Thank you so much to everyone who showed interest in this and asked for more. Samuel and Maggie aren't actually the central focus of this chapter, Anna is, but they're in here so I've included it with the previous chapter instead of posting it separately.

*Spoilers for season 6

**Mild references to season 4 plot. If you don't want to read that, skip the section starting with "It's 1922".

It's 1891 and a nightmare wakes her, only to abandon her to the darkness of the room with little hope of returning to sleep soon. Her little sister's feet are tucked against Anna's legs, her head burrowing into Anna's back, but her sister's presence does little to soothe the older girl. Not wanting to wake her little sister, she stays still and quiet, the rest of her body betraying the way her heart is thrashing about in her chest. But the terror never subsides and before long, a cry has broken from her lips. She tries to muffle it for little Bethie's sake and she seems to be rewarded for her efforts as her sister slumbers on, but suddenly light spills into the room through the doorway. Anna's cry hiccups, stutters, and falls silent.

"Who's up?" Her father calls out softly. She can see his sharp features lit up by the candle's light. Anna turns her face into her pillow, tries to keep her breathing even, but it's still hitching with every inhale from her time of crying.

It's a vain attempt to feign sleep with Bethie snoring so convincingly next to her. "I heard someone crying now tell Dad what's the matter."

Her eyes are pinched shut, but she hears her dad shuffle carefully into the room and set the candlestick on the nightstand. He sat on the edge of the bed. "Anna-girl." His rough-skinned hand wipes gently at the tear tracks on her face and it breaks her resolve to keep pretending. Her eyes open, squinting against the candlelight, but she can still see her father, his face as open and kind as it is in the daylight. She's not in trouble.

Words won't come and as she stares at his expectant face, only another cry escapes her.

"Oh, come 'ere." He orders, a hint of laughter in his tone that injures her feelings for a moment. She doesn't feel this is a laughing matter, but she crawls into his lap, anyway, his big arms enveloping her, and for the first time since she woke up tonight, all is well. "What's the matter, Anna-girl?" Her head is pillowed against his chest and his chin rests sharply on top of her head, but she doesn't mind. "Hm?" He prods. "I thought it would be wee Bethie crying, not my great big girl."

She hunkers down in his embrace, too embarrassed to admit why she's crying.

"Alright." He says finally, dropping a kiss to the crown of her head. "Don't you worry anymore. Dad won't let anything happen to you."

For such a little girl, she manages a mighty sigh of relief and drifts back to sleep in her father's arms.

It's 1912 and she wakes to the sound of Daisy's knuckles rapping on their door. Then to Gwen's gentle nudging when Daisy's efforts fail to fully rouse her. Some mornings take more out of her just to rise and greet the day. Gwen never gives her grief for it. The hours in service are long and she can't remember the last time she had the luxury of sleeping until her body decided on its own when to wake up.

But she's not dissatisfied with the work here. The Crawleys have always treated the staff well and she's felt so grateful for the opportunity to be here instead of somewhere else.

Instead of back home.

Downton Abbey is a better place than her first employer, the one she found on a whim and ran to just to get away. She even got Beth a job there once she was old enough. Anna hated having to leave Beth at Stone Court, but Downton was a greater house and at least she could trust that Stone Court was better for Bethie than home.

A portion of her pay always went back to Beth at Stone Court because she knew the wages there, knew how much more she was making at Downton - even if it wasn't much. Anna felt better if she could still look out for Beth in some small way. She doesn't regret leaving home without a glance back for her mum and stepfather, but Beth had always been good to her and as the older one, Anna always felt some responsibility in helping Beth find her way.

Yesterday, Beth wrote to say Anna could stop sending the money. Beth had caught the eye of a local farmer near Stone Court and they were to be married soon.

"He's a good man, Anna." Her letter had read. "Not at all like Richard. Like Dad, I think, at least from what I can remember and from what you've told me about him."

"Anna."

