a husband (or, he supposed, an illicit lover) could give a woman, and he wasn't practiced at this yet.

She glanced over his shoulder and then turned right around, a quizzical expression on her face. "What is it?"

But he did not say. Instead he went to her and held it out. "For you," he said, and smiled.

She smiled back and then came over a little flustered. "I've nothing for you."

He shook his head quickly. It was not his intention to discomfit her. "Not at all," he said easily. "This is …." Well, he couldn't say. "Open it." He held his breath.

Elsie

She took it obligingly and immediately noticed the somewhat rumpled packaging. This made her smirk to herself. Mr. Carson had many skills but he was not an adept at getting wrapping paper to lie flat and fold neatly. The very look of the thing spoke of him. As she edged the ribbon off of it, she felt a little on edge. She had not thought to get him anything. They had never been ones to exchange gifts for the sake of the ritual. They had that in common. Then the packaging fell away and the contents spilled out over her hands. And took her breath away.

She saw immediately what it was. A nightdress. A lovely, new nightdress. And she was filled with such relief that any appreciation she might have had in that first moment for the attractions of the garment itself fell to the wayside. It was the last thing, the last thing that had weighed on her mind. The last thing she could do anything about, anyway. Until last night she had fretted over the inappropriateness of her wedding dress and then those dear women, her friends, had surprised her with their gift. As welcome as it had been, it had also poignantly reminded her of the worn and dull gown she slept in every night and in which she would present her body to her husband in that first moment of marital intimacy. Somewhere, in the back of her mind, that old gown had been with her all day, a little shadow on an otherwise perfect occasion.

Taking hold of the shoulders, she let it fall before her and drank in the details. It was a very fine brushed cotton, so soft. The design was a simple one, simple and modest, the material cotton, rather than silk. (Silk! Heaven forbid!) Lingerie might be a standard wedding gift, but such an item would only have embarrassed her. Oh! he knew her well. Her Mr. Carson had sought out something pretty, but also something her.

Before she could raise her eyes to his, let him know in word and look and euphoria how much she loved it, how much she loved him, her eyes were caught by the design worked into the fitted piece across the breast. Dropping one shoulder, she reached for the small circle of embroidered work and feathered her fingers over it. A rose and a thistle intertwined. An English rose and a Scottish thistle. Them.

Her jaw was just a little slack. The gown, the motif had taken her breath away and also her words. She could think of nothing to say. And then she raised her eyes finally to his and what she saw there reinvigorated the power of speech. For it was immediately clear to her, shining from his great dark eyes, that he was apprehensive. He was worried she might not like it. It was the self-same look that had haunted him six months earlier on Christmas Eve when he had proposed to her. He had spoken with such deliberation and assurance then, put the matter of the house before her, firmly but courteously dismissing her concerns about the idea of joint ownership, and then making plain to her what he was really asking of her. And then, when she had stared and stared at him and made one of those flat remarks she dredged up in every moment of emotional turmoil to keep from being overwhelmed herself, then he had come over just like this. Well? He had said. Then, as now, how could he doubt?

"Charlie," she said, and the name rolled so easily off her tongue that she might have been saying it all her life. "You dear man." And they came together then, like saying his name, so naturally that an observer would have been unaware of any of the apprehensions that had gripped one or the other of them.

"Elsie," he breathed, her own name slipping so casually from him that she didn't even notice, "shall I use the facilities in the passage and leave the bathroom here to you?

* C&E * C&E * C&E *

How strange that after a day of such heightened feeling, following on the heels of a night filled with eager anticipation mixed with apprehension, that they weren't done yet. There remained one more act in the drama – in the romance – to be played out. They would be better off going to bed to sleep, to wake tomorrow refreshed and in a better state all around to tackle the delicate matter of intimacy. But, no, they were locked into this timetable by convention – the wedding night.

Elsie blushed to think of it. Soon, soon, she would be lying in a bed with a man for the first time in her life. With her husband. They would shed their clothes…somehow…and, naked, would come together physically. Not lying side by side, but joined. Elsie pondered the physical reality of it: she on her back, legs apart; he on top of her, his weight bearing down on her; and then …inside her…how? How, exactly? And…Anna had said last night that it hurt a woman, the first time. Hurt. How much? Would there be blood?

