Summary: Sometimes, in the face of extreme loneliness and melancholy, the mind creates a mechanism whereby a person can cope with their hopelessness. Almost physically wanting her into being, he could picture Anna in the drawing room seated next to him in his mother's chair.
Rating: T
Disclaimer: I do not own Downton Abbey or these characters.
A/N: The working title on this story has been 'Imaginary Anna' and you'll see why. I was thinking about the change in John between the time he left Downton to return to London with Vera and the time he moved to Kirbymooreside, ready to divorce Vera so he could marry Anna. I decided that a lot had to happen in his mind to get him from one extreme to the next considering how little things changed with his circumstances. And this story is the result.
Reviews, as always, are very appreciated.
"I am nothing."
Her frantic sobs followed John as he walked into the night. Bearing the brunt of Lord Grantham's fury had been difficult - perhaps one of the most difficult moments of his life - but breaking Anna's heart was worse. Her desperation clawed at him, leaving bloody gashes in his psyche as he thought of what she'd said to him.
Let Vera ruin her. Live in sin. Never be happy without him. Not ever.
What a fool he had been to think he could build a life with her. He'd wanted to believe it could be possible. After four years of getting to know Anna, of slowly and surely falling in love with her, he'd hoped there might be a way for them to be together. Such a selfish wish on his part, John realized. And now he'd not only hurt Anna but brought the fury of his wife down on the entire Crawley family.
He deserved every word of disgust and disloyalty Lord Grantham had doled out to him. And he deserved to hear Anna's cries and see her tear-soaked cheeks every time he thought of her.
Truly, he was nothing. A waste of a human being. Anna was better off without him. Someday she might even realize that Vera had afforded her a lucky escape.
Shaking his head, John knew in his heart that it was not true. Anna loved in a way he sometimes had trouble comprehending - strong and pure with the utmost loyalty. She would not forget him as he'd told her to, would not find joy with someone else. And her continuing sorrow was his fault, a burden he would carry with him every day as a renewed torture.
He went with Vera the next morning, moving like a man condemned. He had to go - to protect the Crawleys, to protect Anna. The people in that house were all that mattered to him in the world, and if he had to leave in disgrace, then that was his cross to bear.
John did not look back, not until he was seated on the carriage next to Vera. He glanced once, a single look at the house rather than at any particular window. Anna would likely be dressing the girls anyway. And even if he saw her, it would not make leaving easier. He wanted to carry with him her image of how she'd looked that night in the courtyard when he'd leaned in to kiss her for the first time. But all John could see in his mind was her face full of panic as she desperately begged him not to go. The sound of her anguished sobs still rung in his ears, an indictment of his selfishness in daring to court her.
He and Vera traveled in relative silence to London. Part of him knew that he had to keep his wife somewhat happy to ensure she did not go to the papers with her story, but a different part of him had trouble caring. His life was over now. He had no job, no real home, and only a farce of a marriage to a woman he despised.
As they entered his mother's house, he was reminded of his plan to come to London to get it ready to rent out. Anna did not want to sell it. Looking around the furnished rooms, he thought of her. She had only been to see his late mother once, years earlier, but he still felt her presence in the drawing room. His mother had asked about Anna in her letters before she died. She'd encouraged him to find Vera and seek a divorce so he could marry again.
Silly dreams, he decided, putting his case away in the bedroom. There were two bedrooms in the small house, thankfully, and without saying a word, Vera took the other one - his mother's. Most of her personal effects were already gone.
"Well, I think we'll be quite comfortable here," Vera stated, flashing him a predatory smile.
"Whatever you say."
Just being in the same room with her made him long for a drink. He hadn't felt the urge to take a pull of whiskey in quite some time, but the notion of spending the rest of his life with her made him wonder if perhaps he couldn't end it sooner with drink. As though reading his mind, she said, "I don't suppose your mother kept anything around for company? Brandy, perhaps, or maybe something special? Because this is a special occasion, the two of us back together again."
