A/N: My contribution to the Banna Valentine's Extravaganza on Tumblr. Just fluff here because that's what I like. (For now, anyway.)
The quote I was given was supposedly said by Mother Teresa, but while I was doing some research, I read that it's wrongly given to her. So who knows. Although I drifted a little from what I'd initially had in mind, I hope it's enjoyable all the same.
Disclaimer: I don't own Downton Abbey.
Not all of us can do great things. But we can do small things with great love.
Small Things, Great Love
1912
The gas lamp flickered on the wall as John sat at the servants' hall table, staring down at his open book without seeing. A cup of tea, regretfully cold now, sat by his left elbow. It was well past midnight and he was alone, the others having retired half an hour earlier, eager to fall into their beds. John was cursed with insomnia on this evening. He knew it would be a while before he slept. Perhaps a cup of warm milk would help instead. It wouldn't hurt to try it.
Just as he was about to push his chair back from the table, however, he heard a small scuffling noise coming from the staircase. Sitting up straighter and furrowing his brows, he strained his ears, wondering if he'd been hearing things. But his hearing hadn't failed him, and seconds later Anna tumbled into the servants' hall, stifling a yawn with one hand and juggling her sewing box and one of Lady Sybil's dresses with the other. She stopped short when she saw him, obviously embarrassed that she'd been caught yawning so wide.
"I didn't know anyone else was still awake," she said.
"Neither did I," he returned with a soft smile. "What are you doing still up?"
"There's a rip in this," she said, holding up her arm with the dress.
"And it can't wait until tomorrow?"
"I wish it could. That's when Lady Sybil wants it. It's my own fault, I kept putting it off and then I forgot about it. I would have done it upstairs, but Gwen is asleep and I don't want to disturb her with the light."
"That's very thoughtful of you."
She shrugged. "Not really. Just common courtesy. It's my fault, not Gwen's."
"I'm not sure Miss O'Brien would share your sentiments, even if she was at fault."
Anna giggled at that, rounding the table and dragging out the chair by his side. Where she always sat, even when etiquette didn't dictate it. She had been his only friend in the months that he had been at Downton, the only one who had been truly sad to hear that he was leaving, the only one who had showed great delight when she'd heard that he was staying. He was grateful for her friendship, for the way that her eyes sparked with mischief and the way that she seemed to gravitate towards him just as much he did to her. A true friend. He'd been afraid that he wouldn't even find an ally, never mind someone he could trust like he trusted her, even after just a few months.
"What are you doing down here, anyway?" she asked as she set her things down on the table, scraping closer.
"Couldn't sleep," he replied. "I was just thinking of getting a glass of warm milk before you entered. Do you want one?"
"Better not," she said. "I'd be asleep before I finished it, and that's no help to anyone."
John frowned, watching her face carefully. "Are you sure that can't wait? You do look worn out."
"Why, thank you," she teased, failing to hide another yawn. "What a nice way to flatter a woman."
His cheeks heated at her implication. "I just meant that you shouldn't expect too much of yourself. You run yourself ragged at the best of times."
"It's my job, Mr. Bates."
"But even so. You do the work of a housemaid and three lady's maids. It's hardly fair."
"I don't mind. Now, you go and get that hot milk, and get yourself off to bed."
"I'll stay and keep you company."
Her eyes glowed at that, but she shook her head. "There's no point in us both being sleep deprived."
"I don't mind. Besides, you might need me to keep you awake. It wouldn't do to have Mrs. Hughes finding you here at breakfast."
"She'd think that I'd taken leave of my senses," she giggled, and he knew that she was softening. "All right. You fetch the milk, I'll get my needle threaded."
He left her there with a warm smile, clacking across the flagstones to the kitchen. He took his time warming the milk, deciding to do one for Anna just in case she was thirsty, before hooking his cane over his arm and returning to the servants' hall, somehow managing to balance a couple of biscuits on each of the saucers he'd placed the cups on.
He stopped short in the entrance.
Contrary to what she'd said before he'd left her, Anna hadn't made any progress with her mending. It was still splayed out on the table in front of her, needle and thread resting on top. Anna was sitting with her head dropped onto her chest. He couldn't see her face properly with her angle, but he knew that she was sound asleep. She was snoring just slightly, the sound rasping in the quiet. The thought that it was completely endearing struck him from nowhere, and he shook it off hastily, moving further into the room.
