12. Funeral
"Ashes to ashes, dust to dust."
The words ring out loud and clear, cutting through the silence like sharp glass. Even the wind chooses not to blow, allowing the words to hit all the harder.
They all stand in a circle around William's grave. They're all there, from the Dowager Countess to the one remaining hall boy. Daisy and Mr. Mason stand together by William's headstone. Mr. Mason isn't trying to contain his tears, laying his only son to rest. Daisy's eyes are red and puffy, though John knows that she's mourning the loss of a friend rather than a lover. The rest of the servants—the ones who'd known William the best—are also struggling to keep their composure; John spies Mrs. Hughes fumbling desperately for a handkerchief. He himself is biting hard at the inside of his mouth in order to stop his face from crumpling. War is cruel.
Anna stands by his side, but she is a respectable distance away. The tears flow freely down her face, but she is silent, clearly not wishing to break the stillness of the service. He wishes that he could reach out and pull her against him, let her bury her head in his jacket and sob, protecting her from any more of the world's ugliness. But they are out in the open, and he can't. So instead he tightens his grip on his cane and lets his gaze flicker over her, wishing that everything could be different.
When the funeral is over, the crowds begin to disperse. Daisy and Mr. Mason move closer to the cross emblazoned with William's name, Mr. Mason sinking to his knees and resting his hand gently on the unfeeling wood. John feels a lump in his throat and has to turn away. There are some moments that should always remain private.
His gaze immediately lands on Anna. She's walking away slowly, each step looking as if it's taking every ounce of energy that she has. Her head is down, her back is bowed. He knows that she'd seen William as a younger brother of sorts. She'd known him for much longer than he had, had worked alongside him every day. It's only natural that she's taking his passing so hard. Especially when he had been so young, and his death so senseless.
"Anna," he says softly, not wishing to disturb that sickening peace. "Anna, wait." He hurries after her as fast as his useless leg will allow, but Anna isn't moving very fast. In a matter of moments he catches up with her, and his hand reaches out gently to close over her wrist. She flinches at the contact, and he drops his hand away at once.
"I'm sorry," she mutters, her voice thick with tears.
"Anna, I don't understand," he says, trying desperately to reign in his desire to touch her.
"I think I need to be alone at the moment," she says. "It's too much."
He opens his mouth to reply, but before he can utter a single word she flees, leaving him alone.
The rest of the day passes in a blur of tasks. The staff function as normal, but there is an added slowness to their movements. There is no laughter, there are no playful exchanges. Just the excruciating silence. They are permitted to wear black armbands for the week, as a mark of respect to one of their own, and Daisy is given the rest of the day to grieve, though she vehemently protests against this, claiming that it's not what she wants.
"Of course it's what you want," says Mrs. Patmore. "Now go on, be off with you." Her manner is pushy, but John knows that she means well.
Anna is as subdued as everyone else. She carries out her duties as impeccably as usual, but she is silent for the most part, sitting with her head bent low over her needlework in the afternoon, not touching a drop of the cup of tea that John brings to her, barely acknowledging his presence when he sits himself down beside her. He contemplates dropping his hand to her knee, as he has done on several occasions when they had been almost alone and he'd been feeling bold, but today he doesn't quite dare. He's afraid that she'll turn away from his comfort once again, like she had in the churchyard. Instead, he muddles his way through his own mending, not wishing to disturb her. He knows that if she wants to talk, she will.
Dinner is much the same affair. No words are exchanged between anyone; instead, the air is rife with the horrible, metallic sounds of the cutlery against the plates. John squeezes his eyes shut tight, feeling sweat beading on his forehead. It reminds him all too much of the harrowing sounds of the bullets flying every which way in Africa. He wants to forget. He knows he never will.
Anna pushes her dinner listlessly round her plate with her fork, seemingly enamoured with seeing how many times a lone potato can be driven around the perimeter before dinner is announced as over. It's a little maddening in its repetitiveness. He can't stop following it out of the corner of his eye.
Not long after dinner, the bells begin to ring again.
"The family must be exhausted," comments Mrs. Hughes, glancing up to see Lady Grantham's bell tinkling. "Miss O'Brien, you'd better get going. In fact, I think it would be a good idea if everyone got an early night tonight. It's been a draining day. Once you've finished your duties, I want you to all retire."
John's heart sinks a little; not only is he not tired, it means that he won't be able to see if Anna wants to talk. She'll take longer than anyone to finish, and it looks as though Mrs. Hughes is determined to stay where she is to make sure that there are no stragglers who try to worm their way around her order. He won't be able to come back down.
