Well. I am quite surprised at myself. One month of no posting and suddenly I have written two chapters in one go. If you haven't read chapter 3, I recommend you do so before reading this one. The rest of my updates will likely not be as frequent as these two but I will keep churning these chapters out for as long as the inspiration allows me to.

Elsie ushers Alison off to bed, following her upstairs and fighting off excuses. She's rather tired herself but there's a kitchen to be cleaned and a husband to wait for so she feigns alertness as she stands in the hallway.

"Mam?" Alison says as she begins to change.

"Yes?" She answers. Elsie opens the door to the room opposite, breathes a sigh of relief that Davina has indeed fallen into a deep sleep and a quiet one at that. No nightmares or expressions of worry on her youngest's face. It's been a long few nights, a long few years if she's honest with herself. Davina always had difficulty sleeping, even as a baby she preferred to be awake and observing, crying when laid to rest in her cot. She'd expected it to phase out, and perhaps, it finally is.

"Do you suppose everything is alright with Nana and the family?"

Her mother gives a sad smile hovers in the doorway, "It's nothing for you to worry about. On the farm there's hardly a moment to spare, and we're not exactly sticklers for communication in the Hughes family. Not like your father during the season."

"Well, no one is. He writes to you more than a man at war," Alison retorts, accompanied by a roll of her eyes. She lifts the sheets of her bed, huddles under the blanket and gets comfortable.

"He's a man of many words."

"Maybe he should write a book instead. Or poetry." Alison falls back against her pillows, sighs contentedly, "I wouldn't put it past him that he's secretly had one published and we're really actually very rich because of it."

It's Elsie's turn to roll her eyes, but instead she bites the inside of her cheek to prevent an indulgent laugh and says, "Good night, Alison."

She closes the door behind her, fully aware that her daughter will turn to read the moment she hears the steps on the staircase creak; one of the reasons why she checks the rooms and not Charlie. She's not doing anything wrong, not really, and so what if, on occasion, she must move a book off the bed of her daughter so the corner doesn't poke her as she sleeps? The intellectual curiosity their daughter possesses is one that Elsie dreams will drive her towards a better life. Deep down, she knows that her husband wants the same but he was haunted by an adventure that left him stung and didn't know the exhilarating feeling of achieving something no one thought you could do. Above all else, she hopes that she herself will never know the pain of a daughter running away. That both her girls will know they have two champions in their corner, cheering them on no matter what.

She shakes her head and enters the kitchen just as the front door opens. He doesn't call for her, usually doesn't when it's this late out of fear of waking the girls. A true gentle giant because his first action after his coat, hat and gloves are left in their respective places, is always to check the sitting room for a young lass to carry upstairs. When the girls were one and nine, he would often come home to quite a sight; Elsie asleep on their sofa with Davina sprawled on top of her, Alison curled into her mother's side. There were times when he would find his eldest asleep on his chair instead, a hand clutching the afghan left on its back. In those days he would carry both his children up the stairs, seeming to weigh a mere feather in his arms.

It has been a long time since he's had to do that, and his heart aches a bit at the thought. Or maybe a lot.

He walks into the kitchen, whispers a "hello" so as to not startle her.

"Would you like some tea?"

He shakes his head, "Straight to bed, I think."

There's a glint in her eye, she tuts, "Not even a spot of tea before such a proposal. Well, if you insist, Mr Carson." She sees the eyes glazed over with exhaustion, and sighs, "Up you go, I'll be joining you as soon as I'm done with this lot." She gestures to the dishes which need to be dried.

"I'll turn out the fire then." As he does so, he notices a basket on the floor, full of linens he doesn't recognise as theirs. Or any from the house for that matter. There are piles of them, a mix of clothing beneath. He doesn't linger much on it, supposes it is something of the girl's that she has to mend. He tries his best not to pry into such things, is aware of how much of his wife's life revolves around him and the girls and how very little privacy or life she has outside of them. If she hasn't mentioned anything about something to him, then clearly it is nothing of importance.

Elsie hears the first stair creak followed by silence, and she allows herself a low chuckle. He has this small talent of his, a token from his theatre days- but she would never tell him, and he would never admit it- to climb up the stairs with the littlest of noise, something she has never accomplished. She ponders over it as she makes her way to their bedroom, realising she has never asked him how he does it. Tonight is not the night for that, she thinks. He is much too tired and there is something they must discuss that is far more pressing.

He begins to tell her about his day as they both change. He begins with his shoes and socks. His clothes go in a neat pile on a chair in the corner while the things which are still clean are hung up.

Elsie no longer has any qualms about raising her arms and divesting herself of her clothing in front of him as she did in the early days of their marriage and in those weeks following the births of their daughters. Her body is not what it was, has never been a picture of perfection but her husband far from complains and she has grown to be comfortable in it. Rather prefers the soft curve of her hips over the bony figure that is slowly becoming preferred. The chill still does make her hiss no matter her age and he is quick to rub his hands on her arms, to warm her while she reaches for her nightdress. She presses a kiss to his shoulder and moves to brush her hair. He turns to the small basin in their room and wets his hair, rids it of the pomade.

