A/N: I've been thinking of this story for a while now and finally managed to write it. I hope you'll all enjoy it and please don't hesitate to leave me a review with any and all commentary. Thank you Deedee for your kickass beta. Without your help, this fic would be semicolonless.
Summary: The yearly cricket match is being played on a beautiful English summer's day and the status quo is suddenly completely overthrown.
Rating: This first chapter is a K+, next will be... not...
She watches him from the sideline, as she always has. The sun is beaming down, the players sport rosy cheeks and a sheen of perspiration. There's the sound of leather on wood; the cheers of the small crowd gathered around the field are loud in her ear. She isn't here to support either team, not this year. She's never quite understood the rules, though she tried. She has always preferred to watch football herself; the rules were clear, the game straightforward. She had played as a girl - not competitively of course, but with neighbour children, in the fields behind the farm. Before 'behaving like a young lady' and before getting trapped in a corset and long skirts.
The whistle blows. The game is over. She watches him shake hands with several players and smiles when she finally catches his eye. She inclines her head - a question: are you alright? - he nods with a warm smile - I'm fine, not to worry. He makes his way to the tent, takes a cup of tea from Daisy and a custard tart and sits down heavily on the bench in the shade of the big oak tree. She wants to join him, starts to walk but is distracted by the questions and gossip from the ladies she's not yet spoken to during the game and interval.
Cricket takes forever, she thinks. The game itself took eight hours to conclude and now she still cannot get away. She answers questions and watches him from the corner of her eye. He has been joined by Mr Bates and by his Lordship. He is sitting up straight, much too straight to be comfortable. She feels for him - he's been on his feet for so long, with such short breaks. He's not used to such strain anymore. But he looks well. Happy.
When the crowd finally disperses, she strides over to the old oak tree. Mr Bates has left with Anna; Lord Grantham has gone home with his wife and daughters. She sits down next to him. For a long moment they don't speak. She doesn't even look at him. It's enough to feel his presence, to hear his steady breath.
"Are you ready, then, Mr Carson?" she asks and turns to face him.
"I think I am." he answers and smiles again.
"Did it feel very different?" She is gets to her feet quickly, reaches out for him and he takes her hand before getting up - he is stiff, she can easily see it.
"Yes, it wasn't the same as it was before, but it was a good game." His voice rumbles, she can feel his chest vibrating slightly against her arm as he's taken hers. His cricket whites are slightly dusty, but not as bad as they were last year. His spencer looks clammy with perspiration. "Never thought Mr Molesley would be able to throw a googly." he chuckles a bit.
They walk on, talking of the game. After opening the door, she leads him down the corridor, into the kitchen. She takes off her hat - she never bothered with a coat; the sun was hot when she woke up that morning - and rubs her right shoulder with her left hand.
The light catches on her ring.
"Best get you in a tub, I'd say, or you'll be right sore tomorrow." she offers, her accent sounding stronger than usual. He sighs deeply.
"I wish we had a bathroom with a nice big bath, so I could stretch out a bit." he confesses.
"Well, there isn't one, so you'll have to make do with what we've got." She is busying herself with the kettle, with a bucket to fill the zinc tub he is already pulling out of the cupboard under the stairs*. He is breathing heavily, a combination of today's strain and the weight of the tub.
When the water boils, Elsie starts filling the tub and turns her back to allow her husband to undress in relative privacy. It's been two months since they married, but she is not used to seeing him - all of him.
She hears the rustle of wool and cotton. The sound of his trousers dropping after the distinct double thud of his shoes. He must be in his underwear now and she can feel her blood rushing to her cheeks. She knows there's no need to feel embarrassed, but she's lived a solitary life so long, a lonely life. To share her life so intimately is still new; it still makes her uneasy.
She can hear him get in the tub - it creaks slightly and the water sloshes around him - and she knows he has to fold himself almost in half to fit in there and that he'll likely be as stiff getting out as he was getting in.
The disappointment of age, she thinks. How your experience gives a person wisdom, but not the strong body to carry it.
"Is everything alright?" she asks tentatively, not entirely sure she should turn around yet.
