No more for me, the rolling parish,
The city quarter, the village spire,
My flocks are waiting in their dugout,
Their untrained voices, my only choir …
"The Padre," Show of Hands
5 May, 1917
Ink.
Charles frowns as he looks at the tips of his thumb and fingers, annoyed that despite the meticulous care he's taking, the ink from his prayer book keeps transferring to his skin. It's nearly impossible to hold the small volume in his great hands and only grasp the edges of each page. He sighs, frustrated.
His attention is drawn to a movement outside of his tent. Quickly mumbling a few final words of worship, he closes the book upon its worn bookmark and sets it back into his rucksack, taking care to close the pouch securely before rising, stretching, and pushing the tent flap fully open.
The movement he'd seen is quickly explained; the dog, returned, now seated before the tent, tail wagging.
"Well, what have we here?" Charles asks him softly, scratching the mutt behind the ears. After retrieving the slips of paper from the small metal tube affixed to the dog's collar, Charles brings him into the tent to reward him with a small piece of the crust from yesterday's bread. It's not much, but it's what the man has to offer, and the dog is grateful for it.
Charles quickly examines his companion for injury but finds nothing. It's a dangerous job that the dogs are performing, carrying messages to and fro, and it isn't unusual for them to return with scratches from barbed wire or even an occasional cut (or worse) from a gun's shot. But this dog's main occupation is as mail courier, not one of those whose specialty is darting in and out of battles between officers. The dog appears fit as a fiddle, and after another few pats on the head, Charles heads back outside and sends him off, watching as the dog heads to the canteen where he knows there will be water and a cool, shaded area to rest.
Charles digs in his pocket for a handkerchief, with which he pats his damp brow before sitting in the chair outside his door. He's afforded a private tent due to his position and appreciates the solitude of it. But today the sun is rather bright, and he craves the feel of a gentle breeze on his face.
He folds the handkerchief once again and puts it away; then, with a small bit of dread in his heart, he unrolls the messages at last, always wary of what information they may bring. After setting the first two aside in order to deliver them to Major Clarkson later in the hospital tent, he opens the last note, scans the name at the top to verify that it is, in fact, meant for him, and begins to read.
Oh, no … He reads the message twice, then a third time. The telegram is brief but informative, and while not unexpected, it produces an unusual sadness in Charles's heart.
Sarah Mason. Died 25 April. Buried 29 April, Downton Parish.
He closes the message up again, rolls it around the two for the Major, and tucks the small bundle in his breast pocket. Rising, he ducks back into the tent to retrieve his other prayer book - the thinner, but lately much more used one - and makes his way across the camp to find William.
As he crests the small hill, Charles has to swallow a hard lump in his throat. William is a kind lad, a dedicated soldier, and a great help to all who ask his assistance. He rarely requests anything for himself in return, save for perhaps a kind ear on occasion. And Charles, as chaplain for their camp, is always available to listen.
His steps are slow, and he freely admits that he's taking his time in order to prolong the inevitable. Experience on the front, while brief thus far, has taught Charles Carson a great deal: war is a messy business, both politically and physically, and while his job is to minister to the needs of his men, to provide comfort and absolution and guidance, it is also his job to deliver the worst news possible when it arrives in his hands … and that is perhaps one of his least favorite things to have to do.
Charles rarely has doubt that he's chosen the right path in his life. It had been an arduous journey in many ways, starting with an early career as footman (and then under-butler) to which he can never return, followed by a year treading the boards and a brief (but intense) romance that ended in disaster. The short series of events had left him bereft and in need of guidance; when he fled London following his fiancée's betrayal, he ended up in a small parish outside the city. Long afternoons were spent in the village church, sitting or kneeling in pew after pew, seeking a sign.
The sign eventually came in the form of a hand, extended in friendship; it took Charles a moment to recognize its owner as Edmund - now the Reverend Martin - an old acquaintance from his childhood. The familiar face and voice encouraged Charles to stay, offered a chance for him to be giving of his time and skill, and Charles finally found in his rededication of himself to God all of the things he'd been missing in his life up to that point: consistency, rules, stability … and, in the most tucked-away parts of his mind and heart, an immense comfort for his sorrow and unease.
