Chapter 9 The Third Morning - Monday

Charlie

He woke before dawn with an unfamiliar and uncomfortable dryness in his mouth and a headache. As soon as his brain permitted discernment beyond these two sensations, he realized that though he was lying in bed, he was still fully dressed, though he no longer wore a tie, his collar was open, and his belt loosened. No shoes, he noted. And then he opened his eyes and the full reality of his situation flooded in on him, his sensory perceptions giving way to conscious awareness, and he wished he had not woken up. But denial of things that were had never been part of his character, so he did not close his eyes again.

Elsie was asleep beside him, tucked under the covers. He could tell that she was asleep because the early morning sun was beginning to peep over the eastern horizon and the curtains had not been drawn to prevent its rays lighting the room. She was breathing easily, too, and looked peaceful. As his mind cleared and he remembered last evening and why it was his mouth was so dry, he could only wonder at her sleeping contentment.

He slipped out of the bed, taking great care not to wake her, and quietly left the room, grateful that she had put his shoes out for cleaning because she might have stirred if he'd been scrambling around the room for them.

Once outside, he rather wished he had taken the time to find his jacket, for the air was crisp in the early dawn and on the beach there was a brisk breeze off the North Sea. Well, some cool air might revive him, blow away a few cobwebs, though it was unlikely to dispel either headache or parched mouth. He did not pity himself these discomforts, though, for they were well-deserved, and he was one of those who believed that sins might be expiated only through suffering. He had consumed all that wine – for he remembered that, now – and he must pay the price.

Uncomfortable on so many levels, he stalked the beach, turning things over in his mind. It was nearing eight when he resolved on a course of action and determined that he could put off no longer returning to the room and to a bewildered Elsie, who might well wonder where he had gone. Indeed, she might be worrying about him and that, at least, was one concern he might alleviate.

Elsie

She was not worried. In fact, she wasn't even awake. For the first time in a very, very long time…could she remember such a time? she had slept long past her usual waking hour. Well, they had walked quite a bit the day before and she had been up to the wee hours. And no doubt a glass or two of wine had had its effect, too. She stirred now only at the sound of the door clicking and opened her eyes drowsily to see a familiar form, his face not quite discernible in the bright sun pouring in on him, cross the room to the window.

He was dressed, still in the clothes of last night and quite rumpled. She noticed this for what it said about his current state of mind and also, it amused her to note, how attractive she found the look. It wasn't something she would want to see every day, for she shared with him a satisfaction in things done up properly, but a rare divergence was a bit of a tonic. What struck her more about him was his sombre demeanour. He had the look of a vicar at a deathbed, which was not something to be welcomed in one's bedroom at any time. He came to the bedside and as she eased herself up into a sitting position, propping pillows up behind her, he sat on the edge. She smiled at him. His solemn countenance did not change.

"Good morning," she said brightly. Her natural disposition was to look on the better side of things and the sun was shining and…she had a plan. But in the moment, he looked like a man with something to say and she thought it better to let him say it.

He took her hand and held it between his, conveying more than ever the manner of one at death's bedside, and fixed his great dark eyes upon her. "I'm so very sorry, Elsie." He took a breath and then began what she quickly discerned was a prepared speech.

"I made assumptions about the nature of marriage and I imposed them unthinkingly on you. Acting on these assumptions, I have behaved in inappropriate ways. I had expectations of myself that were unrealistic and grounded in base physical desire. The folly of my ways has been paid out to me in failure in pursuing those desires. And last night…, well, I turned to alcohol to soothe my wounded vanity." His gaze did not falter as he spoke.

"I have concluded," he went on, in a tone that echoed the authoritative manner in which he delivered pronouncements to the staff at Downton Abbey, "that I was wrong and you were right, that a platonic relation between us would better suit us. I believe I can go forward on this path in the good humour that has always characterized our friendship, if you can forgive me."

