As a storm pounded Downton Abbey, splashing the windows with bands of hard rain, Anna's brain was busy with her lists: the special dinner tonight to celebrate St. Patrick's Day feast, inspired by Mr. Branson, which prompted His Lordship to retire early (the excuse being this afternoon's return from the House of Lords), the nanny had left early so the baby needed checking on while Lady Mary was at dinner and other details to take care of before she could call it a night. John had been in London with His Lordship and had come back with a trunk of new garments and supplies to organize; she had not seen him now for three days.
When their eyes met in the downstairs hallway it was more than the usual glad sight; they were both feeling heat tonight. His look had hunger in it; she felt the weight and warmth of that look all the way to her toes. As Anna moved toward the servant's hall people bustled by and they both put on their "daytime" expressions, but she could sense as she got closer to him that they both needed some time together. It had been four days since they'd had a proper kiss, they had been so busy.
"I'll be late tonight," she sighed.
"I know," He was carrying one of the guest oilskin coats over his arm, "This one shouldn't swallow you entirely, " he said, "It's beginning to sleet out there," He held out the coat as she backed into it; his fingers lingered across her bosom as he turned her to check the fit, "I'll make a fire before you get home so you can get warm,"
Anna nodded. She glanced around and then leaned in to mutter, "Then straight to bed,"
He took her point completely. "Then, straight to bed," he said, the meaning simmering in his eyes.
"After you keep your promise, of course,"
He smiled.
The walk home was wet and cold, with freezing rain slippery on the road and stinging her face, but Anna's step was light. Her husband was waiting for her, although he might be asleep after the trip back from London today. Anna had asked him to do her a special favor tonight. They liked to take turns reading to each other occasionally and Anna loved her husband's voice. For St. Patrick's Day she had requested that he read her an Irish poem. Perhaps he had found time in London to pick up a new volume.
She stepped into the warmth of the cottage with a welcome sigh. John brought a towel, shook out the oilskin and poured a cup of tea for her. Anna took off her hat, relishing the sight of her husband in his undershirt. It was her favorite shirt on him. She liked the way it clung to his chest and shoulders. She liked his hair shaken loose after he had been at the washbasin, and the slight beginnings of beard. When not in full dress he had the look of pure manhood about him, which suited Anna.
"Will you read to me?" she asked. "Did you pick out an Irish poem?"
"I will not read to you tonight,"
"Oh," Anna thought that he must be tired. But it wasn't like to John to say it that way. "Why?"
"Because," he said, with the tiniest jog of his head in modesty, "I'm going to recite it to you,"
"Oh!" she said, delighted.
"But I want to tell you about this poem first," he was helping her to undress now, "I've known bits and pieces of it for years. My grandmother knew it, and my mother, although they didn't know how closely I was listening, I think. It's very old, used often at Irish weddings, and very...well," he stopped for a moment, then, "When you and I were apart it would come back to me. It seemed to describe you perfectly. And it seemed that I had dreamed you in this poem a long time ago,"
"Oh my," said Anna. She put down her cup and went to the mirror to take the pins from her hair. "Who is the author?"
"It's anonymous. Fifteenth or sixteenth century, it's thought. Translated from the Gaelic,"
Anna waited. John hesitated, stepping up behind her.
"No sickness worse than secret love," he said, and stopped.
Anna's hair came down and she looked in the mirror, seeing him standing behind her. They were silent for a time, with thoughts of years before sifting down between them. Anna blinked. He put a hand to her cheek and brought her head back against his chest, very gently wiping a tear away with the tips of his fingers; they kept their eyes linked in the mirror. He swallowed, clearing his throat, and started again,
"No sickness worse than secret love
It's long, alas, since I pondered that,"
He turned her to him now and finished unbuttoning her blouse and her skirt.
"No more delay; I now confess
my secret love, so slight and slim,"
He smiled, taking her waist in two hands and guiding her back to the bedroom. Anna sat on the bed. He sat beside her and began taking off her shoes.
"I gave a love that I can't conceal
to her hooded hair, her shy intent,"
He was sliding her stockings down her legs.
"Her narrow brows, her blue-green eyes
her even teeth and aspect soft,"
Anna's stockings and shoes were off. She inched back on the bed, still in her slip and nickers. He laid down beside her,
"I gave as well - and so declare-
my soul's love to her soft throat,"
Anna lay back under her husband's hands and mouth, her fatigue forgotten. He teased her for a time, then continued,
"Her lovely voice, delicious lips,
snowy bosom, pointed breast,"
He covered all of the ground mentioned in the poem while Anna heard herself cooing; she had been so tired just a minute ago.
"And may not overlook, alas,"
He reached under her slip to untie her nickers and pull them down,
"My cloud-hid love for her body bright,"
Her slip was off; she lay back as he took her feet in his hands.
"Her trim straight foot, her slender sole,"
He stroked her insteps lightly with his thumbs, which was very arousing for Anna. She laughed and writhed a little, but her blood was up, too, and he knew it.
"Her languid laugh, her timid hand,"
He pulled her up to sit, holding her two hands in his. He said very sincerely,
"Allow there was never known before
such a love as mine for her,
There lives not, never did, nor will,
one who more gravely stole my love,"
He kissed her. It was a beautiful moment in the poem, but Anna was tugging at the undershirt. A different mood had taken her now.
"Do not torment me, lady," he said, his voice jostled by her efforts. Anna giggled.
"Let our purposes agree,"
Anna had off with the rest of his clothes and tossed them on the chair; she climbed over him, lowering herself onto him and sighing at the meeting of skin, the smell of him, the soft hair on his chest and belly caressing her. He held her face and kissed her; they lost themselves for a time.
"Is that the end?" she breathed.
"No," he said, eyes shut for a moment as he thought. Anna was caressing him in long and slow strokes the way he liked. She was ready and took him in, settling herself firmly with her feet wedged under his thighs. He groaned.
Anna sat looking down at him.
"Well?"
"Ohhh. Urm-"
His hands were on her hips. He attempted to lift her. Anna pulled herself down more tightly by levering with her feet.
"Finish my poem, please," she said, grinning.
He took her hands in his, twining their fingers.
"You are my spouse on this Fair Plain
so let us embrace,"
They stared at each other, nearly panting.
"It's beautiful. I love it, John. Later will you tell it to me again?"
"I might," he said, eyes glinting. He pulled on her hips but Anna sat upright, driving her weight straight down onto him. "Will you?"
"If you won't torment me, lady," They both began laughing.
Anna lowered herself full length onto him and kissed him. The storm, lashing vines and freezing rain on the windows, went unnoticed.
All above text in italics from the anonymous Irish poem, "No Sickness Like A Secret Love".