They were silent in the cab to King's Cross. They were silent on the train north. They were silent even on the ride back to Downton. Carson could feel the weight of their silence; it pressed into every inch of him. Elsie didn't prod him on their journey back home, and for that, he was grateful. He didn't have the words to give her yet.
Had he been a fool to think that he could outrun the memories that haunted him in Cambridge? For the last month, he certainly had an easy enough time keeping them at bay. Holed up in that empty estate with her, the scent of lavender following him around, a Celtic melody delighting him each morning and each night, Carson seemed to have forgotten what he was running away from.
To him, she was a cool breeze on a humid day.
He feared it would all end once she learned the truth, that it would end just as it was beginning. That was why he stayed silent on the long journey back to the Abbey. Whatever time he had left with her, he wanted to prolong it. He wanted to live in this dream a little longer.
The Abbey was dark and still. Wordlessly, Carson took her coat from her and hung it on the rack. The heavy pressing of their silence took on a renewed vigor as they stood in the entryway, divested of their layers, now completely alone for the first time since they kissed in that wretchedly marvelous corridor. Carson cleared his throat and felt a tremor run through his extremities.
"I–I ought to turn in," he muttered, loathing himself for his cowardice.
"What happened back there, Charlie?" Elsie asked gently, stepping close to him, placing a hand on his cheek.
He closed his eyes and turned slightly into her hand, savoring the way her thumb grazed his skin. Her touch was warm and he wondered if it would be the last time he'd feel such affection from her. From anyone.
Her voice was soft and quiet. "I won't prod you, but one minute we were enjoying a lovely dinner after a very lovely afternoon, and the next, you looked like you'd seen a ghost. You've hardly uttered a word since we left London."
His dark eyes cast down, Carson covered her hand with his own, wrapping his fingers around her palm and grasping it tightly. He took a long, measured breath and resigned himself to what was to come.
"It's a long story," he murmured like a condemned man upon receiving his sentence. "And not a particularly pleasant one."
Elsie brought their enjoined hands to her lips, ghosting them over the back of his hand. "I've nowhere to be," she replied. Carson nodded his understanding.
They made their way to the sitting room and Elsie fixed them each a glass of scotch. Something told her that they'd need a stronger spirit tonight than port could provide. They forwent their usual fire and so sat in the low light of the sitting room, a heaviness filling the room and demanding to be acknowledged.
Carson stared into his scotch glass, watching the amber liquid glisten and reflect the moonlight from outside. The words he needed were miles away; nothing in him wanted to call them forth. He wanted to return to that secret corridor from that afternoon, to that blissful and innocent moment with her where he had forgotten about everything outside of the two of them.
He cleared his throat yet again. "That woman you saw tonight at the restaurant–she's the reason I'm here at Downton on sabbatical. She was…my wife."
If this shocked her, she didn't let on. Elsie's gaze remained constant. "Go on," she told him gently.
Carson shifted uncomfortably in place. "We were married for some twenty-odd years. Alice and I met when I was a young lecturer and she was a graduate student at Cambridge," he began, despite his resignation. "She was from a very well-to-do family, posh and established. I have no idea what she ever saw in me. But we got on like thieves from the start. We married a few years later and settled into a nice routine. She ran a charity, as many women of her station often do, and I continued lecturing.
"The first few years of our marriage were good and easy. And then, after time dragged on, they weren't. In hindsight, I've realized that perhaps I wasn't the best husband," he sipped at his scotch, his dark gaze glued to the fraying edges of the patterned oriental rug; he couldn't bear to look at her. "I became devoted to my career, to advancing up the ranks. To making something of myself. And over the years, we became more like roommates than husband and wife. She had her own life, her own friends, her own ambitions, and I had mine. I didn't really see anything wrong with how things had become. I was a respected, tenured lecturer at one of the finest universities in the world, with colleagues who praised me and students who adored me; for all intents and purposes, I was content with the way things were. And I thought Alice seemed happy enough, that I was finally something enough for her. But I suppose, looking back on it now, it was no surprise what happened."
Finishing off the scotch, he winced as it burned its way down his belly.
"It started back in March. Although, in reality, it started years before that…"
Last March
"Charlie, old boy!" Robert Crawley gleefully announced across his office in Downing College. "We're taking this shindig on the road. Get your stuff and get to it."