She quirks a brow, "Mrs Wolfe is fighting for a new lady's maid? But what about Anna?"

"That's what I told her. Her ladyship is insistent that Anna take over."

Elsie huffs, braiding her hair with a slight indignation, "I should wonder how Mrs Wolfe finds the time to make more work for herself. There are always far more girls for the position of housemaid. She could find a local girl- I know of at least four in the village eager for work- Anna would train her, meaning a quick transition. Really, I do not know where she gets these absurd ideas of hers. Anna is a very competent girl, she should be rewarded for her efforts."

"Perhaps she needs your pragmatic approach to knock some sense into her. I clearly have tried and failed to convince her of these facts."

"I do believe there would be bloodshed should Mrs Delphine Wolfe and I find ourselves in a room together."

"One can only hope."

"Charlie!" She gasps, a smile tugging at her lips as she rises to join him in bed. He must be very exhausted to have admitted such a thing about a colleague. He likely hasn't even realised what he's said as he pats his pillows and gets settled under the blankets. She bites her lip, hovers just by her side of the bed.

"Are you getting in?"

"I've received a letter," She says, her voice very soft, almost hesitant. "From home."

"Your mother?"

"Well that's the thing," She wrings her hands at these words, unsure of how to discuss it now that she's brought it up. She wishes her mother had written to her, it would be a reassurance and a weight off her mind. No, the weight seems to get heavier, shoulders rounder and sagging as time goes on. They have never spoken a word of what happened the first time she left for Scotland, before their marriage and everything else that seemed to follow. Easier to call it a day for that story than to allow it to fester. "It's Joe that's written."

Her husband shifts uncomfortably, "Why?"

"He's asked to meet. There's-" something he needs to tell me, something's wrong, she wants to say. She hesitates again, can hardly tell him what Joe wrote in his letter without her husband jumping to all sorts of assumptions and so she settles for a version of the truth. "He'd like to make amends."

"After all this time?" Of course Charlie would prod her over this, ask the obvious. He's refusing to look at her too, has his gaze firm on his hands where they are fiddling with the topmost blanket. He is worried, she knows, but his tone is firm and there's a sharp edge to his words which bothers her.

"Yes, well. I think it's important. To move forward and all." She receives no questions, no glances and so she steams on with the part she's sure he will be angered by. "I'm to meet him at the fair next week. Alison would like to go too, so I thought we could make a night of it and take Davina as well."

He looks up sharply, so quickly that she's surprised he doesn't get a crick in his neck, "A night of it? Really, Elsie. Take our children to- to a fair to meet their mother's old beau? A man who caused a lot of trouble, might I remind you. I should think not."

"Lower your voice," she hisses. He really does have a habit of speaking in that booming timbre without noticing. It is well past midnight, she is tired and was hoping to avoid a row but now, all she'd like is to avoid waking Davina. "I've already told Alison she can go. Or rather you did, early in the morning yesterday when I had no clue about the entire thing. As I see it you have two options," She huffs, breathes in deeply and counts to ten before continuing, "Turn back on your word, or stay back with Davina and explain to her why she was excluded from the outing and seeing the pretty lights and things that her sister will inevitably tell her about."

"But Elsie-"

"Lower Charlie," She says again, a harsh whisper but in actuality, she's speaking slightly too loudly as well. His voice has taken on that tone, slightly patronising. The one he uses before he scolds a hallboy, one she has heard him use time and time again and has no patience for.

"They will not be meeting Joe, Elsie. I refuse to let them."

"He's a really lovely man, Charlie." It sounds absurd, clutching at straws but she supposes it is true.

He guffaws, "I seem to recall him trying to trap you into marriage or is that simply how things are done-"

She knows where he is going, dangerous territory and her eyes flash in anger, "Now listen here-"

"Ma?" There's a small voice at their door, a little girl with a mess of curls around her head opening it slightly and peering into the room, "Pa?"

"Oh, we've woken you, dear, dear girl." Elsie is out of bed and her husband wonders at how quickly she's able to shift from anger to love, annoyance to compassion in the blink of an eye. "Would you like to sleep in here tonight?"

Davina hums, rubs at her eyes which are red and puffy, "Bad dream."

Elsie lifts her and places her into the centre of their bed where Charles pulls Davina towards him and kisses her hair.

"Would you like to know something?" He whispers as Elsie shuffles in and he feels her cold feet touch his warm ones. He feels Davina nod into his chest and he manages to lower his voice even further, down to a mere rumble, "We're going to the fair next week."

"Really!" His daughter's eyes open widely and she is chattering excitedly over the rides she hopes to see, the ones she remembers from the previous year.

Elsie has turned onto her side and is peering lovingly at them both; his exaggerated facial expressions at every word and especially to the ones he doesn't understand, her daughter's high pitch giggles when he tickles her side every so often. She mouths a "thank you" when his eyes meet hers and he takes her hand and kisses it, keeping it in his.