"Anna," he whispers, seeing that this is his only chance. It's far from ideal, in the servants' hall, where anyone could hear them if they chose to listen hard enough. "Anna, please tell me that you're all right."
Lady Mary's bell rings, breaking the second's awkward silence between them.
"I'd better get that," she squeaks, and with a flick of her black dress, she is gone.
John sits up in bed, head in his hands, fingers scrubbing through his hair. It's late, past one in the morning. He's been in bed since half past ten—blissfully early for anyone—but it makes no difference to him. He's never slept well at the best of times, and the added strain of William's funeral and Anna's distance makes it even more difficult for him to close his mind down. He's tried reading, straining his eyes in the low candlelight, but nothing is making it easier.
Groaning, he swings his legs out of bed. He needs a cup of tea. He hopes that it'll be enough to soothe him into sleep. Even if it's only for a snatched half an hour, it will be better than nothing. He knows that he'll have to be quiet so that he doesn't incur Mr. Carson's wrath, but he can't stay in the room for a moment longer.
Knowing that he can't go traipsing around in the servants' hall in just his pyjamas, he quickly throws on his trousers and his undershirt. Grabbing his cane, he moves quietly out of his room. The men's corridor is silent and dark. He glances in the direction of the door that separates the sexes. There's no movement there either. He imagines Anna tucked up in bed, the sheets cocooned around her. Is she sleeping, exhausted by the strains of the day? Or is she lying there, crying silently into the darkness, alone? How he wishes that he could sneak in to see her. But Mrs. Hughes has ears like a bat, and the chances of Jane not waking up are next to none. Plus, the door will be locked. Shaking his head wearily, he turns and makes his way down into the servants' hall.
He moves quietly in the darkness, careful to navigate the objects in the hallway. Reaching the kitchen, he fumbles for the light switch. Light floods the room, and he blinks rapidly to disperse the spots that erupt in his vision. He puts the kettle on to boil, and then moves to fetch a cup.
It's then when he hears a noise, and he freezes. It's a gentle scuffling sound, and it's coming from the hallway. Carefully, he moves towards the door again. It's too late to remain undetected—the light is a giveaway—but depending on who it is, he could be in trouble. He peers through.
There's someone in the hallway, carefully closing the back door. There's the jingle of the keys. And a flash of blonde hair.
"Anna?"
She jumps, whirling round with wide eyes. Clearly she'd been so preoccupied that she hadn't even noticed the light. She looks guilty at being caught out of bed, but relaxes just slightly when she realises that it's only John who has come across her.
"What on earth are you doing?" he says, abandoning his post by the door and moving into the hallway. Too late he realises that she's wearing nothing but a thin nightgown, her shawl around her shoulders. His breath catches in his throat at how beautiful she is.
"I couldn't sleep," she says softly, stepping forward.
"So you went outside? Alone?" John frowns. He knows that his Anna is strong, but he doesn't like the idea of her being alone in the night, when anything could happen.
She manages to roll her eyes. "I was just in the courtyard. I was barely out there fifteen minutes. I just needed some air."
"Where on earth did you get the keys from? Mr. Carson keeps them with him. How—"
"He left them in his pantry. He must have forgotten with…with everything that's happened."
Anna stands in front of her now, and his eyes search her face. He's somewhat surprised that she'd dared to go into the butler's pantry, but he knows that there's no point in bringing it up. He doesn't want her to think that he's chastising her. She's already been distant enough. Instead, he reaches out a hand to caress her cheek. He's relieved when she closes her eyes and turns into his touch.
"Do you want a cup of tea?" he asks. "That's what I was going to make before."
She quirks her lips feebly. "That would be nice. Thank you."
"Why don't you go and sit in the servants' hall? I'll bring your tea through in a minute."
She nods her head before moving past him. John watches her leave until she's out of sight, then returns to the kitchen. He can hear her scraping chairs about in the silence, and he cringes slightly at how loud the sound is, but he doubts that anyone will be disturbed by it; everyone will be sound asleep by now. When the tea is boiled, he places the two cups on a tray and ferrets round for a plate of biscuits. He remembers seeing Mrs. Patmore putting them away. She won't notice if a couple are missing—and if she does, well, there's always Thomas to take the blame. Biscuits have always helped to cheer Anna up a little, and they're chocolate ones, made on the little rations that they're allowed, her favourite. Hooking his cane over his arm, he picks up the tray and makes his way slowly back to the servants' hall, gritting his teeth in concentration.