Carson had just returned from the loo and their contingent of semi-imbibed scholars had diminished to about six or so. A selection of lecturers, graduate students, and of course, the College dean, had been celebrating the publication of a colleague's new book. The evening had begun as many such nights often do: a lavish meal at Downing's grand dining hall, a subsequent retreat to Robert's ornate, wood-paneled office for a few (many) rounds of imported American bourbon, and now, an excursion to a nearby pub. Some of the other more sensible members of their cohort had bowed out before the night took an inevitable turn towards intoxication. Now, just a handful remained. Among them, lecturers Anthony Strallan (history), Rich Clarkson (medicine), Charlie Blake (land economy), and a graduate student, Tony Gillingham (law). It was a chummy sort, and they all got on as thick as thieves.
He chuckled and felt glad for the camaraderie he had with these scholars; such a prospect would have been unfathomable to him in his youth. "Onwards and upwards," Carson replied in a cheerful tone, gathering his jacket and stepping out of the way for the others to filter out of Robert's office.
The cohort filed onto the streets of Cambridge, stumbling a fair amount and speaking far too loudly for that time of evening. They wove through narrow streets and alleys until they reached their destination: The Eagle Pub. It was iconic in Cambridge, being the place where Watson and Crick celebrated their discovery of the DNA double helix, and was usually a popular place with tourists. But tonight, a Friday in early March, Cambridge was not a tourist destination. The English landscape was still raw and cold and unpleasant; winter had not quite let loose her grip on the island. More importantly, however, Robert was especially fond of The Eagle's fish and chips; at a certain point in the night, something to soak up the alcohol would be needed and what the boss wanted, the boss got.
As the Downing cohort got settled at a table in the corner of the pub, Carson, being less inebriated than his colleagues, seemed most apt to pick up a round at the bar. The scholars perused a menu as Carson checked his mobile.
"Get me that fish and chips, will you, old boy?" Robert mumbled, nudging Carson's elbow with his own. "Cora will have my head if I don't sober up a bit."
"Of course," he answered with a laugh. "What's she up to tonight?"
"Baby clothes shopping with Sybil," the dean replied. "So, naturally, Cora is in hog heaven. The little one is due in July. Still, I don't want to risk a row." He paused and pretended to look at the menu before asking, "And Alice? Where is she tonight?"
Carson put his mobile away into his jacket pocket and tried to recall where his wife was that night. They had spoken about their plans for the coming weekend that morning, but it had all been so vague and noncommittal that he could hardly remember. "She's out of town this weekend, actually," he said as if just realizing it himself. "Visiting her sister in Leeds."
"Ah, right, of course," Robert replied stiffly, an eyebrow arched high on his forehead. "The one with the health issues?"
He nodded. "Yes, she goes up there rather often to help out."
"Well, that's good of her."
They fell silent. It was no secret that Robert was not fond of Carson's wife. Being colleagues and friends, Carson was no stranger to the Crawley household, often a guest at dinner parties and holidays. He was even godfather to Robert's eldest daughter, Mary. Of course, as his wife, Alice was invited to such occasions, too, and for some reason, she and Robert did not get on well. It had been like that since they'd first met when Carson introduced the two after Tripos the year they first started seeing each other. Years later, when their disaster of a marriage was but a faint memory, Robert would tell Carson that he had always thought Alice was "uppity," as he put it; a bit of a snob, quite full of herself, really. He was just too much of a gentleman to say anything about it.
But for now, Robert simply nodded and kept his thoughts to himself.
Mercifully, the others in their group had settled on a drink selection, telling Carson of the same, and he did his duty and ordered a round for them. The night passed in a merry, fraternal way. The six men swapped stories, trying to best one another with their wit and intellect, trying to hold their liquor better than the others. Carson's cheeks hurt from laughing and smiling widely for the better part of a few hours. He did not want the night to end, but at their age, they knew better than to push their luck past midnight. So, at around 10:30 or so, they settled their tab and walked out onto Bene't Street. It had rained while they were at The Eagle and the wet cobblestones glistened, reflecting the lights of nearby shops and restaurants.
And it was there on the wet cobblestone of Bene't Street that Carson's life made one giant, cataclysmic shift in a different direction.
Coming out of The Cambridge Chophouse, a posh, upscale steakhouse in the center of town, holding hands, leaning against each other for warmth, stopping on the corner of King's Parade to share a tender kiss, was his wife Alice. And his best friend, Charles Grigg.