"Could do with a bit more warm water." he says, his voice is soft, almost apologetic. Maybe he is still nervous about being naked in her vicinity too.
"I'll put another kettle on." she offers.
As she turns on the tap, she remembers a story she once read about lovers who lived far away from their community, their home a sanctuary of one room with nothing to furnish it but a big brass bed. The couple had a porcelain bathtub behind the house and they would fill it with water from the well. They would get in that tub together and wash each other's backs (and other parts that she cannot think of without her heart pounding, her stomach sinking).
The story had always remained with her, even though she doesn't remember where she read it or who wrote it.**
The whistle from the kettle brings her back to her own kitchen, to her husband folded up in that small tub they own. She takes a deep, steadying breath and turns.
"Can I… get you some more hot water?"
She tries to look anywhere but there.
But she needn't worry - he is covering himself somehow and all she sees is the broad chest with the smattering of silver hair, his strong arms (he has a tan, it stands in stark contrast where his wrists meet his forearms, where his neck meets his back). His cheeks are flushed with the sun's biting kiss.
She carefully empties most of what's in the kettle into the tub and puts it back on the stove. Charles lets out a blissful sigh and she pulls two mugs from the cupboard and makes them tea. She hands him the mug. His hand curls around the crockery and Elsie is reminded of her story, where the lovers drank red wine in the bath after cleaning each other thoroughly, getting more inebriated than Elsie had ever been in her life.
She drinks her tea, wipes the counter, takes the shepherd's pie she's made in advance from the icebox and puts it in the oven. It's all a matter of minutes and she hears her husband taking small sips of his tea and splashing about.
He hums a little tune under his breath.
Dashing away with a smoothing iron... Dashing away with a smoothing iron... She stole my heart away...
She bites her lip. "I'll… I'll get you a towel." she says and runs upstairs, where pulls out a big towel from the airing cupboard. It's warm - everything in the house is warm; the sun has been beating down on it all day. She sees herself reflected in the mirror as she passes it.
She doesn't quite know what to make of herself. Is it the same Elsie who looks back at her as it was half a year ago? Nothing much has changed besides her name, besides her place of residence. She is wearing a new dress in the new style with the raised hems and the lower neckline (she had wanted to show everyone married life agrees with her, that she is happy, that she is enjoying her newfound freedom).
She is thankful nobody has asked her about her newly married status, that nobody has come to her with smirks on their faces, expecting to hear about Charles Carson's virility. She wouldn't know how to react. Or she would simply have stared them down, like she is wont to when she doesn't want to say anything, when she doesn't have the words.
He's not seen her 'in the altogether' yet and it's been eight weeks. They have established a pleasant routine. They are enjoying each other's company, the companionship, the warmth of something that is more than just friendship. But she wouldn't know what to name what they have.
They are not lovers - not like they are made out to be in novels (and newspapers like Richard Carlisle's). Or in the story she keeps thinking of today.
She loves him. She loves him deeply. They have always cared for each other, back at the Abbey as they do here, but he's not… made any demands on her.
She had expected him to. They do share a bed and he's a man after all (a very attractive man, very attractive indeed). But they turn their backs when they undress. They change into pyjamas and nightgowns that completely cover them. He kisses her cheek before rolling over - always careful to keep from stealing the blankets.
He spoons her during the night - she doesn't know if he is aware of it.
They always wake up on their respective sides of the bed, not touching.
She sighs and descends the stairs again, ready to leave him the towel in the kitchen and to make herself comfortable on the settee with another cup of tea until he is dressed again and it's time for dinner. When she opens the door, she isn't ready for what she sees at all.
Charles Carson, large as life, standing in the tub, in all his glory. Naked as the day he was born.
to be continued
* People didn't usually have bathrooms in the 1920s, but bathed in the kitchen, close to the stove for easy access to (hot) water. Perhaps Tom and Mary have had all the cottages done up spectacularly, but for the purposes of my story, I'm sticking to this. My granny (who moved to a house with an actual bathroom in 1967) stood in a small zinc tub to wash herself. She'd fill it to bathe her babies/young children ← because obviously you all need to know this…
** Shamelessly stolen from a Born and Bred episode