But it was no good to speculate. It would happen, as it has happened to millions and millions and millions of women over the centuries. Still…the democracy of the thing was only an intellectual reassurance. It had no practical value when you were the one woman to whom it was happening for the first time now, tonight.

Happening to. She had unconsciously, automatically used a passive construction to describe it. She recognized this almost as an afterthought. Of course she had used a passive voice for it. Hers would be a passive role. It was for her husband, the man, to direct what would happen and to take the active role in making it come about. Her role was to receive.

There was a glass in the bathroom, but Elsie turned her back to it as she shed her clothes. She did not want to be reminded of what her later middle-aged body looked like, not at this moment. And she hoped those curtains would bar the light from the long summer evening so that Mr. Ca… Charlie … so that Charlie wouldn't get a good look at her either.

She picked up the gown, held it up and let it unfold. Oh, but it was a lovely thing! Even she would look beautiful in it and, anxious to see that transformation, she quickly pulled it over her head. It rippled down over her shoulders, swirling over her hips. Elsie whirled around to look at herself. This she could bear to see, wanted to see.

And…it did magically transform her. She was lovely in it. Her fingers went to the embroidered design on her breast, the rose and thistle intertwined. He was lovely. The dear man! She loved him and she wanted to be his wife in every way. She knew that she had longed for this part of their wedding and wanted him to know it and enjoy it. Waves of confidence and desire were suddenly crashing over her. She was ready.

Charlie

In the bathroom in the passage, he changed quickly without any angst about his body or, for that matter, his pajamas. He had not gotten new nightclothes. It never occurred to him that what he wore might be of any consequence. It was different for her. She was a woman and more sensitive to her appearance, as she made quite clear to him in that moment of doubt she experienced early on. He had never doubted his physical attractiveness or, rather, never given it a moment's thought.

He took his time tidying himself – washing up, shaving again. Mr. Bates's fine work at the beginning of the day seemed a long time ago now. His face was baby bottom smooth again and he brushed a hand over a cheek with satisfaction. She would like that. Then he brushed his teeth with care. He wanted to be as fresh as possible.

He had to splash cold water on his face to slow himself down. Just knowing that he could have her, would have her within the hour, was sufficient to arouse him. He hadn't even seen her in the nightgown yet, let alone glimpsed her naked, and yet he was ready to take her. So he put his face right into the spray of cold water running from the tap. He must not rush. The advice that he had been given (by Dr. Clarkson) and an appreciation for her more delicate sensibilities and a genuine desire to ensure that she, too, enjoyed it all – these dictated a slow approach … kissing, caressing….

He had wanted to fondle a woman's breasts since he first became aware of women, a vulgar if natural compulsion of burgeoning manhood. He had given much thought of late to her breasts. They had sat together at a table three times a day for thirty years and his mind had never strayed to her body until of late. Since their engagement he had had difficulty not looking at her, keeping his gaze away from her bosom. But there had been several restless nights over the past few months when he had lain in his bed thinking of nothing but her breasts.

More cold water.

Finishing his ministrations and with his ardour slightly cooled, he collected his things and returned to their room.

She was not yet out of the bathroom. Women always took more time with such things, he told himself, with all the unfounded self-assurance of someone who had no idea of what he spoke. He poured more champagne – it was very nice – and then went to the window, now half-shrouded in the curtain he had pulled over. The curtain made him smile. She wanted it to be dark. She… Elsie…was shy. This was not quite the Mrs. Hughes he knew who was always so self-assured, even when she wasn't. Elsie, here, tonight, was a virginal bride. It was her prerogative to be tentative, modest. It was his job to put her at her ease. A little line creased his forehead. He was not entirely sure how to do that.

