14. Better Late Than Never

The war has been raging on for months. The young men have signed up for the effort, and many have already been killed, leaving their mothers and their wives and their sweethearts behind. Every time that Anna goes down into the village, she sees gaunt, harried faces, women torn apart by the things going on over the channel. Her heart always goes out to them, and she feels guiltier than ever for thanking God that the man she loves is unable to fill the duty.

They'd said that the war would be over by Christmas, but it's already coming round to the spring months again; half a year has passed since the outbreak. And still Mr. Bates works and serves beside her. There had been a question mark over what his lordship would do at the beginning. Mr. Bates had confided in her that he wasn't sure if his lordship would push for a post in France, or in London at the very least, but that had never materialised. Instead, for whatever reason, his lordship is still at Downton, sometimes moody and listless, but still overseeing the estate. And Anna can still breathe, because the love of her life is safe.

Not that it makes much of a difference, because still nothing in their situation has changed. They still work and laugh side by side, and in quiet instants, Anna feels his warm gaze on her. In those moments, she's in no doubt that he loves her. He's never said anything that could possibly confirm it, but she doesn't need to hear the words to know.

Though it would be nice.

The restrained friendship is trying on her sometimes, but she knows that she'd rather have that than nothing at all. She supposes it's pathetic that she can't bear to think of life without him, but she's never felt this way about anyone before. She knows that if it's survived two years of soul-destroying rejections, then it will survive until the last breath leaves her body. She understands that he's married. She understands his mentality. She just wishes that there was something that could show him that living and not loving openly will only hurt them both in the end.

And then, the fateful day arrives.

For weeks, a dance of some sort has been in the process of being arranged by Lady Sybil to help raise funds for the young men who have gone off to fight for King and country. The event is to take place down in the village, and she is adamant that the family will all be attending, to show that they're right behind the village, and to raise a few more funds. She's also decided, as if the horror for the family wasn't already enough, that they will each have to attend with a partner.

"What?" Lady Mary had exploded that first night when Lady Sybil had announced it to her and Lady Edith in her room while she was dressing for dinner, "you must be mad! Pray tell, who am I supposed to go to this stupid dance with?"

Lady Sybil had shrugged. "I'm sure I don't know. Don't worry, you won't have to go with somebody from the village. I've asked the servants to escort us."

"Oh, that makes is much better," Lady Mary had said sullenly, rolling her eyes. "And how do you think Mama and Papa will find this news? And what about Granny?"

"Mama and Papa will be fine; they can go together. And I'm sure Granny will be appalled, but this is my event and that's how it's going to run," Lady Sybil had said stubbornly. "And I fully expect you to meet my demands."

"What do you think, Anna?" Lady Mary had asked with the curl of her lip, drawing her into the conversation as she was wont to do when she wanted to prove her younger siblings wrong.

"That's not for me to say, milady," she'd answered, fastening the intricate buttons on her dress. "But there's only his lordship upstairs, so I'll be going with one of the servants."

"And do you have anyone in mind?"

"Not really, milady. I'll just wait and see what happens." But of course she had, and she'd thought of him then, all soft-eyed and smiling. She'd felt the heat rise in her cheeks just slightly, and had hoped that it hadn't been too noticeable.

Evidently she'd gotten away with it, for Lady Mary had sniffed imperiously. "Well, if you want my advice, I'd stay away from the hall boys. One of them—I can't remember which—smells funny."

"Mary!" Lady Sybil had been quick to jump in. "Don't be so horrid!"

The two of them had continued to bicker, Lady Edith staying wisely on the sidelines, and Anna had finished her duties in a daze at the thought of Mr. Bates asking her to the dance.

When the staff briefing had been announced, the servants had been a mixture of terrified and indignant.

"Why should we be expected to accompany them?" Miss O'Brien had griped in a rare moment—ever since Lady Grantham's miscarriage the year before, she has been much less prone to badmouth the family, instead turning her attentions on the servants. "Why should we have to act as bodyguards? It's not as if the village is going to lynch them."

The male servants had been more cautious, obviously waiting for the others to make a move first. No one had seemed to want to accompany a member of the house—whether because they were intimidated by the differences in social class or just by the ladies themselves, no one could really say. Only Mr. Branson had strolled around as if nothing was out of the ordinary. He'd asked Lady Sybil to attend with him, and she'd accepted.