She was already looking through cabinets. Unable to bring himself to mind the invasion of his mother's space, John took a seat at the table. "You know my mother didn't drink."
Whatever alcohol his mother might have once kept in her home, she'd gotten rid of years earlier. Having a drunkard of a son meant she could not have any in her home. Even if she had hidden it, he would have searched the house in an inebriated fury to find it, not caring what he broke. They'd both learned that lesson the hard way.
"Pity then," Vera intoned, turning back to him. "I'll have to go out."
She stepped towards him expectantly, her hand outstretched.
John simply shook his head. "I won't give you money for alcohol, Vera."
"You will if you want me to keep quiet about your precious Crawley family," she threatened.
But he knew her better than that. "You have a gun loaded with one bullet, Vera," he warned her. "Use it wisely."
Her eyes flashed in anger, but in the end, she went out to a pub without him. Enjoying the quiet solitude, John went to his mother's bookcase and removed a volume of poetry - something melancholy and painful to match his mood. But it sat open and unread as he ended up lost in thought.
I'd live in sin with you.
He closed his eyes tightly against the thought of her in such a compromising position, with him… like that... Just thinking of her in such a manner was wrong, as though his lustful feelings might taint her simply by association. It was simply not right.
But he could not take his mind from her words. She'd sully herself with him, cast aside her position and her family to take up with a married man. The damage would be irreparable for a woman such as her. And yet he believed her in her willingness. Anna's love for him would guide her into ruin if he allowed it, would sink her so far beneath society that none from her former life would associate with her. She might even find happiness with him for a time. But in the end, it would mean nothing but pain and devastation for her.
And yet, he could not think of anything but her - her beautiful face and slender waist and the feel of her hand against his chest, trying to hold him back. To be with a woman such as her... to belong to a woman such as Anna Smith... He could fathom no words to explain the blessing that was her love for him. Nor could he describe his own shame if he accepted it.
He would be her ruin, not Vera, if he took what she offered so willingly. John might as well plunge a knife into her chest as take her as his mistress. The destruction would be much more quick and merciful.
Sometimes, in the face of extreme loneliness and melancholy, the mind creates a mechanism whereby a person can cope with their hopelessness. Sometimes it is a song or a mantra. Other times, a person might hear a loved one's voice, or see their image framed in heavenly light. But for John, it was nothing so complex as the thought of her there beside him. Almost physically wanting her into being, he could picture Anna in the drawing room seated next to him in his mother's chair. She might glance up from her mending every now and again to flash him a smile. Her expression was as tender as he remembered, a thankful reprieve from the sadness he'd left her in.
He knew she was not really there, but John missed her so much.
Wiping a tear from his eye, John abandoned the book of poetry and stood up from his seat. Crossing the room to the door, he gathered his hat and coat and walked out into the city, determined to drive thoughts of her from his mind. But his walk through the night only reinforced how very alone he was in the world now.
Her passion was only tempered by innocence. But what she lacked in experience, Anna made up for with enthusiasm and simple joy. She reveled in each touch, shivering as he ran his hands along her bare arms, shoulders, until his fingers found the soft skin at her neck. Tilting her head to the side, she slid her eyes closed as she leaned into him, lips pliant and eager to open for him as he instantly deepened their kiss.
"Mister Bates," she whispered, nearly a whimper, as his mouth moved to taste the flesh his hands had grazed a moment before.
The nightgown was simple white linen, well worn but obviously her nicest. The fabric was soft against his rough hands and thin enough that he could easily feel the warmth of her skin through the woven threads.
"Anna," he responded, humming the two syllables of her name against her skin. He could feel her hands exploring him, dipping under the hem of his undershirt. John gasped at the touch of her small fingers touching his back, his sides, anywhere she could reach. As he refocused his attention to his own exploration of her body, her hands fluttered against him like a helpless butterfly blinded by sensation.