Elsie

She hadn't heard the door and didn't know if he was back yet, but she was finished her own preparations now and there was no reason to linger, so she went out. He was standing by the window in his robe. It hadn't occurred to her to put hers on. She felt a little underdressed by comparison. He turned toward her and oh! the look on his face! Full of wonder, at her. The moments in her life when she had felt uneasy just standing there, not quite sure where to look or what to do with her hands, had been rare, but she was experiencing one of them now. Perhaps it didn't matter, to judge by the look on his face.

"It's very beautiful," she said, referring to her nightdress and thinking a compliment appropriate.

"You are beautiful." There was an awe in his voice.

You. Elsie herself. Not it, the dress. She blushed a little. She could feel the heat in her cheeks and responded almost reflexively to the unfamiliar with practicality. Her clothes were folded over her arm. She moved to the chest of drawers and put them away. It seemed a foolish thing to her, to have such a manifestation of permanence in a room where people came for only fleeting periods of time, but it was there and they would be staying for a week, so they might as well make use of the space.

In her peripheral vision she noted that his body was well camouflaged beneath the folds of his robe. There was nothing new to her in this image. She had seen it all before on the few occasions when there had been illness or a crisis in the night – the arrival of telegrams from the war, staff nightmares (that time Mr. Lang got them all out of bed), when Lady Edith set fire to her room and the whole house had to be evacuated, and Mr. Carson's rare indispositions, including his bout of overwork during the war and influenza after it. She, on the other hand, stood here exposed, vulnerable in what was for him – she could tell by the expression on his face – an erotic vision. Which took her aback just a little.

"You are so beautiful," he said again and with such reverence that she was encouraged. He had assured her before that he saw her that way, but that was in the abstract. Now he was really seeing her, although not quite.

But she smiled anyway and, in an impulsive display of girlishness, pirouetted, the skirt of her nightdress twirling about her, and was rewarded with a gasp of desire on his part. That sent a little thrill up her spine. And then another what now moment was upon them. She waited for him to offer direction.

Charlie

He was almost overcome at the sight of her, standing there before him in that lovely nightdress. She was more alluring than ever even he had even imagined, and his imagination had been functioning exceptionally well of late. Again a physical imperative that had never gotten this far before intruded on him. Another douse of cold water, a full immersion in it, would have been helpful right then. He had to maintain control. They were not there yet. Focus on the practical.

"Which side would you like?"

She was puzzled. Her mind was in a different place.

"What side of the bed would you prefer?" he asked, making it explicit.

It was a simple question but one they had not confronted before. They had slept in narrow single beds all their working lives with scarcely enough room for one.

"The right," she said finally.

He was glad of it. This meant he would lie on his left side to face her, leaving his right arm free. He was right-handed.

"Excellent."

There was another pause. And then he gestured toward the bed. Go on. Get in. He stayed by the window. The still bright light of the early June evening shone through that half of the window he had not yet obscured. Once she was in place, he would take care of that.

He watched her move. Before she came out of the bathroom, he had turned down the bedclothes and put on the lamp on the bedside table which was, conveniently, on his side. The lamp's glow was superfluous at the moment, but once the room was engulfed in darkness he wanted to be able to navigate his way safely to the bed. This was not the time for a stupid accident.

As she drew the sheet down farther still, he wished he'd had the foresight (or that Lord Grantham had, because the man appeared to have thought of everything else) to have had a rose placed on the pillow. He might be old … no, older, he was not old…but he had many a romantic impulse. With her tucked in, sitting, waiting for him, he tugged on the second curtain and the room did indeed go dark. Those velvet curtains, which were heavy, were well suited to their purpose.

Although he wanted nothing more than to fling himself into the bed after her, he took time to adjust the curtains. Not a shaft, not a pencil of light permeated them. They had been specially made to turn back the winds off the North Sea. A distant sun declining over Scarborough to the west was no match for them.

She wanted the room dark and he was nothing if not thorough. So he took the blanket folded across the bottom of the bed and lay it on the floor along the base of the room's door into the passage, yet another source of light. Now it was only for him to turn out the bedside lamp and the darkness would be complete.