Now, a few days before the ball, Anna sighs, putting down her mending. Mr. Bates still hasn't made any move to ask her. She knows that he hasn't a partner yet, and she knows that he isn't likely to ask anyone else, but it's a little frustrating that he doesn't seem inclined to make the first move. Just because he can't dance doesn't mean that he can't have someone accompany him. If that's what he's talked himself into believing, then it is a poor excuse. Surely it's not going to be left up to her again? Not that she won't take the chance if it is. If she has to be the one to ask him to get a result, then she will. If, in a couple of days, he still hasn't asked her, then she'll swallow her pride again and put herself forward.

"Anna?"

His voice makes her jump, and she almost jabs herself with her needle. He's standing there in the doorway, filling it so beautifully. She's drawn to the breadth of his shoulders and her pulse jumps in her neck.

"Yes, Mr. Bates? What is it?" she asks, hoping that the hoarseness of her voice doesn't give her away. The hall is far from empty.

"I was wondering if I could have a quick word. It won't take a moment."

"Certainly."

She stands, leaving her mending where it is. She feels Miss O'Brien's calculating gaze on her, but she keeps her head high and marches out of the room as though she's not shaking like a leaf inside. Could this be it? She's dared to hope so many times, only to have those same hopes dashed, but she can't stop herself. Mr. Bates leads her a little further down the corridor.

"It's not the most private setting," he begins, "but I know you're busy and his lordship needs me, so we don't have time to go to the courtyard."

"That's all right. What's wrong?"

She notices for the first time that his hand is trembling a little on his cane. She brings her eyes back up to his, not wishing to embarrass him. He takes a deep breath, then smiles at her, the half-smile that has the crinkles just barely wrinkling around his eyes. It makes her heart skip a beat.

"Well, Miss Smith, I have an important question to ask you."

Heat explodes in her veins. This is it. He's actually going to do it. He's going to ask her to the dance.

He's leaning forward now, reaching out to take her hand. Her breath hitches as his warm fingers move over hers, so much bigger. He's never done anything like this since the night that they'd almost kissed all those long months ago, and she'd certainly never expected him to be so bold in broad daylight in the servants' quarters. Her skin tingles as though it's being enveloped by a pleasant electrical current. His eyes are dark and earnest, his head dipped slightly towards hers. She licks her lips, desperate.

"Anna," he begins. "Would you possibly consider going—"

"Mr. Bates!"

Mrs. Hughes' thick Scottish brogue interrupts them, and inside Anna silently screams. She holds the housekeeper in very high regard, but her timing today couldn't have been worse. She takes a deep breath as Mr. Bates turns around, frowning slightly, and watches as Mrs. Hughes hurries up to them, a little out of breath.

"Right, Mr. Bates," she says without preamble, "I'm afraid that you're going to have to escort me to the dance on Friday evening."

There is shocked silence for a moment. Anna can only stare, nonplussed while Mr. Bates' eyes widen.

"I'm sorry?" he croaks.

Mrs. Hughes sighs exasperatedly. "Mr. Carson has decided that he should squire old Lady Grantham, so I will need somebody to accompany me."

"That's not strictly necessary," says Mr. Bates, obviously treading carefully. "There aren't enough men left on the estate to go around as it is."

Mrs. Hughes fixes him with one of her most disapproving stares, and Anna shrinks back a little too, even though it isn't aimed at her.

"Mr. Bates, you are the only other man suitable on the estate for the task. Don't worry, I'm not going to ask you to dance."

"But I was just asking—"

Anna's heart leaps for a heady second, until she sees Mrs. Hughes' face. Her glower could match the dowager's herself. Mr. Bates snaps his mouth closed.

"It's settled then," says Mrs. Hughes. "Thank you, Mr. Bates."

She walks away then, keys jangling at her hip. Mr. Bates stands stunned for a second longer before turning his agonised gaze back on her.

"Anna, I'm so sorry," he says, sounding forlorn.

She wants to rage at the unfairness of it all, but she can't bring herself to.

"Never mind," she says, forcing a smile. "It's not like we won't see each other there. And it's not like it would have meant anything. Just two friends going together, isn't that right?"

There is something foreign in his face. His mouth twists as if he'd tasted something ash.

"You're right, of course," he says.

Anna's own heart drops, but she maintains her smile.

"There you go, then," she says. "You need to accompany Mrs. Hughes. And I'm sure that I'll find someone to go with me."

The notion doesn't seem to sit very well with him, but he nods anyway and begins to move on with a heaviness about him that hadn't been present before.

"His lordship will need me soon," he says, as if he can't bear to stand there any longer. "I'll see you at dinner."