She didn't stir at the sound of his footfalls, and never moved when he put down the two cups. For a moment he stood over her, wondering what to do. Should he wake her? If she needed to get the mending done before the morning, then it would be unwise to let her sleep for any longer. But she looked so peaceful. He sank into his chair beside her, gaze flickering over her, tracing the curve of her jaw and the curve of her cheek and the curve of her nose. The realisation that she was utterly beautiful hit him unaware, and he shrank back a little from it. But it was true. While the ladies upstairs swathed themselves in finery, Anna had a simple beauty that was unmatched. She needed nothing else to showcase it.
He shook his head. He was tired. It was making him think mad things.
He considered waking her for a moment longer before he came to his decision. Cautiously reaching out for her mending, he pulled it towards him, bringing it closer to his face so that he could inspect the damage. It didn't seem to be too bad. He'd seen worse.
Glancing once more at Anna to ensure that she was still sound asleep, he gingerly picked up the needle and thread. He had mended enough of his lordship's clothes to know what he was doing. His hand wouldn't be as neat as Anna's, but he suspected that it would still be passable, and if it meant that she could rest for a little longer then he was more than happy to help. She had helped him enough in the past. He remembered a time in the passage, when she had told him that anyone could have their hands full. No pity, no judgement. Just doing a good deed. He would repay her now.
Milk forgotten, he started his delicate stitches, furrowing his brow in concentration, making sure that everything was painstakingly aligned before he began. The sound of the needle darting in and out of the silk was the only other sound apart from Anna's soft snores, and he fell into the rhythm of the work. It was soothing, somehow. And it made him feel good to know that he was helping Anna. She was so kind, she deserved all the help he could give her.
And then he started, jumping so much that he almost ripped the dress again and narrowly missed piercing himself with the sharp needle. His heart had started a drumroll in his chest, slamming against his ribcage like a desperate prisoner.
Anna's body had slumped to the side. Her head rested limply against his arm, and she made little snuffling noises as she adjusted herself. Miraculously, she hadn't woken. He allowed himself a smile at that, though he had no doubt that it was a nervous one. Evidently she was a very heavy sleeper. It suited her somehow. Her face was smooth, open, innocent. There was a lump in his throat. He swallowed it. His hands were trembling, though he wasn't sure why. He wondered if he'd be able to steady it enough to make another neat stich.
Heat radiated from the spot where her head rested, boiling his blood. He had never felt more on fire than he did at that moment. It was a disconcerting feeling. But he continued to work studiously, making neat stich after neat stich, barely daring to move his arm as Anna slumbered, finishing off her mending.
1913
John was working on a pair of Lord Grantham's riding boots when the door creaked open. He glanced up at once to find Anna slipping into the room, wringing her hands in front of her. He set down his work at once, furrowing his brow.
"Anna," he said. "Are you all right?"
She nodded, biting her lip. And then she closed the door behind her.
That caught his attention at once, and he shifted uncomfortably on his feet. They were getting dangerous, these snatched moments alone with her. More and more, he was frightened that he would forget himself, that he would do something stupid and irreparable. Many a time the thought of kissing her had crept up on him, usually in the darkness when he had no control over his thoughts. He would think of running his hands through her hair, gauging the texture, the pliability of her lips, the silk of her tongue.
He shook himself away from those thoughts now, trying to focus on her. He had seen unsettling flickers in her over the last few months too, and if he was vain enough to contemplate it he might think that she was attracted to him too. He had fallen frighteningly fast a long time ago, but he had fought and fought with himself. Yet now he couldn't deny himself any longer. She was everything, the one thing that had changed him above everything else.
He could never tell her how he felt. He was far too old for her, and he didn't want to be responsible for the light leaving her eyes if she ever found out the truth of his past. She wouldn't want anything to do with him after that. Even so, it was getting harder by the day to be alone with her.
What was she doing here now?
"I just wanted a quick word," she said.
"What is it, then?" he asked.
She loitered by the door for a moment longer, before moving decisively closer. "I just wanted to thank you."
"Thank me?"
"Yes. For what you did for me the other day."
John felt the heat flooding his cheeks, and he dropped his eyes to the work table. "It was nothing."
"Yes it was. No one else would have done it for me."
"That's not true."
