A/N: So we're at the stage in time where we would have seen the last episode of S7...! And while I have lots left to write, and this story is definitely not over as yet, from here on out I won't be posting every Sunday. I hope that doesn't disappoint too much; I have other ongoing works that I desperately need to catch up with in the little weekly time I can dedicate to writing.
However I would like to have the next chapter ready to post as a 'Christmas special'...somehow I think it'd only be fair.
Chapter 8
February 1927
He thought about his mother most days, in little moments.
After her death he had restricted himself, saving his memories for significant dates: birthdays, anniversaries that were only of importance between the two of them. It was not that he meant to do so; rather that the pain of loss was too much to bear on a daily basis. Not only grief, but regret too. Regret that he had caused her so much worry during her life, that during his darker days she had been subject to his sharp tongue and black moods when she had done nothing but stand tall and support him through it all. At times bringing her to mind seemed to compound his failures and shames; of letting himself fall victim to Vera's final scheme, of not being there to protect Anna when she needed him so desperately.
He hadn't always been the man she had raised him to be, emerging unbowed from the shadow of his father.
Since his son had been born, he was easier on himself. He made a point to fight his guilt with double the power it desired to wield over him. It was difficult not to think about his mother as William thrived, sometimes as the light fell a certain way over his perfect little features, noting a familial resemblance. Something as silly as the way he held his spoon, or the way he sipped from his small cup.
She would have adored to be a grandmother, no doubt would have showered her grandson in affection, fed him a little too much and wouldn't be too proud to give him a gentle scolding when needed. Her kisses and warm embraces would have far outweighed her words of warning.
There were moments when the guilt was close to claiming a victory, when he lingered too long on the side of dwelling about all that had been unavoidable. Their wait for a child had not been for lack of wanting on their part. So many obstacles had been placed in their path, and not one of them had been wholly expected. He had known realistically that his mother would never have lived long enough to meet a child of his and Anna's; indeed, if she had then their lives would have been markedly different.
Yet she had always been a wise woman. Full of foresight, many would often say, even if she had shrugged off their claims about having some sort of 'gift'. John was too logical to believe it either, and yet looking back he could not help but give over to a smile of acknowledgement.
She lifted the cup and saucer up slowly once he had poured out the tea from the pot, the minutes passing by seemingly achingly slow. He had tried to steel himself, knowing that her once dynamic movements had long left her now that her faculties were failing. She had gone quite downhill in the two months since his last visit, and he berated himself heavily for not arranging something sooner. It was so hard to get away, especially when war was starting to take hold, but that was a poor excuse. Her hands shook almost violently as she fought hard to bring the cup to her mouth in order to take her first sip, and he noticed how pale and thin they looked too. He could fool himself no longer, could hardly ignore the ache that bloomed within his chest. It was likely the last time he would see her alive. He tried to go on with the charade, for her sake, he told himself.
It was a struggle, edging on the unbearable for him to bear witness to, but she got there. The satisfied sound of her slurping the still warm liquid comforted him, as did the slight rattle of the bottom of the cup meeting the saucer as she held both within her grasp. He had thought briefly about asking her whether she wished for his assistance, but quickly thought the better of it. Even if she no longer possessed the strength to box him round the ear, her proud demeanour spoke volumes. Her abilities may have dwindled but her spirit burned, as it would do until she took her final breath.
"How have things been?" He had dipped the biscuit into his tea but felt no appetite for it, placing it back onto the side of the saucer, leaving it to go partly soggy. "I'm sure you've got lots of stories of old London town to share."
In the dim light of the room, her eyes flared.
"Come now, Johnny, you know very well I have nothing to tell." Her tone was not harsh or bitter, rather more pleasantly amused. "I can't leave the house anymore. I can barely leave this very chair most of the time. I'm not sure where I find the strength from, but I won't question God's reasons why."
He winced at his own inabilities to help, and his selfishness for hating being in London. "But you are getting help, from the doctor?"
"I am," she affirmed to his relief, "the poor man knows I'm a helpless case, but he still comes by every other day. And I have Mrs Kavanagh stopping every morning and night, and the Browns are very good too. Did I say that she's having her fifth now? God bless her, her hands will be full. The littlest one isn't even at standing yet."