She startles in bed, not realizing her thoughts have her so thoroughly preoccupied that she still hasn't gotten up yet.

"Sorry." She apologizes to Gwen, shaking her head at herself as she goes. She likes Gwen a great deal and on the days she misses Beth, there's Gwen to fill the space. "I don't know what's wrong with me this morning."

Anna hurries through her morning routine and manages to still make it downstairs in time, though she doesn't finish all of her breakfast before Lady Mary rings for her.

Just another day at Downton.

Still, all day she can't help feeling a little pang of grief over Bethie's news, like she's losing her last tie to family. First, her father, who had been dearer to her than anyone else at age six, and then her mother, whose betrayal cut deeper than her despicable step-father's intentions ever had, and now Beth.

Her sister might keep up a correspondence with her, but Anna's hope of bringing Bethie to Downton as soon as a spot opened up is now dashed.

Bethie will stay and marry and live a whole life in Chesterfield.

And she will stay in Downton.

It's April of 1919 and for the first time in her life, she doesn't mind the early wake-up, even though it comes earlier than she's used to. Mr. Bates - no, John, her husband - wakes her with a kiss to her brow. "Anna." He murmurs gently and it sends shivers down her spine and she's suddenly so alive and acutely aware of his warm proximity. "Wake up, my love." Her eyes flutter open and find his gaze. He's never called her that before. My love. But then again, so much is new to them now as husband and wife, so why not this, too?

"How did you manage to wake so early?" She asks, her voice still thick with sleep. The very last thought in her mind before sleep claimed her had been of worry that she wouldn't be able to do it, waking up earlier enough to keep their night, their marriage, a secret. They'll have to sneak back, slip into their own bedrooms and pretend this didn't happen. At least for a few more days and then…

Her fingers rake through his hair and his eyes slide shut in response and his responding hum is a delicious sound.

… And then there can be more of moments like this. So much more.

"I never sleep well in a new setting." He admits, his own voice rather gravely and it does strange things to her heart. "Any odd sounds and I'm up. Light sleeper."

Oh yes, she thinks, this could work quite well.

"We should really be up." He urges, but she can't seem to find the strength to leave this bed, knowing it will be some time before they can come back together like this again.

"Another minute more." She entices, her arm snaking around his side to pull herself closer. She's met with no resistance.

It's 1920 and she sleeps and sleeps until her body wakes naturally with a disorienting headache. At Mrs. Hughes' insisting, they've given her a day off to recuperate and it's generous - so generous and done with such kindness - but one day of reprieve will not fix the matter. Her husband is serving time for a crime he didn't commit. He won't hang, but he's locked up, far away from her. And she wants to be optimistic, she wants to keep fighting for him, but it's been so long and nothing has come of her searching for evidence to free him. And worse, he's gone quiet. He won't' see her and he won't write and she's afraid maybe he's given up hope altogether, cutting her loose so she can live a life without him.

So she wakes against her will, not at all inspired to move from her bed yet. Why should she? Everything she's dared to hope for has been taken from her. Waking up without him is just one more way she is reminded of that.

She wallows ‒ she never wallows ‒ but she does for some time this morning, building up the courage to put on her armor and go to battle once more.

When she wished oh, so many times that she could sleep until she woke naturally, these were not the circumstances she had in mind.

Be careful what you wish for, she thinks, her heart already guarding itself from further dreams that might come crashing down around her.

It's only a few months later into 1920, but what a difference the time makes. She wakes to his fingers brushing her hair from her face, his lips on her brow once more, and she could weep for all the tenderness in that moment. Too long. It's been much too long since the first time she woke like this. "Pity that they give us afternoons off, rather than the mornings." He murmurs. "I'd much rather stay right here."

"The problem with that, Mr. Bates," Her gaze finds his. "Is that the cottage would never get painted."

His lips paint a line down her jaw. "But if we're the only one who ever see the inside of it ‒"

"We are painting this cottage, John Bates. Mr. Carson already gave us the same afternoon off to get it done."

