Green was dead; he couldn't hurt her anymore.
It was over.
Except it wasn't over. In fact, perhaps the real torture was just beginning.
Anna had wished Green dead so many times. She had felt wicked to the core, but every time she had been overcome by tears, as sobs racked her body she had cursed her rapist and wished him dead. Revenge had burned in her heart as she pressed her quivering lips together laying out Lady Mary's clothes, secretly wishing Green had never existed at all. Her blood had boiled silently as she presented a pale, composed face to the world as she stood polishing boots, and there more than anywhere – in the room where it happened – she had wished him to be obliterated, to be disintegrated into millions of grains of dust which blew away on the wind.
Well he was returning to dust now, but it only made things worse. Now Anna was plagued by the suspicion that Mr Bates had killed Green – but how could she ask her husband such a question? What words could she choose to ask the unaskable? In what terms could she couch the enquiry as to whether her husband had killed the man who raped her, whose identity she had hidden for fear John would hang for his murder should he discover it?
If Anna had dared to contemplate any resolution to her previous nightmare, she certainly could not envisage one to this predicament. How could she ascertain the truth without accusing her husband and revealing her own deception?
When she had told Mr Bates of Green's death he had said nothing. It was on the day of the bazaar. She had gone to him as fast as she could in an effort to be the one to tell him, and to see his reaction to the news. If indeed it was news to him, because Anna couldn't shake the terrible thought that when Green had died, her husband had not actually been in York as he claimed. In her mind's eye she could see John's hands as the hands the propelled Green into the road. Or John's foot as the foot that tripped him, causing him to stumble into the road.
Anna had virtually run to her husband, desperate to comfort herself that she was jumping to the wrong conclusion.
"Green's dead," she'd said, still breathless from her hurry, and she'd watched him closely.
His jaw set, and his face turned pale, but he didn't speak.
"Did you hear me John? Green's dead," she repeated, suddenly feeling weak and cold.
He nodded, and looked away from her, directing his glance at a stall where a boy was trying to knock a coconut from its perch.
"Don't you want to know how he died?" she asked.
"No," he replied quietly, still not looking at her.
"Aren't you upset?" she persisted.
His eyes swept round and locked on hers as he said, "I didn't like him. But you seem upset enough for the both of us." She forced herself to hold his gaze, but after just a few seconds she lowered her eyes, uncertain whether his voice and eyes held an accusation, and if they did exactly what it was he was tacitly accusing her of.
That night she made excuses to stay late at the house, telling John to walk up to the cottage without her. It was horrible, and brought back memories of the days immediately after the attack, when she had drawn away from her husband, although of course then it had been for very different reasons. When she arrived home he was asleep. She took the opportunity to study his face. The lines on his face softened in sleep, she searched for a word to describe him – innocent, that was how he looked. Could that really be the face of a murderer? She laughed at herself then – how could you judge anything from a face, after all she'd never have pegged Green for a rapist when she first met the smiling, handsome pig.
The next day the servants' hall was buzzing with the news of Green's death. Anna noticed her husband sat as silently as she did at breakfast. Mrs Hughes had very little to say, although she made significant eye contact with Anna, and after the meal took her into her private room on a pretext.
"Oh Anna," Mrs Hughes said with enthusiasm, "you must be so relieved."
Anna didn't know what to say, "I'm not sure."
"But he can't hurt you now. You have nothing to fear," the housekeeper insisted.
Anna nodded meekly.
"Cheer up, at least you don't have to worry about Mr Bates getting hold of him," Mrs Hughes said, and Anna's eyes flashed straight to her face, but she could detect nothing but sincerity.
"No," Anna agreed.
Mrs Hughes sensed Anna was not entirely happy with the idea though. "It was an accident," it was a statement but her tone made it a question. "Mr Bates was in York. He couldn't have had anything to do with it."
