This one is dedicated to foreverautumn99.

The first time she woke, no one noticed. It wasn't because no one was watching. Her husband was, in fact, at her side and watching her intently. As he had been for three days.

The reason no one noticed she was awake was because she didn't open her eyes. The effort was too much. And so she drifted back to the sleep of the exhausted. The injured.

When she finally did open her eyes, her husband gasped and called for the doctor.

She could only make out the blurred edges of her world, but she recognized the man beside her.

"Mr. Carson?"

Her voice was a husk of itself, but sweeter music had never existed in the world to her weary spouse.

Dr. Clarkson hurried over and smiled with relief at seeing Mrs. Carson's eyes open.

"It's good to see you awake," he said genuinely. "Can you tell me where you are?" He asked his rote questions while peering in her eyes.

"The…hospital?" she croaked.

"Yes," he answered. "Do you know my name?"

"Dr. Clarkson."

"How many fingers am I holding up?"

"Four."

"Yes. Is your vision blurry? Doubled?"

"Blurry, yes," she said.

"That's to be expected," Dr. Clarkson nodded. "It will clear up. No double vision, though?"

"No."

"Good. Squeeze my hands….excellent. Wiggle your toes….very good."

"Well," he sighed as he straightened. "You've had a close call but you'll be fine. We're going to keep you here for a few days to keep an eye on you, but I expect you'll be able to go home within a week."

She looked from the doctor to Mr. Carson, who had returned to clutching one of her hands between both of his when Dr. Clarkson had released it. She thought it was mighty odd that he had been at her bedside, but it was even odder that he seemed to be hanging on to her hand for dear life. Something terrible must have happened. Perhaps an explanation was in order. She couldn't recall for the life of her what sequence of events had occurred to put her here.

"What happened?" she asked.

Mr. Carson looked to Dr. Clarkson with alarm in his eyes. The doctor smiled and shook his head.

"It's normal to have no recollection of an accident, especially when there is a blow to the head."

Mr. Carson smiled with relief and returned his adoring gaze to his wife.

She smiled weakly back at him, though she tried to show her confusion. She fought the urge to remove her hand from his. She squinted her eyes at him to try and make him out a little more clearly. Was his hair grayer than she remembered? Certainly she didn't recall ever seeing it so…unkempt.

"I'll let your husband explain the details when you're more rested." Dr. Clarkson started to say more, but she whipped her hand out of Mr. Carson's grasp.

"What?!" she yelled, then immediately pressed her hand to her forehead as the effort had set off a pounding inside her skull.

Now both men looked alarmed.

"Tell me your name," said Dr. Clarkson.

"Elsie Hughes," she gritted out.

The men looked at one another.

"Mrs.—ah…what year is it?" Dr. Clarkson stuttered.

"1910," she stated, angry that they were plying her with inane questions when she had so many of her own.

Charles Carson tried to bore holes in Dr. Clarkson's eyes while he waited for an explanation. Or a sliver of hope.

Dr. Clarkson had none of either to give the man.

The year was 1927.

Her memory was perfectly intact up until the year 1910. October of 1910. After that, there was nothing. Her vision was clearing rapidly, so she could read the year in Mr. Carson's face, if she believed nothing else. She still hadn't dared to ask for a mirror for herself.

After the initial bustle and alarm at her condition had settled down, she was left sitting in her hospital bed next to the one man who hadn't left her side during the long hours they'd examined and questioned her.

Her husband, apparently.

The evening light was fading away as she struggled to find the right questions to ask him. Her mind moved sluggishly. Exhaustion was written clearly on her face. But she needed to know more. She wanted to know everything. She still held onto the hope that it was all a dream of some kind. That she might wake up in her narrow bed in the world that she knew.

But then she sat up suddenly, guilt-ridden that a thought had only just occurred to her.

"My sister!" she cried "She—"

"She's fine," he assured her while he reached for her hand.

His voice was thick with unshed tears at the loss of his wife. For the second time in only one week, she'd been cruelly taken from him.

He didn't know how he would bear it.

Without her, he had nothing.

"Becky's fine," he said.

She settled back against her pillows once more, focusing on his hand over hers.

When he noticed where her eyes lingered, he removed his hand. He hung his head and let his hands dangle uselessly toward the floor.

Her eyes stung with tears at the sight of this man, clearly heartbroken over her. She tried to think of something to ask that might not upset them both more.