Elsie listened to this statement in silence and not a little astonishment. He had, of course, been deeply wounded by his repeated failures to meet his own expectations, and she did sympathize with him on this. But the depths of his self-pity and his abject surrender were a bit much. Less surprising was the egocentric nature of his remarks, which was, of course, the critical matter. She let silence envelop them for a moment, giving his words the solemn regard due them before she dismissed them altogether.

"Oh, you're not going to get off that easily," she said flatly.

"What?"

She did not immediately respond. Instead, she scrambled from beneath the bedclothes and crossed to the windows, stretching her arms widely as she did so, enjoying the relaxation of her muscles. They had walked quite a bit yesterday, but her long soak in that glorious tub had gone a considerable way to easing stiffness in muscles that rarely got such a workout. And more than her body had been revitalized in her long immersion in the warm water. Her mind, twisted into knots by the dilemma of a wedding trip gone wrong, had found relief, too, though in the pages of a small well-worn book, rather than in the bath itself.

For a moment she looked out on the sea, persistent, powerful, and undefeated. She did love the majesty and mystery of the sea. And then abruptly she turned her attention to the dispirited man who had not moved from his perch on the bed and who was regarding her with no small degree of perturbation. He had planned this conversation and it was not going at all his way and this, it was clear, unsettled him.

"We've been going about this all wrong," she said in her most matter-of-fact voice. He opened his mouth, but she held up a hand to forestall interruption. He had had his say. Now she was going to have hers. "I believe there is a remedy, but it's not what you've suggested, not by a long shot."

She moved across the room to stand before him, marveling in passing at the complete absence of self-consciousness on her part. She was wearing her nightdress, of course, and had no reason to be self-conscious, but for the fact of her own apprehensions. But such feelings had entirely disappeared.

"Charlie, it's time we put our cards on the table." It was an apt analogy for had he not said, only yesterday, that she was wont to play her cards close to her chest? Well, the moment had come to show her hand.

She had clearly stunned him into acquiescence, for he offered no counter-proposal, only frowning a little apprehensively, and muttering, "That sounds ominous."

She put her head to one side and smiled just a little. "Serious, perhaps, but I wouldn't say ominous."

So effectively had she put him on the back foot, that he continued cautious. "What did you have in mind?"

"First, I'm going to get dressed. And then we're going to have breakfast." The thought of breakfast distracted her. "If I don't have a cup of tea soon, I'll be fit to be tied," she declared. "Tomorrow," she said firmly, as though he had said otherwise, "I want to have breakfast in bed. I've never had breakfast in bed, unless I were ill, and I'm sure they do it well here."

This digression bewildered him all the more. "Then, what? Today, I mean."

"Well, after breakfast, we're going to come back up here and have it out."

A look almost of alarm crossed his face and she was glad to see it, for that suggested some kind of engagement on his part. But then apathy overtook it. "I don't know that I can eat at all," he said.

"Well, I can," she said briskly. "I'm starved."

Elsie, Again

Breakfast rejuvenated her.

"There's nothing like a good cup of tea," she declared, and then tucked into a class English breakfast. The bacon was fried to perfection. This was always a bit hit-and-miss at Downton, where she could not always get exactly what she liked.

He had coffee and nibbled on some toast. He had drunk a great deal the night before. Whether it was that or a dread of what was to come, he was quiet. So she filled the silence.

"Did you see Mr. Dawes talking to Mr. Molesley at the reception?

"I did."

"I wonder what that's about. Well, perhaps they're old friends."

"Unlikely. Mr. Dawes is relatively new to the school and the village, and where would he have crossed paths with Molesley before that?"

She was pleased that he hadn't lost his voice entirely. Elsie trilled on, not requiring much of anything in reply, and not expecting much either. She had wrong-footed him with her response to his speech and he had not yet recovered. That was perhaps just as well, for she had much to say first.

After breakfast, she took his arm in a manner befitting a comfortably married older couple and led him back to the room. With the door closed behind them, she took his hand and led him to the bed where they sat together. They might have been more comfortable in chairs, but these were lacking in the room.

He looked both wary and weary. She hoped to dissipate both. Despite her confident demeanour, she wasn't sure quite where to start, not having polished up a speech as he had. So she just jumped in.

