This is my first Downton fic, so any and all feedback is much appreciated. I love Mary and Anna's friendship, which was the inspiration for this short piece. Hope you enjoy!
The inn was small but spacious, with enough room to walk two abreast up the stairs, and Mary was grateful for that. She feared that if she wasn't firmly supporting Anna at the elbow and the small of her back that her ladies maid would fall over. Anna was rarely sick, rarely downtrodden, and never seemed anything other than optimistic, so it was disconcerting for Mary to see her like this, as if the natural order of the world had been thrown off balance. Of course it had, she chided herself as they climbed the last few stairs and traversed the dark hallway, of course the natural order was askew when an innocent man had been sentenced to death.
Although she hadn't been able to show her concern the way Anna could, Mary remembered feeling the same way herself during the war, in those horrible days when no one was quite sure if Matthew was dead or alive, wounded or missing, safe in a hospital or blown to bits and scattered like dust across the lavender fields in France. Those horrible false alarms, those sleepless nights, nights when Anna had checked up on her, brought her tea and a little bit of brandy to calm her nerves. But Papa had worked his magic, and they always had news in a day or two. Such were the perks of being an earl, she supposed, or the heir of an earl.
But, she thought darkly as she helped Anna into the room they'd rented for her, Bates wasn't the heir of an earl. He was a fine, fine gentleman and innocent of his crime, Mary was sure, but things tended to work differently for those not of the aristocracy. For the first time in her life, she was frustrated with "her" sort of people, and how they seemed to get everything they wanted, while the hardworking others were at the mercy of the winds. Mary shook her head, thinking that she was starting to sound like Sybil, and wondered for a moment if the whole world was truly going mad.
She flipped the light switch on the wall and one dim electric light flickered to life above the slightly sagging bed.
"Sit down," Mary instructed, taking charge as she'd inherently learned to do in such situations. "I'll light some candles."
Anna wavered for a moment without the support, but stood firmly in the doorway with a glazed look in her eyes as Mary bustled about the room looking for candles in the dresser drawers. She found a few, finally, and placed one on the dresser and one on the bedside table.
"Do you want to sit down?" she asked, and Anna shook her head. After hearing the news downstairs that there wasn't much of a chance to get Bates' sentence repealed she seemed to have fallen silent, and rightly so, Mary supposed. "At least take off your coat?"
"It is a bit hot," she admitted, her voice quavering as much as her fingers as she reached up to undo the buttons on her coat.
The girl would never get anything accomplished that way. "Here, let me," Mary offered. She unbuttoned Anna's coat herself and removed her little black hat, and put them both on the coatrack by the door. "Come sit," Mary said, and guided her to the bed. Anna sat, her hands and eyes glued to her lap. Mary didn't feel at all odd or strange kneeling to the ground and unbuckling her shoes, knowing that it was the least she could do to help.
"Lady Mary—"
"It's all right," Mary quieted her.
"You shouldn't be—"
"There are a lot of things a lot of us shouldn't be, but we are anyway," Mary said firmly, the bitterness and anger over the injustice of the day rearing its ugly head. But she glanced up at Anna and, seeing her face clouded, amended, "I don't mind. Truly."
Anna fell silent and Mary slid the shoes off her feet.
"Did you pack a nightgown?" she asked, rising. Anna nodded and gestured to her suitcase, which had been brought up when they'd arrived an hour ago. Mary opened it, extracted the thin white dress from the top, and when she turned back, she found that Anna had managed to unbutton the front of her blouse herself. As Mary slid the garment off her thin shoulders and started unlacing her corset, she found it fitting that after being dressed and undressed by Anna for more than ten years, she could finally return the favor now, in her maid's darkest hour.
"Thank you," Anna said softly, taking the nightgown from her mistress. After the quiet rustle of fabric had subsided, she spoke again, and her voice was stronger this time. "Thank you for coming with me today. It meant a lot."
"Of course." Mary nodded. "I wouldn't have missed it."
"And thank you for putting me up here, just for the night. I'll go to—" Her words caught in her throat and for a terrifying moment Mary thought Anna would start sobbing again, and she didn't know if she could bear to see that sweet, sweet face crumpled in defeat or hear the wrenching sobs that would wrack her tiny body again. But Anna regained her composure and finished, "I'll go to the jail in the morning and be back at Downton in time for luncheon, I hope."
"Take all the time you need."
"Thank you," Anna said again, and began unpinning her hair with shaking hands. Mary thought it a wonder that this girl was still so thankful after what had happened today. Mary knew that if the man she loved, if Matthew, God forbid, had been falsely accused and sentenced to death, that she would be neither as calm nor as polite as Anna.
"Here, let me help you," Mary offered, and finished unpinning Anna's golden hair. When the maid protested, she insisted, "It's the least I can do."
She took the brush from Anna's open suitcase and ran it through its owner's hair a few times, and then neatly plaited the locks, so much longer than she remembered, for some reason. She tied it off with a thin blue ribbon and stepped back to admire her work.
"It's very good, Lady Mary," Anna said, admiring it in the dull mirror that hung over the dresser. "Where did you learn to plait like that?"
"From watching you," Mary admitted rather sheepishly.
"Thank you," Anna said for what seemed like the hundredth time. "For everything. Really."
"Let us know if you need something, anything, and we'll make sure you have it," Mary assured her. "Try to get some sleep, and we'll see you tomorrow."