Anna is sitting in her usual seat at the servants' hall table, her chin propped listlessly on her hand. John can see that her eyes are still red and puffy. Clearly she's been crying again. She looks at him when he enters, then rises at once.
"Let me help you," she says. Her voice is oddly stuffy.
He shakes his head. "No, stay there. I can manage."
She sinks back into her seat at his words. He knows that she doesn't want to hurt his pride by still insisting on helping. He puts the tray down on the table when he's reached her, then moves around her to take his normal seat too. Anna pulls her cup towards her.
"Careful, it's hot," he warns her, but she doesn't seem to pay attention, raising it to her lips and taking a long sip. That powerful sadness is in the lines of her face again, and he longs to pull her into his arms, to press her against him. But he knows that he needs to tread delicately, so instead he reaches out a tentative hand. His fingers brush hers just slightly. She starts a little, but she doesn't pull away. It fills him with relief. Carefully, he slides his fingers through hers, linking them together securely. She holds onto him just as tightly. Silence reigns for a few more minutes before Anna eventually breaks it.
"I'm sorry," she says softly. "I know I've been acting strange today. I just needed a little time on my own to gather my thoughts."
"You have nothing to be sorry for." John is quick to defend her. "It's been a stressful day for everyone. William was a wonderful lad, and it's only natural that everyone is grieving for him. And you knew him better than a lot of people. Of course you're going to be sad."
"He was like a younger brother to me," she admits. "So innocent and naïve. He didn't deserve to die out there."
"No one deserves to die out there," says John, and his tone is a little bitter. "War never makes things better."
"I'm sorry," Anna says, her eyes wide. "I forgot about…about that."
"Stop apologising," he tells her gently. "You need never apologise to me. Believe me, it's a time that I wish I could forget too."
They stop talking for a while then, simply sitting there with their tea, their joined hands never loosening. John watches Anna's face, trying to gauge the depth of her melancholy. He wishes that he could help her.
"Do you think me selfish?" she asks suddenly.
John is taken aback by the question. "What?"
She sighs heavily, and he can see fresh tears welling up in her eyes. "Well, I mean, I'm sitting here…but do I really have the right to? William's poor dad has been left alone with no one, Daisy's lost a good friend…do I really have the right to be so upset when others have lost husbands and brothers and sweethearts?"
"Of course you have the right," John says quickly. "Don't be silly. You knew William just as well as anyone else. And he might not be your blood relative, but he's grown up in this house. That's almost the same as family."
She sniffs. "Perhaps you're right."
He slides his thumb along the back of her hand in a soothing circle. "This is tough for all of us to bear. William was a good lad, better than most. It's cruel that he had to be taken when he had his whole life ahead of him."
"War leaves no one untouched," Anna says softly. He remembers her saying something similar just days earlier, when they'd first heard the news of Mr. Matthew and William's injuries.
"We just have to find a way to bear it somehow," he says. "It'll take time, but eventually we will."
"I'm glad that you're not out there," she murmurs, scraping her chair closer to him. He catches a whiff of lavender, and loses the ability to think coherently.
"Well, the chances of me ever being needed out there were none, thanks to the way that things turned out," he says, opening his spare arm as she nuzzles against him.
"Don't make light of it," she says.
"I'm not making light of it. It's true. I was disgraced when I left the army, and injured to boot. Of no use to anyone."
"But circumstances can change. If…if his lordship had gone and insisted that you went with him…"
"Anna," he pleads as he hears her breath hitch. "It's not happened, love, and it won't."
She buries her head against his heart, almost as if she is trying to burrow her way through his skin to it. "You promise?"
"Yes, I promise. I'm not going anywhere."
"Good," she says softly, breath hot against him. "Because I don't know how I'd go on if anything ever happened to you. I love you."
It's disturbing to hear her talk like that, so listless and lifeless, but he doesn't think that it's best to oppose her when she's so despondent. Telling her that she'd have life after him isn't exactly the best way of cheering her up. Right now, she just needs comfort. So he pulls her against him more securely, rests his chin against her silken hair, and listens to the sound of her breathing. For the first time since the funeral, he feels her relax, wilting against him, her arm coming up to anchor herself to him, their other hands still clasped. In different circumstances, the feel of them being separated by nothing but flimsy pieces of cloth would have his heart racing, but now is not the time or the place. They've been through a terrible week, and now is about grieving.
"Thank you," Anna says at length, pulling away from him slightly.
"What for?" he asks. He doesn't think that he's done anything to deserve her thanks.