"When did I tell you about her?"

"1924."

She waited.

He said nothing further.

"Well," she said, "that took a while, didn't it?"

He lifted his head to look at her.

"Yes," he said. "Yes it did."

"What makes you remember the year so easily?"

"It was the year I asked you to marry me."

She was silent again. It was profoundly bizarre to hear Mr. Carson talk of marrying her. She couldn't imagine him asking anyone to marry him, let alone her.

"That took a while, too, then," she stated flatly.

He brought his head up. Cautious hope flared in his eyes. Was she teasing him?

Yes.

Yes she was.

A smile lifted the corners of her mouth.

He let out a tired huff of laughter before tears welled up in his eyes again and he had to drop his face into his hands to weep silently.

It was his wife sitting before him.

And yet it wasn't.

Invisible tremors of exhaustion fluttered through her. Her eyelids seemed to be at least three times their usual weight. Everything in her told her to lay down and close her eyes.

Instead, she reached out to lay a hand on her weeping husband's arm.

"It's all right, Mr. Carson," she whispered. "It will be all right."

He just shook his head, still shedding silent tears at the death of his happy life.

Mr. Carson, indeed.

What he wouldn't give to hear 'Charlie' fall from her lips just one more time.

She took one of his hands and held it as she settled herself in her hospital bed. Laying on her side and shutting her eyes, she gave him an order.

"Tell me about our life now. Where do we live? Are we still at Downton?"

He was quiet for a moment. She was trying to comfort him. What an absolute monster he was.

She'd lost far more than he had and here he was sobbing like a ninny. He should have been comforting her. He should have been stronger.

But, oh, how he loved her. And he didn't know if she would ever love him again.

And he didn't know how he could go on if she couldn't.

He looked at her closed eyes.

She squeezed his hand to let him know she was still awake and she still expected a response.

"We're retired," he said.

She smiled at that, tamping down her alarm at being told about her own life. "Leisurely, are we?"

"Well," he faltered, "we purchased a home. Ah…to live in and to let out. But, erm, we haven't begun letting it quite yet."

"Mmm. And why is that?" she asked while fighting off sleep.

Dead silence to that. He couldn't very well tell her that they were too blissfully happy living in that house alone, making love whenever they chose, to let others in quite yet.

"We…just haven't gotten around to it yet," he offered the half-explanation with a reddening face.

She gave him no teasing rejoinder as she'd already fallen asleep.

Four days later, her hand rested lightly (hesitantly) in the fold of his arm as they walked into their home for the first time since her accident.

Upon stepping into the front sitting room, her eyes darted about, trying desperately to recognize any little thing to no avail.

His eyes were fixed on her, waiting for a miracle.

But none came.

With a sigh, she turned to face him.

In an effort to hide the tears that came to his eyes, he moved to take her coat from her. It was some small comfort to be going through the familiar motions. He'd always taken her coat and put it away just next to his. He was almost frantic as he searched for what to say to her. His wife.

She saved him once again.

"I'd like to have a bath, if that's all right, Mr. Carson."

"Of course!" he answered. "That will be just the thing, I'm sure!"

They stood staring at one another.

Somewhere in the house she heard a clock ticking softly.

He could see she expected him to say something, but his mind was a frazzle of emotion and he couldn't piece together what she wanted.

Finally, she spoke.

"Where is it?" she asked.

And that was the moment that Charles Carson discovered true despair. Until those simple words, he'd clung to a few shreds of desperate denial that the love of his life hadn't been ripped away from him.

If he'd accepted it, he would have been prepared. He would have anticipated that she would not be familiar with the household that she, herself, had lovingly constructed. If there was any skill of which he could boast (though he never would), it was anticipating the needs of others. He'd made a career of it. If he hadn't been subconsciously praying that it was all somehow untrue, he would have organized a brief, hopefully not too unsettling, tour of their home.

But no, he simply couldn't accept it before that moment. And so there they were.

She lost and he destroyed.

"I'll…I'll show you."

And he made his way up the stairs as she followed. He first pointed out the bathroom, mentioning that she would find towels and all the things she would need to wash up. Then he pointed out their (their) bedroom. Her robe hanging on a hook near the door. The drawers in the dresser that belonged to her. He did not mention that they had picked out the bed together, both so nervous at the thought of sharing it. He did not mention the many long mornings and evenings they'd spent together in that bathroom. One of them in the bath, the other at the glass or, more often, leaning on the porcelain rim. He did not mention how he would lay the fluffy towel on the rim of the clawfoot tub for her to rest her head on during her bath. He did not mention that he could feel the fibers of his heart fraying as he explained all of this to her.