"Of course he couldn't," Anna tried to sound convincing, but this time when she took in Mrs Hughes' expression she wondered if she could read some doubt, and knew that if it was there she had placed it there. "I'm just tired and being silly," she forced a brightness into her tone that she didn't feel. "I may have got it out of proportion anyway, Mr Bates is many things, but not a murderer."
"No, of course not," Mrs Hughes patted Anna on the arm as she left.
When Anna arrived in Lady Mary's room, there was no let up on the subject of Green's death.
"I've given it careful consideration, Anna, and I think that Green's death should bring this awful matter to an end," Mary said.
"Yes, m'lady," Anna said, keeping her eyes on Lady Mary's hair, which she was arranging, keeping her thoughts – which were that her employer obviously had very little understanding of the matter if that was her opinion – firmly to herself.
"Of course it's never right to be glad of a death," Mary intoned.
"Of course not," Anna's eyes met Mary's in the mirror before which she was seated.
"But I gather he was not widely liked, and his death is," she paused for a few moments, "I suppose the word I'm looking for is neat. At any rate, you can stop worrying now."
Anna was transfixed for a moment – why did everyone assume Green's death was the end of her worries?
Lady Mary appeared not to notice Anna's frozen position, as she inspected her own reflection. "And of course if Bates was in York," she regarded Anna in the mirror, "he's in the clear."
"He was in York," Anna confirmed calmly, concentrating studiously on Lady Mary's hairstyle. Having almost fallen into the trap of raising Mrs Hughes' suspicions, she would not repeat the mistake with Lady Mary.
"Good!" Mary stood up abruptly, "then we can all get on with our lives." She gave her maid a small smile and swept out of the room. Anna tidied the room, putting away a few items of clothes, gathering some stockings that needed darning, tidying the dressing table, all the time her mind on her husband.
It was odd how a few years ago, when most of the world had thought her husband a murderer, she had maintained absolute faith in his innocence. Now, even those who knew the motive Bates had to extract revenge on Green accepted his innocence, while Anna strongly suspected her husband had killed the man who had raped her.
When she had wished Green dead it was in an abstract way; as if he would disappear in a puff of smoke. She had never liked violence, but after the vicious ordeal he had put her through she could barely stand the thought of it. She was torn in so many directions now; she did feel some relief that Green could never hurt her, or anyone else, again, but John's possible role in his death troubled her deeply. If he had in some way engineered Green's death she feared him being dragged back to prison and hanged for the crime. She had always enjoyed how protective her husband was of her, and she was grateful that Green was gone, but the thought that John might have dispatched him - and in such a stomach-churning way - repelled her.
And that was the worst bit, the not knowing, and the not being able to ask.
When they shared a quiet five minutes alone together in the yard just outside the kitchen, a habit they usually both relished, she looked at him, wondering heartbroken if she would ever know the truth. Would she ever truly feel safe with him again? It had been so difficult, such a fight to get back to just being normal with him after the rape. He had been so patient and kind – she'd lost count of the nights he'd held her while she cried - he'd understood her need to go slowly, to relearn to enjoy their physical relationship. Had he really risked all that?
"You look very thoughtful," he said, catching her watching him.
"What did you get up to in York?" she asked as casually as she could manage.
"Ah, my secret day," he chuckled, his eyes sparkling. "Can't a man maintain some mystery?"
Her heart sank, she lowered her eyes to the floor, feeling not of his jollity.
"Anna," he took a couple of steps til they were standing very close to each other, and he slipped his hand around hers, entwining their fingers. "I haven't got a fancy woman in York, if that's what's worrying you."
She looked up at him, and saw his eyes were still full of fun. How could he joke, when so much was at stake? How could he make light of it if he had killed Green? Or did his levity indicate that he was being honest when he said he'd been in York? She pulled away.
"I have to go, Lady Mary wanted my help sorting out some clothes for the needy," she walked away from his briskly without a backward glance.