"There's nothing wrong with you," she said firmly.

"All evidence to the contrary," he muttered.

She ignored this. "We've been going about this all wrong," she went on.

He sighed. "It's my fault."

"Well, mostly," she agreed, and was glad to see his eyes flash mutinously at that. "But not entirely. We both need to appreciate that marriage is a two-player game and each of us must contribute. And that's where this starts. You tried to do it all, Charlie, and I let you." It felt good to say that aloud and to shoulder some of the responsibility.

"What do you mean?" he asked cautiously.

"You've made all the decisions and you've taken the lead in directing our…interactions." It wasn't a very satisfying word.

"Someone has so," he countered. "Someone has to be in charge."

She shook her head. "No. A marriage isn't like a business or the management of a great house. It isn't about organization and planning and efficiency. It's a relationship. Between two people. Between us." She took up his hand and squeezed it.

"And this is all new to us and harder still for attempting it so late in life. But you and I, we've accomplished a lot in our lives, Charlie. I think between us we can manage this."

The sceptical look on his face exasperated her. "We were mad as hatters to imagine we could fall into bed together and expect to lose ourselves in passion and pleasure. That's not the way it works, for us or anyone else," she added emphatically. She paused and then spoke the next words haltingly. "Making…love…well isn't a gift. It's a skill that takes as much work as any other." Colour rose in his face as well as hers at the words making love. Elsie wanted to give herself a good shake. If the term wasn't so unfamiliar to them, they wouldn't be reacting like this. And, as with so many other things, only practice would make it perfect. They needed to speak the words.

"It's been not at all what I expected," he admitted, downcast. "On top of … not working right, it's awkward and … messy."

"There's no getting around that, I fear," Elsie said complacently, "any more than the discomfort, even pain, a woman experiences with it the first time, or first few times."

This caught his attention on different levels. "How would you know that?"

Now she did not try to contain her exasperation. "Think of it, Charlie. You know how…how…," she was blushing again, "how big you are. Think of where that's going." She could tell he wanted to look away, embarrassed, and she couldn't blame him for she felt the same way. But they both persisted. Good. "I don't need to have experienced it to know that. And," she added, almost as an afterthought, "that's what Anna said."

This arrested him in quite another way. "Anna? What do you mean Anna?"

His sudden guardedness escaped her. Instead, her mind flitted back to the conversation she had had with Anna the night before the wedding, and she smiled in fond remembrance. "Anna gave me a few words of advice, after the little party the downstairs women had for me," she said.*

It was marvelous to watch his apathy, discouragement, resignation, frustration, agony – all those draining emotions flee his countenance and indignation and … well, almost anger…replace it. "You spoke with Anna about this? About us?" His slumped shoulders straightened. He assumed in an instant the formidable bearing of the butler of Downton Abbey. And the look on his face conveyed an almighty displeasure. "First, Mrs. Patmore. Now, Anna."

Elsie was not in the least put off. "Now, don't get all in a huff. She volunteered some information. I didn't ask. And I didn't say anything back." She paused. "It was not so much a conversation as a monologue." Better not to let him know that Anna knew what she was about in assuming ignorance on the housekeeper's part and that Elsie herself was more than grateful for the information thus imparted. Instead, she wiggled his hand a bit, cajoling him back to this moment and better humour.

"So, rather messy and awkward. And painful, even. For you." He deflated somewhat. "Dr. Clarkson said as much, but I suppose I wasn't listening as well as I should have done."

Now it was her turn to be taken aback. "Dr. Clarkson. What's he got to do with anything?"

Charlie paused. "I…er,…I spoke with him."

Though a little disconcerted, Elsie leaned more to astonishment than indignation. "About what?" she demanded.

To his credit, Charlie looked contrite. "Nothing to ruffle you," he said quickly. "I only wanted to know, given my age, and, you know, that little attack I had had a few years ago…."

Seven years ago, if she was counting right, but she let it pass.