She could see the pain written clear as crystal on his face. She didn't know what she could do to fix it. It had been mentioned so many times that her memory might return if she was surrounded by the familiar, if she went about her routine as she normally did. But she remembered nothing. She found the (their) home quite lovely, but entirely unfamiliar. She wasn't heartbroken as he was. She had nothing to mourn. They'd spent their days in the hospital discussing the events she'd missed. Events in the lives of others, primarily. There had certainly been enough to keep them talking for long hours. Lady Sybil's death affected her especially.

But, in the hospital, ears and eyes were too focused on the pair of them, a fascination now, to talk about their own lives, the private happenings that had gotten them from the point of early friendship (where she was now-what she remembered) to married. She didn't even know why they'd married. Did he love her? She thought he did. She hoped that he'd tell her soon.

He made to leave her in their bedroom, but turned back to her.

"I didn't know if you'd want it, but they gave it to me at the hospital. They'd had to remove it, you see…"

Polite confusion crinkled her eyes.

He reached into his pocket and held out his hand to her.

There, lying in the center of his palm was a golden wedding band.

Her wedding band.

The whites of her eyes showed more prominently as she lifted her left hand in front of her face. A clear imprint of where her wedding band had lived was there on her fourth finger.

"Oh." She paused, unsure what to do. She looked into his eyes and made a decision. "Oh, of course." She took the ring from his hand and put it on, smiling as best she could. Her effort was rewarded when he smiled back at her.

After her bath, which had taken a rather long time as she had to hunt for every supply she needed, she walked back downstairs to find Mr. Carson setting a simple meal on their table.

"How do you feel?" he asked.

"Wonderful," she said. "Almost entirely human again."

Her spirits were raised quite a bit, in fact. It would be hard to explain to someone who hadn't been there, but several days in a hospital bed made one feel dirty on a level that wasn't quite of this world.

She'd put her hair in the loose, wet braid with which he was so familiar. For a moment, he could almost pretend everything was normal.

She waited to see where he would sit, knowing that if she sat in the wrong place, she would see that terrible expression on his face once again.

After the nearly silent dinner and washing up, they ambled to the sitting room. After a moment's hesitation, he joined her on the sofa. Not too close, but not sitting in a different place, either.

"Mr. Carson?"

"Yes?"

"Would you tell me more about us?" She paused. "You said that you asked me to marry you in 1924."

He nodded.

"Wh-why did you ask me to marry you?"

It was a difficult question to ask. It had a ring of unreality to it. And it was profoundly embarrassing. Any answer would be awkward to explain. If he didn't love her. If he did. He would still be explaining it to a near stranger. In her mind, she'd only known him for four years. They were friends. But only just. He was not in her every thought. He was not considered in her every decision. He was simply a man. And so she felt for him and the difficult position he was in.

How best to answer her question? He should explain his plan to buy the house that almost wasn't. He should tell her (again) how he had realized that he couldn't be without her. When faced with the prospect of parting from her, he knew that he'd loved her for a very long time. He remembered the first time he'd told her those things. She'd cried. She'd told him that she'd had some idea that he loved her, but nothing like that.

He should tell her all of those things.

What he said was:

"Because I love you."

After blinking a few times, she reached for him with both hands.

Stifling a sob, he did what he'd wanted to for endless days. He gathered her in his arms.

She was surprised when she felt the tears falling down her own cheeks as he held her.

An almost memory flashed in the periphery of her mind when she inhaled his masculine scent. It was nothing she could grasp, though, and she didn't say anything. She pulled back to look at him. He was so much older than she last remembered him. But softer. More handsome. She put her hands gently on his cheeks, brushing her thumbs to wipe his tears away.

In an almost uncontrolled burst of longing, brought about by his wife's hands on him, he swept her firmly onto his lap and buried his face in her chest.

Shocked, she couldn't decide what to do for several seconds. But his clear need for her made the decision for her. She simply held him to her breast while his hands stroked her back through her (familiar to him but not to her) bathrobe. Almost of their own will, her fingers were drawn to the nape of his neck, where they played lightly with his hair.

