Chapter 11 – There & Back Again – Pt. I

A/N: When inspiration struck for this "night-only moments" fic tied to AHoM (which has its own night moments already), it was these next two I first envisioned, especially the feelings it conjures up for me, and for many: the weary traveler, physically and emotionally removed from home, doing all he can to get back, to where he belongs, as soon as possible, to his people, his person.

N/B: I did a little research, used a little logic, with all of the plot points happening in this chapter. But…well, I don't speak colloquial Gaelic Scots. I don't know if trains ran such late hours between Yorkshire and Scotland in the '20s. I do know stylish hotels would have had public phones in the UK, but not sure if a humbler inn/public house would, or if long-distance calls were readily available between England and Scotland. Know I tried my best to only stretch credulity, not snap it, for the sake of the story. To the characters, I stayed as true as possible. ;-)

SHOUT-OUT: These chapters are for Canadianjudy. For being such an enthusiastic reader and reviewer. For opening this fandom up to me (and for me!) in ways I'd not contemplated, and because of that, connecting me to more wonderful people. But mostly, just for being her amazing, generous self.

~CeeCee

Late February, 1926

The Lamb's Heid Inn, Edinburgh, Scotland

He walked into the pleasantly-outfitted inn tucked into a quiet side street in Edinburgh, the late hour and the urgent request of his presence in this town making him feel all of the years he could fairly claim, and then some.

He approached the bar, where several men a few decades younger than himself were quietly sipping whiskeys, even as one day became the next. The publican, a broad man with heavy freckling on his face and neck, grinned the easy smile of someone whose life revolved around serving the public.

"Feasgar math - evening to yeh, sir. Can I help?"

"Indeed you can, I thank you," he set his travel bag down carefully but with great relief. "I've booked a room here, only just this afternoon. Charles Carson, is the name on the reservation."

"Ah, yes, Mr. Carson," he nodded, pulling out a leather-bound guestbook, running his finger up a column of names, his square-shaped pointer finger landing on the right entry. "You're English." The man grinned at him a little.

"Indeed, I am, I hope that isn't a problem," he joked, just a slight diffidently. He liked this younger man instinctively, for some reason, and because he was tired, and lonely, and knew that the next few days to would make him feel both things even more sharply.

The man chuckled in response, and he relaxed a little. "That didn't quite make it out me mouth the way I intended. Your wife called not an hour ago, Mr. Carson, to see if you'd arrived, and she was Scots, so…."

His loneliness expanded, filling his chest with an airy hollowness. Elsie had called, to make sure he'd arrive safely, and must have done so from Downton; their little cottage did not have a phone. Some of what he was feeling must have shown on his face; the man behind the counter, who was half his age, suddenly became brisk but warm.

"You must be quite tired, Mr. Carson, especially if your trip was sudden and you were delayed nearly an hour after your wife expected you to arrive. If ye'd like, I'll have someone bring your bag to your room, along with a pot of tea and some cold sandwiches. And while that's getting settled, you are welcome to use the phone to return your wife's call," he gestured to a wooden telephone box across the room, pulling a small envelope out of his apron. "This also arrived for you a few hours ago, from somewhere local – the theater, I think, based on the lad who left it here for ye."

Charles took it, feeling trepidation rise in his throat. He wanted to talk to Elsie, before he took in anything else, including whatever news was contained in the correspondence. He nodded his thanks to the man, and, leaving his bag he walked to the phone booth on the far side of the cozy, welcoming space. He pulled the door shut behind him, sat on the bench therein, picked up the receiver, and waited for all of the necessary connections and transmissions, which he only vaguely understood, to be made.

Then, after a seemingly endless amount of time, her voice:

"Downton Abbey, Mrs. Hughes speaking, how may I help?" And he closed his eyes, leaned his head against the wall. He could picture her, sitting in his office, no, Thomas Barrow's office, waiting, staring at the phone, willing it to release its burring jangle at any moment. Remaining calm, and professional, regardless.

"I hope you weren't expecting to field official Grantham business at this late hour, Elsie," he sighed into the phone.

