Chapter 6 The First Morning in Scarborough

Charlie

They were early risers by habit. A conventional wedding night might have given them an excuse for a lie-in, might have made them want a lie-in. But they'd had quite enough sleep.

He was glum. In the clear light of day, neither the rationalizations she had voiced nor the explanations he had made to himself were of any comfort. She had pointed out that they were new to this and that good sense suggested they take their time and ignore societal conventions and deadlines for action. But he felt only the urgency of the thing. They didn't have much time! And the whole thing was tainted by failure, his failure, and that it was a failure was undeniable.

The humiliation he felt was heightened as his thoughts ranged beyond their hotel room, beyond Scarborough, to Downton. Did he not know that the mind of every man under the Abbey's roof, upstairs and down, would have turned sometime last night to what was happening, what should have been happening in Scarborough? The experienced men – His Lordship, Mr. Bates, Mr. Branson, Mr. Barrow (in some fashion) for goodness' sake!, Old Mr. Molesley, Mr. Bakewell, his village mates – men everywhere, they would be smiling knowingly. He was glad not to have to face any of them this morning for they would know, would read the evidence of failure in his countenance, would pity him. He could not, would not return to Downton without success in this fundamental act. He must succeed.

But how to ensure this? He'd never even known that his … problem … could be a problem. He knew there were men that … couldn't, but he could. He'd never had any doubts about that. He remembered discussing this obliquely with Dr. Clarkson. No trouble on that front.* But Clarkson hadn't warned him of … of … what had happened? Premature release? Clarkson had said nothing of this in an otherwise frank conversation. Was it unique to him? He shifted uneasily. He must do everything he could to control himself tonight to avoid a repeat performance.

Elsie

When Elsie stirred – and remembered – she was less distressed about what had not happened than about how they might go forward. They had, after all, drifted off to sleep in quite a pleasant way. But she knew how hard he took things. She remembered how disconsolate he was on learning about Lady Mary and the Turkish fellow. And how hurt he had been by Lady Mary's cutting remarks when he had withdrawn his acceptance of a post at Haxby under her then fiancé Sir Richard Carlisle. But those events were nothing as this. In both those instances, it was what Lady Mary had said or done that scarred him. This, on the other hand, was personal. This was about him. He had disappointed himself. And for all the uselessness of disappointment, it was a powerful emotion nevertheless. And she wasn't sure how to help him manage it. Men set such store in their virility. They defined themselves by it. To fall short was nothing short of a catastrophe.

But for his emotional turmoil. Elsie herself would have been at ease. They had negotiated so many new things yesterday, so many novel aspects of their changed relationship. Had they not managed the awkwardness of getting ready for bed? Had they not spent a night together in the same bed? Had they not made great strides in kissing? Truth be told, she had enjoyed exploring the art and intimacies of one mouth on another without the pressure continually to up the ante. She doubted that he would say the same. The sad thing was that this … failure to him, postponement to her … that it would colour everything that followed. Had they not challenges enough that they needed yet more hurdles?

Well, there was nothing for it but to get on with it. Last night they had gone to bed and spent their first night together. Now they had to get up and begin a new day, their first together as husband and wife.

"Good morning," she said cheerfully, as soon as she realized that he was awake. In her sleep, she had turned on her side away from him. He had rolled over onto his back. Did he snore? She had slept too soundly to notice. Now, she shifted over to face him, not that she could see him in the dimness. Those curtains were unforgiving.

"Morning, is it," he replied.

She searched for his arm, found it, and traced her fingers down it to his hand. He was in his pajamas now, but it was still a bit of a thrill to do that. She liked touching him, liked this new level of intimacy with him. Boldly she nestled her head against his shoulder.

"We don't have to get up or go anywhere or do anything," she said, maintaining a lively air. It wasn't at all forced. It was a treat not to have to get up and start thinking about whether the fires were lit or the library cleared of last night's debris or if the maids from the village would be prompt. She couldn't remember a day when she'd awoken to no responsibilities for someone else's home. But she could not be entirely oblivious to the mood of the man who lay beside her. She linked her fingers through his and was pleased, and a little relieved, when his tightened in hers. And then he spoke.