After years of near solitude, of prayer, reflection, and hard work that varied from polishing the church's silver Communion service to assisting in the patching of a hole in the ceiling, Charles made the decision to follow the path to deaconship and, eventually, the priesthood … and leave the rest of his old life behind for good.
And now here he stands: newly ordained, whisked away by war to a position in the trenches instead of the pulpit, facing the entrance of Private Mason's tent. He wonders at times if these experiences are meant to feel like challenges, but there's no time to ponder that now.
To his credit, William weeps openly at the news that Charles brings. Such raw emotions used to make the older man uncomfortable, truth be told. But war will do things to all men, affecting them in ways no one uninvolved can truly understand, and an appreciation for all human life - and what it costs to keep it - is perhaps Charles's greatest takeaway.
He clasps William's hands as they sit facing one another. They pray together, the book resting on the ground by Charles's feet, unrequired, the words so much a part of his daily life here on the front that he's not sure why he brought it along in the first place. Perhaps it was simply for the comfort of knowing more words would be there should he need them.
"She was a good woman, Padre," William mumbles, wiping at his eyes once more. "And now I'm all alone, save for my Dad."
"You should write to him," Charles replies. "He'll appreciate hearing from you and knowing you're well."
"I got a letter two weeks ago from him. He didn't mention … well, he said he's proud of me."
Charles smiles softly. "He will be happy to have you home once we're out of all of this."
William looks wistfully out at the land surrounding them - or what he can see of it through the door of the tent he shares with Lieutenant Crawley.
"And where will you go then? Does parish ministry await?"
Charles sighs. His intended post has been filled; he knows this much from Edmund.
"I hope so, yes," he replies after a moment.
William chuckles. "You could always go back into service, I suppose. I'm guessing you were good at it."
"I was, rather," Charles confides, his eyebrow raised in amusement. He claps his hands on his knees and stretches his back. "But that life was a long time ago, and I can't go back to it … for many reasons."
William fingers the seam of his uniform and smiles at his companion. "I stitched that hole, Padre. Do you see … here?"
Charles examines the sleeve and nods approvingly. "So you did. It's always important to present your best self, I think. Whatever your livery may be."
William looks him in the eyes and raises his own, much less impressive eyebrows. "Perhaps that life isn't quite as far from your mind as you think," he teases.
Charles merely gives a brief nod, then places the telegram in William's hands.
"Write to your father," he repeats gently, and he takes his leave.
The sun is beginning to set, and it's a strange juxtaposition over the land: the beautiful orange and red tones of the sunset shining on the pitted earth of the dugout, the dirt-stained walls of the tents, and the backs of the soldiers who are planning and training in the field. Charles sighs as he goes in search of the Major, knowing he'll likely find him in the hospital tent. Yesterday's battle produced a great many injuries, and despite new nursing staff having been promised, Charles knows it'll likely be weeks before they arrive.
He's wrong, however - a fact that is strikingly evident as soon as he steps into the infirmary.
Nurses are bustling everywhere, and he's stopped short by the sight of one of them as she runs before him.
"Carson!" She stops and places a kiss to his cheek. "Papa told me to look for you here, but you've saved me the effort!"
"Milady," he mumbles, nodding to her, and her laughter is light and airy.
"Just Nurse Crawley now, you know," she tells him. Her eyes drop to the bundle of blankets in her arms.
"Go," he tells her. "I'll be around, and we can talk later if you like."
She nods and hurries off, and Charles feels his heart fill as he watches her go: Sybil Crawley, youngest daughter of Robert, whose late father had been Charles's first employer. He shakes his head at Lady Sybil's words from before, at the suggestion that he'd call her anything but what her position and title demand - the daughter of the current Earl of Grantham isn't merely a nurse in Charles's mind, regardless of what she may think.
