The brass bell that sat above the teashop door tinkled, alerting those inside of a newly arrived customer, as if the gusts of wintery air that accompanied them weren't enough. It whipped around the ankles of those already seated and caused the linen tablecloths with their scalloped edges to dance for a time in the resulting breeze. But only one man looked up.
"I'm sorry I've kept you waiting, Mr Carson," offered Elsie, graciously taking the seat opposite him, "Mr Branson caught me just as I was leaving."
The table was their favourite. Not by any joint declaration as such, but by the fact that in all the years they'd been meeting here, this was the one they sat at most often. Positioned slightly left of the bay window, it afforded a decent view of the village with the added advantage that the sun shone directly into the eyes of those sitting elsewhere, something Charles frequently found himself grateful for. Except right now he could only frown.
"Asking for yet another favour, I suppose," he growled, "As if you didn't have enough to contend with."
Ach, don't be like that," Elsie admonished lightly, stowing her bag neatly on the seat beside her and then pulling at the soft leather at her fingertips. "He simply wanted to ask if I'd made sure some of Sybbie's toys were in the smaller trunk, so she has them to play with them on the ship."
With her hands finally free and gloves placed tidily beside her, Elsie lifted the printed card listing the day's selection and, resting back a little, began to peruse it in earnest.
"Surely the question of what goes where is one for the Nanny, and not the housekeeper," Charles replied, not quite yet ready to give up his displeasure at the cause of her delay. "And besides," he added tersely, "It's all a bit late for changing things. They leave tomorrow."
Elsie gave a dismissive shrug, not especially keen to be drawn into yet another discussion as to the nature of the relationship between herself and the former chauffeur and instead changed the subject.
"I'm not sure if I'd rather a pikelet or an iced bun today. What are you thinking, Mr Carson."
"I've been dreaming of a toasted teacake since I woke," he replied in a tone that contrasted with the lightness of the sentiment, "So my decision is straightforward. I do agree though that the pikelets here are somewhat difficult to resist."
Elsie gave a nod of agreement as she continued in her deliberations and Charles couldn't help but watch. His unconscious jealousy that Mr Branson had stolen precious moments of her company from him lingered as he noticed how her expression changed as she reached her final decision. It was a sight he'd seen many times before but was no less enjoyable for that. He liked it about her, admired it even, the evidence of her determination even when it came to the smallest of details. He'd come to appreciate her quiet, and sometimes not so quiet, resolve to tackle things in her own manner and considered it fortunate that they were so often in agreement. It didn't do for the two of them, give their positions within the household, to be constantly at odds. But it was far more than that, he realised. For whilst ensuring the efficient operation of the Abbey was the standard to which he aspired, there was joy to be found in acting together, and relishing in the fire when they didn't. For what could be as wonderful as the solace of the other when they were once again at peace?
He continued in this vein of thought as she fiddled with the setting in front of her, shifting the lace-trimmed placemat so it sat properly, its long edge parallel to that of the table. She smoothed the wrinkles with the back of her fingers before, satisfied all was as it should be, looked up to meet his gaze with a smile.
"Mr Branson aside, I was glad to get away for the afternoon," she confessed, "It's been quite the few days."
"Certainly Christmas created quite a bit more work," he agreed, "Although that's largely behind us now and at least they'll be away for New Year. Anna tells me that Rose has requested some more items to be sent to Canningford."
"Oh, nothing too much," Elsie reassured, "Just one or two trinkets that she'd gotten used to having when she was here. I should say that's to be expected, a bride must want a few familiar things about her as she begins her new life."
She flushed a little as she spoke and made an attempt to distract attention from it by straightening her shoulders but he saw it nonetheless.
"Well, that won't be something we have to worry about," he declared rather smugly.
He saw her frown and went to question it, but any concern he may have been about to express was circumvented by the arrival of their waitress. He recognised the young girl but couldn't place her. She was well turned out, that much he could see, her black dress and white pinafore clean and pressed as was only proper, and the manner in which she enquired after Mrs Hughes' order met with his silent approval. The standards upheld in this particular establishment were such that he'd be so bold as to recommend it to others.
Charles let his mind wander as the order was placed, Elsie taking upon herself to do so for him also. When had she started doing that, he asked himself? It was an unlikely action, the housekeeper taking control over the butler. But he supposed that it had happened once quite by accident and then become a habit between them. Like sharing a drop of sherry before bed or a calming touch to the arm when he was likely to explode at the latest kitchen mutiny. What he did know was that amongst this hubbub of their everyday lives he'd discovered something he valued above all else, her friendship. But more than that because it had been away from the Abbey, in the moments they'd shared drinking tea or walking across the estate, even taking in the pictures once in a while, that he'd come to love her, deeply and wholeheartedly, and the very thought of it made him quite heady.
"Are you quite alright, Mr Carson?" she enquired, her voice drawing him back, "You looked quite flushed."
"It's warm in here" he bristled in an attempt to cover the cause, "They could do with opening a window or two."
She offered a reply without commitment and struck up a tale of her morning, the challenges of being short staffed yet again as the usual bout of winter influenza circulated through the attic bedrooms.
"And to add to everything else," she gave in conclusion, "I think Anna might be next. Despite her protest she was just tired, she looked decidedly peaky to me earlier. And if she goes down with it, well..."
"She should keep away if she's unwell," Charles warned, "It won't do to have it spread around the family."
"Oh no, Mr Carson, it wouldn't do to risk Lady Mary coming down with it."
He went to protest the accusation but was stopped by the clinking of a tray that appeared beside them and its contents being carefully set out. The fine bone china with its colourful pattern brightened the space between them countering the awkward silence that their exchange had caused. She filled it by reaching for the pot and set about pouring their tea, a dash of milk for him, a little more for her.
He added a cube of sugar and began to stir, the silver spoon chiming as he trailed it through the murky brown liquid and it caught against the sides. He took much longer over the task than was warranted, buying time, stealing himself to speak. He cleared his throat.
"Could you stop calling me that?" he asked, setting the teaspoon aside and lifting the cup to his lips.
She caught his eye and frowned. "Calling you what? What do you..."
"I mean," he interrupted, anticipating the question, "We are to be man and wife and yet you insist on calling me Mr Carson still."
He paused, unsure from the look she was giving him whether this was in fact the moment after all but he'd gone too far to turn back.
"Can I not be Charlie to you?"
The words hung in the air as the world outside of them faded away. Time standing still somehow as her hands froze clasped around her teacup and her eyes flashed with something unknown. Surprise? Shock? Anger, maybe? Whatever it was it was torture. But he deserved it so he simply waited. Just for a moment he closed his eyes and held his breath. He could feel his heart pounding in his chest and wondered if she heard it too. This was taking too long. She was taking too long.
He opened his eyes and started at the sight of hers staring directly at him, wide pools of deep blue that he knew to darken when angry and lighten when amused. Eyes that were judging whether to point out in no uncertain terms that it was, as they both knew, him who'd been dragging his heels about taking this next step, or whether to simply to go along with the pretence that was being offered.
"On one condition," she said at last, her Scottish drawl sharper and more pronounced as she waited for his consent which he gave as a nod. "That I can be Elsie to you."
He saw the joyful smile now coming to dance on her lips, the same one he'd seen when he'd finally blurted out the proposal he'd been meaning to make for months, and it caused his chest to swell with love and pride. And it left him only able to utter a simple truth, one he'd been hiding from her for some time.
"In my heart you've been Elsie for quite some time. Of that I can assure you."