He sucked in a breath at the sensation and pulled her tighter to him.

"It's all right, Mr. Carson. It will be all right."

"Will you call me Charlie? You always call me by my name."

"Charlie," she whispered, unable to hold in her tears if she'd spoken any louder. "It will all be all right. I'm here."

He held tightly to her, adjusting their weight so that she rested lower. She was able then to rest her head on his chest. He simply held her, stroking only her back. He avoided touching her hair, her sides, her thighs. All the usual places he would caress when he held her like this. He desperately wanted to keep from frightening her.

The third time she yawned, he noticed.

"You're exhausted," he said.

She smiled against him. Being held like this was so utterly foreign, so odd. But pleasant. She found nothing at all disagreeable about being held by Mr. Carson. But it was so strange. Her life was a solitary one. She still didn't know how he'd fallen in love with her. It still didn't seem real.

"Where—I mean…would you like to sleep in our bed? That is—alone? I can use one of the guest bedrooms. Or maybe you'd like to take one of the guest bedrooms for your own?" He sounded so forlorn at that last that she couldn't even muster a smile to cheer him.

"No," she muttered softly. "If together in our bed is where we spend our nights, then that is where I'll go."

Serious eyes looked down at her before he made a move to stand. Together, they walked to their bedroom. For her, it was the very first night of her marriage. The first time she'd lain next to a man.

He'd been to bed with her thousands of times. Each time a joy. This was the first night with her that he was uncertain, worried. He tried to remember what Mrs. Hughes was like four years after they'd met. More serious. Not as concerned with his welfare. Not as hard on him. He smiled. Not as interfering.

"What?" she asked, curious to know what had amused him.

"I was thinking about what a meddler you've become."

That stopped her short.

"What?"

"Only the very kindest type, of course," he soothed.

She still looked doubtful.

"Do you know," he said, "that you once took a letter out of my wastepaper bin? To read? One that I had crumpled up and thrown away."

"I never did!"

"Oh, yes," he nodded. "And quite right you were, too."

She looked skeptical still, but she smiled at him nevertheless.

"I love you, too, don't I?" she asked softly.

His face fell. How cruel it all was. How inhumanly torturous.

"Yes," he said, his voice hardly a whisper. "So you've told me."

She nodded. And then she had something to mourn. She shed quiet tears at the loss of her memories. The loss of falling in love with this man. This kind man who clearly loved her so well. It hadn't seemed real until then. Until after he'd held her. Until after she'd seen the home they'd shared that she didn't remember. She mourned a life that she'd built from love. She'd never known it and now she never would. She would never watch him falling in love with her. She would never see him growing kinder to her over the years. Would never see his eyes slowly begin to soften as she entered a room. She would never hear his proposal of marriage. She would never know if he was confident when he asked her, or if he was terrified of her answer, tripping over his words.

Lost.

It was all lost to her. Never to be lived again.

Brushing away her tears, she whisked off her robe, setting it on a chair in front of a vanity. Hers, presumably.

His heart was tearing itself apart at watching her cry for her loss. He had no idea how to help her. All he wanted to do was hold her, make love to her, shake her until she came back to him. But he couldn't. Of course he couldn't. He felt horrible that he still yearned for her comfort when she was the one who needed him. But how could he be blamed? She had been his sole comfort for long years before he'd even realized it. And then when he had! Dear God in heaven, there were no words for the happiness he'd been given when they'd allowed their feelings for one another to see the light of day.

And all of it was gone.

While he scarcely noticed her actions as he'd seen her remove her robe countless times, she was acutely aware that she had no recollection of being so very undressed (though she still wore her nightgown) in front of a man. Making a deliberate effort to control her nerves, she turned down the covers and climbed into what was her marriage bed.

He stared at her.

"What is it?" she asked.

"That's your side. Did you know that was your side? Did you…." he couldn't finish his hopeful question.

She waited a few moments, gathering the strength to break his heart yet again.

"No. No, I didn't. I just picked a side. I'm sorry."

"It's all right. I'm sorry. I'm putting too much pressure on you."

"No, you're not. It's fine. I'm fine. Just tired. Come to bed."

She swallowed hard after her last words. She'd never in her life said anything like it. Or rather she didn't remember saying anything like it. It didn't come easily to her. But she was trying. So hard. To keep from hurting him any more than he'd already been.