"…whether I could be expected to manage…such activity. And," he added, with a slightly bitter edge, "he gave me his complete assurance that I could."

For a moment, Elsie was distracted. The health episode he was referring to had occurred late in the war. The only other time the butler of Downton Abbey had been off his feet in the last ten years had been when he came down with the flu, the year after that. And yet he had worried that that might have an impact. Age she could see. Had she not had her own concerns about that? But the other…. Oh, but they were woefully unprepared for this.

"Is that all?" she asked, returning to Dr. Clarkson. She could not imagine what else, but the fact that he had consulted the doctor at all was startling.

"Um…not quite." And now his eyes did drop from hers and traverse the room uneasily as though looking for an exit.

"Go on then," she said briskly.

He shifted a bit but did meet her gaze again. He was trying, too. "After we spoke about me, it then occurred to me to ask if, … ah, there were any special considerations necessary for a … a …." He cleared his throat. "…a woman of …well, of your age," he ended feebly.**

Had she ever heard him stumble over his words so completely? "And what did he say?" she pressed relentlessly. "Cards on the table, Charlie." She didn't even notice how easy it was to address him familiarly now.

"Elsie…. Well, all right. He did mention the possibility of discomfort, pain. He said, in such a case, more … care, more… stimulation, um, preparation, was required to ease that." And now he sighed and looked at her full in the face. "I've been so caught up in … in doing … trying to do … it…, that I will admit I'd quite put that … aspect out of my mind. Again, Elsie, I am sorry."

How he struggled to speak of this. How they both did. Elsie could only shake her head at the circumstances that had led to such a situation, where two adult people, both of them well grounded in the working world and well aware of the foibles of their fellow beings as a consequence of the world in which they lived in worked, could be so ignorant and inarticulate when it came to such a fundamental aspect of the human experience. But in the moment she had a bone to pick with him.

"There you are, rebuking me for listening to Anna, and you were talking to Dr. Clarkson!" She wasn't really annoyed. In fact, she believed she might even be pleased. He cared!

"Well, he is a doctor," he retorted. "It was a professional conversation held in professional confidence, not servants' hall gossip!"

"I daresay Anna knows as much, and possibly a good deal more about the thing than Dr. Clarkson," she countered him. "After all, she is married."

"Yes, well, I don't have to work with him, do I?"

Their exchange had become somewhat heated, their voices louder. They were both almost glaring at each other. And then … they both laughed. And laughed. And Elsie, free from some of the constraints that had inhibited her these past few days, constraints more self-imposed than not, leaned over to place a hand on his cheek and then to kiss him. Immediately his arms came around her and he kissed her back, long, slow kisses. She felt the tension ease in his shoulders.

"Did you think I knew what I was about?" he asked, as they drew apart. "Did you think I'd … done … it … before?"

She brushed a lock of hair from his forehead. "No. At least, from what you've said, I didn't think you experienced." She ignored the little frown that passed fleetingly across his face. Perhaps he had hoped she would think him a man of the world in this way even if he were not. "But I admit that I thought you would … just somehow know. Being a man." And now she frowned a little. "Women are so often told, mostly by men, that men know everything, that it's difficult to step outside of it. Even," she added, "with ample evidence to the contrary in other avenues." She shook her head. "I'm surprised at myself." It was a revelation.

"Well, I know nothing at all," he said ruefully. "And I am sorry about that, Elsie."

This made her smile. "But what is the alternative? If you were … if you had … done it … dear me, we really need to learn how to talk about this … then you would not be the same man that you are. And … I love the man you are."

They kissed again.

"I think I prefer us to be on equal ground," she went on. "And…you did think to ask the doctor, Charlie. I appreciate that. I do."

"Not that I've made much use of it," he grumbled. But it was his usual type of grumble.

"You've been carrying too great a burden," she said again, "taking all this on yourself. Much of it is self-imposed, but I did let you. In part because you are the man, but also," she hesitated, "also because I feared what you might think of me if I were too forward."

He looked puzzled.