"I think I gave you enough trouble as it was," he hid his smirk behind his own cup.
"Nonsense. You were the best behaved out of them all. So good that I knew lightning couldn't strike twice."
He shifted in his chair, realising that it was impossible to grow out of the feeling of being a child in the presence of a parent, even as she was ailing, even as he towered over her. Cradling the teapot as if it was a sacred heirloom, he replenished her cup though it was more than half full.
The touch of her hand upon his wrist stilled him. Though her touch was slighter than it once was, her palm was reliably and familiarly warm, a balm to his troubles. He could never imagine her growing cold.
"Tell me, Johnny, how is that lovely girl of yours?"
Her head had arched higher against the back of the armchair, the amber glow of her irises cutting through him.
"I hardly have a right to call Anna mine, Mother," he answered, the heavy weight sinking like a stone in his chest. He could barely fathom how she would wish to be with him so unswervingly, surrendering her young love to someone as old and broken as he was. And yet she was so adamant, refused to listen to his reasoning when he tried to convince her of his beliefs that she would be better off with someone else, someone who wasn't shackled to a hopeless destiny and would only waste her hopes and dreams along with his own, which had long fallen to the wayside.
"When it comes to the heart, we have no say in the matter," she replied, a knowing smile lifting her thin lips. "She is yours, and you are hers, and there's nothing else that can be done except to cherish it."
Once more, in an entirely different surrounding than the quiet corner of the courtyard – with her blue eyes gazing up towards him, her delicate hand so close to touching – he found that he was defenceless.
His mother let out a hacking cough, another and another, and his eyes went wide with fear. He braced an arm about her shoulders, feeling ineffectual in his comfort as she shook and trembled.
"Promise me that you will let her know," she said as she recovered from the fit, head turning to look him full in the eyes. "A girl needs to be reassured, especially one as good as she is."
"It would be wrong, Mother, at least until I can be sure that I can find Vera –
She visibly lurched at the mention of the name.
"I am sure that you and Anna are meant to be, and that you won't be alone either."
He coloured at her insinuations, frozen to the spot. A child, eternally, in awe of his mother and all the certainty that she possessed. It could have been a mere consequence of the fate she was resigned to, but looking into her eyes he seemed to know otherwise.
"Time is short, John. You have to make the most of every bit of it, and not worry it away. Not over something so dear, when there's such little need to."
Holding onto his mother's hand, his heart consumed by Anna, he could do little but smile despite the sorrow that was waiting to surround him.
"Give me something to look down upon," she whispered to him, leaning in so that he could smell the tea upon her breath.
He couldn't have known that such a hope would be one of the last things he ever heard from her.
The house felt its quiet. The giggles of housemaids who were probably old enough to know better became amplified as they echoed down the corridors, and the sobs that had been stifled in the past were no longer allowed the cover of constant bustle and chatter to drown them out.
John had spent the best part of the morning consoling a distraught Mrs Patmore, offering a handkerchief from his pocket to stop her from using the corners of her apron and words that he hoped were comforting. After a few months of indecision Daisy had settled upon a date, timing her departure from the Abbey with the last quiet months before the farm would be at its busiest. Mrs Patmore confessed her guilt for half-hoping that the young woman may change her mind; think she might need just that bit more experience before moving on. And yet the cook knew it would be for the best; Daisy had worked hard to prove her capability over the years, despite her frequent and lovingly-meant scolding, and Bill Mason deserved the affection of another child where he could best feel it.
He was only a minute or so late in answering the call of His Lordship's bell, feeling relieved for it though some of his thoughts remained with Mrs Patmore. It was harder to detach, now that there were far fewer of them around the house. It was not only downstairs that the changes were felt. Lord Grantham took after his mother more than he cared to admit, and was unsettled by the turning of the tide though he understood well that it had to shift if Downton Abbey was not to meet the same fate as the residences of many of his acquaintances.
It brought to mind their army days for John, the atmosphere considerably safer as his superior instigated the flow of conversation. The particulars of the weather would be the usual starting point, given that they no longer shared the much closer commonality of fighting in battle, but they would fumble their way through onto more interesting matters. Today His Lordship lingered, making superfluous comments on topics it seemed purely to prolong their existence in the room. In the mirror John kept a glance for a few seconds, reading the sunken feeling beneath Lord Grantham's expression. He would not speak of it, of course, but felt the obligation to cheer the mood all the same.