"For being here," she replies, snuggling closer. "For trying to make things better."
He kisses her hair, lips lingering and muffling his words. "It's nothing, Anna. It's what I'm supposed to do."
"Maybe, but not everyone would."
Perhaps not every man would feel comfortable offering comfort to his partner, not wishing to get involved in a lady's fair sensibilities. But John knows better than that. Anna is the strongest person he knows, and he loves her. He wants her to be happy for no other reason than that. If he can succeed in making her feel better, then he's done something right in his life.
"Why don't you try getting a little more sleep?" he prompts softly. "You must be exhausted, and we'll be required to get up soon."
Anna stifles a yawn. "I suppose I am tired."
John remembers how draining grief can be. He'd experienced it himself in Africa. The burden of all that despair weighing on the mind until it just needs to shut down. He thinks that Anna has reached that point now. Gently easing her from the chair, he tucks them back under the table and takes her hand, intent on taking her back to the staircase leading to the women's quarters before tidying away the evidence of their night-time meeting. Anna's hand, cool in his own, feels perfect, and despite the circumstances, he relishes the chance to simply hold it without anyone judging them.
Anna mounts the first couple of stairs when she reaches them, so that the height discrepancy isn't nearly as obvious, and then reaches out to touch his face with the hand that's not in his.
"Goodnight," she says, her fingers trailing down his cheek.
"Goodnight," he echoes. "Try and get a little sleep."
"I'll try, I promise," she whispers. Her eyes search his face. Then she leans forward and presses her mouth against his. It's entirely chaste, the soft brushing of lips, and John brings his spare, trembling hand to cup her hipbone. She tastes of tea. Slowly, drawing out the parting as long as she can, she pulls away from him.
"Goodnight," he says again. It's the only thing he can think to say.
She giggles weakly, moving her hand through his dishevelled hair. He sighs at the feel of her fingers running through the locks. She sobers again.
"John, I've got a request."
He smiles at hearing his first name issuing from her lips. She says it so rarely, confined by propriety and often forgetting out of habit when they are alone. It sounds perfect falling from her mouth. He longs for the day when she'll be able to say it openly in the comfort of their own home.
"What is it?" he asks her.
She stumbles for a second, looking self-conscious. "You might think that it's silly."
"Never," he reassures her firmly. "Never be worried about saying anything to me, Anna."
She nods, seemingly drawing courage from his words. Clinging to his shoulders, she makes her request.
They walk between the crosses in complete silence, holding hands for moral support. Anna clutches at a bouquet of flowers that she'd picked earlier that morning from the garden. Her eyes are wet, but she's not crying just yet. John has to work just as hard to keep his own emotions in check.
At last, they come to a stop at their destination. Anna turns to look at John for encouragement, and he nods, his hand leaving hers to ghost over the small of her back while she bends down with her offering, resting the bunch reverently against the fresh marker. The words are stark, harshly cut. William Mason. A man too young and innocent to die.
"Downton's not the same without you, William," Anna says quietly, and John has to clear his throat of the hard lump that's forming there. "Everyone misses you."
No doubt they always will. A sweeter lad could never be found.
"The servants' hall has lost its cheer now that you can't play the piano for us anymore. I'll always have happy memories of that."
John closes his eyes, fighting to keep his composure. So will he. There had been so many happy evenings in the servants' hall, with lively music and laughter. He can see the little frown of concentration on the young lad's face now, but it will never be more than a flash of memory, a fleeting remembrance of the ghost boy.
Anna talks a little more. She doesn't seem to feel awkward pouring out her innermost thoughts in front of him. For his part, John tries not to listen further. It only makes things harder.
"Rest in peace, William," she says at last, and John turns his attention back to her. She's ashen. There are tears now. Slowly, she stands. John takes her hand again, entwining their fingers tightly.
"I pray to God that this is the last war we see," Anna says. Fresh tears roll down her cheeks.
John moves to circle her in his arms, propriety be damned. He kisses her face as best he can around her hat, then closes his eyes. Anna's shoulders shake. He remembers William vividly, and the way that the younger man had looked up to him, asking him questions about the war and life in general. He remembers being asked about love and the senselessness of being drawn to people who didn't feel the same, the younger lad's eyes shining with agony and despair, as though the world had been collapsing in on him. And now William will never know a long, loving life surrounded by his wife and children.
Anna turns into him fully, her arms coming around him, obviously not the slightest bit bothered about what people will think if they stumble across them. John can't care either, and holds her as close as he can, resting against her.
Together, they mourn the loss of a wonderful friend.
