"1. Do not marry at all.
2. But if you must avoid the Beauty Men*, Flirts, and the Bounders, Tailor's Dummies, and the Football Enthusiasts."
From 'Advice on Marriage to Young Ladies' by 'A Suffragette Wife,' 1918
The day had begun like any other, their early morning walk across the estate with the already-warm May sun in their backs as they negotiated the rough tracks across the farms and then the delights of the wildflower meadow that sat at the dip in the landscape before the long climb up to the Abbey. Johnny's insistence that could now walk the whole distance led to the usual mix of hurrying and dawdling, the need for one very much a result of the other. Anna and John couldn't help but smile as their boy collected daisies and cornflowers for 'his Caroline'. Anna and Lady Mary consistently denied their respective husband's teasing accusation that they encouraged this sweetness between their two children and yet it seemed to grow day by day whatever the truth. And so, as bells toiled from the rooms above, he was dispatched to the nursery for his day with the Downton children tightly clutching his offering, whilst his parents set to work.
A busy yet unremarkable morning had given way to a rushed midday dinner, barely time for a shared glance between them before they parted once more, Anna dispatched to the village on various errands and John pressed into service in the boot room. But by some silent agreement they reconvened over a pot of tea in the empty servant's hall to savour a brief respite before the ardour of the evening routine commenced.
"How long have we been married now?" Anna asked from across the oak table, her eyes bright as she contemplated the man opposite her.
She considered the top of his head, buried as it was in the early edition of the evening paper and, with his mind quite elsewhere, it was moment before he glanced up with surprise that perhaps he'd been addressed. His look of mild confusion solicited a repeat of the question.
"Oh, I don't know, Mrs Bates," his eyes attempting to match hers with what he supposed was about to be a tease, "A while."
"Mmm," Anna replied, frowning at his answer.
"Why?" he asked as he laid down his paper and, sensing a trap, asked, "Why? What have I done?
"And in that time," she started, deliberately avoiding his question, "We've learnt a great deal about one another, don't you agree?"
"Yes..." he replied cautiously, eyes narrowing.
"Well then, what do you think of this?" she asked, readying to pass him the letter she'd been reading.
The approaching footsteps caused her to hesitate, which was just as well as Mr Carson appeared in the doorway with a flustered grace that only he could truly manage, one hand grasped firmly in the other as had become his increasing habit of late.
"Ah, Anna," Charles began, his gaze casting quickly about the room to ascertain who was at risk of overhearing him, "Could I trouble you for a moment?"
She looked at him expectantly and waited for the inevitable instruction. His expression suggested to her it would either be to fetch something of a personal nature for Lady Mary or to lend a hand in the dining room that evening, both requests perfectly able to cause embarrassment. The last two years had brought neverending change to the Abbey, the requirement for intuitive economies paired with strategic investments on the road to developing a modern, outward looking estate, and whilst Charles was surprising them all with his reluctant acceptance of it all, he did still bristle and bemoan with each and every alteration, each simplification of the hierarchy. But, Anna thought when he didn't speak, the initial fluster having now, it seemed, turned into mute-inducing panic, this seemed to be a matter of quite a different order.
The silence continued. She could sense John's struggle to remain quiet and usually she'd encourage him, a few well-placed words from him could often jog a situation along but she warned him off with a glance.
"Mr Carson?" she prompted gently but he simply shook his head before turning and disappearing along the flagstone corridor towards his pantry.
The Bates' shared a look. This sort of behaviour had become more frequent in the last month, cryptic mutterings from the usually refined and private butler. In their own way they'd tried to discuss it with him, probe a little as to what it could all be about. Anna had even attempted to engage Mrs Hughes on the topic but she seemed either oblivious to it or reluctant to take her into her confidence. And there was no expectation that she should, but with the diminishing staff had come the strengthening of bonds, the four of them being known to partake of a social drink at the Downton Arms, inching ever closer to something akin to friendship.
"You'd better follow," John advised, "The mood he's in."
In silent agreement, Anna folded and returned her letter to the pocket of her dress, its contents forced to wait their turn. As she made her way towards his pantry, she imagined what would greet her, most likely his brooding figure ensconced behind his desk, a pile of ledgers challenging a tower of correspondence for his attention. She smoothed her skirts, took a deep breath and knocked, entering only when granted entry.
"Mr Carson?" Anna said gently as she stepped inside, "Can I help you with something?"
The normalcy of her enquiry masked the oddness of the sight in front of her. Standing on tiptoes, Charles was stretching up to the high narrow window that ran half the length of the room. His eyes were just level with the sill and, with one of the panes having opened a crack, he appeared to be trying to catch sight of something, his head twisting to try and get a better view.