After he'd dressed in the bathroom, he slipped into bed, giving thanks for the darkness of the room. The bed seemed smaller now than it had been before the accident that had taken his wife away. A moment of inattention, a slip on the ice, a rock hitting just the right place on the back of the head—such small things shouldn't be able to erase a life, he thought. Seventeen years of living, of loving, of changing. Vanished in the cold January air.

Though she wanted to turn away, pretend he wasn't there, she forced herself to face him. For his sake. She wasn't angry or upset with him and she didn't want him to think so. She simply wanted the luxury of not having to look in his bereft eyes for a few moments before sleep took her. But she didn't want to hurt him more.

Blessedly, she did fall asleep quickly. But she was destined for a restless night. Comfortable though it was, it wasn't her bed. It wasn't the bed she was used to sleeping in. Most certainly, she wasn't used to sleeping next to a man. A man who, in his sleep, occasionally reached for her, no less. Every time he would lay an innocent hand on her or move too close to her in his sleep, she would startle awake. Confused and alarmed, she took longer and longer to regain her bearings. Charles Carson himself wouldn't even have been able to tell her that it took weeks for her to rest comfortably next to him after they were married. Because she never told him. Because she knew it would hurt him, worry him. And it was no fault of his. She loved him, she loved making love with him, but it was just one of those things that needed time. So she simply waited until she grew accustomed to his presence next to her. And she did.

But that night, she finally slept deeply in the early hours of the morning, particularly after he rose and left the bed.

And while he paced on the floor beneath her, she slept until noon.

If she had asked anyone else, they would have told her to wait a few days with any more of her questions for Mr. Carson. That morning, she'd finally been unable to avoid her reflection in the mirror. She was…old. Her face, her eyes, her hands, her breasts. She was an old woman now. Almost twenty years of her life had vanished. What was the point now? She didn't even know what kind of marriage she had. He loved her. Fine. She loved him. Dandy. But were they lovers? It seemed impossible. How could anyone want her the way she was now? What did they do all day? There wasn't enough house to keep two people occupied for even a fraction of a day. So, in a foul mood, tired, head aching, sitting at a dining table she had just been told that she picked out personally, she asked her questions.

"What was our wedding like?"

Before answering, he gathered a scrapbook and a few pictures. After handing them to her, he said,

"It was at the registrar in Ripon. Mrs. Patmore was there, and—"

"Mrs. Patmore?!"

He seemed surprised for a moment and then he smiled in realization.

"Oh, yes! You're actually…quite friendly now. Very good friends, actually."

The woman who constantly harangued her about a storeroom key? Her 'very good' friend? Her heart started hammering. She desperately needed to have an ounce of information delivered to her that matched up with who she thought she was.

"All—all right," she shook her head, unable to call forth any image even remotely suggestive of a friendly Mrs. Patmore. Surely there had to be something about their life now that might sound a little like the Elsie Hughes she knew.

"What about after? After the wedding?" she asked

She hadn't meant it to be suggestive, but his face reddened.

"I mean—I just mean…what did we do? Did we move in here? How do we live? Did we have a honeymoon?"

"We didn't take a honeymoon," he said, looking down to the floor. "We wanted to come home. Here."

She looked through the pictures. Her thoughts were going so rapidly that she didn't even realize how much they were upsetting her. And then she made an error in judgment. But she just had to know.

"And our wedding night?"

Something about her mood sent up red flags in his mind, but he was unable to stop the words from tumbling out.

"We—were both anxious to spend our first night in our home together."

Her nostrils flared. He could tell she was getting impatient that he wasn't answering her question.

"Making love."

She let out a breath.

All right. She could deal with this. She could. She made love to her husband. Most women did.

"Was I very…" bad? awful? inexperienced? "nervous?"

"Well," he hesitated, "it wasn't...actually the...first, erhm, time."

One of her eyes narrowed and the other widened. Her head tipped to one side.

"What?" she breathed.

"A few weeks before the wedding—"

Her eye twitched.

He should have stopped. He should have seen her distress. He should have stopped. Instead, his words come faster.

"I came to your room—"

Her fist clenched.

"I was having some—"

She sneered. "Second thoughts? Cold feet? That sounds more like the Charles Carson I know."

And she was relieved. Somewhat. Finally, something that made sense to her. The Charles Carson she knew did not love her. Did not appreciate sentimentality in any of its forms. She felt as though a piece of her world was just given back to her.