The worry of it all spiralled in her head like a merry-go-round the rest of the day. When they finally sat down at the kitchen table in their cottage to share a final cup of tea for the day, she had to have one more attempt to find out what he'd really been up to.
"Won't you tell me what you did yesterday?" she said seriously.
"Why do you want to know so badly?" he asked, meeting her gaze steadily.
"I don't like secrets between us," she said. His expression turned reproachful and she knew he was thinking of her keeping her rape from him. "That was different," she said, "I was protecting you. You're being deliberately difficult."
He put his cup down, sliding his hand across the table, covering her hand with his. "Anna, can't you just trust me?"
She really didn't know the answer to that one. She'd known it once, long ago, but everything was different now. It was all wrong. She stayed silent, regarding him sadly.
He squeezed her hand gently, "Sometimes a husband has to do what a husband has to do." Then a glint came back into his eye, "And you'll not get another word out of me on the subject."
That night in their bed when he took her in his arms and kissed her, her mind was full of the fact that he could be - was very probably – a murderer. All the signs pointed that way, though it was all what the police would call circumstantial evidence, she had seen the murderous looks he had given Green in the servants hall. Several others had noticed his marked dislike of the man, and god forbid any doubt was ever shed on his death, because if an investigation was launched, John's enmity of Green, and his motive would all come to light. He would be hanged and she would be shunned, though what would that matter if she'd lost her John?
But if he had truly killed, wasn't he lost to her on some level already? Her eyes filled with tears as she lay in her husbands' embrace. He leaned back, looking down into her tearful eyes, his concerned gaze sweeping her worried face.
"It's alright," he said softly. She hated not connecting with him, not giving him what he needed, not making him happy, it had been her main aim for so long now. He rolled onto his back, keeping an arm around her, pulling her close to his side. "I love you Anna." It was not how the words were supposed to sound, they were supposed to be happy words, they weren't supposed to have such a raw, ragged, desperate edge to them.
"I love you John," she echoed, but was it enough?
He was true to his comment that she would not get another word out of him, refusing to speak of his trip to York again, and in a few days Anna gave up asking. She could not however stop thinking about it. She became quieter and more withdrawn. Late summer turned to autumn, then winter, the cooling of the weather reflecting the chill that had set into their marriage.
It felt worse than when she had moved back into the house after the attack, because now she felt emotionally disconnected from him. Every day they walked to the Abbey in silence, side by side but divided by a seemingly unbridgeable gap. They were together so much, but had never been further apart, whether sitting in silence side by side at the servants' table, carrying out tasks side by side, or most tellingly at night lying side by side, never touching. She sometimes caught him looking at her, such a thoughtful, sad look on his face, and at those times she would give a small, tight smile, barely a smile at all, and look away immediately.
When she realised that months had passed with them in this state of disconnection, Anna knew it could not go on for ever. She hoped it would not go on forever, but she could see no way to get around the impasse. If he had killed Green she could never feel the same about him, she could not ask the question she needed to, he would not answer it, and so much time had passed that the whole thing was now irretrievably compounded.
Christmas preparations were made, but Anna could muster no enthusiasm. She felt cut off, cocooned in misery. As the two of them walked from the big house to the cottage on Christmas Eve, the sound of church bells in the distance, John finally broke the stalemate.
"I said to you a while ago, joked really, that sometimes a husband has to do what a husband has to do," he said stiffly.
She held he breath, her heart beating fast at what she might be about to hear.
"Do you remember?"
"Of course," she remembered everything he'd ever said to her.
"It was a flippant comment then, but I realise that I mean it," he stopped walking, and she stopped too. While the rest of the world anticipated Christmas, they stood in the cold on the edge on the abyss their relationship had become. Their breath clouded the night air, as stars twinkled in a clear sky above them and the first few flakes of light snow began to fall.
