This was inspired by a mention in poma14's Hours 'til Dawn, which if you haven't read, you should. In one scene Anna and John are remembering and reliving one of the ways in which they rebuilt their relationship after his return. One of the ways they did this was by reading together, and something about that idea has hooked me ever since I read it. And so I did something with it, and since today is poma14's birthday, here it is: a story inspired by her scene. I have no idea if it has anything in common with her vision, but I do hope you (collectively) enjoy it and that you (poma14) have a festive day! All of the quoted lines form the poem "Is it a month" by J. M. Synge.
John turned a page, and cleared his throat. It was nearly Anna's turn. They had been taking it in turns for weeks now, since he returned. Meeting in the courtyard, bundled in their coats, with a book. The system was carefully regimented: each read a chapter, or a poem, as the case may be, and then the other. He handed it her, and leaned his head back to see the dark clouds as Anna's voice carried on.
"Is it a month since I and you in the starlight of Glen Dubh stretched beneath a hazel bough…"
John closed his eyes against the memory. Alone in his bedroom at his mother's house, Vera in his mother's bedroom, John at his window looking at the sky, wondering if Anna was looking at it, wondering what Anna saw and if she could forgive him.
"Kissed from ear to throat to brow…" Anna's voice wavered. John wondered. It had been more than a month. He had returned to Downton about seven weeks ago. At first he was relieved just to be welcome back after the way he had left. It was more than he expected, and certainly more than he deserved. Human nature's ability to forgive was a funny thing though. He had allowed himself to imagine perfect forgiveness from Anna. Imagined. He knew, even as he had imagined it, that it wouldn't be the case. He didn't deserve anything after the way he had left her. She may have forgiven him; surely she had or she wouldn't sit with him, but she didn't trust him.
"Since your fingers, neck, and chin made the bars that fenced me in…" Anna's voice was almost dispassionate. This new routine had started the second night following his return. That first night, after their initial greeting, they had been too happy to talk or think. The second night was different. Anna had come pensive to the courtyard. John had embraced her, but rather than melt into his arms the way he had hoped, the way she had used to, she held back, stiffly. He couldn't blame her. He had asked if she'd like to take a walk. Anna had said no, she'd rather stay near the house and talk. The trouble was there hadn't been much talking at first. Small talk seemed out of place, and he wasn't sure how to bring up the not so small. Anna had reached into his pocket and pulled out the book that was there, and started reading. It had been Montaigne's Essays, and hearing it in Anna's lilt was not what John had expected.
'Till Paradise seemed but a wreck near your bosom, brow, and neck…" Anna had sat next to him, barely touching, with her arms near her while she read. John had been afraid to touch her. Even when she shivered in the cold night air, she drew her shawl tight around her body rather than let John warm her. She always stiffened if he got too close, but she couldn't seem to keep away. John understood. It was as it should be. Anna had finished the Montaigne in three nights, and for the fourth John had selected Sister Carrie. No reason, really, he just picked something he hadn't read from the library shelves. He'd read anything that would hold still long enough. Anna had let him start it. He had half hoped she'd lean into him as he read, but no. She had held herself firm, her eyes fixed ahead. He wanted her to scream, to cry, to sob to rage.
"And stars grew wilder, growing wise, in the splendour of your eyes." John had missed her eyes: their deep blueness, their tendency to be wide and unblinking. He had missed the sound of her voice: the lilt, the length of the vowels. He was getting cold, but he would not suggest going inside. They had very little time together, between the extra work that came with the house being a hospital, the perpetual problems Anna faced with the undermaids, and Lord Grantham's eagerness to have John back at work. They passed in the hall, and sat together at meals, but the walks to the village, the lingering chance encounters during the day were practically non-existent. Even if he wasn't forgiven, even if she didn't or couldn't trust him, he just wanted to be near her.
"Since the weasel wandered near whilst we kissed from ear to ear…." One night, not long ago, Anna had exploded. It had been her turn to read. The choice had been innocuous enough. The Woodlanders. John had passed Anna the book when he finished his chapter and she hadn't taken it. She had kept staring straight ahead. John had at first hope she was watching a fox. He tried to break the silence, and she snapped. How could he. How dare he. How could she know he wouldn't do it again. And she had dissolved in tears. John's heart skipped and sank as he watched, powerless. It was his doing. He had done enough. He couldn't just watch. He drew Anna to him, and she didn't pull away. He held her in his arms and told her she couldn't know, and he knew a promise wouldn't mean anything. She had wailed. It was worse than the night he left her. These tears resounded with months of despair and pain. It was worse than he had allowed himself to imagine. If she could only trust, if she would only…and she had taken the book from where he had dropped it and beat him.
"And the wet and withered leaves blew about your cap and sleeves…." That night had been warm and breezy, unlike this night. John pulled his coat tight. Anna's face had been savage, red, fierce as she hit him. At the first strike he had jumped, but really he had barely felt it. If that was what Anna needed, so be it. He deserved it. She had collapsed on him, convulsing in tears, and John had joined her, and they sat and sobbed. As Anna began to calm John had smiled, and told her that she was free to abuse him as much as she liked, but in the future he'd appreciate it if she used something other than one of Lord Grantham's books. It just wasn't fair. She had turned in his arms, and slowly, ever so slowly, smiled. And giggled. And their convulsive sobs turned to laughter.
"Till the moon sank tired through the ledge of the wet and windy hedge…." John had gone to bed slightly relieved that night. The following evening Anna had been outside first. She was smiling, self-consciously. She had selected a book. John was pleasantly surprised when she sat so close the sides of their knees touched. Progress. The book was the one they were reading from tonight. John had wanted to skip over some of the poems. Wordsworth was so dull. Browning so self-important. Anna had insisted they stick to their system at first, but John held fast and persuaded her. She had inched closer each night. Just because a poem kept being republished didn't make it good. Anna conceded after an especially tedious Christina Rossetti. John suspected she had held out only to be contrary. It was her prerogative. They were rebuilding. Anna had been taken by Robert Tannahill. Anna was interested in the places in Renfrewshire he worked into his poems. She had travelled so little her notion of Scotland was Romantic, and she didn't care. John didn't care. He wanted to show her, to take her to places he'd visited and knew. He wanted to kiss her. Though they knew each other so deeply, and for so long, there was always something new to learn. John rather liked John Clare's simplicity, and Thomas Campion's elegance. Anna had no patience for Campion. They were growing stronger. But tonight was J. M. Synge, and John fancied they were of the same mind on him.
"And we took the starry lane back to Dublin town again." Anna looked at the page and took a deep breath. John put his arm around her and she didn't pull away. Had they found themselves? It had been more than a month; it had been a year.