"Really?" She tilted her head to the side, a challenge of sorts. "Then why did nobody else bother? Everyone else went out to the fair. Miss O'Brien just sat downstairs. You were the one who cared."
He shook his head. "It's what any friend would have done."
"So you say," she said. The silence between them stretched on.
John shifted uncomfortably, clearing his throat. "I didn't want you to feel unwanted. You have been a great friend to me over the last year. I wanted to return your kindness."
Was he imagining it, or was there a flicker of disappointment in her eyes? Resolutely, he ignored it, pretending to peruse the cleaning materials he had laid out in front of him. He was soon forced to look up, however, when he heard her light footsteps crossing the floor. She came to a stop in front of him.
"It was still very nice of you," she said. Unbidden, her hand stretched out, slowly, as if she was approaching a snapping dog. He watched, entranced. Her hands were dainty, small. There were little burns from the iron, dry skin over her knuckles. But they were still immaculate, her nails well manicured. A princess' hands on a housemaid.
And then her hand touched his, and he fought down his flinch. Christ, her grip was getting firmer and he didn't know what to do –
She made the decision for him, turning over his hand so that it was palm up, slipping her fingers through his. He did shudder now, eyes fluttering as he felt her skin for the very first time. Her hands were a maddening mix of soft palms and calloused fingertips, and he couldn't stop himself from closing his hand around hers. Hers was swallowed in his, and he marvelled almost drunkenly at the sheer differences in size, at how they seemed to meld together as if they'd been forged for that very job. Distantly, he heard Anna's breath catch, and the sound made him dizzy. She squeezed his hand, and he found himself unable to resist the temptation of returning the gesture, their hands held tight –
The door to the boot room sprang open.
"Mr. Bates, his lordship is ringing for you…"
John dropped Anna's hand as if she'd scalded him, and was very glad that the work bench was high enough to cover what he had been doing only a moment before. William stood before them, wearing a blissfully ignorant expression.
"Thank you," John said, and was glad his voice wasn't shaking. "I'll be with him in just a moment."
William nodded before retracting, seeming to find nothing odd at all about Anna being in the room with him. John breathed a sigh of relief. That was good. At least there would be no talk, no whispers.
He could tell that Anna was dazed from her face expression. Her blue eyes were cloudy, her teeth sinking into her bottom lip.
"I'd better go," she said. "I don't want Miss O'Brien to think that I'm slacking off again."
"Mrs. Hughes would defend you."
She shook her head. "That would only make her worse. I've got some of Lady Edith's laundry to pick up. But thank you for what you did. I really do mean that."
"I've told you, it was my pleasure. I'm just glad you enjoyed it."
"Very much," she whispered. "It was the loveliest tray in the world."
He couldn't find another response to that, and she left him then, staring after her retreating back.
Perhaps it was wrong to encourage her – encourage himself – when it came to their relationship, but it was nice to know that he could put a smile like that one on her face just by giving her a single kindness.
1914
The garden party had left his bones aching, even though he'd barely had to do anything. But the news that war had broken out had left him feeling tired and brooding. Talk of war never failed to remind of him of the time he'd served in Africa, with the sweat pouring from his body and the cloying, sickly-sweet odour of rotting flesh. His life had changed forever in Africa. For the worse.
He glanced up with exhausted eyes when he heard her footsteps approaching, the place as silent as death. Her hair had fallen loose from her bun with the rigour of the day. Her cheeks were flushed red.
No. Not entirely for the worse.
She dropped into her seat beside him, letting out a weary sigh. Mrs. Hughes looked to her at once, all motherly concern.
"Anna?" she said. "Are you all right?"
"Fine, Mrs. Hughes," she reassured her. "It's just been a long day."
"That it has," the housekeeper agreed. "But now the family has retired to bed, it won't be long before we can start dinner. You must be starving."
Anna shrugged. "Not really." She offered the housekeeper one more smile, before twisting in her seat to face him. He dropped his eyes quickly, hoping that she hadn't noticed how hopelessly he'd been drinking in every line of her face.
"What about you, Mr. Bates?" she asked softly. "Are you all right?"
He nodded quickly, casting a look around the rest of the table. Only Thomas was paying any attention to them, his expression filled with his usual contempt. He wouldn't say too much now. Not with the footman listening in so closely.