"Sshhh," he ordered under his breath, not turning round but straining to catch the words that, Anna realised now, were just audible if you focused hard enough. She moved forward to listen.
"...no longer sure..."
"...living and working together..."
"...too much..."
Anna cast a look sideways but Charles' attention was resolute.
"...you're right, of course..."
"...no, I agree...no love...not anymore..."
The snatched phrases came to abrupt halt as the person who'd uttered them was interrupted, the distant call of a name that was unintelligible from their position, the sound of shoes on gravel rescinding into the distance. Charles' shoulders visibly dropped as he turned and at last met Anna's gaze which by now was one of utter bewilderment.
"I know," he said, an almost confession-like tone to his words, "You think I've lost a hold of my senses."
"Well," she started, struggling for quite the right turn of phrase, "You're not prone to being irrational, on the whole," she offered sagely, "So, whatever it is, it probably isn't that."
She paused, wondering if he would respond, elaborate at all as to whatever thoughts were plaguing him. But instead he merely retired to his desk chair and sat, his face one of contemplation.
After a minute, he looked up and, after what felt like several more, he began.
Left alone, John had taken up his newspaper once more. It seemed that 1930 was going to continue very much as it had begun, endless news of an economic slump that seemed to be pervading much of Europe and America, its tentacles no doubt reaching around the world. The front page was dominated by the exploits of a Yorkshire lass attempting to fly to Australia of all places. He'd been following the story with interest and he knew Anna was keen for whatever update he could share with her each evening. It had become an indulgent ritual as they readied for bed to speculate at what she might have seen from the cockpit of her plane that day, sights they knew they'd never experience. They were luckier than some, that they knew. She'd seen something America and he of Africa, both had been to France and Italy as the lives of those upstairs had required. But it had only fuelled their desire to experience more, however much they longed for the familiarity of a cold and damp England when they were away.
The clock on the wall ticked loudly, the minutes rushing by unnoticed until the distant sound of a chime caused him to look up. Anna and Charles had been gone longer than he'd expected and whatever it was, it was in danger of delaying the dressing bell. He resolved to give it another ten minutes and then go and interrupt them if they hadn't surfaced.
He was two thirds of the way into an article on the opening of the world's tallest skyscraper just a few days before when he was again disturbed, this time by the familiar chatter of Mrs Hughes and Mrs Patmore. They entered the room together but it wasn't long before the cook disappeared towards the kitchens, the shrill call to Daisy signalling she'd returned.
"All alone, Mr Bates?" Elsie asked with mild surprise. "I thought Anna would be with you."
"She was here," he replied without commitment.
It wasn't as if he was above curiosity as to whatever drama may be unfolding but he was damned if was putting himself in the middle of it. But if Elsie found the answer to be lacking there wasn't much time to dwell on it as Anna appeared around the corner, followed closely behind by the butler, his serenity seemingly restored.
"Ah, Mrs Hughes," he pronounced, "You've returned."
"I have," she acknowledged without emotion. "Have you rung the bell?"
Charles gave a slight shake of his head, "Not yet, but I must shortly." He paused briefly before asking, "Are we all dining here this evening or at our respective abodes? Only I don't believe I have yet been informed," adding pointedly, "Although I presume that Mrs Patmore has?"
His tone struck John as odd. It was clearly a dig at one of them but to whom, he wasn't sure. He saw Anna eyes flick briefly to the housekeeper who's own retained their steely look towards her husband, her body held stiff as she seemed to carefully consider her response.
"Mr Bates and I will eat here, Mr Carson," Anna started, attempting a warm smile in an effort to break the sudden tension in the room, "If that's alright with you? Lady Mary wanted my help with something after dinner and so Johnny will be sleeping in the nursery tonight."
"I see," Charles nodded his consent, his eyes turning towards Elsie. "What about us, Mrs Hughes? Do we have a plan?"
But the answer, had it ever come, would easily have been drowned out by the bustling reappearance of the cook, Daisy half a step behind, and their frank debate on whether a cheese sauce or simple rue was to be the order of the day. And as the butler and housekeeper slipped silently away from them all, and indeed each other, it was left to John to wonder, the paper once more firmly in his grasp, what on earth could possibly be going on.
*The internet seems unsure as to what 'beauty men' might refer to. I've opted to agree with The Irish Times and taken it to mean those who worry about their appearance above all else. The early 20th century of the gym fanatic, perhaps.