"You know. Good women don't… don't…anything," she said, a little scornfully. "Don't know, don't do, don't … anything." Again she sighed. "Ridiculous," she added, almost to herself.

"Yes," he said firmly. "After all, women are as … women are interested, too."

He managed that with a straight face, but she laughed. "Did Dr. Clarkson tell you that?"

He grimaced and that was all the answer she needed to that.

"I thought that if I said or…did…anything…," the thought of touching him flickered through her mind, "…that you would think…. Well, I don't even know. So I let you take it all on and when it didn't work quite so well…," sometimes vagueness was actually useful, "you also had the burden of that."

"But it was my failure," he insisted. "That was obvious enough."

Elsie disagreed. "I ought to have taken my fair share," she said. "But nevermind that. We're done with the past, the recent past, that is. Let us start anew."

But he was perplexed. "But…how? I've tried everything I could think of." Which was not, he might have added, very much.

"Yes. You did. What I am saying, though, is that perhaps we ought to be working this out together, focusing on what we can come up with, rather than you …" …assuming control. "…doing all of the thinking."

He pondered this and she let him. "I would welcome such an approach," he said finally, carefully. "Do you have any ideas, Elsie?" It was an appeal.

Well, she did. But for a moment, she chewed thoughtfully on her lower lip, just looking at him. A quarter of an hour ago he had been willing to throw over a true marriage for pleasant companionship, had been mired in stultifying self-pity, had been in a wretched state. Their conversation had shaken him up a little, maybe even reinvigorated him. She was on the right track. Now it was time to be bold indeed. She took a deep breath.

"Yes," she said firmly. "Because I also consulted a doctor. In a manner of speaking."

"Not Dr. Clarkson."

"No, not Dr. Clarkson."

He came over bewildered. "But there is no one else." This, of course, was patently inaccurate, but she knew what he meant. There was no one else near Downton and neither he, nor she for that matter, could imagine her traipsing off to a specialist in York or London.

"But there is. Dr. Stopes."

He was understandably mystified. "Stopes? Where did you find him?"

She licked her lips. "She, not he. And I didn't go to see her. I read her book." And she got up to retrieve the slim little volume from her things and held it out to him.

He took it, curious, and stared at the cover where the title was embossed in gilt letters: Married Love. He hadn't even opened it and he began to fume. "She's no doctor."

"But she is. She has a doctorate from the University of Munich."

"A German institution."

"Yes, fortunately, for they appear to know a great deal more about … about sex there." She was not at all surprised by the look on his face, for she had shared that prejudice until about twelve hours ago. "And she is no less qualified for having gone to the Continent. And she works right here in England, at the University of Manchester."

He scoffed some more. "Manchester." Well, his disdain was no surprise. He reviled everything associated with Manchester – the Guardian, their football club, and Mr. Barrow. "And you read this…this …obscene book?" He tossed it on the bed as though he couldn't get it away from him quickly enough.

"That is precisely the reaction I thought I might get from you if I expressed an interest or took an active role in sex," she snapped, and she was glad to see him start a bit at bite in her words. (And proud of herself for saying sex without a pause.) She couldn't be that hard on him, though, for she had thought quite the same thing about Married Love before she'd opened it. Desperation had driven her to it, but, oh! what revelations lay within.

"It's not obscene at all," she said, equanimity restored. "I've read it almost right through. It's more of a hand book. A guide." She took his hand. "It's a book, Charlie, for people like us."***

But he wasn't through fulminating. She caught words like obscene and rubbish and appalling and filth, but did not listen all that closely.

"Really, Charlie," she admonished him lightly, "It's none of that. It only talks about things that someone should have told you and me and a lot of other people a long time ago, when we were young…."

"No respectable person…."

"I mean your father or my mother. Parents should talk to their children about this. It's a fundamental part of life. And, as we've discovered," she said flatly, "one that needs instruction." Well, that shut up his spluttering. "We pass on knowledge of many life skills – how to cook, how to sew and clean, how to polish silver, how to harness a horse or build a fire, for that matter. And, on this, … nothing? Nothing? It's ridiculous." Thinking about it made her indignant.

