No Man Can Regret Loving

Summary: "No man can regret loving... as I have loved you." He'd spoken the words before he knew the true meaning of regret.

Rating: T

Disclaimer: I don't own Downton Abbey or these characters.

A/N: I've been working on this story for a while. I'm taking a bit of a chance on the first chapter, but after long consideration, I think it is necessary to frame the story and put everything into perspective. To that end, this story begins with the utmost angst. I feel obligated to tell you that there will be character death, if that bothers you, but try it through the first two chapters before giving on up on that score. I anticipate updating every week or so.

Everything was silent and still, like a void in time or a chasm in existence. Grief destroyed him, hollowing him out and leaving only emptiness inside. He could not feel, could not think or breath or move or speak. There was simply... nothing.

"No man can regret loving... as I have loved you."

He'd spoken the words before he knew the true meaning of regret.

Anna was gone. And he was lost without her.

It rained at the funeral, as though the heavens themselves opened up and wept at the loss of such a precious life. Bates did not cry as they lowered his wife's casket into the ground. But tears began to roll down his cheeks as the smaller one was gently placed in the grave beside his wife's. The vicar had been asked to speak. While Bates was not a believer, Anna would have wanted a proper service.

His whole life was now in the ground at the cemetery, not yet marked with tombstones. Two graves and what was left of his blasted heart.

He nodded absently at those who offered him condolences after the funeral. A line of friends from the house and the village passed him, their dark clothing matched with somber expressions. He looked at people's faces without seeing their eyes, his own full of renewed tears.

Mrs. Patmore touched his arm as she told him, "We all loved Anna, you know."

Beside her, Daisy nodded in sympathy even as she wiped at her own eyes. Beyond them, Thomas kept his eyes focused on the ground, unwilling to acknowledge the tears which he shed openly. Even Jimmy showed sadness, his usually jovial manner buried behind reserve that any other day could have matched Carson's. But the old butler simply looked lost, as though he'd seen buried yet another child that was not of his body. As they each passed Bates, they took slow, shuffling steps, as though in no hurry to be on their way.

"I'm so sorry," Lord Grantham said weakly, "If there is anything we can do..."

Bates nodded to him in turn, mustering only a weak, "Thank you, milord."

Lady Mary echoed the sentiments, obviously also overcome by her former lady's maid's death. Bates knew the woman felt Anna's death nearly as keenly as he, but he had no capacity for her grief, his own taking up the entirety of his being.

"Milady," he responded perfunctorily.

Despite their words and offers of assistance, there was nothing anyone could do. Death was a finality that had to be dealt with, that could not be bargained with or reasoned away. It brought with it excruciating pain and an agony of existence he'd never known before.

And Bates had only himself to blame. Anna died because of him.

He should have known from the beginning that he would bring her nothing but pain and ruin. Had he not been so selfish, she could have been spared. Had he but realized then what he knew now, he would have left her life unblemished by his presence. It would have been a kindness.

After the last mourners had said their parting words to him and left the cemetery, Bates stood and watched as the grave digger finished. He refused to budge until the last shovel full of dirt was put into place. While he ignored the rain, he let Mrs. Hughes stand close and hold an umbrella over his head to keep off the wet. He paid her little mind, even as she insisted on walking back with him to the cottage afterwards.

"Is there anything you need?" she asked as she followed him inside. He walked through to the dark and dreary sitting room. Everything was cast in shadows, the light from outside muted and gray. It was as though he now lived in a photograph; all the color had been drained from the world.

"Nothing you can give," Bates answered her truthfully. He needed Anna.

He could sense the housekeeper's unease, but nothing stirred in himself to try and reassure her. Nothing remained within him to bother caring.

"You know what happened was no one's fault," Mrs. Hughes ventured softly, her Scottish accent suddenly sounding thicker as her voice filled with emotion. "It was but a terrible, terrible circumstance."

Bates shook his head as he answered, "It was my fault. The child was mine."

"You can't believe that," Mrs. Hughes said. He looked at her, hearing the anguish in her voice, and in her eyes he saw a fellow grieving parent. Anna had been like a daughter to her, and perhaps for the first time, Bates realized that his wife's death was taking a toll on someone other than himself.