He managed a smile, even though it felt forced. "Yes, I'm fine. Thank you, Anna."
She looked like she wanted to say more, but the table was too quiet, and he knew that she wouldn't risk it. Instead, she reached for her glass of water and began to drink.
Ten more minutes passed before Mr. Carson entered the room. His shoulders were slumped, his back stumped. He looked ten years older all of a sudden. John averted his eyes.
"Daisy," he said to the young girl, who was hovering at the back of the room, "tell Mrs. Patmore that we're ready to eat now."
"Yes, Mr. Carson," she squeaked, before darting out of the room. The silence stretched on and on, with no one daring to break it. John kept his eyes firmly on the table top.
Dinner was served with no more talk. Evidently the news of war was weighing everyone down. Many people hadn't experienced it before, being too young, but John knew that Mr. Carson and Mrs. Hughes remembered the African war, the needless deaths for an honour that had never existed. They might not have had first-hand experience like him, but at least they understood a little. Soon the young lads would be caught up with excitement, and he would be forced to endure listening to how proud they were signing up for the cause, unaware of the horrors that they would soon be facing. There was no such thing as honour in war.
The metallic sound of the cutlery hitting the plates gave him reason to pause. It was like bullets clanging through the air. A sound he'd hoped never to hear again. He didn't think he could stomach it for much longer. Not tonight.
Pushing his chair away from the table, he rose to his feet. Every pair of eyes was on him at once, and he swallowed hard.
"I'm sorry," he said. "I just need some air."
Mrs. Hughes nodded understandingly. "Of course, Mr. Bates. Shall I ask Mrs. Patmore to keep your dinner warm?"
"No, that's all right. I'm not hungry." He wouldn't be able to stomach another mouthful. Without glancing back, he stepped into the cool August air.
Making his way to his usual stack of crates, he threw down his cane and slumped his body forward, head in his hands. More war. More death and destruction. More lives changed forever while other men played God.
Not fifteen minutes later, he heard the back door creak open again. Light footsteps crossed the flagstones. He knew that gait anywhere.
True enough, her voice rang out, high and clear. "Mr. Bates, are you all right?"
He smiled despite himself. She was like a balm over his weary limbs.
"I'm all right," he confirmed, just as she reached him. "You should go back inside."
"Budge up," she replied staunchly, and he had to smile. Always so stubborn. But he did as she'd asked, giving her room to squeeze onto the crate beside him. Silence reigned for a few minutes before she turned towards him.
"I don't want to be intrusive," she said. "But if you ever want to talk about anything…anything at all, then know I'm here for you. It doesn't matter what it is. I'm happy to share your burdens."
Like a married couple. His lips twisted sardonically, but he was overwhelmed by a fierce rush of love. She was perfect. How had she fallen in love with him? Why did she still love him? She should have been with a nice young man, not pinning an impossible future on him.
The thought curdled his stomach. No. No, she shouldn't. It was wrong to admit it, but he couldn't bear the thought of watching her face glow because of someone else, seeing her hold his hand, watching them get married, meet their children and have the knowledge that they had been created in the most intimate act between man and wife. No, he couldn't bear it if she met someone else.
War changes things. War changes everything.
"Mr. Molesley's coming up tomorrow," Anna said, breaking the silence that had settled over them once more. "And Mrs. Bird. Mrs. Hughes thought it might be nice to have one night where everyone was together before people started signing up for the war effort."
John forced his tone to stay neutral. "Oh? Who told you that?"
"Mr. Molesley did."
"Sought you out, did he?"
She shot him a quizzical glance, but he kept his gaze straight ahead.
"Yes," she answered. "Just before he left. He said he didn't have time to find Mrs. Hughes or Mr. Carson."
A likely story. Mr. Molesley was already making his move, mere hours after being told that Anna was already taken.
But she's not taken. He has every right.
Another more thrilling thought followed that quickly.
At least, she's not taken yet.
His heart was a bird in the bone cage of his ribs. He had only felt this level of sickening emotion once in his life, right before he entered a battle under the African sun, the adrenaline pumping through his veins. The exhilaration of meeting an enemy on the battlefield. The thrill that any moment could be his last. It was like that now, with Mr. Molesley as his rival. He didn't want Anna to love anyone but him. Selfish as it was, he needed her in his life.