His responding harrumph draws a smile out of her. Her arms twine around his neck and he kisses her shoulder, nuzzles into her neck. Oh, she's missed him.

They've been married for almost a year and a half and they're just now getting to live their life together properly. Their nights and their mornings and their plans for the cottage, all of it has been more than Anna ever dared hope for.

"But just this once," She murmurs, brimming with joy and love for this man. "I think we can be late for breakfast."

It's 1922. She jolts awake in the middle of the night, heart racing, a scream clawing its way up her throat, but she chokes it back. She can't sleep without the memory of a few nights ago coming back to her in some way. Each night, a little different, but always terrifying. Her body is drenched in sweat. Her husband slumbers on next to her, oblivious of her agony.

She aches for his comfort, his steadfast love through anything thus far, but this would be the thing to break him, she's sure. But, oh, her will is breaking in the stillness of this night. She can't let him touch her, can't even let him have the intimate knowledge of her thoughts anymore. It's the only way. Because he knows her so well, loves her so well, and it would be unfair to let him continue loving her without letting him know the truth that's she's damaged goods now. It can never be the same between them. And he can never know the truth, of that she's certain. She won't let him do something to jeopardize his own life. She's already decided the next step is to move back into the house.

But.

She needs him. So much. And he's there, he's right there next to her, sound asleep, solid and warm and always so good to her.

She rolls over, into his half of the bed, and gently, so carefully, fits herself against his side, pillowing her head on his chest. His arm moves to encircle her ‒ out of instinct, in his sleep, she tells herself.

He pretends to sleep through the whole thing and she pretends to forget that the slightest movement wakes him. By the time he's given up the ruse and pressed a kiss to her hair, she's already asleep again.

It's 1925. Everything hurts. Her back, her feet, her whole being. And the baby she's carrying wakes her once more. She doesn't sleep much. Not in the last month or so since the baby kicks and kicks every time she tries to lie down. The little one is kicking her ribs incessantly and she wonders if it's possible for it to bruise her from the inside. Her hand smooths over her rounded belly, palm pressing firmly over one spot and holding it there, the only kind of a stern warning she can offer. The baby doesn't stop.

No one told her it would be like this. The first flutter of movement? Her heart sung with the wonder of it all, the promise of life despite all the loss before it. She's trying to hold onto that sentiment, but more than anything, she wants it to be January already, to have a baby in her arms rather than tucked up under her ribs with merciless bouts of activity.

"Anything I can do, love?" John walks into the bedroom, about to get ready for bed himself after she retired for the evening earlier than their usual hour. He must have seen the something in her face just now. He always could read her like a book…

"No, not unless you can make this baby lie still long enough for me to get some proper sleep."

A strange look crosses his face, like he's sizing up a challenge and ‒ oh, no, he really means to try. He stretches out onto the bed, his head leaning close to her belly and one large hand weighing on it, warm and heavy. She grabs his hand and directs it to one spot where something pushes out against her taut skin.

"Head?"

"Bum, I'm pretty sure."

Anna winces at the next hard kick.

"What's wrong?"

"The baby won't stop kicking and he's strong."

Despite her obvious discomfort, she sees a quick smile on her husband's face.

"'He', huh?"

"Or she, I guess." Her gaze drops to her stomach and she runs a hand over it. "She could be pretty strong."

"Oh, she will be. Just like her mum." His thumb strokes circles on her belly. "Strongest woman I've ever known."

"Do you care, one way or another?" She suddenly worries. They haven't talked much about the sex. Haven't allowed themselves to hope too much about a baby at all considering the risk involved.

"Boy or girl, you mean?"

She nods.

"No." He says swiftly, his dark eyes dropping affectionately to her pregnant belly. "I suppose most men want a son and I would be happy with a son of my own, but I'd be just as happy with a daughter." There's something bittersweet in his gaze when it connects with hers again. "After all it took to get here, I can hardly believe we're almost parents. Boy or girl, I'm going to love this little one so much."