"Charlie," she replied, and her voice became soft and pliable. "I'd nearly given up. A few more minutes, and Mr. Barrow may have returned to find me asleep across his desk in the morning. Ye've arrived safely, then?"

"I have, and the man here is putting something resembling a meal together for me, and bringing it to my room. I've a note from someone at the theater, though I've not read it yet. I can't imagine this will take more than a few days, from what Grigg wrote in his letter last month," he could hear himself, the slightly brusque way he was speaking to her, the formality he'd coated his words with, but he couldn't find another way in himself to be, not in this moment. I miss you, he thought. I don't like being here, not at all, but certainly not without you. But I must be here, I think. I need to see this through.

He'd always resisted any attempt at his past, especially this particularly messy, confusing part of it, spilling into his current life. Even when she'd pushed him to face it, and when he'd been grudgingly appreciative she had, everything to do with Grigg, Alice, himself as a young man on the stage, made him panic. Made look for ways to cover up the dusty, difficult bits of his young life. Now, this one final time, he had to open himself to his own history.

"I'm glad ye've arrived then, so I can get a few hours of sleep," her words were teasing, her voice tender. "I'll miss you, Mr. Carson, and it costs me nothing to say it." Now both the humor and warmth in her voice deepened.

He wanted to say how much he missed her, how unmoored he felt. How glad he was of his exhaustion, as it would be otherwise difficult to sleep in a strange bed alone, even after less than a year of sharing one with her. But when he opened his mouth what came out instead was, "You're never walking back to the cottage on your own at this hour?" He wished tiredly he didn't sound so cross, that he didn't feel the need to shore himself up, not with her, in any case, but he did.

"Nae, Charlie, I've more sense than that," she seemed entirely unfazed by his harsh tone. "I'm staying at Downton tonight, they've kindly made up the bed my old room. And I'll likely sleep here until the evening prior to your return. I'll go back a mite ahead of you, so everything's in its proper place once you're home." He could hear her smiling.

"Well, I'm glad it's all sorted then," he sighed. Despite his loneliness, his longing for her, he desperately needed food, drink, then bed.

"Off with ye, then, my dear," she said quietly. "Ye're probably on the verge of collapse. Good night."

"Good night," he stood, paused. "Elsie…"

"Charlie."

"I…"

"Yes, I know. Good night, love."

oooOOOooo

For the second night running, he found himself walking into The Lamb's Heid's dimly lit dining room as the clock struck midnight. And, once again, the inn's pleasant, cheerful owner was behind the bar. Charles hadn't had the sense or the energy to ask the young man's name last night, but this morning, before he began his very long, stressful day, he'd inquired about the late-night barman and discovered that he was, in fact, the proprietor of the place, one Fergus Campbell.

"Mr. Carson, sir, glad to see you again," Campbell greeted him, looked him over closely. "If I'm assessing correctly, you're due for a glass of port rather than whiskey."

"Quite right, thank you, Mr. Campbell," he sat, sighing heavily. He saw the man's face light up as he poured Charles' wine.

"Aye, that's me, though I'd not mind if ye'd call me Fergus, or Cam, if yeh prefer the latter," he set the drink in front of him, leaned back, facing him. "My wife does, sure enough."

"I'll stick with Mr. Campbell, for now, I think," he replied, sipping the port. It was better than he'd expected.

"A man who appreciates the small formalities of life. You're a rare treat, Mr. Carson, around here, at least."

"Taken as the compliment I believe you intended, Mr. Campbell," he responded, wondering, a little, what compelled him to continue, when nothing more was necessary to say to this near-stranger, as friendly and accommodating as he was. "I was the butler for the Earl of Grantham, at one of the grandest houses in all of England, for nearly half my life. You could say, Mr. Campbell, that not only do I appreciate the small formalities of life, I was the keeper of the small formalities of life."

"A butler!" The other man said with quiet excitement. "I was wondering what your profession was, I am not ashamed to admit it, Mr. Carson. It did cross my mind, but then I decided you must be a professor, perhaps at Oxford or Cambridge. You're married, after all."

"Ah, yes," and now Charles grinned a little at the other man. "Indeed I am. However, though I may not look the part Mr. Campbell, I am a newlywed. Not even a year, in fact."

