A/N: I am so sorry it took forever to update this! I understand that this story's finale might be a trifle underwhelming, but I hope you'll still enjoy it.

Thank you, Dee, for all your beta-work and for being my cheerleader.

On my blog (kouw dot tumblr dot com - tag: final+chapter) you will find two accompanying 'pieces' to this chapter: a pinterest board and a spotify playlist. Please let me know what you think of the chapter and thank you all for sticking with this story for almost half a year - it's been a wild ride for Charles and Elsie. And for me, to be frank… Please don't hesitate to let me know what you think and thank you once again for being an amazingly supportive audience.

He kisses her neck while she is drinking her champagne and a little spills over the rim, on her collarbone. The drop travels downward over the flat of her chest and the slope of her breast before Charles catches it with his lips and tongue. She shivers when his warm mouth touches her skin.

"Delicious…" he mumbles as he kisses the trail the wine left.

"It's a lovely champagne," Elsie agrees and takes another sip, carefully.

Charles's fingertips run over her cheek, down her throat. His glass stands forgotten on the night stand, but he takes hers and sips from it.

"I can't believe we really did it…" he says and she smiles, pushes him so he rolls back. She straddles him - her glass still in hand. Her corset is on the floor with her chemise and she sits atop him. Teasing him. Sliding herself over him, but denying him entrance. She drinks a sip, then another and smiles wickedly when he groans.

He loves her so - she can see it in his eyes; she can hear it in his voice when he says her name. She hopes he feels how much she loves him too - words don't seem adequate.

"We did. We did it. After all this time…" She holds her glass steady as she leans forward to kiss him. "I am so glad we got married this morning… to call you my husband. I never knew it could be like this…"

He kisses her back - tiny little kisses, lip on lip. "We've made everything alright," he says and she knows what he means. She understands that he means that the forty years apart are no longer to be regretted and that from today onwards they can look forward and work on being happy together. That there is safety in their union and joy in their love. He means that being married is what was always supposed to happen.

They've come full circle.

As she takes a deep breath she loses her tight grip on her glass and a good amount of champagne - golden and sparkling - lands on Charles's chest and she quickly bends to kiss it up. The fragrance of the wine mingles with Charles's scent and she rocks herself over his erection - growing harder and being irresistible.

"I love you," she says, her breasts pressed against his chest, her skin wet with champagne.

"I love you, too," Charles answers, placing his hands on her hips and steadying her as she finally sinks down on him.

They hold on to each other as they try to find a rhythm - which is almost impossible tangled together like that, but it doesn't matter.

All that matters is that they are in love; that they got married in the morning. That they are truly and completely happy.

She takes her time and he savours it. The feeling of his wife atop him, her hands on his chest. Her eyes are closed. Her hair is so long, it tickles his thighs when she lets her head fall back in pleasure. She is so beautiful. He's not been able to keep his eyes off her all day. The beautiful blue-and-gold dress that accentuated the colour of her eyes. The curve of her smile as he repeated his solemn pledge after the Superintendent Registrar - who had raised his eyebrows at him, had enquired if he was absolutely certain he wanted to change his name to his bride's, that there was still time to change his mind.

He's never been more sure of anything in his life. He doesn't care that the registrar looked at him funny when he produced to necessary documents to change his name into Elsie's.

He remembers shaking his head, his eyes locked with Elsie's. He kept thinking how things would have been different: if he'd been brave enough - or less stubborn, or whatever you wanted to call it - she would have taken his name decades ago.

He feels it's perfect to take Elsie's name. To start his new life afresh like this. Content, satisfied. Happily married.

To finally be what he was always supposed to be.

She fell asleep against his shoulder in the bus on the way back, her gloved hands in her lap, her hat slightly askew. When they came to the village, they hurried home like a couple of…

Well.

Like newlyweds.

He'd fetched the champagne - a bottle from the case ordered by Lord Grantham to toast the birth of his son. Golden with tight bubbles and a biscuit-y note. It's exquisite and his bride is covered in it, her breasts gleaming in the dim afternoon light.

She teased him when he rushed up the stairs two steps at a time, the bottle and two glasses in hand. She called him an old romantic and she pulled up the skirt of her dress slowly to reveal pale blue garters. His hands trembled when he put down the glasses on the nightstand and he knelt before her, kissed her knee, the inside of her thigh over her smooth, silk stocking.

"You're a rascal, Mr Carson," she told him, her hand on his cheek, her eyes so full of love, he could hardly breathe.

"Terrible cad," he answered, his throat dry.

He had undressed her slowly, reverently. His hands roaming the softest skin, running over the dips and curves of her body until she pushed him back and helped him with his tie, his waistcoat, his flies. Her small hands working magic, his lips plush and warm against his.

When she was on the bed - her knees digging into the comforter, her corset on the floor, her hair tumbling around her face and on her back, she grabbed the bottle of champagne and handed it to him.

"Lets celebrate," she said breathlessly.

And that is why he is on his back with his bride above him, the air smelling faintly of the expensive wine and the sheets wet where it sloshed over the rim of their glasses.

"Hold me," she says and he wraps his arms around her, pulls her to his chest.

She is cold - it is the coldest October he remembers - and he grabs hold of the sheet and covers them with it. He kisses her temple, her brow, the tip of her nose.

"I love you so," he says and he can hear her breath hitch.

"I love you too," she answers. When he looks up she looks at him. There are tears in her eyes and a small, happy smile is on her lips.

It's the first sunny Sunday in April and Elsie feels they are really putting down roots. Her life revolves around the easy routine of waking in Charles's arms, of going to church on Sunday morning and of avoiding Mrs Davenport who is trying to talk her into joining Abbotsbury's chapter of the WI*. It's drinking exquisite wine with their evening meal - if the food allows - and of pottering about the garden. It's delighting in Charles's stories of his time in service.

Making love in the middle of the night when the rain is pouring; eating toast and jam on the bench in the garden while holding a steaming mug of tea to stave off the cold. It's ironing his shirts and scrubbing his back when he's in the bath. It's choosing underwear and contemplating finally getting rid of her corset.

He looks up and catches her eye. They both smile before he returns his attention to the toddler in a light blue smocked dress. There's a little half circle of younglings around him (he is wearing his cricket whites, but the game has been canceled; one of the boys had to be rushed to the doctor's when he caught the cricket ball with his nose) and she sees he is telling a story. He loves to be with the little ones and they adore him in return; peppermints and a smooth rumbling voice and a touch of the dramatics to his rendition of Snow White and the seven dwarfs make him a welcome guest to any gathering in the village.

Her beautiful man.

"He's looking happy," Agnes - Fred's mother - says, pointing at Charles with her teacup.

"He is," Elsie says, smiling warmly.

"We are."

* This story is set mostly in 1926, which was an odd year, climately speaking. After a balmy Indian Summer, the end of October brought sleet to the South of England and a foot of snow was reported in York.

* Abbotsbury has a joint WI in Portesham, which is about two miles west from the village