A/N: Another story from the NaNo files! Doctored to make it better, or at least, that is what I have tried...
Please don't hesitate to tell me what you think!
They are having a cup of tea in the Servants' Hall. He is in his usual place at the head of the table, she is on his right hand. Their knees touch. Their voices are quiet as they speak of the weather, work, gossip from the village. They sip in turns, she pushes the small plate with biscuits in his direction. She answers his smile with one of her own.
She stood in the doorway, contemplating how this was the quiet domesticity she envisions for herself and John when they are older. Anna knew it would be different for them, a knowing smile curling around her lips as she touched her lower stomach almost unconsciously, but she hoped for the deep understanding, the trust and honesty that was between the pair at the table.
With John, away - always away, nothing more than that, no need to drag up the past, no need to go through the hurt of lonely nights and worries, the guilt ridden face of Mrs Hughes and the pity in Mr Carson's - she had learned these were the ones she could count on. They were steadfast. Ever present. There were no harsh words when she would forget a minor chore, but instead found the task already taken care of, wordlessly. There was never a disapproving look when she would come in after curfew having visited York.
Mrs Hughes and Mr Carson became even more like parents as the months dragged on, her relentless search for the truth supported and strengthened. With John back and their cottage renovated and decorated, she no longer lived with them and it had felt like leaving home. Almost more than when she had left her mother's house. Her mother who had almost been glad to be shot of her with so many mouths to feed and so little money coming in. With love to give, but none to spare. She remembered the feeling of Mrs Hughes slightly awkward hug. How warm that had felt and how comforting. She looked at the scene before her: her parents, for the first time since Lady Sybil's death, were happy again.
Anna stifled a yawn and turned to get back to her chores, smiling knowingly, keeping her thoughts and her little secret to herself. For now.
Anna is tired and Elsie knows it. She has seen the girl stand in the doorway from the corner of her eye as she sipped her tea. The girl looked drawn and Elsie wondered if there might be something wrong.
Or something right.
She would never admit it if asked - after all: it's not her place, she is no-one to Anna, not really, not even if she feels it could be, because it is wrong and she has to remain professional even if it costs her more than she can afford to give - but if there was something... right... she would be so pleased. She would be able to look back at this whole ordeal of Mr Bates away - she cannot say what it really was, because it was all her fault and it kills her slowly - and maybe in time be forgiven. So far she hasn't granted herself respite from the drone of guilt that keeps running in her head. Not constantly, but creeping up on her, jumping on her just before falling asleep, while checking the linen rota, going through changes for a dinner with Lady Grantham.
Charles was there though, right next to her, steady, unfailingly himself. He brought her comfort, she drew strength from him whenever he was fighting with her or against. He was a passionate man behind the rigid facade, feeling things so deeply. She reached for the teapot and poured him another cup. The tea was now so dark it had lost it's appealing orange hue, but she knew he liked it strong. She put in milk and sugar, watched him stir and smile at her again.
They had grown accustomed to each other. When she had come to Downton, he had stood out from the footman. He was hardworking, kind, caring. She had been hardworking too, wanting to get on in life. They had formed an easy friendship. There had been times she had thought perhaps they could have been more, but always pushed away the thought of a life together with all that would entail. She had left Argyll with a purpose and a promise to herself: to never become what her mother had been - worn out, sad, hurt, the duties of a farmer's wife, a mother of willful girls too large a burden.
She looked at Charles, who she would always call 'Mr Carson' and she wondered if perhaps, maybe, not now but someday soon, they would be able to let each go of duty and long days filled with caring for others. She was starting to feel her years. Climbing the stairs was starting to become a task. She needed spectacles to see the fine writing in her ledgers. Her nights are lonely, her bed cold and her thoughts switch between the guilt about Mr Bates and her love for Charles and how nothing good can come of brooding, that it is time for action.
In a sudden, brave moment, she put her hand over his, uncaring who would see it.