"But … that woman. That book."

"It's very helpful," she went on inexorably. "A lot more helpful than 'Lie still and think of the Empire'!"

"What?"

"Women are very poorly served." She had heard somewhere that this was Queen Victoria's idea of pre-wedding advice to a daughter, though she doubted the veracity of this tale. Could a woman so passionately in love with her husband as Victoria had been with her own Prince Albert, really have been so reticent? The Victorian Age was rather more Victorian than the queen for which it was named. "Anyway, I read it last night. Most of it. In the bath."

He was distracted by this revelation but, perhaps as it drew attention to his own behaviour of the previous evening, he sought a diversion and found it in the small volume. "And you think that this book might be helpful?"

"I do."

He grimaced again. "I resent being told how to do … this … by a book."

"It's a very informative book. And it's no worse than hearing it, in person, from a doctor or a friend."

He shrugged noncommittally.

She glanced over her shoulder at the sun streaming in. "We're missing a lovely day out there. Would you like to continue this conversation on the beach?"

He gave her a look that suggested she might have sprouted a second head. "No!"

Well, she hadn't really expected anything else. "Then let us make ourselves more comfortable," she said, pulling a pillow from the still-unmade bed and then tucking it under her head as she reclined across the mattress.

He smiled faintly and stretched out beside her, propping his head up on his arm. "Go on, then," he said.

Charlie

Imagine Elsie being in possession of Marie Stopes's book, let alone having read it! If he had come across it anywhere in Downton Abbey, he'd have burned the thing, unopened and unread. He could hardly countenance Elsie having the book, let alone packing it along on her honeymoon! And then reading it. What kind of a woman…?

He caught himself up abruptly. Wasn't that what she had just said? About how narrow expectations of what a 'good' woman knew or shouldn't know had interfered with women in general and rather more directly with them, and for the worse? And had not Dr. Clarkson told him that women had … sexual … he whispered the word even in his head, desires as potent as those of men? And hadn't he done a right job of messing it all up for them these past few days?

And still he struggled with the idea of intimacy discussed in any public forum as anything but obscenity and pornography. This was a private matter, sacred only as it unfolded between the couple involved. He hoped discussing it frankly as set out in some book would not diminish his own regard for the act. Still, he was himself out of options and Elsie, Elsie whom he trusted, was proffering this as an alternative.

"Well, first, we're not alone," Elsie began. "Ignorance…."

"Ignorance! That's a harsh word."

She gave him a look and went on. "…on this subject is epidemic in Britain. You know how we are about not talking about anything important. Apparently, it's different on the continent."

"I'm not at all surprised," he said drily. "The French. And all those Latins."

"And this ignorance leads to all sorts of unhappiness in marriage."

This assertion perplexed him. The marriages he saw around him at Downton all seemed happy ones to him. But then, they also all exhibited signs of mutual physical interest and enjoyment, now that he thought about it. His Lordship and Her Ladyship. Mr. Bates and Anna. Lady Mary and…best not go there. Thinking about it, he realized he had hoped that others would look at him and Elsie on their return to Downton and see the same compelling tensions and longing, and understand that it came from a similar mutual desire grounded in satisfying experience.

He shifted uncomfortably at this reference to unhappy marriages. Was that to be them, then?

She stretched out a hand to stroke his cheek, still rough with a night's growth of stubble, for he had not shaved before slipping out early that morning. "You may be surprised to learn that Dr. Stopes speaks about … it … Dear God, we need to find words for this!," she interrupted herself with a shake. "…. That Dr. Stopes speaks about …making love… much as you do."

"What?"

"Heart and mind and body and soul," she said lyrically. "Almost as a sacred act. She thinks it ought to be cherished, not just … done. And she thinks it should be as meaningful and pleasurable for a man and woman both."

"So do I," he said quietly.

She smiled at him. "As I've just said. You and Dr. Stopes."

"What about you?" he asked abruptly. "You've spoken about how this applies to me. What about you?"

