As the train departed St. Pancras, and London slowly morphed into the countryside, Carson felt an odd mixture of familiarity and foreignness about seeing his homeland for the first time in months. It hadn't been his longest length of time away from Britain, but the life he had left behind months ago was gone and he didn't think he'd find it again. It was a pity; he was rather fond of that life.
The train rocked him gently back and forth, and the coffee he'd bought at St. Pancras had long since gone cold. Through heavy eyes, he watched the blurs of green and yellow whiz past the train. It was a relief to be back in a place where his native tongue abounded and whose people's ways were his own. And yet, as Cambridge Station drew nearer, he tried to ignore a pit forming at the base of his stomach. He hadn't been back since June, three months after The Incident, and apart from a few phone calls with Robert Crawley and a few other colleagues here and there who wouldn't dare mention The Incident, he had had no contact with anyone else who had been part of his world in Cambridge. It was as if he had disappeared into the ether.
All of the colleagues–friends, he'd naively thought–who'd spent hours smoking cigars and drinking port in his office after supervisions, who'd shared pints at nearby pubs while they picked apart their latest articles, who'd rubbed elbows with him at College dinners, were nowhere to be found. There was a poetic irony about the whole thing, he thought. For years, he clawed his way into this inner circle of academia, a hallowed place where only the elite had access. He had fought tooth and nail to be allowed entry and to be counted as a peer among this flock. But he was on the outside yet again. It felt different from the last time he was on the outside, as the son of working class parents who longed for more; this time, he had known the glitz and the glam of this circle, and his exclusion from it now tasted even bitterer than his exclusion from it in his youth.
Cambridge Station arrived right on time, and Carson grabbed his bags and deboarded, relieved to find Robert already waiting for him in the station. The dean's eyes brightened when he saw him.
"Charlie, old boy!" he exclaimed, extending his hand for a shake.
Carson shifted one of his duffle bags to the other shoulder and returned his boss's handshake. "Good to see you, Robert," he said, flashing him a small smile that failed to reach his eyes.
"How was the journey back home?" Robert asked as they walked in tandem towards his car.
"Pleasant." His tone was curt and clippy.
The air between them felt stifled and the dean's eyebrow arched curiously. "Does it feel good to be back in your native land, at least?"
Carson loaded his bags into the trunk and shrugged. He didn't know quite how to answer. He settled on, "I suppose so." Robert sighed and Carson could sense his disappointment. It sat on his shoulders, heavy and oppressive. He cleared his throat and feigned cheerfulness at his return home and gratitude for Robert's hand in its coming about.
"I–I mean, I'm glad to be home and to continue my research here," he managed. Robert's eyebrow lowered only a little, and they both knew that he was putting on a facade. Still, it was better than his gruffness of moments ago, so it would have to do for now. The two men climbed into Robert's Bentley and moseyed further into town. Robert may have been part of a faded aristocracy, one with less clout and power than it had known a century ago, but that didn't preclude him from flashing his status around now and then. Although Carson wondered how much Robert's wealthy American wife had to do with the sleek car her husband zipped around in. Probably a fair amount, he surmised.
They arrived at Loch Fyne, a local seafood haunt, and to Carson's great relief, he didn't recognize a soul inside. No familiar faces with prying eyes to settle upon him, or to whisper gossip about The Incident as if he couldn't tell the precise topic they were discussing. That had been somewhat commonplace in the months between The Incident and his sabbatical. "Poor old Charlie Carson," they'd say to each other in hushed tones. "Can you believe it?" "What a real shame." "It was probably a long time coming."
He and Robert settled at a table and ordered a round while they perused the menu. The dean decided almost instantly what he wanted to order and set the menu down. He pulled out a keyring from his jacket pocket and slid it across the small table. "Before I forget, old boy," he said. "Although, you wouldn't get far out of Cambridge without those." He chuckled at this.
Carson looked over his menu and eyed the keys, grabbing them and flipping them around his index finger. They felt different than he remembered.
"Thanks for taking care of everything," he nodded before slipping them into his pocket. Robert had graciously agreed to keep an eye on Carson's townhouse in central Cambridge while he was abroad and make sure that the place didn't fall into a state of total disrepair. "How's my Bird of Paradise doing?" That plant was his pride and joy, with glorious leaves that fanned out over his study. He had tended to it diligently over the years, and occasionally, if his care that season were exemplary, it rewarded him with the blooming of a magnificent tropical flower.
