John checked his tie one final time and pulled the borrowed morning coat from the wardrobe with the hat that bore the distinct scent of Lord Grantham's cologne. He worked his arms through the sleeves, noting the slight strain as his broader shoulders filled it more than Lord Grantham's did, but managed to find a comfortable pose. Reaching for the hat he almost flipped it off the chair but caught it before the shining fabric could touch the floor.
With a whistle of relief, he sorted the remainder of his appearance and directed himself out the door. There was little life in the inn, most of those occupying it the night before sleeping off the effects in their homes and anyone else hoping to get a look at the procession arranged to celebrate the marriage of the eldest Crawley daughter. John's shoes clacked ever-so-slightly on the cobblestones as he walked toward the church.
The winding streets, strewn as they were with garlands of flowers and waving banners, welcomed any and all to the celebrations. Celebrations that began with the steady stream of people who crushed and bustled into lines aiming toward the church like ants following a picnic. In fact, the density of the crowd was so much John had to watch every step so he neither trod on a foot or a child while still keeping a pace that left him with enough distance not to bump and bang against those about him.
However, his efforts were not as successful as he wished when his shoulder collided with another man's for a moment. He turned, ready to apologize, but could not get a word out as the man eyed him up and down before snorting and walking away. Gawking at him, John shuffled back into the press and soon reached the doors forcing everyone to walk single file.
It was like being stuffed into a funnel, or a mineshaft, and John tried to move his arms closer to his body by the strain on the morning coat forced him to simply tilt sideways through the doors as those behind him would not pause for a moment. Almost stumbling through the door, John righted himself and turned to the usher standing just inside the shadows of the doors.
His face lit up and he extended a hand for a hearty shake. "Sight for sore eyes there, Mr. Branson."
"Glad to be of any help I can." Branson handed over a program, "Careful, I think some of the ink's a bit damp."
"Accident at the printer's?"
"More like Mary's got herself a bit of a nervous tick for everything to be perfect."
"She is the bride."
"And no one's going to notice a few spelling errors in a program they're not going to read anyway." Branson handed a program around John to a couple glaring at their distracting conversation. "They only want it to one day show their grandchildren, 'And this was the day I attended Lady Mary Crawley's wedding' before they go on to enumerate their other accomplishments."
"Which we can all hope are many."
"I've nothing against their accomplishments."
"Then what is it?"
Branson shrugged, "Perhaps I just don't understand the brouhaha."
"You're married."
"We married in a tiny Dublin chapel after our bans were read. It was a quiet ceremony attended by Sybil's sisters and a few of my cousins, who brought my mother, but that was it. The little reception we hosted afterward was in a lovely little pub and we honeymooned in the country at one of my cousin's farms."
"I'm sure she was lulled to sleep by the sounds of the wildlife." John snorted, "But you're right. I wouldn't endure this crucible for anything if it were my wedding."
"Given that no one'll marry you I guess you never have to worry about that." John turned to see a man with perfectly set hair, a jaw set in permanent disapproval, a tight smile of both caustic sarcasm and barely constrained frustration, and the coldest eyes he had seen outside of his own wife. "The consultant at a mining operation doesn't present much by way of prospects."
"No more than the manager, I'd guess." John extended his hand, "You're Thomas Barrow I believe."
Barrow looked down at John's hand and there was the faintest of tingles at the back of John's neck like he should retract his appendage before the man spat on him. "And you're John Bates. Since we both already know one another it'd seem a bit useless to pretend we want to know one another more."
"We don't know one another at all, Mr. Barrow." John took his hand back, "I've been hoping to meet you since your running of the mine is commendable."
"In other circumstances I'd thank you for what I take as a compliment but, in this, I'll just warn you away from my job."
"I don't want your job, Mr. Barrow. I'm just here to assess a possible improvement to the mining operation. It's a consultation to make the lives of workers better." John narrowed his eyes, "Isn't that better?"
"The men handle the conditions as they are. I'd suggest against upsetting the delicate balance."
"Your delicate balance?" John risked, bristling with a roll of his shoulders. "I'm sure the saying that a man, once in possession of a little power, just can't help seeking more."
"Are you accusing me of something?"
"Not at all." John tipped his hat to him, "Enjoy the ceremony Mr. Barrow."
"Perhaps I should advise you of the same thing."
"But you won't?"
"That might make unfair assumptions."
