Mystery of Joy
Chapter 11: Willow
by Lynn Saunders
Spring was moving in the air above and in the earth below and around him, penetrating even his dark and lowly little house with its spirit of divine discontent and longing. - Kenneth Grahame
April 1916
He meets her in the gardens, where a stone bench stands beneath the outstretched limbs of a willow tree, a private haven amidst a maze of shrubbery. The crickets have started up, and he realizes with a start that it's now properly spring, and another season has passed with her at his side. Her particular brand of loyalty is one he's never before encountered.
The day's rain has soaked the grass, so they aren't able to stroll the well-kept paths. Instead, they sit quietly together, and she holds his hand in her lap. The night sky is gloomy and starless above them, but flowers bloom all around. He remembers her small hands gliding along his bare shoulder blades back in the conservatory, and he has to close his eyes to compose himself. He worries the little stone bench isn't private enough for that.
Yet in many ways, he feels himself becoming more bold. This year, he'd sent her a valentine, completely on a moment's impulse. When he'd come down to breakfast on that February morning, Anna had already seen the card, and her cheeks held a distinct flush. It was delivered through the post, and she'd opened it there at the breakfast table, perhaps not realizing what the envelope might contain, even with the holiday. She had certainly never received a valentine that he could remember. Before she could completely collect her composure, Daisy had inquired about the sender.
Anna had managed a curious expression. "I don't know. It's not signed."
Daisy leaned back in her chair with a faraway look and sighed. "A secret admirer, then?"
"Looks like Molesley's finally gotten up the courage," Thomas had observed, catching Bates' eyes and fixing him with a challenging glare.
He had flashed on the feel of her silken shoulders beneath his lips as he stared steadfastly ahead in the moment, then smirked at his reflection in the hall mirror afterward. Anna had given an apologetic blink, then looked away quickly.
As he moved to pull his napkin into his lap, he'd found a cheerful blue envelope tucked neatly underneath. He had covered it momentarily with his coat sleeve, then deftly moved her gift into his pocket, leaving no one the wiser. Inside was a red foil heart and a single square of chocolate.
That Valentine's Day evening, they had walked hand-in-hand to the conservatory, only to find the door locked, and he'd remembered too late the shattered terracotta pots, the likely source of their undoing.
She'd teased him gently. "You really must be more careful next time, Mr. Bates."
He'd moved a step closer, tucking his fingers into his waistcoat pocket with a sly grin. "If memory serves, it was you who jostled the table."
"And I had no help in the matter?"
He'd broken into a full smile then, and they laughed together as she took his hand. "At least it's pleasant out," she'd said, pulling him to the gardens. That was weeks ago, and this is their new meeting place.
Tonight, he leans back, tipping his head to the April sky. The branches of the willow tree drift in the light breeze, and he and Anna are tucked away together, hidden from the outside world by the delicate fronds.
There's a conversation they need to have, but he hasn't been able to bring himself to ask her. The thought weighs heavily on his mind, pricking his consciousness with escalating urgency as each day comes and goes without word from Vera. Many, many months have slipped quietly by in the mean time.
Anna seems so certain. He wonders if this possibility has crossed her mind at all. She might just feel that they are meant to be, that everything will work out in the end, but he knows better. He's worried. Then, he remembers lying under the stars with her tucked against his side, telling her he'd keep no secrets.
"There's been no word from…" His voice leaves him, and he sighs.
She squeezes his hand. "I know."
"I've worried all along that she won't respond."
She nods slowly, quietly, waiting for him to continue, but that's all he can say. What will become of them? He can't simply let what he has with Anna go now, not after everything they've shared. But he can't very well run away with her either, can he? He'd have no income, no prospects, certainly no reference, and a criminal record to contend with. She would be looked down upon, and she might find getting work difficult even if they were able to keep Vera a secret. The story about Pamuk that is covertly whispered in the corridors of grand houses follows not just Lady Mary, but Anna too. He bows his head, and her fingers run through the hair at the base of his neck.
"What will we do if she never turns up?" He asks the question quietly, almost to himself, and his shoulders sag with the weight of his thoughts. Her small fingers slide along the tense muscles and continue down his arm. His hand still rests in her lap, and she presses the pads of her thumbs into the heel of his palm, making slow circles. He visibly relaxes at her touch.
She remains quiet, her attention moving to the meat of his knuckles, and he finally lifts his eyes to hers. He's pained by the thought of not being with her, and it must show on his face, for her eyes soften as she considers his question.
"I'm not sure," she answers honestly. "But I believe this means we have plenty of time to come up with a plan." She nudges him with her shoulder, and he gives her a small smile.
"What would I do without you?"
She lifts his hand, tracing each of his fingers with hers, and he fights the urge to lace them together. No one has ever touched him like this, like Anna does. She revels in the feel of him, and she doesn't hide it. The electric brush of her hands on his skin is riveting, wholly erotic. He secretly loves to be touched, and no one else has really ever bothered.
"Your heart line is broken." She follows the path along his palm with her index finger. "I've noticed before, in the meadow."
He leans in close. "What does it mean?"
"You hurt," she says, covering the crease with her hand, as if hiding it will heal him, as if she can make it disappear. Maybe she can.
She meets his eyes, and for a long moment there's nothing but the sweet crush of her lips against his. He finds that they fit well together this way, that the little bench is quite useful, as he pulls Anna into his lap and her knees settle on either side of him. She grips his shoulders, and he works her skirts out of the way, his hands landing a finger's length above her garters. He squeezes her thighs, and she turns her face into his neck, trailing open-mouthed kisses along his jawline. He closes his eyes and holds onto her as the evening breeze picks up, rustling the willow, and storm clouds continue to gather above.
* The quote at the beginning of the chapter is from Wind in the Willows.
* Special thanks to terriejane for beta and for requesting that Anna touch Bates' hands, downtonluvr for beta and for prompting a valentine exchange, and gelana for beta and all-around cheerleading.