"Well," she began, frowning thoughtfully, "it all makes sense to me, the way she talks about … about love-making."

He was interested in what she was saying, but he was just a little distracted by her wording. Elsie was making an effort here to use words to describe what he had always thought beyond words.

"I confess I've always been of two minds about …sex. What are you smiling about?" When he shook his head, she went on. "All the fuss people make about a necessary and practical act. But my feelings have always told me otherwise." She paused. "I have … thought about you, you know. About us. And about…how it would be between us."

This was an intriguing admission. Now he reached out to her, their arms crossing, as they stroked each other's face.

"And…there are things she says in this book that feel right to me."

He raised an inquiring eyebrow.

"She thinks the human body is beautiful and…ought to be seen."

Well, he wouldn't disagree with that. Had he been thinking only of his own interests, he would hardly have been drawing the curtains these last few nights. This had been a courtesy to her and her modesty. But it seemed that Dr. Stopes was opening up new possibilities here.

"Oh?" he said, with a bit of a grin.

"But within the context of the … act," Elsie said. "That is, she's not one for casual … nudity. In her view, there should always be a purpose to it and that purpose connected to intimacy, though within intimacy, it ought to be complete."

"That sounds about right," he murmured, though his mind had strayed to a vision of Elsie stretched out beside him as she now was, only naked, the alluring contours of her body there for him to feast his eyes upon, and to caress….

"One more thing," she said, and the words disrupted his pleasant reveries. "It was something like…the art of loving is a process, not an event. Those aren't her words, but what she meant was, every time a couple comes to … to … to making love, they should approach it as though for the first time, attending to all the preliminaries, so as to ensure the pleasure of both partners."

He grunted at this. "That is allowing for a successful first time," he grumbled.

"You know what I … she… means by it."

"Yes. I suppose I do."

"I'm not at all as eloquent or articulate as Dr. Stopes," Elsie said. "You should read her yourself sometime."

"I may," he murmured. "But you've put it all so very well." His hand strayed from her cheek to her hair. She had lovely hair. And he found that he wanted to entangle his hands in it, to touch her, to hold her. And then he simply did it, closing the gap between them, slipping his arm about her waist and drawing her to him, kissing her. And was immensely gratified to feel her lips, her tongue, move beneath his.

Her hand came up along his chest, pressing into him, massaging him. And he felt again a longing for her, to touch her, that he had suppressed and denied for months now. He turned from her mouth, traced the line of her jaw to that delicate point just beneath her ear. "Elsie." He spoke not so much in a whisper as a breath. "I want to … touch you." He wanted it very much, but this morning and the night before and the night before that and the way of thinking he had known all his life, held him back. So it was with both astonishment and wonder that he felt her take his hand and direct it gently to her breast. She spread his hand out over her and then lay her own hand on top. The fabric of her dress and of her undergarment remained between them, but he was not in a mood to complain. His hand tightened over her, squeezing, caressing, and they moaned together.

Was this not what he had imagined? At least in the comfort and ease of it, if not in extent?

They lay together there for some time, kissing, but also exploring, shifting not an inch of clothing, attempting nothing radical. And saying nothing. It was the sweetest interlude they had had together since they had stepped aboard the train at Downton.

* A/N 1. See Chapter 15 "The Bride's Night," in Getting Married for the conversation between Anna and Mrs. Hughes.

** A/N 2. For the conversation between Mr. Carson and Dr. Clarkson see Chapter 6 "The Doctor's Advice," in Getting Married.

***A/N3. Married Love, by Dr. Marie Stopes, really is a handy little book. It presents the problem of sexual ignorance in Britain – things really were very different on the Continent – almost as an epidemic. Stopes would know. She received thousands of letters from unhappy wives and husbands who felt much the same types of frustration as evidenced here between Charlie and Elsie. The book discusses matters both emotional and physical, and explores marriage through this lens. It encompasses the several strands Elsie mentions here and more besides. The one thing Married Love does not do is discuss birth control, which makes Baron Fellowes's use of it in this context – twice – inexplicable. It sounds to me like he never read the book.