She was grateful for the weight of the pitcher of warm water, she was shaking so badly. Her heart pounded loud in her ears. She'd put the kettle back on the stove, for more warm water and to make Anna a cup of tea, but would have to return for it. Heavens, that poor girl. Her poor girl, for Elsie Hughes had tucked Anna under her wing the moment she arrived at Downton, and in the nigh on twenty years since, she had grown very protective and very maternal over the young woman, indeed. And now this; beyond imagining. Tears threatened and so she bit her cheek to stay focused on the task at hand, on the girl's wishes. She had tucked a fresh dress inside a stack of flannels, a comb in her pocket alongside some salve to help with the bruises and iodine for her cuts. Everything was movingly so slowly - it reminded her of swimming when she was a girl, the way sound and light changed underwater. The first kettle-full of water seemed to take forever to boil. Her shaking hands had knocked more than one housemaid's dress off of its hanger. Fortunately everyone was so involved in their own duties that no one paid her a bit of mind. She squeezed through her cracked door, and the vice on her chest tightened again at the sight of her Anna, barely recognizable, beaten and disheveled, and so beyond comfort. Her kind, sweet Anna, still crouched, tightly huddled in the corner behind the hutch. She deposited her arm load and turned to the girl. "I'll be just another moment, I have a kettle boiling and I need to get a basin."
Anna's wild eyes flicked over Mrs. Hughes before darting back to the corner of the hutch. She nodded sharply and clamped her hand over her mouth, fighting desperately to hold back another sob as it clawed its way from her throat. The housekeeper left quickly, blinking back the water that came to her eyes, straining to not hear the rasping, broken sound of Anna weeping in her head.
When the older woman returned, she quickly locked the door behind herself and set to work readying the basin and water for Anna. "Come here, love," she patted a chair. Anna took a time to register her words, casting a worried glance at the door. "It's locked," Mrs. Hughes affirmed, heartsick at the cast of her sweet girl's face. No woman should ever experience this, but that it should be her Anna, who wouldn't hurt a soul, who had fought so long and hard for her place in the world, her happiness, and her husband. Oh Lord, she was right, Anna was absolutely right. Mr. Bates would kill the man who hurt his wife. Mrs. Hughes shuddered. Hurt was not an adequate word. No words could describe this. "You're safe, my little bird. I won't let anyone see you. Let us clean you up." She took the younger woman's hand, drew her thumb gently across the tense trembling she felt there. She tried to smile reassuringly and led her to the chair. There Anna perched anxiously at the cushion's edge as though ready to bolt at any moment. "Come, my sweet girl, let me help you." Anna flinched when Mrs. Hughes began to unfasten what was left of her dress. Pale hands flew up to clutch at the ripped material, her breath coming faster. This time Elsie knelt down before her, trying to catch Anna's eyes, willing her voice to remain reassuring and even and not crack into the hysteria that was threatening to erupt. "Anna. Anna, love, it's just me. You're safe Anna, it's just me."
Again those desperate, panicked eyes met hers, but at least she could see recognition and understanding. Anna nodded her disheveled head and choked back another sob, but let her hands fall into her lap. Her shoulders slumped and she acquiesced. Elsie cringed as she peeled the torn fabric from Anna's shaking form and revealed raised red marks that were already beginning to bruise. Her underclothes were in tatters as well. The more fabric Elsie removed, the more the housekeeper felt as though she would be sick. She helped Anna up to step out of the ruined clothes and clenched her teeth at the full extent of the violence laid into her sweet girl.
The warm water felt good. That much she registered. Mrs. Hughes touches were tentative and gentle as she held her chin, and smoothed the wash rag over her face. It was slowly bringing her back to reality. She took a deep breath in through her nose. And then she was back in that room with him. She collapsed to her knees, doubled over, retching. She didn't bring anything up, but her whole body contracted violently, and the shaking began again. She looked up at Mrs. Hughes when she was able, feeling the panic rise in her throat. "Help me! Oh Lord, I can smell him on me. Please. I have to..." She dissolved into hysterical sobbing again.
She didn't know, really, what happened next; she was vaguely aware of roughly scrubbing at herself with a flannel, while Mrs. Hughes sponged down her back. And somehow her hair was restored and she could smell only soap and lavender. Mrs. Hughes helped her into a fresh dress. She registered the lack of underthings. Mrs. Hughes had promised to burn them, along with her dress so as to avoid questions. She made it haltingly through John's questions, riddled with the guilt of lying to him. Managed not to begin to shake uncontrollably when Mr. Gillingham, Mr. Green called out to them sickeningly from the end of the corridor. Managed to keep her voice even through the indignity of responding to him. Managed to keep John safe. She wanted to hide in her husband's arms. It was then that she realized that this punishment was meant for him, too. A punishment to be forever meted out in increments, but that began the moment he reached for her, all tenderness and confused concern. The look on John's face when she flinched away from him nearly brought her to tears again.
Nothing could still the tears that welled into her eyes at the plaintive way he called after her as she walked into darkness. There would be no end to darkness now. She walked as fast as she could and still maintain a somewhat even gait. Every step was laced with aftershocks of pain. She hadn't realized it was possible to hurt like this. Hadn't realized shame and guilt could cut like a knife. Hadn't realized a person's life could change so violently in such a short period of time. She should have. John had warned her.