He ought to have been startled, perhaps even shocked, by the feeling of her warm dry hand over his own, but he wasn't. It felt familiar. He curled his fingers around hers and used his other hand to bring the teacup to his mouth and drink. He didn't wonder anymore how she managed to get it perfect every single time she poured him one.
She knew he liked his tea strong, while she liked hers weaker. He liked his toast dark and he teased her about her penchant for 'warm bread*'. When he turns to face her, she is biting her lower lip, looks a bit nervous. He smiles at her. He seems to be doing that more and more lately. It's because she didn't die. It's because he didn't lose her. Not yet, not quite, there is still time, time to fix things, to make things right, the way they should be.
The way things should be are clear in his mind. Have been for years, even if the thought had been pushed back so far it had almost drowned in his ambition. He had thought about formally courting her when she had come to Downton. She was beautiful, so different from the other maids or girls from the village. Her dark hair and piercing blue eyes, the way she spoke in her clipped tones that made his heart almost jump out of his chest.
Having her hand still on his - unmoving as he presses it, feels the soft skin and delicate bones - makes him gather hope. Maybe he doesn't have to die alone, to spend the days of his retirement wasting away in a cottage provided by his Lordship. Maybe he doesn't have to be the lonely, angry man he is turning into
He looks at her again. Her hair is no longer as dark as it once was and her curves are more pronounced - he has to tear himself away from them often, it is embarrassing - , but he doesn't have illusions about his own physique. He is no longer the tall, slender footman of his youth. Wine and leftover cake and Stilton and crackers, port and an occasional whiskey have given him... gravitas. He looks at Elsie - never Mrs Hughes in his mind, but never Elsie when he speaks to her - intently. There are lines around her eyes he has never seen before and he finds it endearing.
He has to find a way to tell her, to let her know that life without her would be no life at all. Though she might already know. Unlike him, she knows the minds of others, knows what everyone wants before they even know they want it themselves.
His thumb slides over her knuckles, his knee nudges hers. She presses hers back against his.
John Bates sits at the other end of the table, mending Lord Grantham's dinner jacket. The feeling of the expensive fabric in his hands makes the memories of potato sacks vanish. The thought of going home tonight fills him with unbridled joy. He breathes easily, the pain in his leg is hardly noticeable.
Anna has shared her news with him, foreign words that never leave his mind, the joy outweighing the worry by far. If he were a singing man, he would burst into song. He feels proud of his wife, of his new life, the road he has taken. Things haven't been easy and he doesn't pass the blame, he has done many stupid things in his life. Taking Lord Grantham's offer wasn't one of them. Falling in love with Anna May Smith was not one of them.
He has seen her standing in the doorway and he had looked at her suppressing a yawn and he knew he would have to take better care of her. Find ways for him to help her take it a bit easier. She works hard. Reminds him of Mrs Hughes: strong and unfaltering. Anna's warmth is more apparent, but he knows that behind the front of thick black, starched cotton and tight coiffure that is the perceived image of Elsie Hughes, is a woman whose heart beats hotly for those she loves. He understands why she holds back, knows that if she doesn't hold herself in hand, she might stifle those she cares for.
He has seen her look at Anna, the worry - as motherly as possible really and the thought adds to his sense of contentment - Anna will need a mother to turn to soon, there is no-one better than Elsie Hughes - that has flashed over her face and the thoughtfulness that came immediately after. There is not much you can keep from Mrs Hughes, he knows, counts on it, lets this knowledge be part in his strategy to let Anna have just a few less chores. When Anna leaves John takes a last look at the couple that sits at the other end of the table.
Her hand lays over his, his fingers curl around her palm, her index finger and little finger. As if the two hands embrace each other. He smiles, goes back to work, knows what Anna knows, what Elsie knows, what Charles knows:
Love doesn't come at an age but it comes at a price.
John hopes the two older lovers are willing to pay it.
Soon.
* Yes, you've read this phrase before: Onesimus used it and she was gracious enough to let me use it, for which I am really thankful!