He wasn't angry with her. He didn't blame her. He'd been a different man then. He would have to convince her. She would have to let him. She would have to.

"No, no. I was worried that you would change your mind. That you would leave me. I was worried that I didn't say the right words when I asked you to marry me and that you didn't know how much I loved you and I didn't know if it would make any difference, but I had to tell you just on the slim chance that it might and—"

He looked up and saw her widened eyes and realized he was rambling, but he couldn't stop.

"You put your hand on my face and you told me that you loved me and you pulled me into your room so you could kiss me—"

She stood so quickly that the pictures in her lap fell to the ground. To him, she looked…furious. Shocked. Horrified. Everything he was afraid she would be. He shouldn't have told her. He should have waited until she was better. More rested. But she had asked and he had, selfishly, wanted to tell her ever since he'd realized that she was well and alive but no longer his. And now she was walking out of their home, shutting the back door behind her.

He rose, his heart missed a beat, and his palms grew and cold and clammy.

But she only stopped in the back garden. Smoothed her agitated hands along her hips a few times. Sat on the bench and looked up to the high line of the hills in the distance.

Seventeen years had turned her into a woman she didn't know. Nothing could have convinced her that she would have had relations with a man outside of wedlock. She was a harlot, apparently.

Mrs. Patmore, if Mrs. Carson had thought to speak with her, could have told her that that wasn't what she was truly upset about. Mrs. Elsie Carson was grieving. For her own life. While she was trying to spare the feelings of a man she cared deeply about. And it was too much too bear. It would have been too much for anyone to bear. Even Elsie Hughes, who had helped to carry the burdens of so many.

Inside the house (he couldn't even think of it as a home anymore), Charles sat down abruptly when he saw his wife sit down in their garden rather than walk away from him entirely. Only to jump up again on unsteady knees to catch a vase he'd unsettled. He cradled the small vessel in his large hands. Turned it over.

He'd bought it for her. Years ago. It was a trinket, really. It cost nearly nothing. But it had caught her eye in a shop in the village. And against her laughing protests, he'd bought it. It was the first gift he'd gotten her after they'd been married.

He threw it against the wall.

He was almost surprised to see it shatter into countless pieces.

She knew she'd only been sitting outside for a few minutes. And in that short time, she'd tried to come to a sort of peace with herself. Yes, she'd changed. But who wouldn't in seventeen years? And was her change really so much for the worse? She'd fallen in love with a man who had been her friend. And he loved her in return.

And he was as miserable as she now.

She decided that the only way to move forward was to wholeheartedly place her trust in both her husband and herself. Once upon a time, she had given her entire self over to this man. And he had done the same. Never mind that she didn't remember it, it was her own judgement that she simply had to find sound.

Just as she was beginning to rise and return to the house, she heard the crash. She jumped up and hurried inside.

He had already gotten the brush and dustpan and was squatting down to clean up the pieces. She walked over to him and put her hand on his shoulder. He only paused for a moment before continuing with his task.

She viewed the destruction with a tired eye.

"Was it important?" she asked.

"No," he answered. And he believed it. After all, nothing was important anymore, not really. Not if he didn't have his Elsie. Every trinket she'd placed, every rug she'd ever beaten, every piece of china, everything she'd ever touched. None of it mattered.

"Here," she said quietly, taking the brush from his hands. Silently, she swept the fragments into the dustpan he held.

After they'd all been gathered, he dropped the bits into the bin and turned to her.

"I'll make us some supper," he intoned flatly.

She stepped over to him and put her hand on his arm, squeezing it gently.

"I'm exhausted, Charlie. I'm going to bed. Have a sandwich yourself, if you're hungry. Then come to bed. With me."

And she was so very tired. She was not fully recovered from the accident and she found herself growing weary very quickly. Her tone was firm, kind, and full of fatigue. And he knew that she meant her invitation.

Sagging with his own weariness, he nodded.

When he joined her, she was already half-asleep in their bed, wearing her nightgown. Not having the energy to braid it, she had simply let her hair down, knowing she would pay the price for her slatternly way in tangles the next morning. She would make him comb it, she thought with a half smile.

With longing eyes, he stopped to look at her. Her hair swirled around her shoulders in soft ripples to fall on either side of her.

She reached out a hand for him.