If that's true, then you can't keep[ her at arm's length any longer. You'll lose her eventually if you do. Maybe even to Mr. Molesley.
The thought sickened him to his very core. He couldn't deal with that. Not ever.
There was only one thing he could do under such circumstances. Maybe it would be wrong to. She was a beautiful young woman with her entire life ahead of her. She didn't deserve to be saddled to someone like him, who didn't deserve the worst of her, never mind the best.
But nor could he spend the rest of his life pretending that he felt nothing when she moved on from him, when she was all he would ever want.
You've got a battle to win, Bates. You've got a war to win.
In that split-second, he made his choice.
Turning his body further towards her, he watched as she tilted her head in confusion, her eyebrows rising.
"Mr. Bates?" she asked. "What is it?"
He shook his head, unable to find any words. The adrenaline pumped faster, flooding his entire body. He reached out with a trembling hand, touching a fallen ringlet of hair before moving his palm to cup her cheek. Her intake of breath was sharp, but she didn't pull away from him. Just continued to stare. He swallowed the lump of fear in his throat before shifting closer to her on the crate.
"Anna," he whispered hoarsely. Her eyelids fluttered in response. Her tongue darted out to nervously moisten her lip.
It sealed his fate.
In the next moment he was kissing her, kissing her fiercely, with everything that he had, as though it was the last time that he ever would.
And, dear God, she was responding, matching him all the way. Her own hand had moved to the back of his neck, pulling him closer. The other rested on his knee. And her mouth was opening beneath him, coaxing him into the warmth. She might have been inexperienced, but there was no fear in Anna Smith.
When he pulled away from her, panting for breath, she followed him, resting her forehead against his chin, squeezing him tight. The adrenaline was still coursing through every fibre of him, and he shivered, the tremor transferring to her. In the immediate aftermath, she raised her head, her eyes still confused but her voice anything but. She uttered only one word, but it was enough to make him laugh freely and kiss her again before she could say anything else smart.
"Finally."
People would look down on them, on him – his marriage was still a huge shadow that blotted out the sun – but, holding Anna in his arms, John found it difficult to remember how something so right could ever be wrong.
1915
John's palms were drenched with sweat as he stood outside the flower shop, staring at the elaborate displays. With Valentine's Day almost upon him, he was determined to do something nice for Anna. It couldn't be much – no one else at the house knew about the shift in their relationship – but he wanted to give her something to show her his affection for her. He knew she wouldn't mind how small the gesture was. To her, just knowing was enough.
He'd travelled further than Downton village to buy the flowers, aware that his presence with them would set the place aflame with speculation, but even here he was nervous. Even if he knew that she would love whatever he brought her, he was more cynical of himself. It had been years since he'd last made any sort of romantic gesture. He'd certainly never made one to anyone who he felt as deeply for as Anna. The last thing he wanted to do was mess up spectacularly.
But he steeled himself anyway, entering the shop. The perfumed aroma of flowers hung heavy in the air, a little too overwhelming for his tastes. Still, he breathed deeply, venturing in further to wait behind several other men who were busy picking flowers for their loved ones. Many women would be receiving nothing this year, their husbands and sweethearts overseas. It was a sobering thought.
John waited patiently in line until it was his turn. Then, chewing on his lip, he chose a small collection of roses, yellow, orange, and red, to symbolise the friendship and love that he felt for her. He couldn't choose anything elaborate because he would struggle to smuggle it into Downton undetected, but he knew she would appreciate it nonetheless. After paying, he left the shop, feeling pleased with himself.
Anna cast him a curious look at dinner, evidently intrigued by the smile that he seemed unable to keep off his face, but he only smiled wider at her, giving her hand a quick squeeze under the table. She returned it enthusiastically, ignoring the conversations around her in favour of staring at him.
"What's got into you?" she muttered, his smile obviously infectious as she threw him one of her own.
"You'll see soon enough," he reassured her. "Tonight, when everyone else has gone to bed."
"Sounds mysterious," she said, but her eyes were sparkling with excitement. She was still a child when it came to surprises. He hoped it was a trait that she would never grow out of.
Their respective jobs kept them apart for the rest of the evening, but he knew that she would be there later when he slipped back downstairs. For years they had stayed up past everyone else, just to share conversation without everyone else butting in. It was easily his favourite time of the day, for even if he was tired she was enough to raise his spirits.