"You will," she responds, and watches him disappear up the staircase. She's at a complete loss now. She'd pinned all of her hopes on Mr. Bates asking her to the dance, and just as he'd been about to, Mrs. Hughes had ruined everything. Anna feels a stab of resentment towards the older woman. Why why why had she ruined her one and only chance with the man that she loves? Was it really that important to her not to go alone, just because Mr. Carson had taken it upon himself to go with Old Lady Grantham?

"Ah, there you are, Anna!"

The voice behind her startles her. She's surprised to see Mr. Molesley almost jogging towards her. His face is bright red, and his collar is sticking up at an odd angle.

"Can I help you, Mr. Molesley?" she asks, regarding him curiously.

He wheezes a little as he tries to catch his breath, then straightens up and offers her a smile.

"Actually, you can," he says. "I was looking for you."

Anna's feeling of disquiet intensifies.

"Me?" she qualifies.

Now Mr. Molesley's smile is nervous, and he wrings his hands together. "It's about the dance. I thought that perhaps I might have to escort Mrs. Crawley, but Doctor Clarkson has asked her, and she accepted. So that's left me free. I was wondering if perhaps you might like to accompany me."

Anna can only stare, nonplussed. Mr. Molesley is asking her to the dance? Mr. Molesley? It's all too absurd for any words.

She thinks of Mr. Bates and his kind smile and his twinkling eyes. Her heart shivers in her chest. But it's pointless to think like that, because she's not going with him anyway. Her options are running out. She wouldn't mind going alone—she isn't apprehensive about what people would think—but Mr. Molesley looks so hopeful. Can she possibly say no?

"Well, what do you think?" he asks her.

She opens her mouth and answers.

Mr. Bates looks disheartened all through dinner, sitting there quietly and letting the conversation pass by him completely. Miss O'Brien shoots him disdainful looks, but he doesn't pay the slightest bit of attention to her, and nobody else seems to notice. Anna wishes that she could drop her hand below the line of the table and squeeze his reassuringly, but she daren't. So instead she keeps her own gaze fixed on her plate.

The conversation invariably turns towards the dance. Mr. Carson inquires if anything has been done about Lady Mary or Lady Edith. The remaining male servants looked positively ill. Mr. Carson lectures them about the insult of delaying, ordering them to pull themselves together and do their duty. Anna privately thinks that if she were a man, she'd be terrified at the prospect of asking one of the young women too.

Afterwards, most of the servants drift off to finish their remaining tasks for the night. Anna herself is no exception, rising to her feet to fetch her mending. Before she can get far, however, Mr. Bates' voice stops her. It's low enough for only her to hear, but it still has her shivering.

"Anna, I really am sorry."

She pauses, making sure that everyone else is preoccupied before she answers. "Really, Mr. Bates. Stop apologising. You have nothing to be sorry for."

"But now you'll have to go alone."

She chews at her lip, wondering how best to answer him. He obviously catches the flash of guilt in her eyes, because he furrows his brow, looking oddly vulnerable.

"…Won't you?" he queries. It's nearer to a beg than a question.

She takes a deep breath. She's never lied to him before, and she won't start now. In any case, there is little point; he'll see for himself in a couple of days.

"Actually," she says, "I've had an offer."

She's seen kicked puppies with a less woeful expression than the one on Mr. Bates' face.

"I see," he says, though she knows that he doesn't see at all. "When was this?"

"Just after Mrs. Hughes interrupted us," she mumbles, wringing her hands together. She shouldn't feel so remorseful, but she can't help it. After all, she hates to see him in any kind of pain. Love makes it hard to switch off.

"One of the hall boys?" he offers, another beg.

"Mr. Molesley," she corrects contritely.

"Mr. Molesley?" Is she imagining it, or does a dark flicker pass over his face, like the shadow of a bird of prey?

"Yes, that's right. I couldn't very well say no to him when he asked."

"Of course you couldn't," he mutters. She wonders what's wrong with him; his expression is practically sullen now. She can't resist asking him. She doubts that she'll ever stop worrying about him.

"Mr. Bates, is something the matter?"

"Of course not," he says, a little too quickly. She detects a bite of bitterness beneath his tone. It should make her shrink away, but it doesn't. She could never shy away from him. Not ever.

"Are you sure? You seem a little out of sorts."

At that moment, Lord Grantham's bell rings. Mr. Bates leaps to his feet at once.

"I've got to answer that," he says, ignoring her question completely, and without even one backwards glance, he limps away from the table.