"Alice?" he called out dumbly. Neither had heard him, and their very public kiss deepened, his best friend taking liberties with his wife that even he wouldn't dare do in the middle of a busy street.
Robert turned around, his eyes bulging as he took in the scene before him.
Carson felt Robert's hand on his chest as the dean stepped between him and the two clandestine lovers. "Charlie, let's get you home," he insisted, pleading with the man.
But his words fell on deaf ears. Carson called out again, this time louder than the last. "Alice! What on earth?"
This time, it was enough to get their attention. They broke apart and lost all color when they caught sight of him.
"Charles, what are you doing here?" Alice asked as she put a foot between her and Grigg. "I thought you were at your college dinner tonight."
"It finished hours ago," Carson muttered in a blank tone; he could not begin to process what was happening. He looked to his best friend, a man he had known almost as long as he'd known Alice, and saw the exact shade of his wife's lipstick smudged on his cheek. "How long has this been going on?"
Neither answered.
"How long?" he shouted so loudly that passersby turned around. The rest of his cohort stepped closer, ready to intervene if needed.
"Charlie, let's not be rash, here," Grigg told him. "Let's all be adults about this."
Carson ignored him, staring into his wife's gray eyes, speaking to her alone. "How long?" he repeated through gritted teeth.
Alice looked down at her feet, her dark hair falling over her fair features like a curtain. "Three years," she confessed in a hushed tone.
Carson had never been in war, had never seen a battle or even heard a gunshot. But in the moments that followed, he could only describe the subsequent sensation as one of complete and utter shellshock. He stumbled backwards, as if her confession had the physical effect of knocking him squarely in the chest.
"Three years," he repeated, his breath ragged and unsteady. His mind raced thinking back to the last three years, to the smiles she'd given him, the kisses, the sweetness, to the pints he'd shared with his best friend, to the rugby matches they'd gone to. Lies. It had all been a lie.
Watching this entire scene unfold helplessly, Robert and Rich Clarkson stepped forward, tugging at Carson to extricate him from this hellscape.
"I think it's time we get you home, old boy," Robert insisted once again.
This did nothing to quell his shock and anger. "Three bloody years!" he roared. Without a second thought, Carson shrugged Robert and Clarkson off of him, lunging at Grigg, his tightened fist looking for Grigg's jaw.
It was there, in the middle of Cambridge, where anyone could see, where his dean and his closest colleagues and any number of passing students definitely did see, that Charles Carson clocked his best friend squarely in the face. Not a soul on earth would blame him; in fact, quite a few would have cheered him on.
Upon seeing this, the rest of the Downing cohort sprung into action at once, pulling Carson's large frame away before this turned into a proper brawl. Reluctantly, Carson relented and allowed them to drag him away. He couldn't bring himself to look back, so he kept walking, shaking his hand loose and ignoring the broken skin on his knuckles.
Their pace was hasty and all six men were silent. No one had the words after witnessing what they had just seen. What do you say to a man whose marriage just imploded? They arrived at Downing and some wordless agreement passed among Robert and the others. They patted Carson on the back and went back home to their own wives and girlfriends, glad at least in some way that they hadn't suffered the same fate which now plagued poor Charles Carson.
"You'll stay with Cora and me tonight," Robert told him.
It wasn't a question or an offer; it was a statement, and Carson knew he had little in him left to argue. All he could do was nod. Having had a few too many, they walked in silence back to the Crawleys' townhouse in central Cambridge. It was grand, with odd modern elements mixed in with its traditional frame. Cora's American influence, no doubt.
What remained of that night in March passed by in a hazy way. Carson could only vaguely recollect bits of it. He remembered standing dumbly in the Crawleys' entryway as Robert apprised his wife of the situation in hushed tones in the nearby kitchen, and Cora's gentle gaze on him as she prepared one of her daughters' former childhood bedrooms for him to stay in, and the numb days that followed as he camped out at their townhouse. He could recall the dozens of calls from Alice that he ignored over the next week, and the one time he finally did answer.
"Neither of us were happy, Charles," she had said over the phone a week after The Incident. Her accent was cool and impersonal. It was hardly the voice of a woman speaking to her aggrieved husband. "I know what Charlie and I did was unforgivable. But let's not pretend that either of us were content with one another."
