AN: Whoohoo! A new Chelsie chapter fic!
Summary: The dreams are some kind of fabulous, it is the cold harsh reality that makes them further apart than they need to be.

In her dream they had laid together and were caressing each other after they had been satisfied. She was on her back and he on his side, stroking her hair, her neck, her breast. Then he laid his hand on the slight bulge of her stomach and quietly asked: 'So, what are we going to do about this?' He smiled so brightly and kissed her with so much love.

'Perhaps you could marry me...' she heard her own voice answer in the distance. He chuckled, 'That would make for a fine party, dearest.' and he pulled her against him, her head buried in his chesthair. 'But marrying the same wife twice in six months is a bit much' and they laughed together.

Elsie woke up smiling, her hand on the cotton of her nightgown instead of her skin. There was no bulge, no Charles. Only her narrow bed and the warmth of her bedclothes. She shook her head to get rid of her dream, opened the covers and got up. She washed herself with the icy water from the jug, splashing her face and watching the water fall back in the bowl. Then rubbed herself warm and dry with a towel and did her hair. She no longer worried about doing her hair in the nude: nobody ever entered her room in the early morning. She brushed the long dark-brown locks and pinned them into place.

When she pulled her shift over her head, she felt a draft. Quickly she turned around and found him standing there. In a reflex she picked up her dress and pressed it against her to shield her body from his eyes.

He gazed... She hardly registered it.

"Edward has had a fall and is bleeding. Could you take a look?" he asked after swallowing hard. She was so beautiful. Her long, slender legs, soft bottom, her curved waist... He ought to have said something sooner, but he was mesmerized. So many nights he dreamt of her, not only about her form or the passionate things he would do to her, but of them having tea in a bright room or of a noisy brood of children.

He saw a blush appear on her cheeks, her eyes seemed moist, bur her voice was steady as she told him she would be there directly. "Oh, and Mr Carson? Might you knock next time?" Their eyes met. Charles nodded curtly and marched off, his mind entirely on her instead of his footman.

When she arrived, she was fully dressed and her demeanor efficient. Charles checked his watch: she had taken less than 90 seconds to get ready and get her case of medical supplies. She took Edwards hand, cleaned the wound on the back of it and dressed it while she talked to the boy nonstop.

She was a clever woman. He had known that from the moment that he had clapped eyes on her. Her hands were strong, her voice sounded like none he had ever heard before. Within two years she had found herself promoted and as housekeeper she shared every evening with him. He had thought about courting her.

He had thought of a great many things he would do to and with her. All the things he kept seeing in his dreams.

Elsie got dressed as quickly as she could and ran downstairs. She pulled her case from the shelf in her sitting room and tended to Edward. She talked to him while she worked, trying to distract him, asking questions only he could answer, trying to comfort him when he winced. Charles was so close, she could feel his warmth radiating towards her. With her dream in the forefront of her mind, it was hard to think about the task at hand.

"You ask one of the kitchenmaids to make you a cup of tea, now Edward. When you feel a little recovered, you'll report to Mr Carson and he will instruct you further."

Always Mister Carson, never Charles. Always Misses Hughes, never Elsie. Not to any of the younger staff, never between the two of them.

Why was it then that she dreamt of him so much. Of more than quiet conversations, of more than physicality. Why did she dream of a life together, including everything that would involve. Her days for everything were numbered; after all she was more forty five than forty. Every morning a middle aged woman looked back at her when she pinned up her hair and tried to rub the sleep from her face.

Would he have found her attractive when she was younger? It was no use to ask, but she did. She thought him to be terribly attractive. He was tall and broad, his voice could lead her to distraction. He was usually calm and caring and so strong. He lifted the crates of wine without a single drop of perspiration appearing on his brow.

How would those strong arms feel around her? Stop it! she scolded herself. Stop now you can, before you think of how his hands would feel on your naked skin and... too late. She could feel the tingling in her core, the rush of blood going everywhere but her mind. Why did she do this to herself? Torture it was and there was no way she could stop it, there was no way to scratch the itch, for it was not just the physical thing that made her feel that way.

She turned around and left, leaving the two men to their own thoughts and tasks.

To him, Elsie was one of the most efficient, sensible and beautiful people he had ever known and he was contemplating that when she turned around to put away her things. She never undermined his authority, even now telling young Edward to report to him later. Her dress was swishing around her and he heard the clinking of the keys. Her body was trapped by a black dress, as if she was permanently in mourning. Who knew, perhaps she was.

Charles talked to Elsie every day. Often he found he wanted to speak to her and almost said her first name, which would be highly inappropriate. But then again, the thoughts and dreams he had about her were a step further from unappropriate. Some of them were only right for two people who were married to one another. He had stood close to her, observing what she did and had smelled her scent. A [i don't want her to smell of lavender, i dislike it so much!] slightly lemony perfume, which was probably the last rinse of her dress after the laundrymaids were done washing. Her hair was so close, he could see the slender column of her neck...

He had sighed inwardly and needed almost to steady himself. Her soft hands were so kind in its touches and her voice so gentle. He had often thought her highly intelligent and if she hadn't been a housekeeper, she could easily have set up a business for herself, though he did not really know what kind of business a woman would have.

Of course he found Elsie attractive, with her curved figure, the way she held herself, her witty conversation and how she never withered under the stare of the Dowager Countess. But there was something more, something undefined. A little voice in his head that said: 'She is the one and you are letting her slip away, you dolt.'