"If I knew what would bring the smile back to your face Anna, I'd do it in a minute – whatever the consequences," he was facing her, just a few inches away, so vulnerable she wanted to wrap her arms around him, yet still she held back, the spectre of his part in Green's death restraining her. Her thoughts ran wild - what had he already done for her with no heed of the consequences?
"I'd do anything for you, and that includes leaving you alone, I mean completely alone, me going away from Downton," he paused, waiting for her to reply, but she did not so he added, "If that's what you want."
"No," she said fiercely but quietly. "That's not what I want." Hot tears ran down her cold face, the bitter breeze making her wet cheeks sting.
He looked around, restless, "But you're so unhappy, and the way things are between us, I can't even take you in my arms and give you the comfort I want to."
"I know, I know," she wiped her face with her gloved hand, while he produced a clean crisp white handkerchief, which she took from him gratefully.
"We can't live like this, Anna. I don't want you to live half a life, I want you to be happy."
"I don't want you to leave," she felt panic at the thought.
"I don't understand why you've shut me out, but you don't seem to get any support from having me around," he said and a hard edge had crept into his tone. His mouth was a hard line.
"I can't bear the thought of losing you," she said.
"I don't want to go, but," he stopped, putting both hands on his cane, looking down a moment, breathing hard, trying to calm himself. "Damn it Anna, I can't live like this. I can't be this close to you and not want to love you properly."
She stepped forward, putting a hand on his arm, "I'll try John, I will but you know since the…" she couldn't bring herself to say the word rape.
"I don't mean the bedroom Anna, that's not love, not the sum total of it anyway, although God knows I miss you in that way," he put his hand on hers which still rested on his arm. "I want to talk to you, I want to hear about your day, tell you about mine, share silly jokes. I want to feel I make your life a happier place. I want to be your husband again, because you haven't let me be that for a long time."
"So are you saying if things don't change you'll leave me?" she asked, tears in her eyes again.
He sighed deeply, "No, I'm not issuing an ultimatum, I thought you might prefer to be free of me." He watched her wipe her eyes with his handkerchief, "I don't want to upset you, but there are things we need to talk about. Like Mr Green."
Anna stared at him, eyes wide in horror, "What about him?"
Her husband turned away tiredly, "Come on, let's go home."
Having passed another night confined strictly to their own sides of the bed, they were at the Abbey early. The servants' breakfast table was a merry affair, though their main festivities would take place after Christmas lunch had been served upstairs. As the others laughed and chatted, John silently slid a rectangular package onto the table beside Anna's plate.
"Happy Christmas," he mumbled sheepishly.
Anna glanced at him nervously, "For me?" She had slipped in the village to buy him a book she knew he wanted, but unsure of when – or even whether – they would exchange gifts this year, she had left it at the cottage. She picked up the package, pulling off the string and brown paper, to reveal a plush velvet jewellery box. Her eyes flicked up to his face again, and he nodded and shrugged in an embarrassed gesture.
With trembling fingers, she prised open the box and gasped at the beautiful gold necklace revealed, one prefect pearl dangling from a dainty chain. It sat on a cushioned velvet covered pad, the lid of the box was lined with satin, except for a rectangle of cotton which bore the words, "Cavendish Jewellers, York" with the address of the shop printed below.
It took a few second for the implications of those words to sink in.
Anna cleared her throat keeping her eyes on the necklace, "Did you buy this in York?"
"Yes," John replied.
Anna stood up, she had to get her husband on his own to talk to him. She considered her options, not the pantry, definitely not the boot room, the kitchen was bustling. Finally inspiration struck, "Mrs Hughes can we use your room for a minute or two?" she was on her way before the housekeeper could speak. She grabbed John's sleeve, dragging him with her as Mrs Hughes murmured her confused agreement.
Once inside the room, Anna pushed the door closed and stood with her back against it.
"You bought this in York?" she repeated.
"Don't you like it?" he was so downcast, but Anna would not let that deflect her. She tried a different question.