He nodded to indicate he'd be with her in a moment. After changing into his night clothes, he climbed into bed with her. Immediately, she wrapped her arm around his chest and pressed herself against him. The action forced a sigh from her and nearly made her fall instantly asleep.

He pulled her tightly against him and pressed his lips to her hair. He didn't know what had changed, or if she was simply too dead tired to fight her situation anymore, but he didn't have long to think on it because they both fell asleep in a matter of seconds. They spent the entire night in that same position, their sleep too deep to allow for even the smallest disruption to their contented embrace.

She woke to his hand gently rubbing her neck. His fingers dipped into her hair to make lovely patterns on her sensitive skin. When she opened her eyes, it was to look into his smiling, but sad face.

He knew that a new day would very likely bring more of her shame and horror at their situation. And he wanted to take as many precious seconds of her tolerance that he could. But, to his surprise, she pressed her lips to his in a brief, petal-soft kiss.

"I'm sorry," she said.

"What?" he shook his head. "Don't say that. You've nothing to be sorry about. I'm the one who's sorry. I keep pushing you and expecting-"

"We'll start over," she interrupted. "We'll start over and I'll learn everything about you and I'll be grateful for what we have and we'll be happy again, I promise." She paused to appreciate the dawning smile on his face. "We were happy, weren't we, Charlie?"

"Yes," he rumbled. "Yes, we were."

"I was a performer on the stage in my youth."

She sputtered and nearly spat out her tea.

"Wh-what?!"

"Yes, it's true. I'm not proud of it, but I needed to earn and that's what I did."

"But-what…"

She couldn't think of the right questions to ask, so he filled her in on the story happily, knowing it would make her smile and trusting that she would be just as understanding now as she had once been. When he had finished, she sat in silent thought for a moment, and then said,

"Why on earth would you tell me that while I was drinking my tea? I could have choked to death!"

He beamed at her and she gave him a smile that, for the first time since her accident, made her look like the woman who loved him.

It had been two weeks since she'd come back home from the hospital, and after the first few disastrous days, they'd spent their time on long walks, longer naps, hours talking, and nights spent in each other's arms. She kissed him when she felt like it, which was happening more and more often. And, every now and then, he kissed her. She still remembered nothing, but there were times that she felt as though she might be getting close to a memory only to have it wisp away from her thoughts. She hoped it might be a good sign.

That afternoon, she was laughing about another of his tales. And when she looked up into his eyes, she saw his pure, unadulterated love for her. This time, when she kissed him, it wasn't a peck on his lips. This time, she reached both her hands up to his face, cradling him between her palms. And then she pressed her lips to his. And held them there. She didn't have a plan until she felt him shiver underneath her hands.

And then a memory came back to her with such force it was almost a physical blow.

With her hands on his arms, she pushed herself away from him. He tried to stop his heart from breaking.

"Charlie!" she cried.

"What?" he was immediately worried.

"Did you ever kiss me in the Blue Room?" She was breathing fast and her eyes darted to every part of his face, as though it would give her another clue. A piece of the memory would come to her and another would whisk away.

His eyes grew incredulous and frighteningly hopeful. His hands tightened unconsciously on her waist.

"Elsie! Yes! Yes, I did! What-what else do you remember?"

Her hand was on her forehead and her eyes were shut tight.

"I-we...were we just engaged? And I was checking...something...a new maid! Her work, I was checking her work! And you came into the room and you shut the door behind you and I didn't think anything of it. I only thought you needed to speak with me. Until I saw your face and I knew. I knew you wanted to-" She looked up at him them. "Oh, Charlie," she whispered. "It was our first kiss. Wasn't it?"

The tears streaming down his face was all the answer he could give.

"Charlie," she breathed. "Oh, my God, Charles. I thought-I thought everything was lost. But-but it's not. My darling, dearest, most wonderful husband," she reached for his face again. "I remembered." She kissed him. "I remembered."

"Elsie," he wept, "I love you. So much. What else? What else do you remember?"

"Not much," she shrugged happily. "Yet. But now-now I can let myself hope that-there will be more. And even if there isn't, it doesn't matter. Because there is something else I remembered."

"What is it?" he breathed.

"How much I wanted you to kiss me. How nervous I was." She paused. "How very much I loved you."

He swept her up in his arms and she tried to wipe the tears off his face, which was difficult when his cheek was pressing so closely next to hers.

"I love you," he whispered.

"I remembered that, too," she answered.