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May 1919
Every morning for a week Anna had awakened with a mingled sense of dread and anticipation, checking her underclothes, and every day both the dread and the anticipation had grown. Her courses were late. They were never late.
She said nothing to anyone, as was her way. Mr. Bates—John—had been her only confidante for too many years to start placing her trust in anyone else at this late date. Other than Lady Mary, but it was the kind of thing Anna wouldn't bother her ladyship with until, unless, she was certain.
As she got out of bed and got dressed, her mind revolved on the now-familiar track. The first stop was the excitement of thinking she might be pregnant. To think of carrying John's baby, of the happiness in his face when she told him, of the reaction of the rest of the staff. The imagined joy of it practically took her breath away.
But then she thought about the other side of all that joy—the burden of carrying a child knowing its father was in jail, potentially for years to come if they lost the trial. She rarely let herself think about the consequences of losing the trial. It still seemed so far away that it hardly felt real, and she couldn't imagine there could be evidence so conclusive that it could convict an innocent man. But the possibility existed, and there would be those, even if well-meaning, who censured her for her decision. She saw it occasionally in the eyes of Lady Grantham already, and she was only married to him.
That thought led her to remember their wedding day, and their wedding night. Anything created in that love and happiness had to be a blessing. Anna imagined the chubby cheeks of a baby with dark eyes like John's; the sturdy legs of a laughing toddler with blonde hair like her own; the serious face of a schoolchild, and she laughed out loud with delight at the succession of images. Would she name him after his father? Would John want a different name? Robert, perhaps, after Lord Grantham? Robert John Bates had a lovely ring to it.
But how would she care for him (or her)? She was, at least for the moment, and possibly for years to come, a woman on her own. Even assuming that Lord Grantham allowed her to stay on at Downton, what kind of life was that for a child, if his mother worked the hours Anna did? Would her pay stretch to cover the costs of caring for a child the way he should be?
She trembled with the cascade of emotions, and as the shiver worked its way through her, she felt the telltale trickle that said her courses had begun.
Anna was already late for the morning chores; a few more moments wouldn't matter. After making her preparations for working in this condition, she sat down on the edge of the bed, feeling another trickle as hot tears slid out from under her eyelids and ran down her cheeks. In the long run, this was possibly the worst time for a baby imaginable; she should feel relieved. But … she didn't. As long as the possibility had been there, she had had the feeling that a piece of John was with her. Now that the dream had ended, she felt cold, and alone, and empty.
Drying her eyes on her apron, she got up and left the room. Part of her was glad she hadn't told anyone her suspicions, but part of her wished there was someone who knew, someone who would understand the bittersweet rush of emotions that filled her.