Apologies for the delay caused by 'A Golden Moment' deciding it wanted to be written :-)
I often say thank you for reading and reviewing and I always mean it, and especially as I post this as I've seen some not very nice and completely unnecessarily sweary reviews recently (different fanfic community) and it made me feel ever so grateful to you all. Not only are lovely people kind enough to review with such encouragement, but also that when a story isn't for them (and let's be honest, not everyone likes everything they read), they just simply and silently move on. So, I'm posting this with more trepidation than usual but also excited that our Mr Carson might be about to have a breakthrough - with himself!
Oh, and thanks again, Mr Fellowes, for great lines that continue to inspire :-)
"I had thought about the school house, my Lord, but Mr Carson doesn't care for it."
"I don't mind the school house," he countered humbly, rejoicing in the gracious smile it brought to her lips
As the conversation concluded, her Ladyship in effortless command of the conversation that had its basis for what knowledge he knew not, Charles realised something - that he really didn't mind the school house at all.
He followed her into the Great Hall. The fire crackling in the expansive fireplace did little to warm the air and he shivered slightly after the more oppressive heat of the room they'd just left. Elsie had taken just a few steps, stopping and turning to face him, her eyes darting towards the Drawing Room door to confirm it was closed.
"I had to tell the truth, Charlie," she said with some nervousness, her hands clasped in one another so tightly her knuckles had turned white, "I couldn't lie to her Ladyship once she'd asked me.
"Of course not," he bristled, hoping his mild outrage at the idea of anything else didn't show.
Her head tilted up towards him and he could feel her scrutiny as they stood ill at ease with one another, the crackle of the fire in the grate filling the void as he struggled to know what to say. He cleared his throat and shuffled his feet. It was all suddenly so awkward, he thought, so very awkward, but he must say something. Anything.
"Well, then..." she said, her lips pursed in a thin line as she went to leave, turning her back to head towards the servant's staircase hidden behind the green baize door.
"I'm not cross," he gabbled, taking a step forwards, "I didn't realise. That is, I didn't..." he floundered, unable to finish the sentence.
Elsie's eyes bored into his as she looked back to him and she gave a faint smile. "I know."
He felt a surge of desperation run through him, a sudden desire to grab hold of her hand that was only just out of reach and to drag her willingly or otherwise into his arms. He wanted to soothe and kiss away the upset he'd caused between them, to beg forgiveness for listening but not hearing, for being a stubborn, old fool too caught up to see how things had shifted and how much further things needed to change. But he didn't, he couldn't, not here, and he felt his hand give a violent twitch as he suppressed the instinct.
"You better get back," Elsie said with a nod towards the room behind him.
He saw in almost slow motion her hand extending towards him, how her strong yet delicate fingers wrapped themselves around his arm to offer a reassuring squeeze, accompanied by a long, lingering look that made his heart pound. But he just stood there, unable to think or move, trapped in a bubble without knowing quite how to escape. He watched with regret how she turned on her heels and crossed the wide expanse of the hall towards the servant's staircase, the sound of her footsteps muffled by the carpet and it was only as her heels reached the polished wood that he snapped back to who he truly was, Carson the butler.
The evening didn't last much longer. His interruption Lady Mary's indignation as he returned to the Drawing Room had dampened the mood and it was only half an hour or so before Mrs Crawley asked for the car to be brought round and the family began to drift away to their beds. He made his usual rounds, the Library first, the Music Room and then finally the Drawing Room. He exited into the hall and pulled the door tightly closed behind him. The dying embers in the grate gave off a low, flickering light that cast long shadows across the floor. It transported him back to a time when gas lamps and candles were the only means by which to see. He wouldn't go back, not now they'd all gotten used to the ease of electricity, but he did miss it, on occasion. There was something rather exciting about barely lit corners - even for a man such as himself - and no one could deny that romance thrived better in the warm shadowy light of a glass-covered flame.
He found himself pausing as he crossed the hall, almost where they'd stood but an hour before. He could almost feel her presence, the sad resignation that he'd been blind to in recent days. A better man would have spotted it earlier, a more attentive lover sooner than that. He failed her, but he was hopeful that all was not lost.
With a straightening of the shoulders and renewed determination, he made his way to the back stairs and down to where he hoped she'd been waiting. All was quiet and still, with everyone either busy upstairs attending the family or away to their own beds. They wouldn't be bothered now, he knew that for certain, and that gave him ample opportunity.