Barrow's lip twitched into a position that had all the hairs on John's body standing straight up. It was one of a secret someone cannot hold to themselves much longer as they feed on the delicious nature of the information they hold. John barely stopped himself reaching for the man but Barrow slipped backward and the flow toward the remaining seats swept him away.
"He's a special kind of snake." Branson shook his head. "Can't help but lord whatever power he does have over everyone else."
"He's got something to hide." John worried the edge of the hat.
"Of course he does. We told we-"
"Not that," John waved Branson's argument away, noticing he tried to bend the brim of the hat out flat before forcing himself to hold it properly. "Something else. People with that kind of glee about information they hold that you don't are like street magicians. It's about forcing people to look somewhere else."
"What do you think he's hiding?"
"It's personal, whatever it is." John snorted, "Explains why he's an aloof bastard. Get anyone too close and they'll know his secret."
"I do hope he's not…" Branson motioned John closer to whisper, "A bone smuggler."
"I always preferred the term 'sword swallower' but I guess it's all speculation." John shivered, "But I wouldn't wish that on any man."
"Why not?"
"Because we're not kind to those we consider unnatural." John sighed, "There was a man in my unit in the Army who… let's just say the term 'ass bandit' was not the worst they called him before he killed himself."
"As much as I dislike Barrow as a person, I truly hope his secret is something like a gambling problem or that he tends to his personal needs in a personal way."
John snorted a laugh, "I think we're definitely losing the focus of today's ceremony."
"It's not started yet and we're not in anyone's way here." Branson waved an arm toward the straggling final entrants. "Now we just need to get to our seats."
"I might be trapped in the rear since I wasted my chance at a closer seat."
"Nonsense. As far as Robert's concerned you're a friend of the family and he wanted you up with us." Branson clapped a hand on John's shoulder and guided him up the aisle to weave through the settling groups.
John followed Branson into a pew and tried to relax his shoulders so he did not pull the seam of the morning coat too tightly across his back. There was a bit of room between himself and the end of the bench but Branson pulled his arm as John tried to scoot sideways to give himself a bit more space. Frowning, John went to ask about it but the man at the organ changed his tune and everyone turned to see Matthew enter with his best man.
Ooohs and Ahhhs trailed after them like their own train as Matthew and the other man settled at the top of the aisle. The organ played a bit more softly and two sets of girls, followed almost too quickly by two sets of boys, worked up the aisle to scatter rose petals and then hold the pillow with the rings. They giggled and grinned while the mothers heaved their exasperated sighs from their trapped positions.
As the music altered slightly again, John noted the three women gathered at the back of the church. The first, a dark-haired woman with soft eyes, snuck her own glances toward Branson and by the expansion of his chest and the glint of the ring on the woman's finger, John would have put safe money on this being Mrs. Crawley-Branson. She took her position at the front and the next woman started down the aisle.
The difference between the two was staggering. Where Mrs. Crawley-Branson held herself high with an air of one who did not care much for convention, this woman seemed almost crippled by it. Her jaw quivered and her large brown eyes darted about the room as if hoping no one noticed the torrent of emotions flooding her face. John nudged Branson, whispering out of the corner of his mouth.
"Who's the blonde woman?"
"Edith, Sybil and Mary's sister. She's younger than Mary but older than Sybil." Branson sighed, "I always feel bad for Lady Edith because she wants so much and yet it's as if every turn is against her."
"How so?"
"Mary's a bit of a hog for attention and she snipes Edith any chance she gets." Branson shrugged, "Not that Edith takes it lying down but she's more content to be victim and martyr than to fight back. And when she does… it's not usually with all of her ducks in a row, if you know what I mean."
"So it's more like watching two alley cats scramble for scraps?"
Branson nodded, "I've seen street curs with more dignity in a fight than those two."
"Tragic."
John almost said something else but the last sight caught his eye. While everyone once else gave a gasp of surprise and adoration at Mary Crawley in her magnificent wedding dress, John could only focus on the woman holding the train. The woman whose hands managed it so delicately he knew she could find every stitch in it blindfolded.
Their eyes met for only a moment and she inclined her head just enough so John recognized the motion in his direction, but then she returned to her work. The professionalism in her pace, in her grip, and the line of her as she flared out the train and skirt for Mary to ascend the steps spoke of an artist. And when she waited for the vows and the rings before taking the edge of her dress in hand again, John found himself struggling to push a stray thought out of his mind begging for her to handle anything of his with as much care.
