A/N: So chronologically now, we're about at the end of the second season, at roughly the Christmas Special in terms of timing.
I know I've said it loads before, but thank you thank you thank you for all the support you've given A Patch of Clover, and you have no idea, but it means the world to me.
Disclaimer: I do no own Downton Abbey.
Enjoy~
December 20, 1919
Mairead-
Happy Christmas!
I do wish you'd accepted our invitation to come spend the holidays with us in Ireland, but I'm sure you're keen to keep at your work.
I hope this reaches you in time for the holidays, and that everything's the right size (if not, then by all means, let me know, or, knowing you, take it in as you see fit. If anything, they should be on the larger side).
Tom wanted you to know that there's a little Branson on the way- I'm about three and a half months along, the doctor said, and everything is as it should be- and hopefully you'll be in a position to be there for at least the christening, which will be in Dublin. We'd appreciate it very much, though I'm sure you know that, and I know Tom would want you to meet your new cousin as soon as you're able.
On the subject of Tom- Mairead, please reply to his letters. He was very upset when you left without saying goodbye, and he thinks it was his fault. Please, tell him he's done nothing wrong, or, if he has done something wrong, tell him what it was and try to make amends. He wants nothing but the best for you, and he loves you very much. I know you love him too, and, while you must be hurting as well, it would do you both a world of good to put it behind you and move past it, as I'm sure you can.
-Sybil
"My goodness," Anna breathed when Mairead stepped into her room, wearing what she could only assume were the contents of the parcels that had arrived in the morning post five days ago. "It doesn't look like it needs to be taken in at all."
The skirt needed hemming, perhaps, to make it look like it was from the post-war world of shorter skirts, and the sleeves could do with being shortened, at least to the elbows, for the same reason. That was all easily done, though, and Anna would be more than glad to assist with that effort, because it would give her something to do, rather than bringing about her first grey hairs with all the worry that filled her time when she wasn't doing what was asked of her.
She watched as Mairead ran her hands down the dark blue linen of the skirt, smoothing the fabric against her body, or perhaps trying to find fault with it, though why, Anna couldn't say.
"The skirt needs to be hemmed," the younger woman noted, pressing her lips together, as if the length of the skirt offended her somehow.
"I can help, if you'd like," Anna offered.
Mairead shook her head. "Thank you, Mrs. Bates, but I think I'll be able t'manage it on my own," she said, her hand falling to her side.
Anna didn't bother trying to correct the young housemaid- getting her to call Jane something other than "Mrs. Moorsum" had proven impossible, at least with any consistency- and Anna didn't want to push too far. She recognized the thick stubborn streak that the girl had, but there was something else that Anna didn't quite recognize, that bordered on defensive more than anything, yet it wasn't that either.
"I insist."
"Mrs. Bates, there's really no need t'-"
"Mairead, you can hardly expect to be able to hem a skirt well on your own," Anna said. "I'm helping you and that's final."
Under normal circumstances, Anna wouldn't be so insistent, but it was common sense, really, that a skirt couldn't be hemmed by only one person- not even a seasoned lady's maid like Mrs. O'Brien could manage such a feat, and often requested Anna's help. Anna didn't mind the extra work either, not to mention that she was determined to get Mairead to open up more, so at least the girl wouldn't get lonely and end up in a bad way.
"Yes Mrs. Bates," Mairead said, giving Anna a slow nod.
"Splendid. How about after tea then? I'm sure Mrs. Hughes won't mind if we take an hour for ourselves, and I doubt there'll be much else to do."
Another slow nod. "Sounds wonderful," Mairead said. "Thank you, Mrs. Bates."
January 5, 1920
Dear God, please let this go well. Mrs. Bates hasn't done anything against anyone, and she doesn't deserve whatever fate her husband can be condemned to. In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit, amen.
This was the prayer that Mairead turned over and over in her mind as she watched the courtroom fill with somberly-dressed men and women, dressed in the same somber greys and dark blues that the city outside wore under the winter sky. Beside her, Anna sat with her back pressed against the wall of the courtroom, her eyes fixated on the stand where her husband would be standing in a few moments, once the jury was finished with whatever preparations men like them made, and Mairead could see the anxiety in the older woman's eyes.
"Have faith," she whispered, hesitant to reach for Anna's hand, less she overstep the bounds of propriety.
Anna's focus on the front of the courtroom broke, and her listless blue eyes met Mairead's. "I have nothing but faith," she said in return, a quiet, tight smile on her lips.
"Then you have nothing to fear."
Mairead herself didn't believe in the power of faith, at least not in the sense that she believed that having faith meant not having anything to be afraid of. Everyone she'd known who expressed that much faith had died or met some kind of misfortune, sometimes in the name of that faith.
She was religious, yes- Catholic, like both the Branson and Hayes families had been for centuries- but not so religious that she would place everything in the hands of God, like some did, no doubt. She preferred to think she was in charge, like a captain was ultimately in charge of his vessel, and God was the navigator, there to help her make a safe journey from port to port, and even then, her full faith wasn't in Him.
After all, God hadn't shown her kindness in her mother's face, where kindness was supposed to dwell, He hadn't saved Sam from an early grave, nor had He come between her and Nathaniel, when he was supposed to protect people like her from people like him, or at least from the choices she made then. From this, she could conclude that He was there to help her find her way, not to protect her from the evils of the world. She could do that on her own. She was allowed to come to Him for help, to seek Him out when she needed refuge from the world, and to be reassured when she so desperately needed it.