He was sitting in the Crawleys' garden on a stone bench that was cold to the touch. Although it was March, spring had not arrived quite yet, and everything in the garden was dead or dormant. "I was content," he countered, immediately regretting it.
He heard her sigh. "We no longer suit," Alice told him. And after a long pause, she added, "I'm not sure if we ever did."
Their divorce was swift. It helped that they didn't have children and that they didn't want much from the other. Alice had a family friend, a well connected solicitor, who pulled some strings and got it all finalized before the end of Trinity term that June.
The aftermath of The Incident, however, lingered much longer. Carson's very public marital crisis had been witnessed by a few choice busybodies in the university, and soon, almost anyone who was anyone had heard of poor old Charles Carson's wife having an affair with his best friend under his nose for years. "What a shame," they'd whisper in hushed tones at university events, in the dining halls, in the pubs around campus. "Poor old bastard." "It was probably a long time coming."
He had heard through the grapevine that Alice and Grigg had moved in together, settling in some charming cottage outside of Cambridge, not far from the theater he ran. It was an insult to injury, he decided.
Carson lost all sense of himself. In a single night, he had lost his wife, his best friend, and his professional reputation. The very next morning in the harsh light of day, he regretted his loutish behavior towards Grigg. Whatever despicable things that worm had done to deserve a solid jab to the face, it was the unfortunate public nature of it that led to the gossip that followed him around for weeks afterwards. Carson had always prided himself in being a consummate professional in all respects, always and everywhere; now, he was no better than some lovelorn co-ed.
His work suffered the most. He was distracted and curt, his temper as short as it had ever been. At even the slightest inconvenience, he barked; it did not matter if it was a young, innocent student or Dean Crawley, himself. After the bulk of Trinity term passed by in this way, Carson found himself in Robert's office where the idea of a sabbatical had been proposed. It was very clear from the dean's tone that this was not optional. He would spend the better part of a year away from Cambridge under the guise of a sabbatical, but in all reality, to get away from the whispers and the oppressive memories that followed him around there.
And so, this was how Charles Carson found himself in the darkened sitting room of Downton Abbey, an empty glass of scotch in his hands, and the kind gaze of Elsie Hughes fixed upon him.
Tonight
"Not so flattering, is it?" Carson murmured, rolling the crystal glass around in his hand. "Quite pathetic, really."
He hadn't dared to look at her while he told her what brought him to Downton. When he was still pretending this was all some overdue sabbatical, that he had important research to conduct in their libraries, he could hope that she would look at him with respect, perhaps admiration to some degree. Now that she knew the truth, he feared she would look at him with the same pity with which everyone else in Cambridge looked at him.
Wordlessly, Elsie took the empty glass from his hands and set it down on the coffee table. Then, she took his hands into her own, squeezing them so tightly it almost hurt.
"'Pathetic' is the last word I'd use to describe that, Charlie," she whispered. "I'm so, so sorry that you went through that. I don't even know what to say."
For the first time since they sat down, his dark eyes traveled to hers. He had expected to see pity, but instead, he saw compassion. It felt undeserved. It was all too much for him; he had to get away.
Clearing his throat, he pulled his hands from hers and hastily stood up. "Th–thank you for that," he managed, ignoring the sudden rush of coldness he felt around him. "But it is quite late. I really ought to turn in. Goodnight, Elsie."
He didn't wait for her to protest, or even for her to say goodnight back to him. Turning on his heel, he departed for the solitude of his own bedroom as fast as his legs would take him.
The following morning, Elsie was unsurprised to find that Carson had skipped breakfast. Like most men, he needed a little time alone to sort out his emotions. Still, she worried about him. Checking the main library where he spent most of his time, she was disappointed to find it empty, save for his laptop and notepads and the mountain of books that fanned around them. Her search took her through Downton's smaller, more niche libraries, each of them devoid of him. Starting to worry properly now, she knocked on his bedroom door; silence was all she heard on the other end.
It was only as she stood in the drawing room, with its expansive windows overlooking the eastern grounds that Elsie saw Carson's lone figure. He was sitting among a row of large, stone pillars, which looked to be some sort of outline of a Pantheon-style edifice. Its presence in the middle of the estate was odd, but no one really gave it any mind.
Elsie fetched her coat and trudged outside to be with him.
"You'll catch a cold out here like this, Charlie!" she told him as she approached, her coat pulled tightly around her.