Robert's blue eyes widened at the sudden realization that he had only just remembered something he was not supposed to forget. He shook his head apologetically. "Good heavens, I'm so sorry, Charlie. I must have completely forgotten to water that poor plant. I'll get you a new one when you make your proper homecoming next spring, I promise. In fact, I'll get you two!"
It was Carson's turn to sigh with disappointment. "That's…fine. It's just a bloody plant," he mumbled before turning his attention to his pint glass. A long, almost comically long gulp followed.
Lunch passed by amiably. The two men chatted in a pleasant way, not really saying much at all. They talked of some College gossip, of colleagues' promotions and affairs with students and research failures; they spoke a bit of Carson's travels through the Continent; and eventually, after their plates had been cleared and their tab settled, they spoke of his upcoming trip to Downton.
"I gave the Executive Director another call this morning and let her know that you'd be arriving this evening by car, so they won't need to send one for you at the Harrogate station. She seems like a kind woman, but she runs the place like a tight ship. Downton's lucky to have her. The last ED, a fellow by the name of Moseley, ran off with one of his assistants and became a screenwriter of all things. No notice, nothing. Can you imagine?" Robert shook his head; the nerve of some people, he thought.
Carson mumbled something incoherent. His annoyance with this entire situation had had a sudden resurgence. He regretted even agreeing to a sabbatical in the first place. Robert sensed his friend's sour mood and against his better judgment, offered him yet another olive branch. After all, the poor fellow had been through a lot in the last seven months.
"I know you're not keen on this, Charlie," he began. "But give it a good go, hmm? At least until the end of Michaelmas term? You can spend Christmas with me, Cora, the girls, and their little ones if you'd like. Dickie and Isobel Merton are hosting this year at their place in London, and Lord knows how they put on a good holiday. If the sabbatical is that terrible at Downton, we'll figure something else out before the start of the new term. Can you at least give it a go for Michaelmas?"
Michaelmas ended in just a couple of months. He would be most petulant if he declared that he couldn't give it a reasonable shot for two and half months. He wanted to be that petulant, but it was a terrible look for a man of his age. So, with a great degree of reluctance, he nodded his assent.
"I suppose I can't argue with that," he said. "It sounds fair enough."
Robert smiled and clapped his hands together victoriously. "Brilliant. Now, we had better get a move on. You've got a decent hike ahead of you."
After a quick drive to Carson's townhouse in central Cambridge, the two men parted ways until their planned Christmas reunion. It was then, for the first time in months, that Charles Carson stood in front of his own home. Situated on Hertford Street just north of the River Cam and a stone's throw from Magdalene College, the townhouse was quintessentially English, with light bricks and a bay window that commanded one's gaze and a sage green door that he had insisted on painting himself one spring evening years ago. He had lived here for thirty years, a fair few of them pleasant enough. Although the hedges were overgrown and leaves covered the small walkway to the front door, overall, it didn't look too neglected. Carson didn't want to go inside, but most of the clothes he had packed in June were too light for the coming winter. His need for a more sensible wardrobe necessitated his going inside.
With a heavy sigh, he unlocked the front door and stepped inside. It felt like walking into someone else's home, and he had a vague sense that he was trespassing. Silly, really; this house was all his. It had less in it than he remembered it having when he left in June, and it felt rather hollow. Carson walked around then, quietly inspecting, picking things up and shrugging and putting them back down. He noticed a pile of bills and magazines strewn across the kitchen table, and in the corner of his study, his Bird of Paradise in a terrible state.
"Poor bugger," he said to the dead plant as he inspected its drooping and browned leaves. "I'm sorry. You didn't stand a chance."
For all of his talk of wanting to leave the Continent and return here, Carson found that he didn't particularly like being back in his home. It felt odd and foreign. Perhaps it belonged to him and felt like a home in another life, one lived a very long time ago. He was met with the strange sensation of wanting to leave at once, and he exchanged his summer clothes for winter ones with great haste.
Within just ten minutes or so, Carson threw his duffle bags into the back of his Triumph, revved the engine, and departed for Downton, leaving the dead Bird of Paradise and the stifling memories for another time.