She smiles through the sudden sting of tears in her eyes, her throat clogged with emotion so that no more words are said on the matter. And what else could be said? She feels the same way.

When the baby suddenly shifts, Anna realizes he or she had gone still just prior.

"Keep talking." She whispers.

"What?"

"When you were talking, the baby calmed down."

"Anna, I don't think -"

"Just do it!"

His brows shoot up at her fierce insistence, but a smile cracks through, too.

"Humor me, please." Her voice softens. She may be at her wits end with this pregnancy, but she doesn't want to punish him for it.

"Alright. Um, did you hear about Andy's mishap in the kitchen today?"

She shakes her head and her obliging husband slips into a story for her.

No one told her it would be like this, either. Both of them have a hand on her belly, cradling the child they've so longed for while John's deep timbre soothes Anna and ‒ she would swear by it ‒ the baby, too.

It's 1926 and the baby wakes them at dawn. She takes a moment to orient, rolling over onto her side to see John is already awake, rubbing sleep from his eyes.

The sound from the baby's bassinet is unmistakable, but at such an hour, it seems unlikely.

"Is he -"

"... Laughing?"

Anna sits up, peering over at the bassinet from their bed. Sure enough, little arms and legs flap wildly with excitement as Samuel's joyous exclamations fill the room, directed at no one in particular. He's simply awake and found no reason to fuss about it.

Her heart aches with all the love for him, her happy son. She rises and goes to fetch him and when she's in his sight, he smiles with his whole body, kicking and flapping with greater joy for her. A shrill, happy squeak escapes the baby and it has Anna gathering the boy close to return his morning greeting with a kiss.

She brings him back to their bed. He's woken them in the sweetest way possible, but it's still early and she wants to have this time with her little family before the day begins.

"Darling boy." She catches John's quiet murmur as he reaches out for Samuel. "Have you ever met a happier little boy?"

Samuel is settled between the two of them. He gurgles and coos in delight and engages his father in an exchange of ridiculous facial expressions that would seem so unlike Mr. Bates to anyone else. But Anna and now Samuel, they get different sides of John reserved just for them.

A year ago she never would've thought this moment possible. Samuel, their greatest happiness in this life. To have him be so happy was an increase of their joy that they didn't expect.

It's 1931 and she wakes to the stillness of night. She tenses up, that unexplainable feeling as if something woke her, but can't sense anything amiss. She hears nothing, only John's even breathing beside her ‒ oh, and there it is. A soft whimper from the nursery. For a long time, she could sleep so solidly, but the children have changed that for her. The slightest noise from them and she's up.

She creeps down the hall and flicks on a light in the nursery. It isn't Maggie, surprisingly. The little girl's blankets are twisted at her feet and she's sound asleep on her stomach, one tiny fist smashed against her cheek.

Across from the toddler, Samuel tugs the covers over his head, as if that will go unnoticed by his mother. She hears him sniffle loudly.

"Darling, what's wrong?"

She sits on the edge of his bed, watching the lump of her son refuse to peek out from the blankets.

"Nothing." Comes his timid reply.

Her fingers catch at the covers and she draws them down until the honey-blond boy of five appears. "What's this?" She asks gently, her thumb swiping at the tears on her son's face. "Something's upset you, Sammy. You can tell me."

He's on the verge of more tears and his bottom lip starts to quiver. The quivering lip he gets from her, poor boy, but it's only endeared him further to his father, who can't seem to dole out a punishment whenever Samuel looks so utterly devastated. "I had a bad d-dream." He manages.

Sweet Sam.

He doesn't need permission or even coaxing to crawl into his mother's lap, he does it of his own volition before all the words are even out of his mouth, seeking out Anna's comfort. She gives it willingly, gathering him up and tucking his head under her chin.