"I am very sorry," he said.

Her heart sank. She wasn't surprised that he should begin things this way, but it was disheartening all the same. His voice was oddly formal and she realized he might have formulated a speech, perhaps lain awake thinking it out. All she could do was listen.

"It is the signal duty of a husband to serve his wife," he went on, enunciating each word so deliberately, "and to inaugurate that service on her wedding night. I have failed in that duty."

He could not have spoken more somberly had he been submitting his resignation to Lord Grantham. But Elsie was taken aback by what he said even more than by his tone. Serve her! What was she, a prime brooding mare? She had to restrain herself not to give him an earful at his poorly chosen terminology. Only the fact she knew he was in a bad way held her tongue. She would challenge him on this at a more appropriate time.

"I'm not sure that timing is that important," she said instead. "There are those who … do it … well before a wedding night and some, I'm sure, well after it, if ever. Don't dwell on it."

Charlie

Don't dwell on it! Don't dwell on it! What on earth was he supposed to think about on his honeymoon except of making love to his wife and his failure to do so? He ought to have spent the night exerting and exhausting himself with his wife in his arms, in union with his wife's body. He ought to have slept the glorious sleep of the satiated husband, basking in the glow of manhood made manifest and in the sweet knowledge that he had served and satisfied his wife. And he ought to have awoken mid-morning to the sun streaming in the window, smug in his exultation and triumph.

But, no. He was instead awake at dawn, after a restless night, with nothing to show for his first night of marriage, his first night sharing a bed with a woman, but failure.

Don't dwell on it? Bah!

"And what would you suggest I dwell on instead?" he asked coolly.

Clearly she hadn't discerned his disgruntlement, for she snuggled against him more closely still, as though he had said something beguiling. "We have a day all to ourselves," she declared, as though this were any compensation, as though he wouldn't spend the whole day anticipating and dreading the night to come. "We're in the lovely town of Scarborough and right outside this hotel there's a beautiful beach that stretches for miles." She shook his arm a little. "You like the beach."

He did like the beach. But thinking of Elsie and the beach together took him back to Brighton when they had walked in the waves and she had offered him her hand to steady him in the rolling surf. It was the first time they had touched as a man and woman, and it was there that the kernel of an idea – that their relationship might change, might be changing – had begun. He had been so elated on the trip back to Downton. And over the course of the weeks following, when it seemed that he could never get rid of the sand in his shoes, he'd only laughed fondly at the memory of his toes squishing in the water and of her hand in his….

"I'm hungry," he said, because he was and because he wanted to do something other than lie here at the scene of his failure.

"You don't want breakfast in bed?" she asked.

"Certainly not!" For all sorts of reasons.

She deflated a little at this, the first overt disconsolate sign she had displayed. He almost took it back. His Lordship had encouraged them to indulge themselves and breakfast in bed – an aristocratic privilege – was certainly that. And did she not deserve it? She worked so hard and it was her honeymoon. She was entitled to it. But he just couldn't face it. Perhaps tomorrow.

"All right then." She spoke lightly, always able to make the best of things. Then she pulled away from him and sprang out of bed.

"What…?"

He was rattled at the sound of her dashing across the room and then the sight of her tugging at the curtains. First one and then then other gave way and the room was flooded with the glow of a morning sun rising over Scarborough on a very un-English morning. He blinked rapidly, his eyes taking a moment to adjust. Then they settled on her. She was standing before the window, staring out at the sea, her arms stretched over her head. Strands of hair had escaped the loose braid she had tied it in last night, but there was nothing like the disarray it should have been in after a night of conjugal passion.

He wanted to look away but couldn't. How exquisitely the nightgown fell along the contours of her slim frame. She was half-turned toward him and, in her profile, caught in silhouette, his eyes riveted to the enticing curve of her breast. So rapidly had things unravelled last night, careening to disaster at breakneck speed, that he'd not even had the chance to take that breast in hand as he had so longed to do or the opportunity to brush his lips over the enticing slope or run his tongue….