"I'll head into Ripon later, m'lord. Your suit should be ready for collection."
"Excellent." He broke into a smile, which was another reprieve for John; hopefully he would not need to speak of much else to maintain the upturn. "I know it's probably an extravagance, but it does feel like an awfully long time since I was fitted. Reassure me, Bates; it isn't just my wishful thinking that my usual ones aren't as snug as they used to be, is it?"
John gave a small smirk. "Her Ladyship's regimes are working well."
"You could give me some credit for sticking to them."
"Indeed, m'lord."
He set the brush upon the shoulders of the jacket Lord Grantham was wearing, the hardly noticeable repair-stitch holding firm at the seam. Over the last year he had lost weight, thanks to a sensible diet and a good deal more walking around the estate, but the loss had been steady. The complaints had been fewer once he had got into the routine, but it was clear he was looking forward to the dinner that had been arranged at his favourite restaurant, the evening in question not too far away in approaching.
Straightening himself in the mirror, His Lordship nodded in approval.
"After her fussing that I shouldn't have bothered, I think Her Ladyship will appreciate the effort."
"I've no doubt she will, m'lord."
His laugh resounded rather loudly in the room, but John did not flinch. It was good to hear.
"Would you believe it, Bates, but Valentine's Day is the anniversary of mine and Lady Grantham's first meeting." Lord Grantham smiled rather wistfully. "Now I can recognise the irony of it, given that we didn't fall in love so much as grow into it."
Silence took over once more as His Lordship pondered, the years no doubt enlarging in his mind. John didn't wish to intrude, or otherwise to state his opinion on how it had all turned out for the best in the end. He was a distant observer to His Lordship's private life, and even when he was given the chance to comment that was the way it would remain.
"I trust that you have something special in store for Anna?"
Lord Grantham was not quite exactly of the same bent, but thankfully he did notice this.
"Pardon me, Bates, I'm being too curious."
"Not at all, m'lord." He arranged the discarded choices of cufflinks back into their confines, doing the utmost to disguise his unease. In truth, he had half forgotten which month it was, never mind the point within it. "It would be nice to mark the day, but we can't really depend on plans at this moment in time."
"Ah, I remember that, even if it was rather a while ago," Lord Grantham smiled. "You know that you are entitled to make use of Nanny's services, even if Anna is no longer working here. One night won't do a lot of harm." Struck by a sudden thought, his face illuminated. "I could make a few enquiries, if a change of scenery would be beneficial."
"It's very kind, but I'm not sure that it would be right for us."
John could not help but think of the last time that they had dined at such an extravagant establishment. It had been wrong from the start, but he had not wanted to discourage Anna, not when she had been so brave in even making the suggestion. She hadn't been ready for it, startling every time there had been a slip of cutlery upon china from another table. He didn't wish to let the experience put him off, yet he knew deep down that it hadn't been somewhere that Anna especially liked, quite aside from their circumstances at the time.
She had always preferred homelier comforts – the crackling of the fireplace, the use of his mother's most cherished china plates and teapot which they kept saved for special occasions.
"Bates?"
His Lordship's tone didn't sound confused or concerned, only gently rousing, pulling him out of the daydream that was threatening to break away and take over.
"Sorry, m'lord."
"Don't look quite so serious," Lord Grantham commented, the shadow of his smile remaining. "Whatever happens, I know that Anna will be very happy with your efforts."
Taking a final swipe of the brush upon His Lordship's arm, he paused, piecing the parts together.
"I hope so, m'lord."
The rain hammered against the window, only adding to the ambience of the arrangement. He may well have been able to arrange a few things but a miraculous change in the weather had not been one of them. The entirely appropriate conditions for mid-February meant that the picnic could not possibly take place out of doors, but their front room made for a perfect setting.
