Chapter 3
She was gone. John surveyed their bedroom. She hadn't removed all trace of herself, not in the least, but she was gone. He been informed, in that new terse manner Anna had, that she was moving back into the house while she looked after Lady Grantham and Lady Mary. It was just too much.
John ran his fingers over a dress she'd left in the wardrobe. Too much. He wondered what was too much, what she had meant by it. Living with him? Working with him? Lying to him? He knew he wasn't supposed to ask her. He had tried, and she had snapped at him, pushed him away. He didn't want to make her lie, so he hadn't asked again.
He sat on the bed. Anna's side. She had called him a bully. He rubbed his hands over his eyes. Not exactly. She had told him not to bully her. That was different. Her words had stung. He wasn't sure if she had meant for them to, or if they had simply come out. John had had experience with both instances. He fancied himself as being, at this stage in his life, rather self-aware. This self-awareness had been learned slowly, gradually, sometimes painfully, but John believed that he knew himself better than could be said for most men his age. That was why bully stung so.
He laid back, his head on Anna's pillow. Bully. He didn't understand. He loved her, cherished her; dangerous and sappy as it sounded, worshipped her. He believed that he always acted with her interests in the forefront of his mind. Granted, he had made mistakes, but to bully implied malice. Clearly he had done something which had suggested malice, bullying, to Anna, but he had no idea what it could have been. She had said it wasn't him, but it couldn't be anyone else, but she wouldn't tell him what it was, so he couldn't fix it. He would give anything to fix it, to have her home, to make things right.
Anna had made it sound habitual. In all the reflection John had undertaken in the last week, he couldn't land on anything other than the change in her since the house party. He was no longer as certain as he had been that she had lost a baby. Not all the pieces fit. The withdrawal from him, from their home and life, fit. He suspected that she would avoid any type of intimacy, and would want to keep the loss to herself. John believed that so long as Anna believed the loss to be private, it would be easier to bear the grief. He smiled. She would protect him. But she had made it sound as if bullying was expected. He had never bullied her. He hadn't really pressed her for answers, but he had to let her know he cared and wanted to know how he had failed. John's leg ached. He rolled to his side. He should really prepare for bed. She had sounded as if she had been bullied before, and expected it again. Even her brother had not affected her that way.
That was the problem. That sort of harshness, defensiveness, was not consistent with a miscarriage. There was something else she was keeping from him. He really should undress at least, even though he wouldn't be sleeping. He never slept without Anna. Something had happened. John noticed a crack in the ceiling. Anna was like a different person. He knew others had noticed. He had half-expected a comment from Thomas about her black eye, about him knocking her around, but no one seemed to actually suspect trouble between them. John certainly hadn't. He sat up, and moved to his side of the bed, and kicked off his shoes. Anna had turned into a shell of herself. That was consistent with a head injury. The blood suggested more than a head injury. He picked up a book of Greek myths, and opened to Orpheus in the underworld. Anna only spoke when spoken to. She seemed to have given up eating. John had noticed the others noticing. Alfred had nearly said something, but had stopped short. Mrs. Hughes knew what was wrong. She would have insisted on calling a doctor if she believed it necessary. John hoped. All the light was gone from Anna. John would do anything to get it back, even if it meant parting. He laid the book down.
If what Anna needed was for them to part, he would leave, quietly. He would take his old case, and his books, be gone from her life in an instant. If he could only know why.
John picked up the book, and turned a page. It wasn't what she needed. It wasn't even what she wanted. She was protecting him. Something was terribly wrong, and she needed him. If he could only know why.
John made a decision. Orpheus had gone to Hades to claim his wife. It was clear he needed to do the same.