A carnal stirring in his core, wholly detached from his conscious mind, arrested his fantasies. With the brutal force of an iron self-discipline long practiced he throttled it then and there. No. No. Not now! It was a wholly inappropriate moment for such an impulse to take hold. This was an activity for bed-time, not any time a man might find himself in bed, his gaze filled with the physical reality of a most desirable…. No. Tonight!

At least, not this time. Had they experienced a rapturous wedding night, it might have been possible to entertain the radical concept of making love in the morning light. But in the circumstances which had prevailed, he could not consider it. His shattered confidence prohibited it.

"Come on then," she called out to him. "We're wasting this beautiful morning."

He sat up as she almost skipped her way to the bed and plumped herself down on the edge of it.

"Why're you so cheery?" he asked, almost crossly.

"Because I'm here with you," she replied pertly, not put off by his manner.

He wasn't persuaded. Indeed, her perkiness made him just a little suspicious. Maybe she was happier with this turn of events. Wasn't this the kind of marriage she had wanted? One where nothing happened? That this thought contradicted earlier ones about a wife's expectations and rights in marriage did not, of course, occur to him. His own thoughts were erratic.

Despite himself and his suspicions, her demeanor, the inviting liveliness of her sparkling eyes drew him. She was, in any circumstances, the most attractive woman he knew and he loved her. "All right," he gave in. "You first." He gestured to the bathroom.

Again she sprang to her feet and with a display of energy he did not recall seeing in her for years, perhaps ever. "Then what did you have in mind?" he asked, still cautious.

"Breakfast in the dining room where someone else can do the waiting on us. I'm famished. Mrs. Patmore's breakfast seems a long time ago. And then," she added, "a long walk on the beach." The prospect appeared to exhilarate her.

He nodded. Off you go, then. She seized her things and disappeared into the bathroom. His eyes lingered on the closed door. Well, there was no getting her down. His gaze fell to his body shrouded in the sheets. And he had a moment to regain control of himself.

Elsie

"I could get used to this," Elsie remarked, as they were getting up from the breakfast table. And she wasn't talking about the food, although it had rivalled Mrs. Patmore at her best. It was the way they were treated. "I mean, I know how the posh class are waited on hand and foot. I've done some of that waiting. But you can't really appreciate what it's like until you've literally walked in their shoes." His shoes, left outside their room last night, had been whisked away and returned, cleaned and polished to within an inch of their leather.

They had been attended by a smartly dressed waiter who had anticipated their every whim. "I don't think they appreciate what they've got," she went on, referring to the family in particular and the aristocracy in general. "They ought to spend a bit of time in our shoes. They might learn something." An image of Lady Mary lugging the coal buckets about and laying fires flashed through her mind and she smiled. Yes. There was nothing like a new perspective.

"Well, we mustn't get used to this," her husband cautioned.

Despite his words, Elsie had noticed again this morning how he accepted all the privileges extended to them without any wonder at all. It wouldn't hurt him to wash a floor now and then either.

He took a deep breath, as though mustering the courage to tackle a challenging chore. "The beach, then," he said, and offered her his arm.

Charlie

"This water is cold."

She had enticed him to take off his socks and shoes and go wading with her, no doubt in an attempt to recapture the magic of that interlude on Brighton Beach the year before. He entered into it reluctantly, but at least half-hopeful that this would work to rekindle that sense of eager anticipation. But the chill water had put an end to that.

"It's the North Sea," she reminded him. "Of course it's cold."

They had walked miles already, into the wind because she had insisted. "It'll be easier going back when we're tired," she said, ever practical. Although wading in the sea was hardly practical at any time.

"Haven't you ever heard that old joke? The one about the woman who walked an hour to church with her head bent against a cold wind, praying all the while, 'Dear God, please change the direction of the wind,' only to come out of the service to find that her prayer had been answered and she then had to walk all the way home again with the wind against her the whole time?" It was a sad little joke, but Elsie laughed aloud at it.

He wasn't worried about his trousers getting wet here, not as he had at Brighton. He had another pair back at the hotel and these were casual wear in any case, not like his livery. Her buoyancy unsettled him. Was not the weight of last night bearing down on her at all? He felt obliged not to be the wet blanket he felt like being, if only to salvage something for her in this holiday. If he could not be a proper husband to her – he would be tonight, he must be! – then at the very least he could refrain from diminishing those things she might enjoy. With an effort, he gave her a smile and, taking her hand, ventured another step into the surf.

