The tray of tea things sat untouched beside her as the minutes ticked by. Where her hand rested on the table, her fingers drummed out the seconds, subconsciously matching the ticking of the clock somewhere behind her. Beryl knew it was one of the few that kept good time. By contrast the one in the corridor was terrible as was the one by her own little desk. Both required such regular winding that it was almost enough to think Mr Barrow should be kept on for this task alone, though the heady days of that level of staffing were as distant as her girlhood. But this was all by the by, she thought as her agitation grew.
"Patience might be a virtue," she muttered under her breath, "But I'm as far from sainthood as I'm likely to get."
Another five, maybe six minutes passed before the sound of hurried footsteps could be heard in the passage and the door was hurriedly flung open and quickly closed again.
"I'm sorry," Elsie managed breathlessly as she practically fell into the chair opposite and began pulling the gloves from her fingers. "It's always longer on the way back from the village than you think."
Beryl sniffed loudly. "I suppose because it's uphill. And none of us is as fit as we were."
Speak for yourself," Elsie countered, looking around for a space on the table to leave her handbag and then adding her gloves to the pile, "I'm up and down those stairs like a jack in the box."
"Well, excuse me for being stuck down here in the dungeon!"
Elsie blanched and Beryl felt the icy guilt of words meanly spoken flooding through her veins. She was tempted to apologise there and then, but then she remembered her resolve not to care. After all, no one cared about her feelings.
"I'll pour, shall I?" she asked in a spiked tone, "It might just be warm enough to drink."
She set about her task, a drop of milk in the bottom of each cup which, depending on who you listened to, was completely the wrong way around but it matched her mood to do it this way. The tea was no doubt stewed anyway, she reasoned, so why not risk the results being a little too milky. She lifted the teapot and began to pour, resolutely ignoring the heat permeating her fingers through the porcelain, and definitely ignoring the now quizzical expression on Elsie's face. She added a sugar lump to her cup and gave it a stir, conscious she was being watched still but desperate not to look up. As she finally brought tea to her lips she focused all.of her attention on the rim of the cup and then the saucer as she placed it carefully down. But all the while her irritation grew.
"Do you want to talk about it?" Elsie asked, reaching for one of the shortbread biscuits that had been sitting waiting on the plate between them.
"Not especially," Beryl replied.
The truth of it was she couldn't really pinpoint exactly what Elsie had done, other than go and get herself engaged. And she was happy for her friend, truly. If anyone deserved to be looked after it was Elsie Hughes. A lifetime of service and more besides, barely a penny to her name thanks to the care she took over her sister. No, Mrs Hughes deserved a bit of good luck. But her annoyance was there and growing. Everything the woman did seemed to niggle at her.
"You've been cross with me for days," Elsie tried again, as if reading her mind, "If I'm honest, I was a bit surprised you still wanted to do tea this morning."
"Well, I'm not surprised you were late!" Beryl retorted.
Elsie frowned. "I am sorry for that, but that can't be what has got you in this mood. I'm usually very punctual."
"Yes, very punctual, very ordered," she spat, "The very picture of organisation."
The room immediately darkened, a passing cloud temporarily blocking the light that had been streaming in through the high window. And given the atmosphere that now descended upon them, it was if the weather Gods themselves had known
"Right, well, "Elsie declared, draining the final dregs and returning the cup and saucer to the tray with a hurried clatter, "If you're not going to unburden yourself..."
"Unburden," Beryl sniffed loudly, "Yes, well, you'd know about that."
"Oh, for heaven's sake!" Elsie exclaimed in frustration, her hands coming down hard against the wooden arms of her chair, "Either tell me or don't. I've no wish to pry but nor do I possess the ability to read minds."
The two women locked eyes, two sets of fiery blue daring the other to blink first and Beryl feeling very much that it wouldn't be her. Not just because they both knew she was the stubborn one, but because her argument was sound and her feelings entirely justified and that gave her every reason to hold out. So, she held her ground, shoulders back, chin jutting forward in defiance. But the longer she stood there, resolute and determined, the more she saw. and what she saw was Mrs Hughes. Elsie. Her friend, her only confidante. The person she'd loathed and loved over the years, before finally settling on the latter. The person she was about to lose.
"What is it?" Elsie said, breaking the stalemate in whispered tones. "Maybe I can help."
"I can't," she replied. "You'll think the worst of me."
"Because you want to marry Mr Carson?"
And that was that. Elsie's twinkling tone belying her seriousness and it was all both women could do not to burst into a fit of giggles. Employing all their restraint, they fought to hold back their laughter, but it was no good. Elsie breaking first and Beryl not far behind.
"Oh, yes! Me and the butler! How well you know me," Berly chortled.
She reached for the handkerchief squirreled away up her sleeve and pulled it with an unnecessary flourish, dabbing at her eyes as the tears began to stream, the hysteria rising in her chest.