He remembers the day Robert Crawley had wed his young bride from America, and it seemed that each time Charles returned to the area to visit the local parish, he would hear news of a new daughter's birth. He and Lord Grantham had maintained a mutual respect for one another throughout the years despite Charles's original, abrupt departure from the household, and Charles had the opportunity to get to know the man's wife and daughters a bit during the months the family would spend in London for the Season, where Charles ended up serving in a small church.
But to see Lady Sybil here, in the hellish environment of war, jars him in a way he can't explain.
"Excuse me. Are you alright?"
The voice brings him back to the present, and he turns to see where it had come from … and, suddenly, all of his breath leaves his lungs at the sight of the woman before him. As if her voice hadn't been startling enough, the dark hue of her hair - with a few wisps escaping its tight, plaited bun - and the deep blue of her eyes have him completely done for.
"Sir?" She glances at his shirt, searching for a last name on the pocket, but finds nothing.
"Fine. I'm fine," he manages, shaking his head a bit to clear it. "Thank you."
She nods, then hurries off to attend a soldier lying on the nearest cot.
Charles can't help but follow her with his own eyes, which anyone looking at him would recognize as being alight with wonder. He watches as she lifts the hand of the injured man and speaks kind words to him, words Charles cannot hear but which are clearly reflected in the smile the man gives upon hearing them. She dips a clean cloth into some water, wrings it out efficiently, and carefully cleans the man's wounds, taking care not to press too hard. Charles watches as she rinses the towel once, then twice, before carefully extracting something he cannot identify from the man's bicep. And he continues to observe her as she cleans the wound once more with one hand while allowing the soldier to squeeze her other one against the pain, before she wraps his arm in clean gauze.
Major Clarkson's sudden appearance at his side surprises him, pulling him out of his daze.
"She's a marvel," the Major says approvingly. "New arrival from Downton; came yesterday with Nurse Crawley."
Charles smiles at his use of Sybil's new title. "She certainly seems knowledgeable," he says, observing how the woman darts in and out of the medical tent, bringing supplies in and other things out, as needed. "Is she a nurse by trade?"
The Major laughs. "Hardly! Housekeeper, if you can believe that."
Charles's eyebrows fly up. "Surely not at the Abbey?"
"But of course. It's how she ended up being sent here when she volunteered as opposed to overseas."
"But Captain Crawley's mother …"
The Major flushes. "Has requested to be elsewhere," he says abruptly. "Now, I'm going to guess that those are for me?" he adds, tapping the papers in the chaplain's hand.
"Forgive me, Major," Charles replies sheepishly, handing the messages over.
"It's alright," the Major responds. "A great deal of distractions today, all around."
Just then, the nurse catches Charles's gaze. She smiles, a small upturn of her lips, and he returns the gesture in kind with a small nod.
"It's Mrs. Hughes," Major Clarkson murmurs in Charles's ear. "Her name, I mean. Refuses to go by 'Nurse,' not that we could force them to call her that anyhow. Too many people here from the big house, or their families - everyone from Downton knows Mrs. Hughes."
"Well," Charles replies quietly, "it appears that I've been gone longer than I thought."
The Major claps him on the back and smirks. "Perhaps so."
tbc
A/N: Oh, my goodness. YOU GUYS! Your response to the Prologue was so lovely, and I thank each and every one of you - with a special nod to Suzie, and to the other guest reviewers that I cannot thank in person.
I hope you'll still be on board from this point forward. Please continue letting me know what you think of the story. This one's not all written ahead of time, but I do hope you'll stick with it. As I said, I've played a bit with the timeline, most notably here with William's mother's death coming when he's enlisted as a soldier.
NB: Messenger dogs - true story. Part of the hold up for writing this story is that I've lost myself down the research rabbit hole. But there have been lots of cool things to find!
PS: Charles isn't dead in the prologue. I know some folks worried that the news Mr. Barrow brought would be some sort of Carson death announcement. I promised I'd never do that again, and I stand by my promise. Once was enough, thanks. We'll revisit that scene ... eventually.
xxx,
CSotA