"Well then! Congratulations, Mr. Carson. Mrs. Carson - was she, too, employed in the small formalities of life?"

"That she was, Mr. Campbell, and still is, at the very same house I just spoke of. We've been married under a year, but I've known her since I was just a little older than yourself." He was surprising himself. But talking to Fergus Campbell was reminding him of who he was, in the present. The entire day up until he'd walked back into The Lamb's Heid had been about sliding backwards, into the past.

The publican was about to speak when a feminine form appeared at the end of the bar, through a small a doorway behind it.

"Cam? Might I have a word? Excuse me, sir, I'll only need Mr. Campbell's time for a moment," her voice was thicker with the burr that lived in her husband's voice, buzzed in Charles' ears. She was round and fair with light red hair and dark eyes. Campbell nodded at him, walked over to his wife, bending his head towards hers. They spoke quietly for a few moments, and watching them, he grew lonely all over again.

Before he knew it, they were both walking back towards him. "Mr. Carson, this is my wife. Elsie, this is Mr. Charles Carson, one of our guests, as you know."

"It's delightful to meet you, Mrs. Campbell, and I thank you for your hospitality thusfar. It's a very fine establishment you have here," he replied, and he couldn't help the grin from spreading onto his face. He glanced over at Fergus. "My wife's an Elsie as well."

"And Scots, as sure as the day is long!" The younger man's grin lit up his face as he grabbed two small glasses, set them on the bar, poured two inches of port into each of them, then topped Charles' drink up.

"To our Elsies, then, Mr. Carson," he handed a glass to his wife, who looked a bit bemused.

"Yes, Mr. Campbell, to our Elsies," he raised his glass up to the others'.

"I best get back to the babbies, Cam," Elsie Campbell replied, after swallowing the wine in one gulp. "And we've got several guests arriving tomorrow. Busy days." She rinsed her glass, set it back on the shelf. "Mr. Carson, I hope you enjoy the rest of your stay here, and I'll be certain to stop for a word or two, if I see you, in the meantime." She unselfconsciously stood on tiptoe, gave her husband a hearty kiss near the corner of his mouth, and was gone back from where she came.

Her husband looked after her for a moment, a faint smile on his face, then turned back to Charles.

"What about your Elsie, Mr. Carson? Do you have a photograph of her?"

He did, in fact, taken at their wedding. He pulled it out of his pocket, set it on the worn, smooth wood of the bar. Stared at it, upside down, as Fergus Campbell picked it up, looked at it closely. The younger man's face broke into a wide grin.

"Meaning no disrespect in the least, Mr. Carson, but she looks as if she'd willingly save a soul from any mischief he'd gotten into, cheerfully, then box his ear, soundly, and chide him to naught do it again, if he knew what was good for 'im," his eyes sparkled as he handed the photo back to him. "I'm a bit sorry she's not with you, in fact."

"All of what you've said is too close to the truth for me to be even slightly offended, Mr. Campbell. And I, too, am sorry she's not here."

Fergus Campbell paused, then asked, hesitantly, "What brings you to our fair town, Mr. Carson?"

"My past, Mr. Campbell. An old friend of mine died yesterday. I was hoping my trip would conclude prior to his final one, but I missed my goodbyes by hours, based on the timing of the note you received on my behalf," he sighed. He'd not thought he'd see Charlie Grigg again, not after their farewell on the train station platform, and he'd been correct in that assessment. And some of the things he'd learned today, some of the people he'd met, made him regretful of that.

"My condolences, Mr. Carson," the man looked long and hard at him. "After the services, you'll bring everyone 'round here. We'll send your friend off in style, that's what we'll do. We'll do it right, and I'll have Elsie and her sister cook up lunch for you all, on us."

"I couldn't ask you to do that, Mr. Campbell," he replied, deeply touched by this man's spontaneous generosity.

"You're not askin', I'm tellin' ye," his tone, the words, the accent pressing on them, but mostly, the no-nonsense brand of kindness reminded him forcefully of Elsie, so much he nearly felt like weeping.

"If you insist, then, I thank you, Fergus," he concluded, and they shook on it.