Elsie

He was not entirely right about her. Last night did weigh on her because it weighed on him, and her fertile brain had not stopped since she'd opened her eyes that morning in trying to find a way to unlock the chains that bound him as firmly to the narrow definition of manhood as they did to the rigidity of service. Yesterday, at their wedding and at the feast that followed, she had seen a different man – Charlie Carson – playful, gregarious, expansive, fun. And whether or not he could successfully perform the sexual act – and she was sure he could if only he would lower his own expectations – she really wanted to spend a week with the Charlie Carson he had concealed within himself for so long and who had stepped into the limelight yesterday morning. But how to draw him out?

"Tell me something about yourself that I don't know," she said suddenly, as they splashed their way back to damp sand.

"What?"

"Tell me something about you I don't know," she repeated. And when he stared at her, perplexed, she added, "There are so many things about each other we don't know. Tell me something."

He was frowning a little, as though he did not understand what she'd said. "You've known me for thirty years," he said. "There's nothing you don't know."

"I certainly hope that isn't so!" she countered him. And indeed it wasn't. Look at how long it took for you to talk about your days on the halls! she might have reminded him. And what about Alice and Charlie Grigg? Surely there was even more to him.

He regarded her for a long moment in bemusement and then said, slightly wary, "You first."

"I can shear a sheep," she said promptly.

"What?"

She did not repeat herself, only staring at him. He had heard her.

"Well, that's something that comes in handy in your work," he said, a little sarcastically.

"It's quite useful, I can tell you, on a sheep farm," she responded spiritedly. "And you have to be strong to handle a sheep, and skilled with the shears, too. It's not just brute strength, you know." She said this boldly, as though he had challenged her. "I was quite good at it."

"I've known for a long time that you are both strong and intelligent," he said, almost formally.

This elicited a smile from her, a quiet smile in response. This wasn't the lively Charlie Carson of their wedding day, but the more humble man who had proposed to her with a moving gravity on Christmas Eve. "Your turn," she said.

But he shook his head. "I can't think of anything."

It was a dodge and she knew it. "Well, think of something. I can wait." She spoke airily, disguising her understanding of the hard reality that it wasn't going to be so easy to make Charlie cheerful again.

It occurred to her as they walked along, soaking up the sunshine, glorious sunshine that she could never get enough of, and enjoying the cool sea breeze that accompanied it, that it had been a very long time since she had been carefree. It took a lot of work to climb the ladder in service. Domestic service was as rigidly hierarchical as English society in general and almost as confusing. There had been few opportunities over the years for her to cut loose. Indeed she couldn't think of a time since her girlhood when she had been entirely free of imposed restraints. But here and now was an opportunity and she was not going to waste it. Yes, she would be solicitous of her husband when and how she could, but she wasn't going to let that interfere with this other aspect of their sojourn in Scarborough.

Playfully, she reached out and scooped up his hand which had fallen away from hers when they came out of the water. "Do you know," she said, with a mischievous look, "we can hold hands here without anyone noticing or caring. We could even kiss if we wanted to."

Charlie

He supposed that was a prompt and … he found that he didn't want to resist it. He stopped then, and she stopped, too. And he bent his head to hers, feeling just a little self-conscious, not of others watching, but with her. They kissed. It was a tame little kiss, pleasant, but not wholly satisfying. He frowned a little and then pressed his mouth to hers once more. She was so responsive that he put his hands on her arms to steady them both and in a moment they were transported back to that post-disappointment interlude last night.

He lifted his head suddenly and glanced about. She was right. There were few people about and no one was looking their way and why on earth would they? He bent his head to hers again and this time gave in to an impulse to tickle her tongue with his and to explore more deeply. Why not?