Elsie Hughes considered herself a practical woman. She always had been; even as a young girl, when others' heads were in the clouds, her feet were planted firmly on the ground. It wasn't a trait many celebrated; it certainly wasn't exciting or charming as other traits were. But when something needed to be done, properly done, few answered such a call as she did.
She had arrived at Downton's scholarly retreat center four years ago, not long after her predecessor had left in the night with a colleague. What romance could be found among this old estate, with its harsh Jacobethan turrets and its rows and rows of dusty books and its air of stuffiness, she could hardly fathom. This was a place of repose, where the country's greatest scholars conducted some of the world's most important research. At least, from March to October. The rest of the year, she and her small, but mighty staff worked on repairs to the estate and planned the next year's programming. It was not idle time, although it was much more restful without the egos of dozens of scholars to appease. In the way that the earth rests during winter, breathing a sigh and readying herself for spring, so, too, did Elsie live in the off-season.
When Robert Crawley called her earlier this week asking for the favor of all favors, she felt inclined to refuse him. An off-season where she was still expected to cater to some scholar who'd lost his way was not ideal. In fact, it was quite unfortunate. But Robert Crawley could be persuasive when he felt so inclined, and more importantly, when he knew he could throw his weight around.
"Elsie, need I remind you that Downton exists in cooperation with the national trust…and with the earldom of Grantham," he had told her matter-of-factly. "I get a say in who can stay at my own estate, if nothing else. And really, Charlie is a top-rate fellow. A good scholar, tidy enough, and quite a riot when you get a glass or two of scotch in him."
She had been hesitant, but knew that resistance was futile. "Alright, that's quite enough of that," she had muttered. "But I hope he's aware that this is highly unusual. He should not expect the red carpet. I'm working with a limited staff during the off-season, as you know, and resources are tight."
His satisfied grin could be heard through the phone as he replied, "But of course, love. Charlie's up to snuff on all of that. I'll relay the message to him that the plan is a go. You should expect him by the end of the week."
The end of the week had arrived hastily, almost impertinently. Elsie had hardly had time to recover from the end of their season before turning around and doing it again. She summoned what remained of her staff to her office, what was once a butler's pantry in the old servants' hall. Many staff members had returned to their posts as adjuncts of universities or as independent researchers, but a few full-timers remained. Among them was John Bates, her archivist and his lovely young wife, Anna, her rare book conservationist. The pair lived in Ripon with their infant son, Henry, and worked odd hours in the off-season. Daisy Mason, their housekeeper, was present, too.
"As you well know, we've got a visiting scholar staying with us for the foreseeable future. His name is Charles Carson and he's a professor of history on sabbatical from Downing College, Cambridge. He should be arriving this evening," she told her staff. "Now, I know that it's highly unusual for us to have a visitor during the winter, but do not let it interfere with your typical off-season duties. Leave him to me and go about your tasks as you normally would."
All three nodded their understanding.
"Is there any particular reason we're hosting a visiting scholar during the off-season?" Anna asked. It was rather unusual and her curiosity was piqued.
Elsie shrugged. "Your guess is as good as mine," she replied. "I'm sure we'll all find out soon enough. In the meantime, Professor Carson will be staying in the Queen Caroline bedroom. Daisy, I'll need you to make sure that it's freshened up before his arrival, alright?"
"Of course," she chirped.
"Excellent. Now, if you all don't mind, I have some matters to attend to before our guest's arrival. You're free to leave."
The three departed her office, leaving her to her solitude for a brief time. It felt fleeting, and it most certainly was. Damn that Robert Crawley, she thought to herself. The off-season was her time to tend to long-neglected projects, to decompress from months of programming, to sift through essay submissions for their spring conference. The absolute last thing she needed was some wayward friend of an earl hulking about her retreat center. How impractical.
Elsie migrated to the kitchen and was about to fix herself a pot of tea when a bell in the servants' hall dining room jingled. Her uninvited guest had arrived.
The long drive to Downton had been unnoteworthy. The scenery looked as Yorkshire scenery often did: rolling hills, pastures with cows and horses, little cottages tucked away behind trees. The only difference was the way green succumbed to orange, yellow, and red. Autumn was far more advanced here than in the Continent, and the air was far cooler. Carson was glad for that, at least. There was something far too cheerful and lively about summertime that didn't agree with him these days. Autumn's melancholy seemed to suit him.