He ached to pull off that nightgown, to see her fully in the bright lamplight of small bedroom. But John also wanted her to be ready, to enjoy the open desire in his eyes which could not be masked. If he frightened her or led her to believe any part of their coming together was a duty, he would never forgive himself. Nothing mattered but Anna, not any longer. Now that they could finally be together, he would give her only pleasure.
But they couldn't be together.
With a sinking realization, John noticed her bare left hand, devoid of any ornamentation. She did not wear his ring. She did not have his name.
She looked up with him with crystal blue eyes, so full of love despite the understanding he saw in them - he was about to end her innocence. He was about to destroy her, and for what? His own base desires? The magnetic pull that connected them and had done since almost the moment they met?
He pulled away from her with such force that he wrenched himself from the dream, Anna's face the last thing he remembered beyond the early morning ache of his body at being denied release. The bed beside him was empty and cold, Anna's image nothing more than a conjuration of his sleeping mind.
"Thank God," he muttered aloud with a shuddering breath, although the loss of her was painful.
Anna was back at Downton, safe and sound. Her reputation was intact, and she could sleep at night in a warm bed beneath a sound roof. He had not taken that from her.
He found work, although nothing as prestigious as his position as a valet. Most of his jobs were hard, requiring long hours and what tedious labor he could perform with a lame leg. But he brought home enough to support himself and Vera without having to dip into the money he'd inherited from his mother. He resolved that his wife would see not a penny of the savings that woman had spent her life accumulating.
Living with Vera was like stepping into the past. She was unchanged, her ways and habits as cruel and unpredictable as he remembered. Sometimes she smiled at him and conversed amicably. But often she would made biting remarks at his expense, demand money or alcohol or other things he would not give her.
After a week, she suggested that they sleep at night in the same bed.
"Absolutely not," John responded.
"You might as well," she pointed out. "I am your wife. I doubt your little tart in the country would ever warm your bed."
She often made snide comments about Anna, and he let them go despite the way they made his blood boil. Vera had no right to speak of her that way, not when the young blond woman was so much better and so much more to him than his wife had ever been. But Vera wanted a reaction from him, he knew, so John denied it to her.
When he was at the house, he engaged in the domestic chores his mother had done when she was alive. He dusted and tied, washed dishes and did laundry - all the things Vera refused to do as she insisted that he hire a woman.
"I am not made of money," he told her.
"You have plenty set aside from your mother."
"And you can have as much of that as you like as soon as you grant me the divorce."
Her eyes flashed every time he suggested it. For whatever reason, Vera refused to even consider an official severance of their marriage. But she did not let it stop her from going out every night to the pubs, sometimes not coming home until the next day.
John no longer cared what she did. Instead, he spent his quiet hours in his mother's parlor, drinking tea and reading. He often imagined Anna with him. He could see her smile as he told her about some amusing parts of his day, just as he'd done when he lived at Downton. She would laugh and tease him, her brightness lighting even the darkest of his days.
"I wonder where she is when she spends nights away?" his imaginary Anna asked him one night, the first time she'd really spoken out loud in the weeks since he'd moved to London.
Her voice did not surprise him. Rather, it was a welcome respite from the loneliness of being without her.
"I don't know. I suppose she stays at the pub until it closes and then goes home with... someone."
Anna frowned in hurt at his assessment, hurt for him. But John was beyond caring about Vera and her wild ways. He did not love her, and any physical wandering on her part was a drop in the bucket compared to his love for Anna. If only he could make Vera see sense in the divorce, they could both be free to pursue those they truly wished.
Anna said, "But officially, you're still married. She's being unfaithful to you."
"It doesn't matter to me."
"Yes, but it could be grounds for divorce, couldn't it?"
Her question penetrated his mind so fully that when he looked up from his book, she was gone, the vision of her that he'd conjured popped like a soap bubble.
But she had made a good point.
TBC