The tartan blanket was stretched out beneath them both, an unplanned but very happy reminder of the feast they had taken at Duneagle, with the same wicker basket planted in the centre, now only half-laden with goodies. With the help of Mrs Patmore, who had been glad of the distraction, John had made up a variety of sandwiches, wrapping and storing a few small pies to sit nicely alongside them. Of course Anna's sweet tooth also needed to be catered for; the little tea-shop in Ripon had done the job nicely with its cream cakes and jam tarts. It was only the fact that there were a couple too many to keep in the cupboard for the following days that he saw fit to tuck into a chocolate éclair and apricot tart, no matter if Anna's gleeful smile towards him suggested otherwise.
William was keen to help out on that score too, John cutting off a small portion of another éclair for him to sample. Not too much, else he wouldn't be able to sleep with the sugar rush. The cream and chocolate ended up smeared upon his fingers and cheeks, and they both chuckled as Anna kept him balanced in her lap, dabbing a damp cloth to clean up the mess. He had enjoyed his first picnic, even if he had wanted to feed his finger sandwiches to Billy Bear and Benjamin Bunny rather than eat them himself.
His blue eyes started to droop as the lamp lights flickered in the room, and his whimpers told that sleep was inevitable.
"Come on then, sweet pea, time for bed," Anna murmured, kissing his head and swaying him gently.
Will made a little mumble of disagreement, reaching one of his arms out towards the rest of the spread, before snuggling against her chest a few seconds later.
"I can take him," John offered, stretching his legs in front of him.
"I'm up now," Anna smiled, holding their precious cargo in her arms. "I don't think it'll take very long tonight, he's half there already."
John reclined back, looking up at their sleepy son and throwing him a wave. When the summer came around, he could have all the picnics he wanted out in the sunshine with the birds for curious company.
It didn't take long at all, and before he had the chance to clear much away she was back kneeling before him, her eyes bright.
"You needn't have gone to so much trouble," she chided gently, her beaming smile belying the angle of her words.
He watched as she smoothed the plaited edge of the blanket with her dainty fingers, the caress of her unthinking movements causing his throat to go dry.
"But you liked it?" he asked, feeling nervous for the slightest of seconds.
"I loved it," she exclaimed. John followed her hand with his eyes as she raised it from the floor, placing it upon his elbow and giving a small rub through his shirtsleeve, anchoring herself as she leaned to kiss his cheek.
He noticed how her eyes were glowing as she pulled back, not just owing to the amber of the lights surrounding them.
"And Will could be part of it too," she continued, the apples of her cheeks full as she beamed. "That made it absolutely perfect."
His heart beat happy in its rhythm, finally reassured that he had come to the right decision after all. Even if it was Valentine's Day, their boy was the centre of the world – the product of their great love for one another, and the love of their lives, aside from each other.
John plucked up Benjamin Bunny by one of his ears, sitting him on top of the basket. "Don't forget Billy and Benji."
Anna giggled, the sound reverberating like a beautiful harmony. "Of course I couldn't."
Swiftly the toy rabbit went back onto the floor, joining his bear friend as John prised open the basket's lid, a hint of mischief on his face.
"Now, I'm more than happy to make us some tea," he said, smirking as he noticed her rocking forward on her knees, attempting to sneak a peek at what was left within, "but I thought that perhaps this would make a nice change."
He was unable to stop himself from chuckling, observing the delight upon his wife's face as he produced the bottle of ginger ale.
Anna took the bottle from his grasp, her fingertips brushing against fire-warmed skin.
"Ale?" she noted. "Mr Bates, that's..."
"Racy of me?" he anticipated the ending of her statement. "Well, I am racy. Perhaps not quite as much as you, my darling, but I think I'm learning well enough."
She laughed again as she opened the bottle deftly.
"Well, it is a special day after all," she said, before taking a swig. "I think we can be let off."
Her other hand reached into the basket, the confusion plain upon her face when she encountered that it was empty.
"You've forgotten the glasses!"
He smirked as he carefully extricated the bottle from her hand, smoothing his palm against her skin in a tender caress before linking their hands together.
Not too later on, her hand would find his underneath the covers of their bed, her head pillowing upon his bare chest while they revelled in a sleepy and loving afterglow, making the most of one another and the serenity around them as their boy slumbered, snug and safe. Finding each other again and knowing that nothing had changed, passion and love remaining perfect partners.
"I didn't think you'd mind sharing, Mrs Bates."
He took a victorious swig, even happier about his decision when she pressed her lips to his, the taste of ginger passed between them with a shared giggle.