He turned to face her and it was an effort to walk calmly back to the bed. His lifelong habits dictated decorum and restraint. Buried, if not entirely forgotten, however, was the spirit that drove him to the lights and laughter and frivolity of the halls. He had felt it earlier in the day as they walked down the aisle together and as they made their way to the schoolhouse. And it was with him now. And there was no more waiting. Now, finally, he was going to take off his clothes, leap into bed, and make love to his wife!

Elsie

Elsie's gaze followed him from window to door, puzzled at first about why he put a blanket on the floor and then smiling in understanding. He was doing his best to meet her request for darkness. It would be easier in the dark. Confidences and intimacies were always easier that way.

He came to the bed and reached for the light. One click and the room went black. The curtains had certainly done their job. Elsie slid down under the bedclothes and turned on her side, toward him. Eventually that she would be on her back with him on top of her, but surely they would start out side by side?

But he was not yet in bed. She listened and realized what he was doing. He was taking off his pajamas. Already! And no sooner had she realized this than the mattress sank beneath his weight as he climbed beneath the covers and reached for her.

A thrill ran up her spine as he found her and drew her toward him. He was naked. His hands slid over her cotton-sheathed body, but when she tentatively reached out for him, her fingertips caressed warm smooth skin – his hip, his back. He pressed his mouth to hers. His lips were active. She responded, kissing him back. They had kissed a handful of times since their engagement, with some intensity, but also with restraint. Personal privacy is a rare commodity in their world. Now there need be no limits.

Various sensations swept over her at once. His breathing accelerated with the intensity of his kisses. His jaw was working now as he opened his mouth, prompting her to open hers. Watching Mrs. Patmore's erstwhile suitor at the Thirsk fair kiss a woman, Elsie had described it as a man trying to chew a woman's face off. Now she understood what had been going on and was both startled and … aroused. It was exhilarating, this! If a little wet. Managing that took practice, too. And it was also a challenge to breathe. It took her a moment to catch the rhythm. He had taken charge, she felt this in the kissing. He was acting, managing the form and intensity of their intercourse. She was reacting, taking her cues from him.

There was more. His hand slid to the small of her back and drew her against him more firmly still and she was immediately aware of two things – her breasts against his chest and … him, right there, thrusting against her. This wasn't a mystery to her. She knew the difference, in that way, between men and women, but there had been no physical reality of it for her before. You might imagine such things all you like, but as with so many things in life, it was black and white: you knew or you didn't. Only minutes ago she didn't know. Now she had a much better idea, not complete yet, but well on her way. And her first impressions were that he was very big and very hard, and she wondered how … how … that would go inside her. She knew it could. He was like other men and she like other women. But … until it actually happened, she just couldn't … see it.

His lips left hers and she took a deep breath, but only to gasp as his mouth traveled down the line of her jaw to a sensitive spot just below her ear and then nipped its way down her neck. Spontaneously she arched her neck and at the same time his hand slid down her back, tightening over one of her buttocks, pulling her into him, grinding himself into her. A rapture gripped her. For all that this was foreign and daunting, it was natural, too. Her body seemed to have parted company with her hesitating mind, going its own way. Ecstasy! She found her hands in his hair, his lovely fine, silken hair, reveling in the searing trail his mouth was tracing down her throat, hoping he would dip his head to her breast. She had never known such a yearning.

He was tensing, taut like a coiled spring wound tighter and tighter, ready to spring at any moment. They were closer to it now and, instinctively – really, because no conscience impulse was driving her responses – she relaxed away from him, about to shift from her side to her back. He moved with her, almost panting now from the physical exertion. His hand fluttered at the hem of her nightdress, grabbing for it, trying to pull it up. Goodness! She was not even out of her nightdress! How quickly this had unfolded. She reached for it, certain she could do this more easily than he. He brushed against her now bare thigh and she was overwhelmed with an impression of gathering strength, power straining at its bonds, desperate to be unleashed….

Suddenly he groaned mightily and pushed away from her, collapsing on his back beside her. A sharp, painful cry erupted from him, followed by a long moan. And then he was silent and unmoving.

Elsie was frightened to her core. He had had a heart attack and died!