"As if he'd ever look at me, in my cook's pinny and cap," she continued, clutching her hand to her chest, "Oh, that's tickled me. And him turn my eye?! I can't imagine anything less likely than our esteemed butler being seen as an object of desire."
She was so wrapped up in the unlikely notion of such a scenario that she didn't see her friend bristle, or how her own chuckles abruptly ended, or how she shifted awkwardly in her seat as she decided whether to be offended or merely amused.
"Well, the idea's cheered you up at least," Elsie managed at last, standing to rearrange the tea things ready to carry the tray back to the kitchen.
"Oh, I didn't mean..." Beryl stuttered, her brain finally catching up with her mouth.
"It doesn't matter."
"Oh, but it does because...well, because..."
"What?" Elsie asked kindly. "Come on, you can tell me, surely? After all the awkwardness we've put you through of late."
"Exactly!" Beryl exclaimed, pausing to blow her nose on the now very screwed up hanky, "And it was awkward, don't get me wrong. And I'll thank you and anyone else never to put me in such a position again, except..."
"Except?"
"Well, maybe I don't see Mr Carson the way you do, but I suppose it does mean no harm to admit that I'm jealous. There! I said it. I have a tinge of the green eyed monster. And I'm worried. Worried you're going to change once you know, well, what it is that only married women know and then it won't be us against all of them, so much as me on me own."
A sudden deafening silence reigned between them. Elsie stood stock still, digesting what it all might mean. Beryl remained as she was, though her cheeks flushed red. She could feel them burning with embarrassment, but they were in contrast to her stomach which, rather than turning over with anxiety at her confession, felt oddly calm. More so than it had in days.
"Are you asking what I think you're asking?" Elsie asked with trepidation.
Beryl nodded. "Maybe. I mean, yes. Kind of. Only if you want to. As in, you feel able to."
"You want me to tell you what it's like to be..." She paused, her voice dropping an octave before she finished, "Married?"
"I wouldn't pry," she rushed to explain, "Only I've no one else to ask what it's, you know, um, like. And if I'm not going to experience it for myself then..."
She tailed off and swallowed hard, her heart beating faster and louder than if she'd ran up the attic bedrooms in one go. She'd swear it was about to burst out from her chest if she didn't know it lacked that kind of impulse.
"If I did," Elsie began, slowly, as if each word was being carefully selected, "And I mean if, because it's quite the ask, then I wouldn't share all of it. Not the specifics of who did what and when and how. But how it feels to be loved, in that way, then I think I could manage that. "
Beryl gave a sigh of relief as she leant back in her chair, having hardly been aware how on tenterhooks she'd been.
"I'm just curious," she confessed, "You see it in the films, don't you, that...well...passion. They make it look so wonderful."
She stared down at her hands where they last in her lap, seeing as if for the first time how worn and wrinkled they'd become. The skin thin and dry compared to that of the heady days of her girlhood when a kiss was often on offer if she was in the mood. Looking back, she thought how stumbled and shallow they'd been, quite contrary to how daring and wanted she'd felt at the time. She'd felt as if those encounters had been leading somewhere, to a place where one day she'd be lifted from service and to a life of her own. But of course no dashing knight had ever come to her rescue and the prospect of ever becoming more than she was had quietly and slowly ebbed away. It was sad to think she might only ever know such things through the experience of others, but she'd convinced herself it was better than knowing nothing at all.
She was so distracted by these thoughts that she started as she felt the cool hand of her friend come to rest lightly on hers. She looked up and where she feared pity saw nothing by kindness in Elsie's gaze.
"I understand," she said in her soft Gaelic tone, "I do. And I'd be lying if I said I've not wondered the same each and every time a wee girl has left us for a better prospect with her new husband. I nearly...that is, I nearly asked Anna about it the other day when we were sorting the linens together. Can you imagine?!"
"Why didn't you? I'm sure she'd give you some tips."
Elsie shook her head vehemently, her face reddening, "I couldn't! It wouldn't be right!" She paused, her mind distracted for a moment before continuing. "Except I do wish I knew a little bit more than I do." She sighed. "I suppose I'll just have to rely on Mr Carson. Goodness, what a thought!"
Beryl let out a little chuckle. "Then we better hope he knows what he's doing."
She felt her friend draw back, her hand lifting away as she leant back in her own chair and taking the opportunity to sigh heavily. The two women looked at one another, both wondering if they had the same idea, neither wanting to be first to vocalise it. A clock chimed the hour somewhere above their heads, the one on the wall of the tidy sitting room half a beat behind. But both kept their gaze until, at last, Elsie snapped. It was a thought that required sharing.
"He better know what he's doing, Mrs Patmore," she warned, her eyes wide with a tinge of mirth, "Otherwise, they'll be stern words to be had, and whilst I don't pretend to be an expert, I'm pretty certain that's not how your supposed to spend your wedding night!"