After getting off the A1, the road twisted and turned and became narrower. If it hadn't been drizzling, he might have been inclined to roll the windows down and let the breeze run through his graying hair. For another day, perhaps.
Downton's Jacobethan turrets soon appeared through the mist. The grand manor stood atop a large hill, one among many in the area. Trees peppered the expansive land and a gravel road led him closer. The sky was pale, spitting down a fine sheen of moisture, not enough to warrant an umbrella, and within a few moments of being outside of the car gathering his bags, he felt damp. This did nothing to improve his mood, and he felt all the worse for it. He rang the doorbell and waited for his jailor to meet him on the other side.
Long minutes stretched by, and his annoyance grew, and he was about ready to pull the bell for a second time when he heard the door unlock and saw a petite woman answer. She must have been about his age, perhaps a little younger, a little kinder to her body than he was to his. Hair that was neither silver nor blonde framed her face and she wore a sensible navy sweater and dress trousers. In another life, he might have been inclined to call her pretty. But what did he know of such things now?
"You must be Charles Carson," she greeted him in a thick Scottish brogue. "Please, do get out of the drizzle." She motioned for him to come inside and quickly shut the cold out behind him. "I'm Elsie Hughes, the Executive Director here."
"It's a pleasure to meet you, Ms. Hughes." He set his bags down in the foyer and they shook hands. Carson looked around at the wood paneling and the oil paintings of Earls of Grantham past that hung thereon. He had seen his fair share of impressive country estates in his time; this one was not unlike countless others.
"Just Elsie, please. At the retreat center, we encourage given names only. One cannot fully immerse oneself into restful, scholarly endeavors if one is perpetually concerned about rank."
"How very egalitarian of you," he muttered at this unfortunate revelation. His rank as professor had been earned over decades of sweat, sacrifice, and hardship; he was reluctant to relinquish it to just anyone so readily.
She balked at this. Her expression almost unnerved him. He could read every word on her face, as if she had spoken the words "What are we going to do with this one?" aloud. In an instant, he was a schoolboy being called into the headmistress's office for a scolding.
Elsie cleared her throat and pressed on. "Shall we cover the ground rules, then, Professor?" she said with a slight clip to her brogue. "You'll be in the Queen Caroline room. It's one of our larger guest rooms with nice views of the south lawn and an en suite bathroom. The adjoining changing room has been turned into a small study. The entire ground floor and the northern corridors house our library and archives. You are free to use those at your leisure; we only ask that you document which books you take from the shelf in the ledger assigned to that room. Dinner is served in the dining room at 7:00, and a light breakfast is usually ready around 7:30. Apart from that, you will be on your own for lunch. If you have any questions about anything, you can ask me. Our other staff, John and Anna, are otherwise occupied with other projects in the off-season, so please don't bother them."
"I won't be a bother," he told her.
An eyebrow arched high on her forehead. "I should hope not," she quipped. "Now, if you gather your things, I'll show you to your room."
Carson did as he was told and followed in her wake, duffle bags in hand. They walked up a magnificent stairwell that overlooked the great hall. He wondered if Robert longed for this place at all, this ancestral home of his. But then he remembered his boss's penchant for modernity and decided that Robert couldn't be bothered to care for centuries-old oil paintings or intricate wood carvings along banisters. Perhaps it was best to leave it in the care and custody of those who appreciated such things.
Elsie led them to the Queen Caroline room and she handed him a key. "I hope you enjoy your sabbatical here," she started, pausing for the slightest of moments. "–Charles," she finished defiantly.
With that, she turned on her heel and departed back down the stairwell they had just ascended. Carson was left in her wake, miffed at her cheek, his jaw gaping. "Just need to make it till the end of Michaelmas, old boy," he grumbled, a mantra of sorts to remind him of the brevity of his stay here. With any luck, he'd be out of here by the new year. His dark eyes stared at the key in his hands and without another thought, he thrust it into the lock and pushed the door open.
His cell awaited him.
A/N: Whoa, thank you all SO much for the support of the last chapter! I'm so glad that you enjoyed the first installment and I hope you enjoy this one just as much. It's going to be a long, delicious slow burn, so I don't want to rush things too much.
Let me know your thoughts if you can spare a moment! Thanks!