To Him, Mairead would admit having loved a man and having spurned him because his lot in life was so different than her own, and to Him, she would confess that there had been days when she still did love that man, despite the wrong he had done her. God knew all of her shame, and her joy, too, though Mairead often wondered what there was to rejoice in anymore. She would never marry, and thus, would never see children of her own, not with the life she'd decided was her calling- the life of a housekeeper, just like her mother, only Mairead would be kinder than her mother had been, and not force her children to suffer for her dream. She would likely never know love, nothing like Tom and Sybil knew anyways, and her sins outweighed her virtues too much for her to ever think she could truly be forgiven, even if she was absolved those sins through confession and penance.
"Here they come," she heard Anna whisper, the woman's voice fearful in Mairead's ear. "Dear Lord, grant me faith."
It was then that Mairead dared to reach out and squeeze Anna's hand gently, earning a timid smile from the older woman, when she'd expected a reproachful glare.
The trial did not go well.
Every word seemed to have been twisted against Mr. Bates, regardless of what the original intent behind the recalled dialogues and instances had been.
The valet (Mairead refused to see him as the ex-valet everyone no doubt thought of him as by this point) stood as still as a statue, his expression impassive, as she knew it to be, though there were times when the stillness would be troubled by a flicker of defeat and sadness, and his cold calmness would falter with it. He saw how hopeless it was, how clever they were, the lawyers arguing for the deceased Mrs. Bates ("Vera," Anna told her, the name spoken softly, though there was no missing the hint of venom in the head housemaid's voice), forcing His Lordship to use such easily-twisted words against his valet.
Mairead could see the hopelessness that overtook him every time his eyes wandered to where Anna sat, the look that said "forgive me," and "save me" at the same time, as if he was looking upon the face of God and asking those same things. His dark eyes would then find their way to Mairead, who gave him a reassuring, if somewhat awkward nod, trying to assure him that she would take care of Anna- somehow. She wasn't sure how, nor was she sure as to why she was so suddenly determined to take care of a woman six months ago she had been indifferent to, but she would.
Hope came in the form of Mrs. Hughes as the Scotswoman made her way to the witness stand to testify.
If anyone can convince them that Mr. Bates is innocent, it's her, Mairead decided, thinking for a moment that God had heard her prayers and had sent the Scottish Dragon (Ethel's nickname for the housekeeper, not Mairead's) as the answer.
Beside her, Anna watched with the fixed attention of a child at his first Christmas pageant, her breaths quivering with each careful "Thank you God," that passed her lips. She sat straighter, her eyes were suddenly bright, suddenly hopeful, and that same bright hope didn't go unnoticed by her husband.
And then Mrs. Hughes spoke.
Mairead would never remember what Mrs. Hughes had said, only the sudden heaviness in the air as her words were twisted as easily as His Lordship's had been. A shadow was thrown over Anna again, and Mairead could've sworn that she saw her lip curl into a bitter snarl as the housekeeper was escorted from the witness stand, her proud bearing broken by the weight of the testimony she'd just given.
How could she?
Mrs. Hughes knew as well as anyone that Mr. Bates was an innocent man, and she would never speak a lie about anyone. She was supposed to be on Anna's side, supposed to be on the side of what was good and just, yet she had gone and spoken words against him.
How could she?
Didn't she see that she'd betrayed Anna's trust? Anna loved that woman as perhaps one loved their mother, most likely because Mrs. Hughes was (by the unspoken rule of the staff) practically her mother, and she trusted her as all children trust their mothers. Mrs. Hughes was supposed to be on their side! She was supposed to fight, tooth and nail, for her maids, her children, not give up and walk away, defeated!
The verdict was all too clear, even before it was announced.
Guilty.
"John Bates, you have been found guilty of the charge of wilful murder. You will be taken from here to a place of execution where you will be hanged by the neck until you are dead, and may God have mercy upon your soul," said the judge, looking down upon the accused man- an innocent man accused of a crime for which there was very little physical evidence and too much word of mouth involved- with the cold indifference and disinterest that characterized deities of justice.
What do you know of justice? Mairead wanted to tell him, and she would've, if she wasn't needed to help calm Anna, whose frantic cries filled Mairead's ears, even when the older woman rested her head quietly against her chest, the light gone from her eyes and her whole body heavy against the younger woman's.
The train ride home would be a quiet and lonely one for all.
Both Mairead and Anna avoided Mrs. Hughes's gaze, and Anna turned away from Mrs. Hughes's attempts to comfort her as they left the courthouse for the station. She did, however, allow Mairead to help her here and there, and when she fell asleep with her head in Mairead's lap, a few white-blonde hairs splayed across the dark navy of Mairead's skirt, Mairead didn't object.
"Blessed are those who mourn: for they will be comforted. Blessed are the meek: for they shall inherit the earth," she whispered as she felt herself drifting off to sleep, away from the injustice that today had shown her and the woman she'd come to see as more than a colleague, but for once in her life, as a friend. "Blessed are those who who hunger and thirst for righteousness: for they will be filled.*"
*The Beatitudes (Mark 5:3-12)
A/N: And thus concludes Chapter 38 of A Patch of Clover. Obviously, there's some questions that need answering, but they will be answered, have no fear- we shall learn what really happened in Manchester someday in the not-too-distant future, my dears. Never you have any fear.
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