He looked up at her, apparently unbothered by the cold. His smile was small, distant and absent. One could hardly call it a smile at all. "I'll be fine," he assured her. "I'm sorry for missing breakfast."
She scoffed. As if that were why she was outside right now. "Nonsense," she insisted, sitting next to him. Their arms touched and the warmth radiating off of him beckoned her to sit even closer. But she restrained herself. "Are you doing alright?"
"Perfectly fine," he said too quickly. Risking a glance in her direction, he saw the arched eyebrow that let him know his lie was not believed. His shoulders slumped.
Elsie watched the wind weave through his hair, pulling strands of it where it pleased. "I won't press you if you don't want to talk about it. But I don't think I'm wrong in believing that what you told me last night was not the whole of it."
He sighed, a heavy, resigned one. "You're not wrong."
Without saying anything else, she waited. The wind was blowing through her hair, too, and nipping at skin still exposed. How much time passed, she did not know, but she had promised not to press him. In his own time, he'd tell her. Until then, she'd wait.
Eventually, he cleared his throat and began.
"I've spent a lifetime putting on airs and graces I've no right to," he explained. "You must think me a terrible fool for it. I worked and clawed my way up, desperate to make something of myself, to be someone important. Alice was from a well-to-do family and I never measured up, but in all honesty, it started before I met her. Despite all of my airs and graces, at heart, I'm still just that poor boy from the wrong side of town. I think, in some way, I'm terrified that I'll never be more than that."
He ran a hand through his hair and she could sense his hesitation in continuing.
"I've nothing to offer you, Elsie," he said in a quiet, sad tone. "I was once a respected professor, with a prestigious, tenured job at one of the world's finest universities, beloved by my colleagues and students. I had good friends, I was sought after for lectures and conferences, and, most importantly, I was something. I was someone important. I have none of that now. I have nothing to offer you." Turning to her, he looked at her like it would be the last time. "And you deserve…everything."
The wind whistled around them, but when it settled and quieted, Elsie took a steeling breath.
"Would you do me a kindness and let me decide if you've enough to offer me," she told him gently. "I don't care if your parents were poor, or if your career is a disaster, or if you lost all your friends, or if you even have a job at the end of all of this. Those are just things you have; they aren't who you are, Charlie."
Carson turned to her, his dark eyes wide and unbelieving. For a fleeting moment, Elsie wondered if anyone had ever told him this before.
"And who am I?" he asked. "To you?"
She offered him a small, tender smile; she wanted him to know how earnestly she meant this. "You're kind and sincere and gentle, so very clever and so very funny. And you make me laugh; I can't remember the last time I laughed as much as I do these days. I know I don't know you all that well, not yet, but what I do know, I like. And I'd like to see more." She paused, contemplating whether she should continue. But in the end, she decided that it's the victor who gets the spoils. "You make me feel seen, Charlie."
He gulped in disbelief. "I do?"
She nodded.
A tiny, almost imperceptible smile formed at the corner of his lips. It was all the permission Elsie needed. Without wasting a moment, she laced her arm through his, pulling him closer to her side, relishing in his warmth, and placed a long, tender kiss on his temple. When he leaned into it and pulled her closer to him, she grinned against his skin.
They sat there on the stone steps in silence until the wind became too nippy to bear any longer.
"Shall we have some breakfast? Perhaps a trip to Beryl's?" Elsie asked.
Carson grinned, the first she'd witnessed since London. It was wonderful to see, and she decided she never wanted to go another day without seeing it.
"I should like nothing more," he answered her.
A/N: Thank you all for the support for the last chapter! I appreciate it so much. We're only about halfway through the story at this point, so please continue to bear with me! Slow burn and all ;)
As for this modern telling, I wanted to explore the role that Carson's careerism had in his life. In the show, I think his desire to rise above his humble beginnings and his unrelenting pursuit of exceptionalism cost him a lot, and possibly delayed anything developing with Mrs. Hughes until they neared retirement. Of course, in this slow burn, he still needs to work through some of those tendencies and desires before we can have resolution. As for Alice and her infidelity, some of you picked up on the breadcrumbs I left earlier. The Bird of Paradise plant is one often associated with fidelity, and its death earlier in the story was a bit of foreshadowing about that.
Anyway, I hope you all enjoyed this chapter! Let me know your thoughts if you can spare a moment!