The next day passes quickly. Despite everything, there is a nervous kind of excitement enshrouding the whole house. There hasn't been any kind of celebration since the beginning of the war, and people are starting to realise that they need to seize the opportunity to be happy while they can.

Even Anna begins to feel an uneasy quiver of excitement at the thought of being able to let her hair loose and dance the night away. It's a wrench that she won't be able to go with Mr. Bates, but she will still be able to see him, speak to him.

Mr. Bates doesn't seem to be sharing her enthusiasm, but she doesn't want to push him too much. Instead, she focuses her efforts on setting her dress out, making sure that everything is perfect for the following evening.

Perhaps she can impress Mr. Bates, even if they are not accompanying each other.

The night arrives. The staff are released as soon as possible to ready themselves. Anna takes longer than anyone, having to see to all three girls before she can dress herself. She spends more time than she should primping herself in the mirror, making sure that her hair is curled just so, and that the dress she is wearing hangs properly in all the right places. She isn't usually a vain woman; she doesn't spend a quarter of the time preening like the Crawley girls do. But tonight is special. It's the first time she's been on a proper night out with men. She'd never crossed the line in her younger days, afraid of what Mrs. Hughes would say if she was ever caught, and then there had never been anyone to make an effort for any other time.

Not until now.

When she creeps somewhat shyly into the servants' hall, she notices Mr. Molesley sitting at the table. He jumps up at once, stumbling slightly; she fights a smile at his sweet clumsiness.

"Anna," he says, making his way over to her. "You look very nice."

"Thank you, Mr. Molesley," she says, moving to fix her hat. "Where is everyone?"

"Most people have already gone."

"I'm sorry. I got caught up."

"There's no need to apologise. We'll take a steady walk."

"I thought we would have walked down as a group." It would have been less awkward to. She likes Mr. Molesley, but she has never really conversed with him on a one-to-one level before.

Mr. Molesley's enthusiasm flickers for a moment. "Why, what's wrong?"

"Nothing," she says quickly. "Has Mrs. Hughes gone? I just needed a quick word with her."

"Oh, I'm afraid she has. I saw her walking down with Mr. Bates about ten minutes ago."

Anna's heart sinks. She's already missed him. "Never mind. I'll see her when we get there."

"Shall we, then?" he prompts with a smile. Anna nods. Mr. Molesley offers her his arm. She has little choice but to take it, not wishing to appear rude. Together, they step outside.

The air is fresh and welcoming, and Anna revels in it to cool down her face as they walk along. The lane is beautiful at this time of year, with the flowers blooming before her eyes, and Anna inhales the scent deeply, unable to stop her own smile from blossoming.

"Would you like one?" Mr. Molesley asks her, evidently noticing her expression. "I know how to cut them loose without killing them. My father taught me how."

"No, that's quite all right," she says quickly.

"Are you sure? They'd suit you."

She feels slightly uncomfortable. Why is he being so complimentary? "No, honestly, Mr. Molesley. Let's catch up with the others."

He wilts in front of her eyes, but he doesn't say any more. She squeezes his arm in consolation, and he brightens. The rest of the journey is completed in peace, with the two of them exchanging pleasant conversation as they walk. She likes Mr. Molesley a lot; he is kind and quiet, the sort of man who could be a good friend. He seems to be enjoying her company just as much, following her every comment attentively. In no time at all, they are in front of the dance hall.

Anna's breath snags as she catches sight of Mr. Bates standing around outside with Mrs. Hughes and Mrs. Patmore. At the sound of her approach, he turns towards her at once. The beginning of a smile is on his face—one with real crinkles—before it dies midway. Too late, she realises that she is still clutching Mr. Molesley's arm. The look in his eyes is unfathomable, but he turns away.

Her stomach drops.

"Hello," Mr. Molesley says brightly as they join the group.

"How are you?" says Mrs. Hughes kindly. "Looking forward to the evening?"

"Rather," he says. "What about you, Mr. Bates?"

"It should be interesting," he answers tightly, pretending to check his pocket watch.

"Will you be dancing?"

"I'm afraid I can't, Mr. Molesley. I'll have to watch from the sidelines."

Mr. Molesley looks mortified. "Oh, I'm so sorry, I didn't even think—"

"It's of no consequence," he says. "Now, Mrs. Hughes, shall we?"

"Thank you, Mr. Bates," she says, and he gestures for her to walk in before him.

"Mr. Bates," Anna calls. "Wait a moment!"

