As the summer drew to a close, and the family abandoned a London Season to which they had merely paid lip-service, it became apparent that Downton was suffering from an affliction which had gripped most of the nation.
Nearly everyone was preoccupied with the war, and the efforts to pretend otherwise, at first valiant, became half-hearted. Needing the distraction, the Dowager Countess, Lady Violet Crawley, had returned from London with a chic new lady's maid bent on shaking Her Ladyship out of outré garments too reminiscent of the fin de siècle and into a new modishness more befitting the modern woman of 1914.
Thomas, unctuous as always, was the first to leave, emboldened by the notion that he'd not be cannon fodder, as he was destined for far greater things. Jokes about Thomas, that great "healer of the sick", became a common and much-bandied about theme in the servants' hall, though O'Brien still took offence even after repeated iterations of this knee-slapper.
William, determination showing in the set of his jaw, enlisted in late August, amidst a flurry of tears shed by Daisy, who could later be found sobbing in Mrs. Patmore's arms. (It seems that the indefatigable Mrs. Patmore found comfort herself in comforting Daisy, for her sons had joined up). It seemed that daily, footmen turned in their livery, and along with grooms, stable boys, gardeners, and tenant farmers, collected and sent their wages to mothers and sisters, and enlisted in the Green Howards. They were fast on the heels of Mr. Matthew Crawley, who had parted bitterly from Mary in the summer, and had enlisted straight away. Lord Grantham had raised Bates' pay, so while he continued as valet, he also took on some duties of the former steward, who was killed at Mons in August.
By October, the pretence that Downton could go on as it always had, was entirely given up. Mr Carson's comment about needing a maid in the dining room had, much to his chagrin, proven prescient. Everything was going topsy-turvy, and The Order of Things could no longer be given its due. To replace the men who had enlisted, Mr Carson and Mrs Hughes had no choice but to hire women. It was a difficult proposition, since many women from the neighbouring towns had gone to work as 'munitionettes', as they were known, in factories that were springing up all over Yorkshire.
It was a grim day for Mrs Hughes when she turned the key, permanently unlocking the door that divided the women's quarters from the men's. The separation of sexes, one of her most firmly held principles, could not be enforced any longer.
Of course, this announcement, made with extreme displeasure on Mrs Hughes' part, resulted in a tiny, nearly unnoticeable, erotic frisson for Anna. Her secret shiver, of course, was noticed by Mr Bates, who did not welcome the announcement of the unbarred door. No, he did not welcome it at all.
For during many nights, over the last few months, Mr Bates could be heard pacing, the dull tapping of a cane on floorboards accompanying his slow footsteps. The insomnia of such nights left him grey and bleary, slower than usual. No one thought it amiss, since almost everyone had their minds firmly elsewhere. But Anna felt both his tension and his rebuff, for her gentle questions went unanswered.
They had crossed a threshold of sorts. While no promises had been made, both had declared their feelings. She made her profession fervently on the road to the Ripon fair, and he had echoed her one evening as they sat in the servants' yard, enjoying the ever-diminishing moments of free time left to them. She had risen to go in, but he had grabbed her wrist, pulling her back down to him. Near silently, he whispered to her, "I love you, Anna Smith."
(She can still recall the feeling of his mouth, warm and soft, on her ear).
It has been eight weeks and four days since this pronouncement, and in the moments when she has time to settle down to consider it, Anna thinks she is going out of her mind. She alternates between jubilation (he loves me) and despair (he loves me not). And she is scared. For her brothers have enlisted, as have all the boys with whom she went to school. Gwen, her confidante, has gone too. And, with dread foreboding, she knows that Bates, despite his injury and more, will go where Lord Grantham, hale and hearty, will go.
Mrs Hughes has known Anna since she was a baby and knows her for a constant girl, a girl of good character, intelligence, and sense. Of course, Mrs Hughes knows Anna's secret heart, sees her feelings flit across her face, and understands her with compassion, not judgment. And perhaps Mrs Hughes knows that Anna will remain chaste until her wedding day. Or perhaps Mrs Hughes knows something about John Bates' steadfast sense of honour. Or perhaps, a bit more uncharitably, Mrs Hughes might be playing the serpent, offering up the forbidden fruit to Anna. You see, it is unquestionably remarked upon, (with pointed looks, titters, raised eyebrows, and a subtle cough—from Carson) when Mrs Hughes, determined to preserve The Order of Things, puts Anna and O'Brien in the nearly deserted mens' quarters: Anna next to Bates.
And so, one night, as we could expect, Anna hears Bates' tap-tap-tap on the floor in the room next to hers, and determines to go to him, wearing nothing but a lawn nightgown* with a shawl covering it, to ease him however she may do so. And Bates, hearing what could only be her soft knock, admits her into his room.
They stand very, very close together, in fear of being overheard, and thus discovered. Despite herself, Anna's teeth chatter at the chill and proximity (and perhaps the foreknowledge of what she is about to do).
"Tell me what is wrong," she pleads. "Or tell me if I shouldn't…"
"I have told you I am not a free man," he responds. Her eyes fill with tears.
"I don't care," she says, trying not to let the tears spill over.
"I do, but I'll try to make it right." With that, he embraces her. She draws the shawl around him, for he is shaking, too.
*A lawn nightgown in October? I wondered at Anna's choice of sleepwear, dear reader. I thought it very odd indeed.