"Not to worry. It was only a dream." Her lips press a kiss to the crown of his head. "I'm right here, Sammy. You're alright."

"Mummy?"

"Hmm?"

He tips his head back and his dark eyes find her gaze. He takes so heavily after his father, except for his light hair. Well, his light hair and his lip quiver. Those he gets from her, but the rest is all John.

He recounts his nightmare to her in just a few phrases, but by the end, she's decided that it's a scary enough dream for just about anyone to have, never mind a little boy, and that perhaps John should stop reading such thrilling novels to Samuel before he goes to bed.

Anna soothes him with soft words and gentle touches. A brief silence settles and when she readjusts her posture to alleviate the sudden ache in her back, Samuel panics, clawing at her nightgown. "Don't go!"

"I'm not going anywhere." Her heart lurches at the terror in his voice, but before she can say more, she catches sight of Maggie's movement across from them.

Her daughter lifts her head, bleary-eyed, and stares at Anna and Samuel for a moment before dropping her head back down and scrubbing her tired face with the back of her hand. The girl rolls around for a bit and then heaves a sigh, drifting right back to sleep.

Samuel watches her, momentarily transfixed by the sudden movement, and it seems to have broken whatever spell his nightmare had cast over him. It's only the three of them in this room and everything is as it should be.

Anna's fingers course through the boy's hair, putting the unruly strands back in order. That, and she knows the little act has always calmed him. "I'll stay until you fall asleep."

"Promise?" His little whisper tugs at her heart. He's such a sturdy boy, so lively and spirited and strong. She forgets sometimes how small he really is, especially since Maggie came along and forever cast him into the role of the older brother. But he's still only five, still needs his mum at a time like this.

"I promise." Her lips brush his forehead and he sinks into her with relief, the tension draining out of him.

A memory strikes her then, from so many years ago, when she was the small one in need of care in the middle of the night and her father ‒ oh, she can hardly remember him now, but she does remember this ‒ her father was the one to comfort her. She swallows past the sudden lump in her throat.

She hasn't thought about him in a while. She was so small when he died, not much bigger than Samuel is now.

"Sammy," She begins, knowing that a good story might be just the diversion his thoughts need so they won't dwell on the dream. "Did I ever tell you about my dad?"

He shakes his head, his curiosity piqued, and so she begins to describe him, mindful of Samuel's droopy eyes. She catches his head when it lolls to one side so he doesn't wake himself up and she waits a moment more to be certain he's truly out.

As carefully as she can. She eases her heavy boy back into bed and under the covers. She feels a sudden tug of affection for him, his face slack with sleep and his hair still unruly despite all her efforts.

Sweet, sweet Samuel.

Her father felt that same kind of love for her.

It's a humbling thought, a powerful one, and she finds herself absurdly wishing she had had more time with him, had known him better. But he must have loved her and Beth like she loves Samuel and Maggie because she can't see how a parent could feel any other way than the tidal wave of love that swept her up when she first laid eyes on her son.

A mother's love may be held in higher regard that a father's to most people, but she's witnessed firsthand how John loves their children, how Lord Grantham loves his girls and his grandchildren, and her father was willing to comfort her after a nightmare just as she did for Sammy.

He loved her. She'll have to remember that when she can barely recall any solid memories of him. At least she knows he was a kind father, like her children are blessed to have.

She kisses both of her babies before she turns off the light and heads back to her own bed. Despite her best efforts to be silent, she wakes John as she slips back under the covers.

"What's wrong?" His voice is rough with sleep.

"Nothing, love." She pats his arm to placate him before he fully wakes. "Go back to sleep." He captures her hand in his own and pulls it to his lips to kiss it, sloppy and uncoordinated in his state of half-awake, but it's sweet nonetheless.

Silly man.

She'll wake tomorrow to his beloved face, to Samuel and Maggie's exuberant shouts, to a life she wouldn't change for all the money in the world.

But for now, she sleeps.

Thoughts?