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February 1920

Standing in the parlor where she had once had tea with John's mother, Anna wished with all her heart that that feisty old lady was still here. Of course, if John's mother was still alive, none of this would have happened; Vera would still be out there somewhere keeping John from a divorce. She sighed, looking around the room. It was dusty and still and close, not having been aired out since Vera's body was removed.

"It's stood empty long enough," Mrs. Hughes said briskly, coming into the room behind Anna. "Time for a spruce-up and then you can rent it out and get some money coming in."

Anna nodded, sparing a grateful smile for the housekeeper. "Thank you so much for taking the time to help out. With Lady Mary's wedding coming up, I'm sure you have a thousand things to do."

Mrs. Hughes put a warm arm around Anna's shoulders. "Between you and me," she said, "I'm just as happy to have a reason to be away from Downton. Mr. Carson is as nervous as a long-tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs, and it's best if I leave him to do things all his own way."

They both laughed, but it was true, for all that. Mr. Carson was determined that the wedding should be the loveliest ever held at Downton, and there was some relief in having escaped the preparations.

"Doesn't Lady Mary need you?" Mrs. Hughes asked.

Anna shook her head. "She wouldn't notice if she left the room in her bedcurtains." Lady Mary's happiness with Mr. Matthew made Anna very happy—they reminded her of herself and Mr. Bates. "But I imagine we should get to work; soonest begun is soonest done, or so my mum says."

"A wise woman." Mrs. Hughes looked around. "Why don't we begin on the upstairs and work our way down?"

This seemed sensible to Anna, and several hours of quiet cleaning and boxing up of unneeded things went by. They were both hot and tired and dusty as they turned at last to the room Vera had slept in. All her belongings were still there; no one had stepped forward to claim any of her effects, and Anna wasn't without a secret hope that somewhere here in the jumble of things she would find a clue to what exactly had led to Vera's death.

There was a disquiet in her as she went through Vera's clothes and toiletries. Were these really the kind of thing Mr. Bates liked? Would he prefer her to dress more like Vera, more flashy? There was that request he'd made for the ridiculously extravagant hat—what if that had been about unhappiness with Anna's quiet taste and not an encouragement for her to live life for both of them?

"My dear." Mrs. Hughes put her hand on Anna's shoulder, and it was only then that Anna realized she was weeping quietly. "If this is too much, I can finish up in here."

"No." Anna shook her head, fiercely swiping at the tears. "I think we're almost done in here, anyway. Just remains to clean the carpet."

"Well, let's move some of this furniture away from the wall so we can get at the dust underneath it." With a final pat on Anna's shoulder, Mrs. Hughes moved to a dresser. Together they inched it away from the wall, making mutual noises of disgust at the thickness of the dust behind and underneath the piece of furniture.

Then something fell onto the carpet with a thump, a little book that had been wedged between the dresser and the wall. Anna bent to pick it up. The dramatic, looping writing that filled it was nothing she had ever seen before, but instinctively she knew it had to be Vera's.

A chill shook her. Was this it? Did this book, this diary, hold the clue she could use? She couldn't wait to look through it.

Mrs. Hughes looked at it over her shoulder. "You know," she said quietly, "Mr. Bates probably knows the people mentioned in that book. Perhaps if you give it to him, he can make notes about the people and places?"

It was a good idea; Anna could acknowledge as much, even as she wished heartily she could keep this book and whatever secrets it contained away from him. If it had been up to her, he wouldn't have to know about any of this … but that was foolish, and petty, and distrustful of her, and ultimately could keep the needed clue from being found.

"Yes," she said at last, closing the book and tucking it away in her apron pocket. "You're right, Mrs. Hughes. I'll take it to him on my next visit." But not before she read it thoroughly, she promised herself.