"Where would she be today if I had never come to Downton?" he asked.

The housekeeper frowned at him as she understood where his mind had gone.

"If she were alive, she would be miserable. Alone and absolutely miserable."

He could not fathom such an outcome. Instead, he pictured his wife as she ought to have been - happy and smiling with joy. She might be tired from hard work, but her face would be unblemished by the ravages of heartache he'd caused her.

"I feel as though in coming here... in marrying Anna... I took happiness that was rightfully hers," Bates confessed. "I stole it like a thief, even though she never once begrudged it to me."

The older woman looked at him sympathetically. "You did not steal anything, Mister Bates. Whatever Anna had to give, she gave you freely. And your happiness did not take away from hers; it only multiplied her own joy."

But he could not believe that, not when she was dead in the cold ground and he was dead without her.

"I could have spared her so much suffering."

"By denying her all of the love she found with you?" Mrs. Hughes challenged. "She would not have wanted that. Nor would she want you to blame yourself for her death."

"But I am to blame." He focused his eyes in the darkened room, looking at all the touches Anna had made to their home. In the months since she'd been at the cottage and no longer working at Downton, she kept everything neat and tidy. "If not for me, she would be alive today."

The housekeeper sighed at his morose thought. "What a terrible thing to say. Mister Bates, I know you aren't a religious man, but I have to believe that Anna's death was to some divine purpose. She was called away from us too soon, but you are certainly not responsible for her death."

"If God exists, he never would have allowed someone like her to die in so much pain."

Mrs. Hughes went silent and did not contradict him. Perhaps she felt the same in her own heart. He went on, "It should have been me, who went first. Not her. She should have lived a long life with-" Tears threatened to choke off his words, "-with children, and..."

A sob cut him off as the weight and magnitude of Anna's death finally came crashing down on top of him. She was gone. She was truly gone, never to return. And he was alone in the world once again.

Except now, there was no hope and no future. Every day would be a torture to endure. No light penetrated the fog of Bates' mind as he contemplated such an existence. He had his memories of Anna, certainly, but even they were a sharp blade digging into his ribs. How could he remember her happy when far too often he could recall her sad or frightened? She had just barely gotten over the trauma from her attack when she discovered that she was pregnant and they would be expecting a child. Her excitement at the news was now made but a mockery.

Unable to stand by and watch him suffer alone, Mrs. Hughes put a comforting hand on his shoulder. Her own eyes were far from dry, and for a time, they cried together in that dark room.

That evening, after Mrs. Hughes had returned to the house, Bates ascended the stairs to the second floor and opened the door to the bedroom he'd shared with his wife. His eyes fell upon the tiny cradle in the corner of the room, the one they'd bought in Ripon a month earlier. It did not bother him nearly as much as the freshly made bed. Someone had changed out the sheets and blanket from the night Anna had died, but he could not look at it without remembering the sight of her there.

There had been so much blood.

Bates had hoped to find some trace of her spirit in the room, some spark of memory or feeling. But it was as empty as his blasted heart. His recollection of their best moments in that room was stained by thoughts of her pain and anguish.

He sighed with aching finality. Without Anna, there was nothing left for him here.

He arranged things easily, this not having been his first thought on the subject. Granted, he had not considered such an option since prison, and even then he's held himself back for her... for Anna. Everything was for Anna. The rope was not difficult to locate, nor was it hard to find a spot to suit his needs. The rafters in the bedroom closet were tall enough, and he relished being in the same place where she had last been.

But now Anna was gone, and there was no reason to stay.

He left a note for Lord Grantham, thanking him and apologizing. But he did not need to explain. No one would question why he did it, not after seeing him at the funeral.

The stool beneath his feet was sturdy until he unbalanced it, letting it fall away beneath him. His neck did not snap, but the rope tightened suddenly, painfully. And as air seized suddenly in his lungs and the world began to go black, he thought he saw her across the room, in the darkness. She glowed like an angel, as beautiful as he remembered. Anna held out a hand to him, as though inviting him home.

His last moment stretched into an endless, open infinity of possibilities.

If only he could go back, and do it again, perhaps he could keep her safe...

A moment later, Bates took a gasping breath of air.

TBC