Rain sputtered on the window pane next to him, leaving long, beaded streaks down the glass. The darkened puddles outside reflected the street lights and the whole world seemed to be made up of hazy circles of red and yellow and green. Charles Carson leaned back in his seat, placed a bookmark between the pages of his novel, and sipped at his glass of scotch. He was grateful to be here in this cozy Flemish cafe tonight, away from the rain. He vowed to stay here until it let up; the walk back to his hotel wasn't too far, but he hated to be damp.

Bruges had been his home for the last few weeks. Before that, Munich; yet before that, Prague. He had been wandering around the Continent for several months now, a little listless and a little aimless. It was quite out of the ordinary for him to be in such a state; he was usually a meticulously driven person, perhaps a bit too devoted to his career as a history professor at Cambridge, yet never without purpose. Then again, he had been out of sorts since The Incident.

He sipped at his scotch yet again and tried to push thoughts of The Incident out of his mind. The whole purpose of this trip, this sabbatical, really, was to get some space away from it.

"Would ju like anover drinkt, sir?" came the thick Flemish accent of the bartender. Carson flashed him a small smile and nodded. He had nowhere to be and all the time in the world to get there.

He rolled his head around his neck to relieve the tension of a day spent in a wooden chair, reading and nipping at his tipples. It was autumn now and the earth was beginning her long rest. Outside, everything was quiet and cool.

Patrons filled the cafe, clinking glassware and chatting and tucking into fabulous Flemish stews and mussels. The scent of herbs and butter filled the room. Carson was usually quite comfortable being alone, even when traveling, but in the evening when others packed the cafes and pubs he visited and seemed to be so cheerful and happy, his solitude felt more like loneliness. It was among the low hum of chatter that he felt his phone vibrate in his breast pocket. He was grateful for the distraction from the melancholy that had settled upon him then, and he answered it without even bothering to look at the caller ID.

"Hello?"

"Charlie, old boy!" came the voice of Robert Crawley on the other end. "How's Germany treating you?"

"I'm in Belgium now, actually."

"Oh, of course! Can't keep track of your vagabond ways nowadays," he joked off-handedly. "How are you enjoying your sabbatical so far?"

Robert Crawley was the dean of Downing College at Cambridge, and Carson's superior. He was part of a faded aristocracy, one that had gone belly-up after two world wars. Investments were poorly made, sons were killed in the wars, and now all that was left of their glory was a title that they seldom used and some property co-owned by the British government. Robert still had the clip of a posh accent and the Eton and Cambridge pedigree, but he made a living just as the rest of his countrymen did, however elevated it might be. But he was a fair dean, respected by colleagues and adored by students, and it was his suggestion that Carson take a sabbatical. The mood that had taken hold after The Incident began to affect his work, and Robert wanted to spare his friend and colleague any further embarrassment. A sabbatical offered him an opportunity to get away and save face.

"It's been…restful, I suppose," Carson muttered as the bartender brought him another round. He sipped it and felt it burn all the way down.

"I'm glad to hear that," Robert replied. "I know how seldom you take time off to rest. It can do a man wonders."

"Perhaps. But I'm growing quite listless, as it is," he admitted. "I've been visiting some libraries here in Bruges. Doing a little tinkering on an article, but much of the research I need to do ought to be done at a British library. I'm thinking of returning to England."

"You're keen to come back so soon?" Robert asked. The hesitation was apparent in his tone. Even though they were hundreds of miles away, Carson could see that well-known scowl of Robert's taking shape. He had rather expressive eyebrows.

"Well, not back to Cambridge per se. I know that I'm persona non grata there. But perhaps London? Or Oxford?"

"Steady on, old boy. You know you're not persona non grata. Of course you're always welcome in Cambridge, but given all that's happened since…" He didn't need to say 'The Incident.' It lingered in the air, even while unspoken. "...since this past spring," Robert said instead. "A change of scenery can be rejuvenating."

Carson grumbled and stirred in his seat. The scotch was finished off; he could feel himself becoming agitated and he had to bite his tongue. He felt as if he were in exile, banished from his homeland, doomed to wander indefinitely.

"That's all well and good, Robert, but I really ought to return to England. I'm getting very little meaningful research done here, and if I want to be productive at all this year, I need better resources at hand. One can hardly be expected to research 20th-century class dynamics in England from some Continental outpost."

A heavy sigh came from the other end of the phone and Carson winced. He knew that he was being petulant; many would kill for a year off of work at their boss's behest and with his blessing to be lazy. But the whole thing felt like a prison term, and he was itching to do something productive with his time. Gallivanting around Europe, drinking and eating and sightseeing grows tedious after a time. In fact, he was rather sick of it by now.

"Alright, then. Let me put some feelers out for some scholarly retreat centers around the UK, hmm?" he responded, as if they were negotiating a deal. "It's the off-season, but there may be a few still open. How about you hang tight in Germany–"

"Belgium."

"–Right, Belgium. Hang tight there and I'll get back to you in a couple of days. Sound fair?"

Carson felt relief; he hadn't realized how homesick he was until now. "Fair enough."

"Jolly good," Robert said. "Alright, I'm off now. Cora is dragging me to some God-awful charity benefit dinner at old Dickie Merton's place. Enjoy some Belgian beer for me, eh, old boy?"