He fingered the soft rose petals nervously as he waited for her to arrive, two steaming cups of tea in front of him. He felt painfully shy, suddenly.
At last he heard her soft footsteps, and she appeared before him in her nightgown, wrapped in her shawl. She took his breath away. Beautiful wasn't even the word. She was a goddess. An angel.
"So, Mr. Bates," she said without preamble, skipping towards him. "Are you going to tell me what all this is about?"
"Soon," he promised. "First, I think I need to kiss you. It's been far too long."
"I won't argue with you there."
He grinned at her response, rising to his feet and taking her into his arms. He tried not to focus on the fact that only a few flimsy pieces of cloth separated them, focusing instead on the slope of her neck, the softness of her lips as they played over his, kissing him breathless. When at last they parted, he fought to find his breath. She giggled at him, tucking a loose strand of hair self-consciously behind her ear. Her eyes fell to the table.
"Oh!" she trilled. "Tea! That's perfect."
"Anything for you, milady," he said, and swelled with satisfaction as her cheeks flooded with red.
"Silly beggar," she murmured, taking her seat.
Those words seemed to her affectionate endearment. He couldn't say that he minded in the slightest. Taking his seat too, he turned it so that it was facing her. She raised an eyebrow at him, obviously interested.
"Mr. Bates?" she said. "What is it?"
He cleared his throat, fumbling for her fingers. "I just wanted to tell you how happy you've made me these last few months."
She opened her mouth, evidently about to interrupt with her own affirmations, but he shushed her gently, continuing.
"I have no right to be this happy. I've made grievous mistakes in my past. My current situation is far from ideal. But you have stuck by me through everything so far. Your faith in me gives me more hope than I could possibly convey. I just want you to know that I appreciate it so much. And I love you, Anna. More than anything."
Her eyes filled with tears in the half-darkness. He wondered if he'd said the wrong thing. But she reached out with a trembling hand to caress his face, fingers smoothing over his cheek.
"Oh, Mr. Bates," she whispered. "I love you too. So much."
She began to lean forward to claim his mouth with her own, but he stopped her gently, unable to resist teasing her. "Anna, I thought we'd come to an agreement about when we were alone."
She made a little whining sound in the back of her throat, but he held firm, lips hovering centimetres from hers. At last she conceded defeat, drawing closer, her fingers tangling in the short hair at the nape of his neck.
"I love you," she said again. "John."
The sound of his Christian name falling from her lips was the sweetest syllable in the world, like a word spoken in a foreign language. It sounded so right, despite the fact that she'd only used it once before in the months that they had been secretly walking out. He found it incredibly endearing that she still referred to him as Mr. Bates, even when they were alone, but it gave him an altogether different thrill when she spoke his true name. It was even more intimate.
He rewarded her with the kiss that she'd been desiring, his lips moving leisurely over hers. She matched him all the way, sometimes yielding, sometimes taking charge. Every kiss was almost unfathomable to him. Perfect in every way.
At last he pulled away from her, leaving her with a last staccato kiss to placate her little huff of frustration.
"I have something for you," he said.
"You shouldn't have. We agreed that we wouldn't."
"So you're saying that you didn't break the rules too?"
"Well…" She flushed a little at that, giggling. "Maybe. But it was only something small."
"Mine's only something small. I hope you won't be disappointed in it."
"I won't," she said at once. "I could never be disappointed in you."
God, this woman was perfect. Slowly, he grasped onto the flowers, bringing them shyly to the table top. Anna gasped, bringing her hands to her mouth.
"I know it's not much," he told her. "I will never be able to afford fine jewels or silk gowns –"
Anna reached out, pressing her index finger against his lips. "You bought it for me. That makes it more precious than any jewel. Thank you. They're beautiful."
"The yellow rose is for our friendship. You were the only person who was kind to me when I first arrived here. You were the only one who took time out of your day to speak to me, to share little jokes and stories. I will always treasure your friendship. And now our love is stronger because of it. That's what the red roses are for. And the orange is for desire. A mixture of the two."
"I gathered that," she teased, then sobered. "Friendship, desire, and passion. Nothing could be better than that."
She brought the flowers up to her nose to sniff, then leant forward to wrap her arms around his neck. He slid his around her waist, resting his head in the crook of her shoulder, kissing her ear clumsily.