His hold on her was functional, not romantic. The sand made for uneven footing and the disparity in their height made for a slightly precarious stance when they were otherwise occupied. But now she reached up to grasp the lapels of his shirt, a move that spoke to intensity of desire rather than a prosaic concern for balance. This prompted him to put his arms right around her and draw her in. That she melted so swiftly into his embrace only encouraged him and his kisses deepened. It was so easy, this, so natural. Why had the other thing gone so wrong? It would not let him go, pervading even this lovely moment and perhaps she felt it, for the intensity of their kisses slackened and she drew back just a little. There was colour in her cheeks. Was she blushing? Or was it just the effect of the sea breeze?

His gaze ranged over her. The only other time he had seen her so … unbuttoned … was that time in Brighton, when she had worn a light, brightly coloured dress, a drastic contrast to the blacks she wore at work and the browns she wore on her days off. Yesterday, of course, she had been in an attractive grey, accented by the lavender coat. And now she was in a dusty blue. It suited her, but he thought a brighter shade might change her whole aspect. Well, perhaps he could see to that. She was wearing a hat today, for protection against the sun. He hadn't thought to bring one and wasn't sure he could make himself wear such a frivolous thing if he had. Hers flapped in the breeze. It might blow away at any moment.

"I can sing the Marseillaise," he announced suddenly. "In French."

"What?"

Now she fell out of his arms completely, startled, stunned it looked like, by his admission.

"The Marseillaise," he repeated. "You wanted to know something new about me. That's it."

Her mouth fell open. And then she was almost frowning a little, puzzled. He had taken her off guard. Her sheep-shearing confidence had been news to him, but it wasn't so extraordinary. She had grown up on a sheep farm, after all. But his confession came completely out of the blue.

"In French?" What a foolish question to ask.

He almost smiled. "Yes, in French. Who sings it in English?"

She found her voice. "I don't know whether to be more shocked that you know the anthem of revolution or that you know any song in French!" she declared, finding her footing and resorting to characteristic sharpness.

He grinned, happy to thrown her a little. Then he took her arm so casually that he didn't even notice himself doing it, and began to stroll down the beach.

"How?" she demanded.

"Well, you know I went to France for nine months to study wine."**

She nodded. Yes, he'd told her of that episode in his past, though only the fact of it, not any of the details.

"That's when I picked it up."

"But … how? There are plenty of foreign workers in England, but I doubt they go home singing God Save the King."

"They may not be singing it, but I'm sure many have learned it. It's not a complex song, after all. Not like the Marseillaise," he added, a little smugly.

"You still haven't explained."

"Well, I heard it many times when I was there and I picked it up. I have an ear for a tune." That oblique reference to his days on the halls was as far as he wanted to go with that.

"What were you doing there?!" She remained bewildered.

"Learning about wines," he said emphatically. "But they sing it a lot, the French." He frowned a little at that. Singing at work. There was no singing at Downton Abbey on his watch.

"Go on then."

"What?"

She stopped and pulled him to a halt with her. "Give it to us. Charlie," she added.

He was a little jarred by the still-new sound of his name, in the diminutive form, emanating from her, but he shook his head. "Absolutely not!" And in those words the imperious tone of the butler of Downton Abbey, which had been missing in action since the night before their wedding, suddenly reasserted itself. "It's a wholly inappropriate song at any time!" He might be feeling a little more relaxed here and now, but he hadn't lost his mind.

"How do I know what you say is true, then? That you know it?"

She was provoking him. He could see the glint in her eye. But he rose to the bait anyway. "Because I'm telling you so. You'd think that you might trust your own husband."

She raised her eyebrows a little, feigning scepticism. "Did you learn anything else in French?" she asked.

He shrugged. "A few phrases here and there. I worked with men who spoke a little English, after a fashion. I only ever learned a handful of French words."

"Like what?"

He didn't know why he was indulging her in this silliness, except that it was her honeymoon, a time for indulgences, and it seemed harmless enough. So he thought about it, trying to recall.

"Bonjour." He said this with a distinctly clunky English accent. "That means 'good day.' And Comment ca va. That's 'how are you.'" He paused. There was something else. "And … Je t'aime."

"And what's that mean?"

He cleared his throat, uncomfortable. "I love you."

She gaped at him. "I love you!" she repeated. "So you only learned a few phrases in French and that was one of them? What were you doing over there?"