He doesn't turn around, limping straight inside, leaving her standing alone with Mr. Molesley. An emptiness settles over her chest.

Why is he acting this way?

Even the raucous dancing can't really cheer her up.

She joins in, of course, dancing over and over with Mr. Molesley until she feels quite dizzy, only to be swept off her feet in the next moment by a young farmer on a neighbouring farm who is due to be shipped off to France within the week. He is lively and full of the excitement of war, declaring her a beautiful young lass and following her like a puppy afterwards, offering to sit with her should she feel tired. Mr. Molesley's face falls when he hears him, stepping up as soon as she's away from the floor.

"I thought we might have the next dance," he says.

"I'd love to, Mr. Molesley. But could I sit the next couple out? My feet are throbbing somewhat rotten."

"Of course," he says hurriedly. "Let's find a table."

She manages to withhold her sigh of frustration. "Actually, I was going to sit with Mr. Bates for a few minutes. He hasn't had any company since Mrs. Hughes got up to dance with Mr. Carson, and he looks as if he needs cheering up a little."

"Well, do you want me to come too?" Mr. Molesley asks. "Perhaps he would like that."

Anna doubts very much that he would. "Why don't you sort me out another drink? I'll come and find you in a few minutes."

"I can do that," offers the farmer.

Mr. Molesley looks horrified. "But she asked me!"

"I don't mind…"

Anna slips away while they're still squabbling, weaving her way through the crowds of dancing people. She spies Lady Sybil in the crowd, her face glowing a rosy red as she dances with Mr. Branson. She's quite sure he's sneaked a few more dances than should be proper. The other two Crawley girls are sitting at a table together looking sour; it's the first time they've been united against anything in a good long time.

At last she reaches Mr. Bates' table, a little out of breath. He's sitting there with an untouched glass of water, arms folded across his chest. She can see that he's making an effort to smile, but it's just not working. He looks more like he's in pain.

"Hello," she greets him breathlessly, sinking into the chair next to him.

He jumps almost a foot into the air, swinging his gaze on her at once. "What are you doing here?"

She shrivels under his less than friendly greeting, and fiddles with the cuff of her dress. "I thought I'd take a break from dancing. Keep you company for a bit."

"That's kind of you," he says in a voice that suggests he thinks it's anything but. "But I don't really need company."

It throws her off, and for a moment she is speechless. He has never spoken to her like this before. He is always polite, always kind, always teetering on the edge of loving. Never like this. Who is this man?

It takes her time to try to think of some sort of comeback to that, with him sitting there and staring right ahead at Mrs. Hughes as she dances, and by the time that she has thought of something, they are interrupted by the clatter of glasses. Mr. Molesley sighs gratefully as he puts them down.

"Here you go," he says. "Just like you asked."

Anna's heart sinks; Mr. Bates' expression has darkened further. Oblivious, Mr. Molesley sinks down into a seat opposite them, and in the next moment they are joined by the young farmer, Mr. Harvey, who immediately starts vying for her attention.

"Do you feel up to dancing yet?" he asks eagerly. "It would be an honour to do it again."

"She said I was next," Mr. Molesley protests.

Mr. Bates shifts completely away from her. Her mind is blank. She can't think properly when he is acting like this. The look on his face is one of such exquisite anguish, though he is masking it well. It's his eyes that betray him.

"Oh, go on, Miss Smith, give me a dance first. I'm good at this one." The young lad looks so fervent. Mr. Bates stands abruptly.

"I'm sorry," he says. "I need some fresh air. It's rather hot in here. You stay here, have fun." He doesn't look at her, but she knows his words are directed at her anyway. Grabbing his cane, he limps towards the exit. Anna stares after him, teeth sinking into her lip. His back is stooped as if he's carrying the world's burdens with him. Automatically, she rises too. Two sets of eyes are on her at once.

"Anna?" asks Mr. Molesley. "What's wrong?"

"I need to check on Mr. Bates," she murmurs.

"What? He said he was just going out for some fresh air. He's fine. Let's dance," says Mr. Harvey.

Anna shakes her head. "Later. This is something I need to do first. I'll find you when I come back inside. Please don't follow me."

They both deflate, looking at her with hurt eyes, and she swallows hard, hating to cause pain to them too. But her heart is tugging at her, insisting that she go to Mr. Bates immediately, and she always has to listen to her heart, even when it isn't right.

The first thing she is aware of when she steps outside is the repugnant odour of smoke. Wrinkling her nose, she steps quietly around the corner of the dance hall, and comes face to face with Mr. Bates, who has his head tilted to the sky, a cigarette hanging from his lips.