He couldn't wed her anytime soon, he wasn't going to deceive himself about that. But he could still show her everything that lay in his heart, everything that beat just for her.
1916
John squeezed Anna's hand as he led the way down the long street. Anna almost skipped at the side of him, the basket she had over her other arm swinging wildly. It was rare for any of them to be granted any time off anymore, with the war raging around them, and people seemed especially nervous about visiting the capital, but Anna had jumped at the chance to go there for the day with John to visit his mother, who had taken a tumble a few days earlier when she'd been trying to hang her curtains back up in her sitting room. John had kept his scoldings light but firm when he'd written back to her, and had insisted that he come to make sure that she really was all right. In turn, she had coyly insisted on him bringing "his charming Anna", since it had been far too long since her last visit, the last few being undertaken by John alone.
There had been a few sneers from Miss O'Brien when news got out that Anna was taking her free day to accompany him, but Mrs. Hughes had authorised it in the first place and had been quick to stamp out any gossip. In truth, most of the staff was supportive of their relationship now that they all knew about it, and John had somehow managed to escape any sort of lecture from the butler and the housekeeper about improper behaviour. It was nice to know that they were trusted enough to conduct themselves with decorum.
As they reached the path that led to his mother's front door, John paused, taking a deep breath. Anna seemed to know what was wrong at once, squeezing his elbow.
"She's all right," she said. "Your mother is strong."
He managed a smile. "I know. I just worry. I've seen her these past months, and she's getting frailer. You might get a shock."
"She'll get better. I know she will."
Anna was probably only trying to make him feel better, but he appreciated it all the same. Affording her one last smile, he knocked on the door. They were waiting for several minutes before his mother made it to the door, pulling it open slowly.
Even though he had seen her only a few weeks before, John's heart plummeted to smash on the floor as he realised that she had deteriorated further in that time. Her face, once round and full of life, was thin, pasty. Her hair had fallen out of its tight bun. Her dark eyes were duller.
But she still managed a smile for him, reaching out to pat his cheek. Her hand was paper dry. "Johnny. I thought you were never coming."
"We set off a little later than we intended to," he said, gesturing for Anna to step inside in front of him.
"Anna, darlin', how are you?" she exclaimed, pulling her into a hug. "It's been far too long."
"It has," Anna agreed, hugging her tight. "Much too long. Here, I made a basket up for you."
"You're too kind. But it's lovely! Jams and marmalades and fruits. You needn't have gone to so much trouble."
"I wanted to."
"You're too sweet, girl. Now, come on through…"
John watched as the two of them walked through the tiny hall to the parlour, Anna practically being frogmarched there by his fearless mother. He took his time hanging up his hat and coat, wanting to give them a little time to catch up, before he followed them through.
Anna was already perched in one of the chairs, hands clasped in her lap as his mother bustled around, lighting the lamps to coax a little more light into the dark room. He'd left his cane by the door and stood with his hands in his pockets, watching as she finally decided that everything was fine and hobbled over to her own seat. She looked at him with those dark Irish eyes.
"Johnny, stop standin' there like a fool and come in. I've just brewed a pot of tea. Bring it over on your way."
John mock-saluted, causing Anna to descend into a fit of giggles, then did as he was bid, crossing the room carefully with the tray in hand. He set it down and busied himself with pouring cups for the two women in his life.
The rest of the morning passed quickly. John revelled in the rapport between his mother and Anna, the way that conversation flowed easily. He knew what his mother thought of her. The daughter in law she should have had. His throat tightened. If only.
They shared a light luncheon, prepared at Anna's insistence, sharing news of Downton and the continued war. John worried about his mother all alone here, but there was nowhere feasible closer that he could move her to, and she was adamant that she would be staying.
"This is my home," she said. "Has been for a long time now, son. Why would I want to move away from it?" There was no arguing with her on the subject.
After they had eaten, his mother announced that she was tired and would like to take a little nap.
"What?" John said as she pushed herself to her feet, pausing for a moment to catch her breath.
"Don't act so surprised, Johnny. I'm gettin' on in years. It's only natural for people my age to want to take a rest. Lord knows we've earned it."
"But –"
"Stop worrying, lad. I'll be back down in an hour or so, right as rain."
"At least let me help you upstairs."