He knew she was teasing him, but he came over flustered nonetheless. "Learning about wines," he reiterated, between gritted teeth. "But I was surrounded by Frenchmen and all they ever talked about was women and love. And wine."

At this, she broke out laughing. "And you, the staid Englishman, in the middle of that!"

He thought about how he might restore his dignity in the face of this outburst, and glanced about a little self-consciously, wondering what others might think of her laughter. But then gave up such pretensions as a bad job and joined her. "I wasn't so very far from my dance hall days in those days," he admitted. "I could … appreciate … a little bit of the French temperament." He looked at her, suddenly glad to be here with her, alone, talking about silly things and walking on a beach.

"Do you fancy a cup of tea?" he asked.

She rewarded him with such a warm smile that the cares of the past several hours slipped to the back of his mind. "I do."

He looked at his feet. "We'll have to put our shoes back on," he said, as though that might be a problem.

"Then we'll do it." She started to cast about for a piece of driftwood that might serve them in that pursuit. And then a wistful look came over her, which alarmed him just a little. "I wouldn't mind going to France," she said.

He was much relieved by this. He had feared that she, too, might be thinking of last night. "It's quite a lovely place," he said. "Or would be, if it were not inhabited by the French."***

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

By noon he was feeling much better. The sun was shining and that always helped. And Elsie was right about the relief of the burden of service. This wasn't like a half-day where you might leave the premises but never get far enough away to escape all responsibilities. It was different here. Scarborough might well have been on the other side of the Atlantic in the way that it distanced them from Downton. It surprised him to realize that he was not thinking of Downton, wondering whether Mr. Barrow was getting it all done. It was all too remote to care.

But more than anything else it was his wife – Elsie – who drew him out of his funk. She was irrepressible and irresistible. He had long enjoyed her company at Downton, but within the confines of their lives, both physical and social, she was necessarily restrained. Here she was somehow…liberated, laughing easily, taking pleasure in everything, teasing him mercilessly. And he had thought he was the one with the sense of humour.

They might have had lunch at a café or a pub in the town, but Elsie argued for a picnic on the beach.

"Who knows if this weather will hold?" she'd said.

So they bought bread and cheese and a bottle of beer and found a spot on some rocks. And in the healing atmosphere of resilient nature and effervescent woman, he found his confidence returning. He was physically capable, he didn't doubt that. It had been a very long day yesterday, an exhilarating, emotional day, and it had come on the heels of a night of nervous anticipation and restlessness. He'd been tired, not on top of his game. And while the fear of failure haunted him, there were advantages to turning to it on the second night. They were more comfortable together today, much more relaxed. A lot of the little things that made for awkward moments were behind them. Everything would go more smoothly for that. Yes, tonight was the night.

The glint of the gold band on her left hand caught his eye and he reached out to her, rubbing his thumb over the soft metal that he'd had polished up.

"This was my mother's ring," he said. He hadn't told her this yet. "I'd have buried her with it, but my dad insisted we take it off." A smile edged its way across his lips. "A practical Yorkshireman, my dad. He didn't want it to go to waste." His eyes slanted up to hers.

A wisp of hair had blown across her face and she brushed it away. "I'm with your father on that," she said. "And I'm glad you found a use for the ring." Her hand tightened in his. "You're not much like your father, are you?"

"What do you mean by that?" he demanded, both amused and slightly ruffled. "Am I not practical?"

She rolled her eyes. "Not that. Only you're not a typical Yorkshireman, are you?"

It was on the tip of his tongue to retort that he was Yorkshire born and bred, but he guessed he knew what she meant. He didn't sound like a Yorkshireman, having suppressed the local cadences in favour of Received Pronunciation. It was part of the spectacle of a great house where the butler and the footman were created as shadows of the lord of the manor. And there was no getting around the fact that he loved London. But he wasn't prepared to deny his birthright.

"Not typical, perhaps," he said judiciously, "but no expatriate either, in heart or mind." He still held her hand, now running his thumb over the fine bones there. "You've been here, in Yorkshire, some thirty years and you still talk Scotch." That was a bit of a provocation and he gave her a knowing look. Two can play at this.