"Mr. Bates?" she says, not wanting to sound accusing, "what are you doing?"

He jumps a little and turns to face her. She can see the guilt in his expression, but he still takes a couple of extra drags on his cigarette before dropping it to the floor.

"What is it, Anna?" he asks wearily. "I told you to stay inside."

"And you should have known that I wasn't going to listen to you."

He doesn't smile at her feeble teasing, and she quickly lapses back into silence, though not before stepping closer to him. He stiffens when her arm brushes his, but he doesn't pull away from her. She takes it as a very good sign.

"What's wrong?" she asks again softly. "Talk to me, please."

For a moment, he stays silent. And then he wilts.

"Nothing should be wrong," he says wretchedly. "Absolutely nothing should be. I'm being a stupid, selfish man. Go back inside, Anna. Please."

She shakes her head vigorously. "No. I'm staying right here, beside you."

Mr. Bates makes a choked sound, his gaze finding hers. The agony there is almost overwhelming. Instinctively, she reaches out a hand to touch him, but he shies away from her.

"Please," he breathes. "Please don't."

"I don't understand," she says. "What's happened?"

"I can't talk about it," he whispers, closing his eyes. "Go back inside. Mr. Molesley and that other young man are waiting for you."

Her eyes widen at once. "This is what it's about, isn't it? Me coming with Mr. Molesley…and that farmer dancing with me."

"Of course not," he says quickly, but there is no conviction in his tone.

"It is," she insists. "But I don't understand. Why are you angry?"

"I'm not angry. That's not it at all."

"Then what?"

He clamps his mouth into a hard line. His jaw locks. It's clear that he won't say another word.

But it suddenly all makes sense. She can read it in the taut line of his jaw.

"You're…you're jealous," she says softly.

His head snaps up at once. "What?" he says.

"You're jealous," she repeats, her voice stronger this time. She watches the way that his face turns ashen, and knows that it's true. He stares at her and she tilts her chin defiantly, refusing to be the one to break the contact. Her heart has started to pound in her chest. Surely his jealousy can only mean one thing?

Mr. Bates drops his gaze first, lowering it to the floor.

"Forget everything," he says. "I have no right to be jealous."

"Stop it!" she explodes, and he starts at once, his eyes wide and surprised. She is surprised herself by her outburst, but she doesn't back down even when she feels her face begin to burn. "Don't you know how frustrating it is to hear you talk like that all the time? You have a right to be jealous!"

"I don't!" he shoots back. "I am a married man with no prospects. You are a beautiful young woman who has quite rightly captured the attention of several men. I have no right to be jealous when they can offer you a life and I can offer you nothing."

"Listen to yourself," she snaps. "You talk about your rights, but what about my rights? Don't I have the right to choose whether those men are suitable for me?"

"You know they're suitable—"

"I don't love them," she says bluntly, and winces, a little guilty at how harsh she sounds. But she has to make him see. "You know why I don't love them."

"Anna, don't—"

"I still love you," she says. "You know I do. I've never stopped loving you, and I never will."

He exhales heavily. "I wish you wouldn't say those things."

"Why? Because you don't want to hear them? Something tells me that you'd be lying to the both of us if you carried on denying it."

"I have nothing to offer you."

"So you keep saying. Have you ever thought that perhaps I don't need anything but to hear you say that you love me too?"

"Of course you'd want more. It's natural that you would."

"I want you, Mr. Bates, in whatever form that might be. I've always wanted you. And I think…I think you want me too. Otherwise you wouldn't be so gloomy at the thought of me dancing with Mr. Molesley or Mr. Harvey."

He sags. He looks as if his world is collapsing around him. "You are so lovely. You should have the pick of every man around."

"I've already had my pick of the men. And I've picked you. I wish you'd stop making it so difficult for the both of us."

"You seem to be under the impression that it's not difficult."

"It's not difficult. Not from where I'm standing. I love you. And you love me."

His intake of breath is sharp, and she challenges herself to step closer. He doesn't move, standing as though she has cast a spell over him, keeping him in place. She hopes it will last.

"Just say it, Mr. Bates. Even if you only ever say it once. We'll both feel better for it, I promise."

Tentatively, she reaches out, her fingers touching his. He flinches, but he doesn't shake her off. She takes heart from it, moulding her fingers through his lax ones.

"I'll never ask you to say it again," she says. "Just say it once. Please. You owe it to me."

