Anna considered the large metal key resting in the palm of her hand. To do anything other than return it to its hook next to the door would be tantamount to insubordination. She imagined Mrs. Hughes' likely shock and disappointment upon discovering her using it without express permission, the offense aggravated by the late hour. Her mind roiled and struggled with the ultimate consequence of losing her position as head housemaid or, perhaps if it was unforgivable, even being made to leave Downton. "Just don't get caught," she reasoned.
She closed her eyes and brought herself back to an earlier hour, a moment that nearly led to a kiss. She secretly cursed whoever it was that opened the back door and brought everything to a halt. She could still feel Mr. Bates' strong hand lifting her delicate fingers, never wanting to leave his gentle grasp. The moment wasn't over. It was merely paused, and tonight it was her intention to revisit and resume.
Standing at the door separating the women's quarters from the men's, she recalled the evening she brought Mr. Bates' dinner the sad day His Lordship terminated his employment, ever grateful it was only temporary. She remembered his tears, his sobbing, her own heartbreak at witnessing the private moment of a broken man followed by having to tell him goodbye. She remembered when she was sick, and he came to her. She opened the same door for him as he returned the gesture, bringing her food accented by a vase of pretty flowers, his sweet gesture imprinted on her heart.
This night, she had no tray of dinner, no consent to walk through the door to the other side. Her choice might not be the practical one, but her heart seemed to be making this decision, this night. One turn of the key followed by a click she feared would alert the other servants, and she had chosen. She waited a moment to be sure no one awakened then crept down the hallway toward his room, her nightgown billowing with each silent footstep.
Anna stood squarely in front of his door, "Bates" written in elegant black script on the placard. Even the sight of his name quickened her heartbeat. "Bates." In the most secret places in her heart, she had tried on "Anna Bates" more than once. She closed her eyes and exhaled.
John Bates sat awake in his bed, resolved that he'd not sleep tonight. The prelude to a kiss electrified him, and tonight, his mind and heart would be consumed. In his unrest, he turned to a collection of Yeats poetry, and with flickering candlelight, found the worn page containing his favorite poem. He liked the feel of the book in his hand but did not need the printed words to guide him; after hundreds of readings, he'd memorized it. In the past months, the once anonymous pilgrim soul had taken on her likeness:
When you are old and gray and full of sleep,
And nodding by the fire, take down this book,
And slowly read, and dream of the soft look
Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep
He paused to think of her eyes — her kind, warm eyes that captivated him whenever they locked with his so many times during any given day. Her tender eyes that welled up with tears when she saw him in pain, told him goodbye, and on their walk to the flower show, the eyes that glistened when she said, "I love you, Mr. Bates." The moment the words graced his ears, it took all his will not to gather her in his arms and declare his truth, that he loved her from his core.
How many loved your moments of glad grace,
And loved your beauty with love false or true,
But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you,
And loved the sorrows of your changing face;
It pained him to know he may have caused her sorrow by not reciprocating her precious words or by not casting aside what he felt was right for what he knew was true. He felt unworthy, unclean when he thought of his past. Although she assured him for her there was not a better man, he'd never want his shame to come near her, and so he'd reluctantly continue to maintain a distance, though the ache for her grieved him so, and earlier this night, there at last was little distance between them.
"There's always a place for a man like you," she'd once told him. Was he a fool to dream of it being with her?
And bending down beside the glowing bars,
Murmur, a little sadly, how Love fled
And paced upon the mountains overhead
And hid his face amid a crowd of stars.
A light knock on the door punctuated the ending of the poem. Bates looked up, puzzled at which of the men might be knocking on his door so late. He marked the page in his book, put it on his nightstand and picked up his cane. The floor beneath his bare feet felt cool as he moved toward the door. He turned the knob and opened it a few inches. Anna stood before him, her fair skin and long blonde braid a beacon in the dark shadows.
His heart leapt. He whispered, "Anna ... are you all right?"
"Mr. Bates," she said quietly, "I'm ... I know this is ... " She fell silent, not knowing how to finish, and looked up into his eyes, hoping to find the words. Had she made a grave mistake, coming to him in the night, standing at his door, wanting to scream out how she felt but with nothing to say? Maybe she should just make her apologies, go back to her room and hope it wouldn't be too awkward in the morning, as they sat in their self-appointed places next to each other at breakfast.
He looked at her there, more natural and beautiful than any day he'd seen her, and although all his sensibilities told him not to, two years of loving her prompted him. He peeked into the hallway, left, then right. Satisfied it was vacant, save Anna, he stepped back.
"Come in," he whispered, and gently shut the door behind them.