"Well, I left just about everything else behind in Argyll," she replied. "An accent is portable. And no one cares how a housekeeper speaks, so long as the house is running smoothly and the sheets are clean and don't have holes."

Elsie

The day unfolded much as Elsie had hoped. Somewhere, at the back of her mind behind the more pressing concerns about the nature of marriage, the physical nature of it, she had harboured another apprehension. What if they ran out of things to talk about? Of course, they'd spent all day every day for years crossing paths and conversing at length. But what they had talked about was their work – specific tasks, issues with the staff, special requests from the family. This was different. Here they would be alone together for days – and nights – without respite. What would they say? In the reality of it, however, this proved not to be a problem. Once they'd smoothed over the awkwardness of last night, conversation, and comfortable silence, flowed smoothly between them.

Last night did not go away. But by the time they sat down to lunch on the beach, he seemed to have regained a semblance of that cheerful Charlie that had been on display the day before, animated and gregarious once more. He knew about Scarborough, had looked into it beyond the beaches and the hotels. She wasn't really surprised when he produced a dining itinerary. There were a number of good places in the town and it seemed he wanted to introduce her to them all, or perhaps to show off his cosmopolitanism.

"We needn't eat every meal at the hotel," he said emphatically.

And there were sights, too. "The castle, of course."

Well, of course the castle. They could see it on a forbidding promontory miles down the beach, even from their hotel window. Elsie might have suggested an excursion there today, as a distraction, but he was not inclined and she deferred. She was relieved by his resumption of the role of leader. That was more like him.

But as the afternoon waned, his exuberance faded a little, and then more noticeably, and she knew why. Night was approaching and he was worried. Elsie was frustrated. From her earliest days as the housekeeper of Downton Abbey she had seen it as part of her role to support the butler. He had a lonely job. She thought she'd done this very well. (Extraordinarily well, as she was now the wife of said butler.) But she hadn't yet figured out how to offer that same sort of succor to her husband. What was her role here? Did she have any role at all?

While she wrestled with this, she could only watch apprehensively as his gloom deepened. She sighed. Despite her determination, the night before them was bringing her down, too. He had said, one day, when they were making their wedding plans, that they would have fun in Scarborough. If his definition of fun referred exclusively to the sexual act, then he had been quite wrong. She began to think that there would be no castle, no shops, no carefree leisure unless and until he performed as expected. And when she sat down to dinner that night, in an attractive place that offered fresh seafood – she thought she might try lobster! – she realized just how accurate an assessment this was.

"What do you mean, no wine?" she asked, as the waiter withdrew.

He did not meet her eye, choosing instead to peruse the menu. "We don't always have to indulge," he intoned. "Do you see anything here that interests you?"

But she would not let it go. "You enjoy wine," she said, pointing out the obvious. "It looks like a fine wine list."

He shrugged dismissively. "I get through dinner every night of the week without it," he said. "We don't need it."

This, as far as she was concerned, was peculiar. As true as it was that they did not have wine with their meals downstairs at Downton, he believed a meal without wine – a meal anywhere but in service – tantamount to a crime against good breeding. He was on holiday, on his honeymoon, entirely at leisure, and there was no better occasion to indulge, not to mention the free hand in options made possible by His Lordship's largesse. Elsie thought they should take advantage of the circumstances. But she did not press him. Instead, she chewed on her lip while her eyes stared unseeingly at the menu, her enthusiasm for the lobster a faint memory.

He was that afraid. Her heart cried out for him. Why must he put so much pressure on himself? Why couldn't he let go of the destination and focus on the journey? But it was foolish to worry herself with such questions. There was no turning him. She could only resign herself to an alcohol-free dinner and hope that all went well that night.

And they had not kissed since early afternoon.

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

* NOTE 1. For Carson's conversation with Dr. Clarkson, see Getting Married, Chapter 5 "The Doctor's Advice."

** NOTE 2. Carson's sojourn in France, training in the management of wines, is an invention of my own, alluded to in other stories.

*** NOTE 3. Carson's dismissive attitude toward the French is derived from canon and is not one shared by the author.