He's clearly at war with himself, his face contorted as though he is in physical pain. She steps closer, as close as she dare.

"Say it," she breathes.

And he breaks. She sees it rush over his face like a tidal wave at sea, and it sweeps her away.

"I love you," he says in a voice barely above a whisper, so quietly that she isn't sure if she imagined it on the wind, but it wells in his eyes and she knows that it's true.

It's the most perfect thing that she's ever heard. It's the most beautiful thing she's ever heard. And she knows in that moment that despite her earlier assertion, she could never live with hearing it only once. She needs it in her life every day, a guiding beacon to light up her world. Without giving herself a moment to reflect on what she is doing, she steps even closer to him, grabbing hold of his arms, rising onto her tiptoes in a vain attempt to even the height difference between the both of them.

John's eyes widen, and he tries to back from her, but it's impossible, she makes sure of that. Instead she clings as tightly as she possibly can to him, keeping them in place, keeping her eyes on his face.

"I love you too," she breathes. "So much." Her palm moves to his face, cupping it.

"This is wrong," he protests, bringing shaking fingers up to try to coax her hand away.

"This is the most right thing that's ever happened," she corrects him. "And even if you don't want to admit it now, you know it's true."

"Anna, please—"

Before he can protest further and irritate her, she curls her fingers around his ear and pulls him down to her mouth. She doesn't even give a second thought to her boldness, knowing that she'll balk if she does. His lips meet hers for the very first time.

It's the most wonderful sensation that she has ever experienced in her entire life. Mr. Bates' mouth is warm and moist, softer than she's ever imagined it in all of her most ardent dreams. He struggles against her for a moment, but she keeps her grip firm, refusing to let him go. Not now that she has him.

And he succumbs. Barely at first, just the merest brush of his lips against hers. But then he is kissing her openly, his cane falling to the floor with a clatter as his own hands, so large and protective, rise up to cup her face. It only serves to fan the flames in her belly, and she moves her mouth against his with more enthusiasm. A tiny voice in the back of her mind wonders if she's being clumsy and not entirely pleasant to kiss, having only experienced it for herself a couple of times in her life, but Mr. Bates doesn't seem to be finding it repulsive. So she throws those doubts away and focuses on him. On the heady natural scent that drifts into her nose as she inhales. On the way that his thumbs stroke maddeningly at either side of her chin. She slips her tongue out tentatively, swiping it against his bottom lip.

He makes a muffled groaning sound and opens up at once. And suddenly there are more endless possibilities to explore, a thousand new ways to kiss him.

He tastes of ash, the tang left behind by the cigarette he'd been smoking as she'd come upon him. She thinks that she should hate the taste, but somehow it's different on him. His tongue slides under hers and she shudders, gripping him tighter. Heat is growing between them, delicious, all-consuming. She never wants this to end.

But of course it has to, and Mr. Bates slows the pace of their kissing, gently easing himself away from her. He breathes hard through his nose, his eyes squeezed tightly closed. She is almost afraid to look into his face and read the regret there, but she knows that she has to face it.

To her surprise, the self-loathing isn't as overwhelming as she'd thought it would be. There is a trace of it, of course, lingering behind his eyes, but it's muted.

In that moment, despite whatever comes next, she knows that she's won.

"There," she says breathlessly. "Was that too hard to admit?" She knows that she's playing with fire by goading him in such a way, especially when he is prone to withdraw into himself, and she sees it wavering there for an instant. She holds her breath.

And lets it out in an exalted rush when he lowers his eyes to the floor and shuffles.

"It was hard," he says.

"But not wrong," she finishes for him.

"I can't offer you anything."

"You can offer me love. And that's all I need. I can't just be your friend. I want to know that you feel the same way about me. Tell me every now and then. And kiss me too."

Mr. Bates opens his mouth like he's going to protest, but then closes it again, evidently thinking better of whatever he'd been about to say. She knows it's not the end, but perhaps they are protests for another day.

Instead, he leans forward, cautiously reaching out a hand to cup her face, as though he is afraid that she's going to blister his skin. Her eyelids flutter as she sinks into the feeling of his hand on her face. His palm is vast, engulfing her almost entirely, and she feels another rush of fierce love for the man standing in front of her. He might not be perfect, but he is perfect to her.

"I love you, Anna Smith," she hears him say, the words tinny, as though she is hearing them from a great distance. His eyes are dark on her face, holding steady as she opens hers to meet his gaze. She can scarcely believe that he's bold enough to say it so soon after the first time. It's more than her wildest dreams.