"Of course," he told him before they hung up. The rain had let up by now, leaving behind puddles that shimmered under the streetlights. Carson tucked some euros under his empty glass, fetched his overcoat and umbrella, and trudged into the night.


The next few days passed in the same hazy way the last few months had passed. Mornings were filled with a newspaper and strong coffee at a cafe, afternoons were spent among stacks of dusty books that rarely saw the light of day, attempting to piece together something that could benefit his scholarly research, and evenings were spent with a book and a glass of scotch in a bar where he would doubtlessly feel the odd man out.

This morning was no different than any other he had had over the last several months in Europe. The city may change, but the routine was the same. Today, Carson sat alone outside at a small cafe table in the Grote Markt as horse-drawn carriages carted along tourists and native Belgians sat near him, chain smoking cigarettes and chatting away in a tongue he couldn't understand. The air was cool, almost crisp, and he pulled his coat closer to himself. He had his usual coffee and his usual English language newspaper. It was a usual morning. Until it wasn't.

His phone vibrated across the small cafe table, and this time, he did bother to look at the caller ID. It was Dean Robert Crawley, hopefully calling to offer him deliverance from his exile.

"Good morning, Robert," Carson said flatly.

"G'morning, old boy," came the dean's cheerful reply. "I come bearing good news. When you see me next, you really ought to kiss my feet. I've pulled some very tricky strings for you, Charlie."

His heart quickened pace. "Oh?" he asked. "Where am I to finish out my sentence?"

Robert scoffed. "Your sentence? Really, Charlie, don't pout. I've made some calls and as it turns out, there is a small contingent still left at Downton that can take you in during the off-season. That is, if you're still interested in coming back to jolly old England…"

Carson knew of Downton Abbey. It was once the Crawleys' ancestral home, long since vacated and sold into co-ownership with the British government. The Crawleys had been scattered about the British Isles since the 1950s and only occasionally returned, save for a large celebration or milestone–weddings, anniversaries, and the like. For the majority of the year, from March until October, a national trust operated and maintained it. It served as a scholarly retreat, filled with an impressive library of first editions and rare manuscripts, with guest rooms that doubled as studies, and expansive grounds of Yorkshire's rolling hills that made it an idyllic place to conduct erudite endeavors. The staff there put on a historical conference every spring, and many top lecturers and professors spent parts of their sabbatical there throughout the summer. Many in his profession would jump at the opportunity to spend the off-season at Downton, to have all of those books and manuscripts to oneself.

And yet, he felt stifled. The absolute last thing he wanted was to be tucked away in some remote corner of the countryside, far removed from civilization or anything resembling it. He missed his life before, that delicious time before The Incident where he worked and lived in Cambridge, where he gave lectures and wrote articles, where he went to dinner parties at St. John's and King's, and hob-nobbed with other intellectuals over cocktails, where he felt important and his life meaningful. It was like a dream, another life, someone else's life.

But obligation won the day. Carson hated to admit that he was grateful to his boss for pulling this string and arranging his return to England. Even if it weren't particularly ideal, it was better than meandering around the Continent like some wayward young thing during a gap year. He'd had just about enough of that.

"I'm still interested," Carson told him. "I suppose it'll be better than what I've been doing since June. When could I head that way?"

"The executive director, a woman by the name of Hughes, told me that you're welcome anytime. They've just sent the last lecturer who was there on retreat back to his university in time for Michaelmas term. They're about emptied out now, just a few staff left, some independent researchers and archivists, but they come and go. Pretty thinned out from what I hear, so you'll have the archives to yourself, old boy. I'll send you an email with the details about directions and the sort."

Carson nodded, resigning himself to spending the foreseeable future in the middle of nowhere.

"I, um, I'll have to stop by Cambridge to retrieve my car keys," he said clunkily. There should have been no reason to mention it, but it dawned on him that Robert had taken custody of his house keys when he departed from England in June, and on that keyring were the keys to his old Triumph Spitfire.

A slight, but noticeable pause followed. "Right, of course," Robert replied. There was a nervous lilt to his voice, and Carson wondered if it had anything to do with what his impending, albeit brief, return to Cambridge would mean. It was as if Robert were trying to keep him a measured distance away from Downing College and all the prying eyes that resided there. "How about I give them to you when you arrive? I'll meet you at the train station and we can grab lunch somewhere. How about Loch Fyne, that seafood place on Trumpington St.? They always put on a good lunch."

"That'll do," he said. "I'll email you my travel itinerary once it's all finalized."

"Good man, good man," Robert said. "I think this will be a solid next step for you, Charlie. Honestly so."

Carson grumbled and expressed some semblance of words that passed for gratitude. After adieus were bid, he hung up the phone and turned his attention back to the bustling market square and the cheerful Belgians that peppered it. It was idyllic, this Flemish town. It was almost as if it were from the pages of a storybook. But he had had his share of it.

He flagged his waitress down, settled the tab, tucked his folded newspaper under his arm, and made his way back to the hotel to pack. After four months of listless wandering, Charlie Carson was headed home.


A/N: Back again with another Chelsie story! This one will be a bit longer than my most recent stories. It'll be a slow burn, but how very Chelsie-like that is! They're all about the slow burn.

I hope you enjoyed this introduction. Please let me know your thoughts if you can spare a moment or two!