"When did you buy it?"
"The day I went to York, when you went to London with Lady Mary," he said.
"You were Christmas shopping in the summer?" she pushed.
"No," he turned away from her, pacing a few steps in agitation. "I thought you needed cheering up, and as your husband I should be the one to make you happy, so I went to York to look for a present for you. I wanted to get something to make you happy, something to show you how much I loved you because you felt so bad about yourself after the," neither of them could stand to say the word that named what had happened to her. "Well after that, I wanted to give you something you could wear every day to remind you how much you mean to me. And when I saw that I knew it was perfect." He looked at her and took her silence for disapproval, "I know it's extravagant, but as I said, sometimes a husband has to do what he knows must be done, and I wanted to spoil you. I meant to give it to you on the day of the bazaar, but other things got it the way, and since then there's never been a right moment, so I decided to wait until Christmas."
She could hardly speak, "You didn't go to London."
He looked confused, "No, because I knew I'd get something you'd like in York."
"But you didn't go to London that day," her relief let the words come rushing out, "you didn't kill him."
His confusion grew briefly, then his face hardened, "Green?" She nodded, and his face grew grim, "Why are you so obsessed with him? Why are you so upset about his death?"
"I'm not upset, I hate him. I thought you'd killed him," she was glad she was leaning against the door, as her legs were weak now.
"Why would I kill him? I didn't like him, sometimes Anna I even suspected he was the one who attacked you…" he stopped when he took in her expression. "Oh God Anna, it was him wasn't it?"
She nodded.
"Why wouldn't you tell me that? Why would you protect him?" there was something so raw, so hurt in his voice.
"I was protecting you. I knew you'd feel it was your duty to avenge me, and I didn't want that," she couldn't believe they were finally having the conversation she had imagined countless times.
"Didn't you want to inflict hurt on the man who hurt you so much?" his voice broke with emotion.
"Yes, but I knew I could get over the hurt, but I'd never get over it if they hanged you for his murder," she said, desperate to make him understand.
He ran a hand over his hair, giving a mirthless snort of laughter, "So you've spent the last few months thinking I killed him, and you couldn't ask me outright because then I'd know you'd lied to me. Oh Anna!" he sank into a chair closing his eyes, covering his face with his hand.
She hurried to kneel beside him, "I'm sorry, I'm sorry." Carefully she put the jewellery box on the floor near her, reaching out, coaxing his hand away from his face taking it in both of hers. "Can you forgive me?"
"There's nothing to forgive, but Anna I wish you'd spoken up. All the time you've had me pegged as a cold blooded killer, I've been torturing myself thinking I'd got it all wrong and you were mourning Green."
"But you noticed I was colder to him," she pointed out.
"I thought you were trying to throw me off the truth," he said, sadly, reaching out with the hand she was not holding to stroke her face. "I thought you'd tired of me, you'd fallen for a younger, charismatic man."
"Oh John," she said, leaning against his hand, recalling the months they'd spent as strangers for no good reason. "I will never want any other man but you."
He pulled her into his lap, and it felt so wonderful to lean against him, to be so close to him, to trust him again. His arms wrapped around her, her arms slid around his neck.
"Did you really think I'd kill a man on a mere suspicion?" he asked gently.
"I don't know what I've been thinking," she said.
"I told you at the time when I do a thing I like to have a very good reason for doing it. I can see how you interpreted that the wrong way now, but I meant that going to York on a mission to cheer you up, I was doing something for the very best reason of all," he pulled her to him, kissing her.
She smiled at him, hardly able to believe that she had him back, then her face clouded.
"What?" he asked, she felt him tense.
"Nothing really, it's just I haven't got you half as expensive a present as you've got me."
He laughed, throwing his head back, and she held on to him, smiling despite her worry over his present. His laughter stilled, and he looked at her steadily, "I don't care Anna, because seeing you smile again, and being the cause of that smile, is the only thing I want."