"I love you, John Bates."

And it gets better by the second.

"You said I could kiss you too," he almost whispers.

She tilts her head, offering herself to him. "You can. Any time you like."

He nods, his eyes serious, before he bends his head lower. She tilts hers even further up, almost desperate to taste him again. She is greedy, Eve feasting on the apple in the Garden of Eden, but she can't stop. Not now. Her hands clutch at the arms of his jacket, feeling the heat emanating from beneath her fingertips. He kisses her breathless, until she feels weightless in his arms, his tongue sweeping along her lower lip and forcing her to make a muffled sound of pleasure—

"Anna, are you ready to come back inside yet? You've been out here for quite a while…"

The voice is loud, shattering the tranquillity of the moment before trailing off into stunned silence. Anna and Mr. Bates spring apart at once, and she spins on her heel wide-eyed to see who has interrupted them.

Mr. Molesley stands before them, looking aghast. Hot horror burns her cheeks at once as she lurches several steps away from Mr. Bates' side, suddenly very aware of the situation that they have been caught in.

"W-What's going on?" he asks, and her faint hope that perhaps they'd moved apart quicker than he'd come upon them is dashed entirely.

A stupid part of her brain wants to say that they're not doing anything, but she knows that it would be insulting to everyone involved—and if she did, Mr. Bates might see it as her way of doubting what they could have, that she's ashamed by the way that she feels about him when she is anything but. So she swallows hard around the lump in her throat and manages to find her voice.

Nothing comes out apart from a pitiful stutter.

Mr. Molesley's eyes are still upon them both, burning with a sadness that is almost heart-wrenching. She feels guilty for a moment, for allowing him to bring her here tonight, for allowing him to believe that he might have a chance with her, when her heart will only ever beat for the valet beside her. And she is suddenly aware of the fact that she doesn't know what to say, that she doesn't know how to make any of this all right. How can she let him down gently when he has seen her kissing another man so enthusiastically? There is no way of doing it.

"I'm terribly sorry, Mr. Molesley. This…it wasn't planned."

Mr. Bates. Anna swings around to face him at once, her mouth hanging open, her heart beating almost out of her chest. Just what is he trying to say? Is he…is he trying to take back all that he has admitted tonight? He keeps his gaze straight ahead. Tears burn behind her eyes. He can't be doing this to her. He can't.

But then his hand tentatively reaches out through the space between them, catching hold of her wrist gently and then sliding down, asking silent permission to link their fingers. She completes the action, pressing her palm against his.

"I don't understand!" Mr. Molesley cries. "What do you mean, it wasn't planned? What's happened!?"

Mr. Bates steps in again before she can think of anything to say, his hand squeezing hers tight. "Mr. Molesley…I hold Anna in very high regard, and tonight…tonight I told her so."

"High regard?" Mr. Molesley's voice shakes. "And what exactly is that?"

Mr. Bates says nothing, holding his gaze steadily. Something seems to pass between them—almost understanding, though Anna isn't sure what it really means. Mr. Molesley's gaze flickers and falls to their joined hands.

"I see," he stammers. "And that high regard, Anna, it's reciprocated…?"

"It is," she all but whispers.

"I see," he says again. "Well, I'm very sorry for interrupting. I should go back inside."

Abruptly, he turns on his heel and rushes away, and Anna feels another stab of guilt.

"I should go after him," she says. "Make sure he's all right. It must have been a shock for him, catching us kissing like that."

Mr. Bates manages a small smile. "I expect it was."

"I can't help but feel that it's partly my fault, that I might have led him on without meaning to. I need to apologise for that."

"Of course. I'll speak to him too, when I can."

"Are you coming back inside too?"

"Soon," he promises. "I'll stay out here a little longer so it doesn't seem too suspicious."

Anna nods. "Very well. I'll ask Mr. Molesley to keep quiet about this, just until it feels right to say otherwise. I'm sure he will. He's a kind man. I hope one day he meets someone who is right for him."

Because he's just not the man she loves. It's unspoken, but they both know she's thinking it. Tentatively, she reaches out to touch him once more.

"And you promise that nothing will have changed from this when we go back inside?" she implores. "You're not going to start pretending that it didn't happen?"

For long seconds he stares at her, and then he smiles.

"Nothing will have changed," he says. "I promise."

She believes him, and leaves him with one last lingering look. As she goes to find Mr. Molesley, one thought drifts lazily over her mind:

The ball has helped more than the soldiers in France.