This was what it was, what it felt like to be ruined. For she was. Nothing would ever be the same. Her world felt fractured and raw. Part of her wanted to curl into John's arms and sob, but that was the one thing she could not do. For as soon as he touched her he would know. What was worse, the other part of her wanted to never be touched again. If John ever found out...
That realization had shaken her to her core and panicked her more than anything else after he finished with her and left her to herself in the raw electric light. John would kill him. And then John would be hanged. And so she had pulled herself together and tidied the mess; the mess her scrabbling arms and clawing hands had made. The hands that shook as she hurriedly picked up several pairs of shoes, brushes, and jars of boot black. One of them was a pair of Lady Mary's. She would need to come in early to brush and polish them. She flipped the switch, turning of the light. Her ears rang tinnily, like a voice through Mr. Matthew's gramophone. The mess. The mess would attract attention. She stumbled to the kitchen, straightening the counter there before slipping into the welcome dark of Mrs. Hughes' sitting room.
She began to shake so hard her teeth chattered. She dug her thumbnail into her palm and swallowed her tears to pray. To pray she hadn't missed anything that would raise questions. To pray that Mrs. Hughes would help her keep John safe by staying silent. To pray for a spare dress and the strength to walk home. To pray for John to forgive her for lying to him and being false and breaking his heart, Because she knew she'd have to if she wanted to keep him alive. Better that than he should be hanged. Either way, her life, their beautiful life together was over. Never mind the looks of pity and derision that she would be the focus of if anyone knew, the horrible things he would have to hear. The most sacred thing in her life was tainted now. What was between she and her husband had been theirs alone, a blessed haven, worked excruciatingly long and hard for, created out of mutual trust and tenderness between the two of them. Oh, and it had been such a thing of beauty. How could she ever touch him again now? Not when this had happened, when this was what she would see and feel in her head. Not when she was soiled like this. She stopped and braced herself against a tree, heaving again, into the darkness; this time bringing up bile and the tea Mrs. Hughes had given her, tea with a touch of whisky, to calm her nerves. Oh Mrs. Hughes, bless her. Anna worried at her ability to keep this all a secret, but prayed she would. No one must ever know. She fumbled the key in the lock and hurried inside, locking the door shut immediately behind her. No one. No one must ever know. John wouldn't be too much longer. She added coals to the stove, coaxed them alight and smoldering, and put the heavy cast iron kettle on. She set to work drawing buckets of water for a bath. She felt like she would never be clean. At least she could lock the door of the washroom so John wouldn't see her. She hurried to the bedroom and collected her nightdress and shawl and knickers. The sight of the bed, their marriage bed, stopped her dead. How could she lie next to him tonight? She closed off that corner of her mind and shook her aching head, it was too big and too painful to fathom just yet. Tea, she would leave tea and biscuits out for him, so he would feel less like she was upset with him. And fire, she needed to light the fire in the bedroom, prepare the bed warmer. She wracked her brain. What else did she do when she got home first? Her head hurt so, and her neck and scalp. She ached all over, but was far more comfortable focusing on the stinging of her split lip and the throbbing in her neck and head than any of her other hurts. She was grateful for the work, for the weight of the buckets of water, the lightness of the coal she had fed to the stove, for the warmth of the fire she built, the normalcy of it all.
John was always saying how strong she was. Now she had to find that strength and do whatever was needed to keep her husband from the gallows. She had told him once that for him she would bear anything. She had meant it with her whole heart then and meant it just as strongly now. She loved him more than life itself and it meant she had to be strong enough for the both of them. Strong enough to keep him safe, to spare him her shame. Even though it meant hurting him and pushing him away. She began to shake all over again. She needed to formulate a plan, excuses that made sense, ways to avoid his eyes, to hide the pain and bruises. He was so attuned to her. He would know. He would feel it in her bones as soon as he touched her, held her. She poured the final bucket of cold water into the bath. The kettle was at a full boil, so she tipped the roiling water into the tub as well and refilled it from the sink, put it back on the stove. It didn't really matter, she would never be clean again.
"Mr. Bates!" Mrs. Hughes hurried down the corridor, grateful to have caught him. Her voice left her when she reached him, and she had to clear her throat before she managed, as evenly and normally as possible to tell him to relay to Anna that she was to stay in bed and rest tomorrow. "She seemed so shaken up after her fall," the dark haired housekeeper finished, unable to meet Mr. Bates' eyes when she said it. She followed by telling him that she would take care of Lady Mary herself, "So Anna won't have to worry about that." At least she could meet his eyes again when she said it, as it was the truth. The lie had burned in her throat and made her chest tight. He nodded, his brow furrowed, concern and something more written across his face, "Yes, thank you Mrs. Hughes, I'll be sure to tell her."
Elsie Hughes made it through the rest of the evening and to her bedroom. The moment the door clicked shut behind her, though, she had to rush to her bed and snatch a pillow to bury her gasping, full throated sobs. Her poor, sweet girl. She wept for a long time, wept until she was gasping and hiccoughing, and beyond. The weight of what she knew made it hard to breath.