"Mrs Hughes," he said, announcing his presence at the half open door to her sitting room, "May I borrow you a moment?"
She looked around from where she'd been standing and nodded her agreement, a look of mild confusion creasing her forehead. He turned and set off down the passageway and towards the courtyard door. He could hear her following, her sharp heels loud against the flagstone as she hurried a little to keep up with his stride. He could ease his pace but it seemed to be matching his heartbeat and he doubted that was going to slow down any time soon.
He could hear her muttering something as he lifted the door latch and eased it open. The moon was still as bright in the night sky as it had been when he bid Mrs Crawley adieu, and he raised his eyes to the Lord in a silent prayer of thanks. This was not something to do in darkness. He stopped at the top of the steps for her to catch up.
"What is it, Mr Carson?" she asked breathlessly as she moved passed him and he closed the door. "Not the boiler again? I'm too tired to start boiling water now."
"No, not the boiler," he said, boldly stepping forward and grasping her hand, "Something else entirely."
He led her across the courtyard and turned left. He anticipated her hesitation but kept a firm grip on her as he continued on. The path to the right led to the village, but this one led only to the back of the house, the great expanse of lawn visible from the Library. It wasn't usual for them to walk this way but that was exactly what he wanted.
"Charlie, where are we going?" she asked, but he didn't reply.
They walked in silence for a few minutes, the back of his hand brushing up against the full material of her skirts as they billowed a little in the gentle breeze. He fancied this might be only the third or fourth time they'd held hands and it still felt a bit odd, almost like something that wasn't really for them, and he almost let go. The heat pooling between their palms suddenly seemed too much to stand. But it dawned on him that this was, in fact, the most innocent way they would touch as man and wife and so he clung on. His resolve would not be so easily beaten.
At last they reached his intended destination, a spot where the hill began to fall away and someone had been sensible enough to place a bench under one of the smaller cedar trees. The branches bowed under the weight of their fresh new leaves and formed a sort of canopy under which the illusion of complete privacy could be gained. Although at this time of night, it wasn't so much a trick as a truth.
As he waited for her to sit, he steeled himself by taking a deep breath in and releasing it quietly as he took his place next to her. He shifted slightly so he could see her properly and when he did, her face illuminated in silver, he saw everything he'd hoped to, flustered cheeks and questioning eyes.
"I'm sorry, Elsie," he began easily, "I was wrong not to listen to what you wanted. And you're right, the wedding is about us and not about anyone else."
Elsie didn't speak or move beyond the flutter of her eyelashes, but he could sense the debate she was having with herself, the concoction of thoughts unfurling in her mind that etched themselves briefly on her face, gone before they'd even arrive. It all told him that he didn't have much time before she would be forced to respond and so he pressed on.
"With Alice it was different. We were younger and had no notion of anything but each other, for a while at least and certainly no idea of doing anything that didn't please our own selves. Perhaps that's where I went wrong..."
He felt her hand press gently against his thigh, a tiny gesture in itself but it was enough.
"Anyway, it occurs to me that I've done a fairly poor job of planning a wedding but an even worse one of preparing to share my life with someone, with you. Maybe I've forgotten some of that youthful exuberance because in all of this I've not managed to do the most important thing of all."
"And what's that?" she asked, her voice low and tentative, half stuttering with withheld emotion.
"To tell you that I love you. Because I do. I love you, Elsie Hughes, so very much."
He thought he heard her gasp just then but he could have been wrong. He certainly felt her nails dig into his leg and then relax again, her body moving but her lips remaining still. The moon disappeared behind a cloud and then reappeared, but still she held her tongue. And this time her expression remained passive, unreadable, just as it had when he'd made his stumbling proposal. He wanted her to speak, to prompt her, to demand her to say something, anything. But it had taken him weeks to find the right words. It was only fair to give her a minute. But one turned into two and then three...
"Elsie," he began, but she cut him off, her voice low and cautious.
"You don't need to tell me, Charlie. I know you do. I've known for a long time."
"You have?" he asked, surprised.
Elsie nodded. "And I've loved you for as long, but never more than in this moment. You daft, wonderful man."
And with that she leaned towards him, her hand shifting to grasp his where it lay limply in his lap, her head tilting back with eyes wide and encouraging.
"Elsie Hughes and Charles Carson," he whispered, moving closer until they were just a hair's breadth apart.
"Mr and Mrs Carson," she corrected, her lips curling up into a smile before he could hold back no longer and claimed them for himself.