"Nonsense. Stay down here with your lovely lass. That's if I can trust you alone?"
There was a twinkle in her eyes that had not diminished over the years. John felt his face flush crimson. Anna's had turned the same shade.
"Let me help you up," she offered.
"You're just as bad as he is," she said affectionately. "Now leave me be. Tidy the kitchen. It's one of the banes of living alone. I have to do all of the house chores."
John frowned. "Mother, I've said I'll pay someone to –"
"Oh, heavens, here we go again. I'm leaving. Now, remember what I said." With that, his mother ambled out of the room. Her movements were stiff, not at all like the graceful young woman he remembered. He waited until the creaking of the stairs ceased before sighing, heaving himself to his feet.
"Come on," he muttered. "Let's tidy up."
The two of them worked in silence for a while, the pots clanking together in the sink the only sound. John stared out of the window as he worked, onto the back yard. It wasn't a handsome view, other grey, dreary buildings blocking everything else. That only made him feel worse.
He startled when he felt slim, warm arms looping around his waist, a forehead pressed to his back.
"I know you're worried," Anna murmured, voice muffled. "But she'll be all right, you'll see."
John exhaled heavily, turning in her arms so that he could face her. "I've never seen her like this before."
"I'm worried too, John. Your mother is a wonderful woman. But she's tough. The Irish are, aren't they?"
She was trying to tease him to raise his spirits. He dropped a kiss onto her hair, slipping his arms around her waist, deaf to her half-hearted protests about his wet hands. In the end she nestled her head against his chest, letting out a contented sigh. He found himself relaxing too. She had a healing effect on him. It was utterly entrancing.
"You know," Anna said at length, voice dreamy, "getting to know your mum in this way has been wonderful. I was worried the first time, because I know she thinks the world of you –"
"You were worried even though you already knew that she thought you were wonderful?" he interrupted her playfully.
"Yes, but that was before she knew that I was in love with you."
"Believe me, she knew."
"She did?"
"Yes. From the moment you opened your mouth, apparently. Were you really that transparent?"
She pouted. "I didn't think so. I just said I was a friend."
"A female friend who cared enough to investigate further. There's no wonder she knew."
She smacked his chest lightly. "You should be glad that I cared enough. You kept your job because of me."
"Oh, believe me, I'll always be infinitely glad that you helped me keep my job," he growled.
Anna pulled away from him before he could lean in for a kiss, slipping round him to continue washing the pots. "Your mother is an amazing woman to have raised a man like you."
"You'll make me blush," he teased, moving to slip his arms around her waist now, closing her eyes against the scent of his hair. It was all too domestic. They could have been standing in their own kitchen, years married. If only.
"I mean it," she said without looking at him. "And your mother has been so welcoming to me over these last couple of years. I know everyone says it, but I truly have gained another family."
John felt the unexpected lump in his throat. He swallowed hard. "That's a very kind thing to say, Anna. I'm glad that you feel that way. I never wanted you to feel uncomfortable."
"I could never feel uncomfortable, not with you. And not with your mother either. My parents are dead. My sister lives far away. My brothers are at war, and even then we're not close. I had no one when I left for Downton. And then you came into my life. You've reminded me what it's like to be loved and cared for. So thank you for that."
John had started to shift uncomfortably when she mentioned her brothers – just what would they say about their little sister being led astray by an older, married man? – but when she turned in his arms to gaze sincerely at his face, he felt his troubles melting away. She had a knack for that.
"Thank you for letting me join," she breathed.
"Thank you for joining," he somehow retorted between kisses as her hands roved over his shoulders, soaking his shirt to the skin. He couldn't bring himself to care.
Later, when his mother returned from her nap, thankfully looking refreshed, she raised an eyebrow at his still wet shirt. Anna blushed bright pink and giggled.
"Well, Johnny, did you get into a fight with the pots?" his mother asked dryly.
"Something like that, yes." He maintained a straight face, even when the words brought back the image of Anna's wet hands travelling down the front of his shirt in her enthusiasm.
"Men. Utterly useless. Give them anything domestic to do and they flounder like fish out of water."
Anna joined in the teasing then, but John couldn't mind. Settling himself back in his seat with a secret smile, he listened to the two women in his life mock him in turn. Yes, what a truly wonderful family he had.
And, perhaps one day, it could be extended further.