Chapter 29
London was empty. The family had been in town nearly a month, and John was surprised they too hadn't yet abandoned the skeletal season and returned home. From what Lord Grantham had confided to him in the privacy of the dressing room, John suspected Lady Grantham had declined to return home until the bitter end of the festivities. Lord Grantham understood of course the importance of the season and how instrumental it was in the getting the girls settled, and now that Mary seemed to have fallen out with Matthew for good it was even more important, and even though he had met Cora in much the same way, with his own girls it just seemed like a market place, with no buyers. Bates was perhaps lucky not to have children. Lord Grantham's voice had gone wistful. John had murmured non-committally. If he had any idea how lucky….He knew his lordship, unlike most men of his class, loved and to an extent respected his daughters, but there was something cheap about dressing them up and parading them around town a few weeks each year. John and Lord Grantham had agreed that with the war this way of life might have to change. Sacrifices, Lord Grantham had sighed one night as John helped him prepare for bed.
John liked the emptiness of the city. Before he entered Lord Grantham's service, he had taken little notice of societal happenings, but was always keenly aware of when the crowds of the wealthy descended on London in the late spring and early summer. As a part of his world, as representatives of England, John respected the aristocracy. As people, John thought many of them had more money than sense and that it showed. John knew Lord Grantham well, and respected him, not for his status or what he might do for him, but for his humanity and his failings as a man. Even so, John was grateful for his ability to maintain an interested blank look when the man got poignant about war and family. This was the first spring in years John had been able to walk the streets at any time of day without having to step around discarded bits of finery. It was the first spring in years he was able to enter shops and galleries without having to wade through fashionable people wondering out loud what to think or what to read. He enjoyed it, but when he thought about it, it made him sad. Such a loss of life. But as Anna had said, it was better not to dwell.
The emptiness of the city meant John and Anna had more time together than usual during a visit to London. Not as much as the trip earlier in the spring, but more than in a usual London season. Most afternoons they were able to spend time together, almost always away from Grantham House and the prying eyes of the London staff. John was certain Miss O'Brien filled them in while he and Anna were away; he expected nothing less of her. So long as no one whispered about Anna.
Their adventures varied from visits to galleries and gardens to visits to shops and tearooms. It was so natural to walk and talk together, John wondered sometimes if he remembered life before Anna. In the quiet of the night, he did. Like the African War, life before Anna was something on which John would rather not dwell. Seeing London with Anna was seeing it fresh.
One warm afternoon they found themselves in Kensington Gardens near the Serpentine. Though he was a bit old for it, John loved Peter Pan, and liked to visit the statue. Anna, though she had been nourished on fairy tales, found it too fanciful, and had grinned indulgently when John confessed his admiration of the eternal child. John stole a glance at her as he wordlessly aimed for the path that led to the statue. She was grinning indulgently now.
"Your fairy child again, Mr. Bates?" Anna had gotten better about calling him John, but Mr. Bates tended to slip out when they had been with others a great deal or when she was teasing.
"Yes, Miss Smith, my flute playing boy with his bunnies. I hope you don't mind the detour." Her eyes were so dark yet so bright.
"Never." Her teeth were so straight. Her lips were so thin, but her mouth so large and expressive. "Shall we find a seat?" Anna never suggested he rest, but always knew when to suggest sitting. John was grateful. No matter what his leg was telling him, he would never suggest sitting. It might look weak. He might look old.
They found a bench. The breeze was pleasant. Some children with a nanny passed. A large dog lumbered behind.
"Why don't you care for Peter, Anna?" Such a story of possibility and perseverance just struck John as something that would appeal to Anna.
She looked at her hands. Her gloves were black. John wishes they were white and flimsy. "It isn't that I don't care for Peter. I do. I just didn't particularly care for the story. I have nothing against Peter." She looked at him. A lock of hair had escaped its confines and was across her forehead. "I hope that doesn't affect your opinion of me."
John grinned. "I don't know….Not liking a story of adventure and possibility and magic is indeed a serious character flaw. I may need to reassess my perhaps vaulted opinion of you."
Anna's eyes flashed as she grinned at him. Her eyebrows moved quickly. "Well, in that case, I may have to see if Mr. Molesley is still interested in courting." Her voice lilted when she spoke fast. Their eyes held each others for a minute before they both fell into laughter. Anna giggled and looked at her lap. John's head tilted back and he had to catch his breath. Mr. Molesley indeed.
Anna grew serious. "I do like Peter himself, and I do see the sense of possibility, but there's something about the story that just made me so sad."
John crossed his arms over his chest and leaned his head back. He wondered what it might be that made Anna sad. He saw potential, and joy, and innocence unspoilt. Perhaps that was the problem. Anna was eternally optimistic, but she was also realistic. Reality was something that had to be faced.
Anna looked towards the statue. "I think that fairies and adventure are necessary to an extent, but there comes a time when…well, when those need to be…well….Peter doesn't understand that….and poor Wendy and her daughters…and the end was so sad. So much was lost." Anna shook her head. "I'm not explaining myself very well."
John smiled at the sky. It was pale blue with fluffy clouds. Children were drowning out the birds. He thought he knew what Anna meant. There was tragedy in wasted potential, and in the transitory nature of all things in life.
A pack of children ran by, their governess still struggling with a pram and a baby. John wasn't sure if he liked children. It was one thing when his siblings were alive and they were all young and energetic together, but even then he sometimes felt like he was missing something when they were all playing together. Now they made him nervous. This group had sticks and balls. They were so loud. They might jostle his leg. John sat up straight, his body rigid. Anna ran her hand down his thigh.
