Thank you all so much for reading! You've made writing this story such a pleasure. I intend to continue as long as it takes to get through series 3 - I hope you'll stick with me as it goes. As always, I love to hear from you - if you have any ideas for scenes, please feel free to suggest them.

April 1920

Bates lived for mail call, especially now. If he could only have a letter from Anna, know how she was doing in France, be able to picture her there as if he were with her …

It was some comfort to know that even if they were man and wife at Downton, as they ought to be, he wouldn't have been in France with her. He would have made her go in any case, and would have remained with Lord Grantham doing his job and waiting for letters. So what was the difference, really? he asked himself sarcastically. Just because the mattress was thin and stained and the walls were of stone and closing in on him regularly every night and the people who surrounded him were hostile and dangerous …

He tried not to get his hopes up as he stood in the long line of men hoping for a letter. Anna was enjoying herself in France; she had little time for writing. Resolutely, he tried to keep his mind off of the dark supposings he tormented himself with last night while he lay in his cot staring up at Craig's mattress above him, about an exotic, attractive, young Frenchman who happened to run into Anna in a shop, and how he would tip his hat, and Anna would smile, and he would introduce himself in that French accent women seemed to find so irresistible. In Bates's mind, he looked like that Mr. Pamuk Anna had so admired, and her eyes sparkled under the attention—

"Bates! You want this or not?"

"What?" He looked down at the envelope being held out to him and snatched it with a trembling hand, turning away from the line. He wanted to rip it open, to devour it. He wanted to save it for later and read it slowly, alone. He wanted to tuck it under his pillow unopened so he didn't have to know if she was having fun without him and didn't have to wish with such a desperate longing that he was there—or anywhere—with her.

At last he decided he'd have more privacy here amongst everyone than he would later in his cell alone under Craig's curious eyes, and he slit the letter open.

Dear John,

How I wish you were here! I pretend you're with me wherever I go, smiling in the sun, laughing at some of the ridiculous things in the shops, keeping me company while Lady Mary and Mr. Matthew are … otherwise occupied.

At her words, a smile stretched uncontrollably across Bates's face. She missed him. Take that, beautiful, if imaginary, Frenchman! That lovely woman you admire so is thinking of me.

I have managed to make us some memories. I walked barefoot across the sand and dipped my toes in the water; I did, indeed, eat a snail, as requested, and found it so drenched in butter that was all I could taste. Not that I'm complaining! And I've stuffed myself with pastries until I fear I may have to let out all my dresses. You won't recognize me.

He laughed quietly to himself, glad to hear her sounding so cheerful. Part of him had worried, after he had sent her off, that she wouldn't have a good time after all and he would have to regret making her go. But clearly he had been right. She had needed this; they had both needed it. He folded the letter; he would finish it later, savoring every word.

Tucking the letter in his pocket, he stood up with a renewed energy. For today, at least, the cell walls wouldn't close in on him.