An overwhelming sense of protection flooded her all of a sudden, as if she wanted to shield this girl from all the awful things life had done to her, make all the injustices right again. She loved Anna like a sister, and after tonight wanted to protect her like one, perhaps more than she'd wanted to protect Sybil, who was a lost cause now anyway. So in an uncharacteristic display of emotion, Mary wrapped Anna in a fierce hug, and was surprised to find her own cheeks shimmering with tears when she pulled away.
"Take care of yourself, and don't give up hope yet," she said, and Anna nodded.
Mary closed the door behind her and used the short walk down the hallway to recompose herself before walking downstairs. The inn had grown surprisingly quiet and empty, with a few lonely stragglers still sitting at the bar or in tables in the shadows. Her own father blended in with them for a moment, until she recognized his neatly coiffed hair and his steely gray eyes staring despondently into what had once been a glass of brandy.
"Papa?" she asked quietly, and he started at the sound of her voice.
"Is she in bed, then?"
"Nearly." Mary sighed. "How did this all go so wrong?"
"I'm afraid of the role I played in it," Robert said, not meeting his daughter's eyes.
"You mustn't blame yourself." Silence fell as they both knew that it was impossible. Then Mary asked, "Have Matthew and the solicitor gone?"
"Just a moment ago. And I think it's time we followed them, don't you agree?"
Mary was disappointed. She'd hoped to catch Matthew before he left, maybe offer to help as they pushed the appeal forward. But she nodded and said, "I've had enough of this day to last me a lifetime." She watched as her father rose to his feet, tired and defeated. They climbed into the car in silence, and it was only after they had been riding for a few minutes that Mary asked, "Will you tell Mama and Edith or shall I?"
"I think your mother would like to hear it from me," Robert said, and Mary was amazed by how old he suddenly looked. Neither of her parents were young, that much she knew and had always been aware of. But the war had turned young girls in their first season into hardened nurses; young men into bitter, jaded ones; and middle-aged men into sad, brooding patriarchs a little less sure of themselves. The thought frightened her.
"I'll tell Edith then," Mary agreed. "I don't think she'll want to hear it from me but she's got no choice. And Mrs. Hughes and O'Brien will have told the servants by now, I suppose."
"Yes…" Robert said distantly.
Summoning up the courage to ask the question she feared the answer to, Mary ventured, "Papa, honestly… what are the chances that Bates' sentence will be overturned?"
"The solicitor's going to do everything he can," Robert sighed. "But I don't know if it will be enough."
It was the vague statement she'd feared, and terror gripped her throat as she continued, "And is there nothing we can do in the meantime? Surely you can pull some strings, like you did to get William and Matthew transferred to our hospital. Or when Mrs.—"
"Given my testimony I don't see how I'll be much help, but I'm going to try everything I can, Mary, and you know that." Robert's tone was biting and silenced her for the time being. He studied his oldest daughter curiously. "You're very keen."
"I suppose I'm the naïve daughter of the wealthy aristocrat, finally seeing the world for what it truly is," Mary sighed.
"No one could accuse you of being naïve, my darling," Robert said with just a hint of a smile.
But Mary was undeterred. "A world where the aristocracy is entitled to all sorts of perks and immunities that other people don't get. It's unfair."
"Life's not fair, my sweet."
"Oh, don't be patronizing," Mary spat, her anger and exhaustion from the day finally unleashing itself. "All my life I've been content to walk here and sit there and ring for tea and have someone else dress me, and all at the mercy of the servants, who can be a right bit more human than some of our lot."
Robert's brow furrowed. "We help ourselves along quite well. The war's changed that a bit."
"Has it?" The bitterness in her tone wasn't lost on him. "Because sometimes I feel like the only thing different for our lot after the war is the number of eligible bachelors."
"Enough!" Robert suddenly snapped. "I won't let you speak to me in this way."
"And everyone will obey you because of who you are," Mary said coldly. "Because that's the way our world works."
"If I didn't know you better I'd say you sound like Sybil," Robert grumbled.
"A lot you'd know about her," Mary retorted before she could stop herself.
"Are you quite finished antagonizing me?" Robert quipped. "In case you've forgotten, an old friend of mine is in jail tonight, no thanks to me."
As quickly as it had stirred within her, the fight was gone. Mary sighed and shut her eyes, as she often did when she was disappointed in herself. "I'm sorry, Papa. I shouldn't have… been cross with you."
"It's been a long day," Robert agreed. "A very, very long day."
When they arrived back home there was a ghostly presence about the house, as if it was already mourning the loss of its valet. When Mary crossed the threshold she felt as if a dark cloak had settled about her shoulders, and she knew that the next few days were going to be difficult for anyone under their roof.
She crossed the hall but before she could reach the stairs, she was stopped by Edith's voice. Mary turned to see her sister sitting in the library in her nightdress and dressing gown, apparently awaiting her return.
"You're still up?" she asked, already weary of what she had to tell her.
"We were all worried," Edith answered. "Grannie's only just gone home; I told her we'd let her know in the morning. Is it true? I heard Carson saying something in the hall…"
Mary was relieved she wouldn't have to be the sole bearer of bad news, but it was still with a heavy heart that she murmured, "I'm afraid it is."
It was just one more dark shadow to befall the house in too short a time. The Spanish flu, Mama's brush with death, poor Lavinia, Bates' imprisonment and sentence, her own black sin… Mary wasn't one to dwell on bad news, but it seemed sometimes that Downton would never be a happy place again.
"Do you ever feel," Edith asked quietly, "as if our whole world is being torn apart at the seams?"
Mary allowed herself a tired smile and said, "It looks as if we've found one thing on which we can agree."