"Shall we continue on, Mr. Bates? I think we've rested enough." She leaned into him when she spoke, her breath caressing his ear. She stood and looked at him expectantly. The lost boys were missing so much.
Another afternoon they visited the Victoria and Albert Museum. John liked the variety of displays. Earlier in the month they had seen the Pre-Raphaelite paintings at the Tate. John was surprised Anna liked them as much as she did. He had suspected she would prefer realism, but she was taken with the large-eyed mournful heroines. John thought most of the models were too muscular. He preferred Rembrandt, or sculpture. In March they had seen some new works by Matisse and his young friend Picasso at the National Gallery. Anna had been enthralled. John had been taken by the boldness of a painting depicting young nude women holding hands in a ring. They could have been dancing. It was not as bright as the other paintings in the gallery, nor as busy, and he kept returning to it. It was primitive, stark, abstract, real.
John's favorite section of the Victoria and Albert was the hall off the sculpture hall of replicas of buildings and statues. Anna had managed to never visit that area. It was like a warehouse of odd bits of buildings and monuments. Orange walls with Spanish churches and Greek statues. The tombs of the Plantagenets overlooked by the School of Athens. It was crowded and confusing and solid and John loved it.
He looked up the height of the Trajan column. "Isn't this wonderful, Anna? We can travel the world without ever leaving England." He was standing between the tombs of Henry II and Eleanor of Aquintaine.
Anna too looked up, her gaze flickering to the walkways above the court and the painting of Plato and Aristotle debating. "It is. I never thought I'd see these places. But all in one room…" Anna shook her head.
"It is a little dizzying. Maybe we're supposed to be getting a dose of the important bits of architectural history." John found the cathedral doors that led into solid wall particularly intriguing.
"Maybe. It is marvelous, but there's almost too much." John suspected it upset Anna's sense of order.
They found David, near another David and towering amongst the pulpits and rearing horses.
John stood close to Anna. "The late queen was so shocked by this a fig leaf was kept at hand for her infrequent visits." John leaned towards Anna, keeping his voice low. She smelled clean.
Anna giggled. "Considering how many children she had I'm a little surprised." Anna gave the statue a critical look. "He isn't that impressive."
John smiled. Anna would never be so delicate. "Maybe they blew the candles out first." Not that John would ever know.
The Nymph of Fountainebleau was above them, lounging with her stag. She looked like David with breasts. John wondered if the sculptor had ever actually seen a woman.
Anna gasped and stepped back.
"She's rather horrible, isn't she?"
Anna blinked. "She is. What's she doing with that deer?"
John chuckled. "I'm not sure, but you know how nymphs can be."
Anna blinked again. She didn't respond.
"Nymphs…lithe, petite, nimble, spirited, playful, slender, strong, sensual, hedonistic. In other words, nothing like her." Able to leap across streams and turn into trees, and toy with men to their death. In key ways, not so like Anna. She was no tease.
John couldn't take his eyes from Anna. They had observed more decorum than usual in London, and suddenly the restraint was beginning to wear on John. He noticed how her light city jacket, tight at the waist, emphasized her fine figure. The cut of the bodice drew attention to her small yet firm bosom, which appeared higher than usual. John suspected, should he ever manage to relieve her of all her protective layers, he would find a strong, slender, lithe form with pert breasts with an expanse between them just wide enough for his hand. He swallowed hard. He needed to touch her. This was not an ideal time. Maybe a small touch, one that could be accidental, if there was anyone else to see. Were other visitors lurking behind the statues? A touch could inflame him. One of the larger tombs would provide a decent cover. Just to touch her. Perhaps kiss her.
They moved on, the only sound in the hall the click of their heels and the tap of John's cane. They came to Mercury and Psyche, near a bishop and the walkway. The god was wearing his helmet and nothing else. He was in the process of lifting the maiden, also nude. The artist had captured them as Mercury was taking flight, their bodies forming one line to the sky. So intimate, even though Mercury was little better than a delivery boy in the story. So incongruous when surrounded by pieces of churches and overlooked by an angel.
"She doesn't seem to be supporting herself."
John didn't immediately respond. He was observing the curve of Psyche's hips and wondering how favorably they would compare to Anna's.
"Maybe she doesn't need to." The moment in the statue was not of capture and delivery, it was something else entirely. Something that Cupid would understand only too well. "He has a firm hold on her, and when they're aloft, she'll be horizontal in his arms." John wondered if the bishop was looking on in envy.
They walked around the statue. From other angles, the intent was more evident. This was not capture, it was not surprise; it was physical union and ecstasy. Even next to it, John was not sure which leg belonged to which figure. It was clear in a matter of seconds, perhaps away from the prying eyes of the bishop, their bodies would be joined. He looked at Anna. Her jaw was clenched. As their bodies never would be.
Again, John was curious. He would never ask. He had no right to know, but, sometimes, when they were together, he wondered. That boy, that farmhand…
Anna had not spoken. John took a step closer. And another. One more and he would be flush against her back. He ran a finger along her neck, holding his breath. He had no idea what his intentions were, but he needed to touch her. He thought her name escaped his lips like a sigh, like it did in the night.
Anna turned. No more than an inch of air was between them. They looked each other full in the face. A floor nearby squeaked. John saw something in her eyes he was certain he had never seen, mixed with the longing he knew and felt. Regret. Fear. He thought he heard the voices of old ladies. He wanted to place a hand along her face, but now he wasn't sure it was right. He did it, slowly, letting his palm linger along her jaw. Anna smiled, sadly.
"Mr. Bates…John…I'd…I'd like to go home."