But whatever thoughts about Anna Smith John allowed to wander into his mind, found themselves pushed out of the way when a scream and an explosion rocked the church. He ducked down, pulling Branson with him, and peeked over the top of the pew to assess the damage. Fire roared by the entrance and Matthew pushed Mary back away from the flames as they licked and nipped at the door and the entryway.
Anna dragged the plethora of material away and, without thinking, John jumped over the edge of the pew toward them. The morning coat ripped, the jagged tearing sound only bothering John long enough to rip one side off his body to wrap around his face. Shaking the other off his arm, he handed it to Anna before flipping a knife from his pocket. He held it toward her, noting how she shredded the material in her hands as if it were nothing, and offered them to Matthew and Mary before securing her section over her nose and mouth, and she nodded.
It was like cutting a life line as John dragged the knife through the beautiful train and veil. The jagged edge caught and skidded but he managed to get enough away that the burning edges could be kicked toward the smoking and spitting doors. John flipped his knife closed and helped Anna push the bride and groom back from the entrance. Screams of terror finally reached John and he tried to call over the sound but his voice vanished in the din of panic.
Someone grabbed his shirt and John looked down to see Anna. She pointed toward a back entrance and mimed moving people toward the area. He nodded, pushing her slightly toward Mary and Matthew and then directing his arm toward the space. Anna grabbed the arms of the bride and groom, carrying them away as Matthew discarded his coat, tearing it to strips to hand out to those he passed. Mary followed suit, ripping the veil from her head, and did what she could as Anna shuffled them away.
John grabbed arms and canes and even collars to toss the occupants of the church toward the rear exit. They hustled and hurried, stumbling and bumping one another in their rush to escape the licking flames. But they tripped and some fell as Branson led a brigade with sand buckets like salmon upstream to try and halt the spread of the greedy fire.
Dodging them and still trying to get everyone out in whatever semblance of order he could manage, John ducked between pews to make sure no one was left behind. An older man, struggling to rise from the floor, had only the help of a man with a rather nasty gash coming from a rising bump on his forehead. John dipped down, hoisting both men to their feet, and then working the older of the two over his shoulders to carry. One hand held the man's leg while his other grabbed at the second man's collar to hustle them toward the rear door.
The smoke and noise deafened and choked John, even through his makeshift cover, and when he finally found sunlight again he blinked like a blind man seeing for the first time. Everywhere was chaos as mothers screamed for their children, fathers shouted at friends to locate the perpetrator, and the bridal party tried to settle the crowd and congregation to make attempts at a line for buckets.
John worked through the people, pushing and shoving when needed to get past the frantic and the frenzied, and found a bench occupied by a thin woman treating a shorter, portly woman breathing in wheezes and gasps. Forcing the man in his hand to sit down, John knelt to work the other man off his back and settled him on the ground. He grabbed the man's chin, looking in his eyes and then holding up a finger to get the man to follow the motion.
With a nod, John took a deep breath not clogged by smoke. "You're concussed sir and need to stay awake."
"He took a nasty fall." The man on the bench managed, trying to move but then wincing as a hand went to his head. "Someone shoved him in a hurry and he banged his head on the floor."
"What about you?" John pivoted on his toes, examining the other man.
"Someone's cane caught me above the eye." He gave a nervous laugh. "I'm just lucky it missed my eye."
"You certainly are." John took another deep breath, "If I leave you here will you be alright?"
"We'll be fine." The man with the bump swelling to resembling a goose egg wanted to hatch from under his skin shrugged. "It was already more than we're worth for you to help us."
"It's never too much to help someone." John extended a hand, "John Bates."
"Joseph Moseley." He pointed to the man on the ground, "And that's Albert Mason. He's a friend of mine."
"He's a friend of my daughter." The man blinking to keep himself awake mumbled with a smile into his beard. "He's been teaching her things."
"Mr. Moseley?" John frowned at Mr. Mason, "Please make sure you get him to a doctor as soon as you can manage it. He's not speaking coherently and I don't want to risk there being anything seriously wrong with him."
"We'll all be in a state if we can get out of this mess." The thin woman's voice was almost a whisper but John had the sneaking suspicion this was her normal volume.
"Are you trained to help them?" John drew his finger in a circle in midair around the two men and the woman swaying on her section of the bench.
"Trained enough." She smiled, "I'm Nurse Baxter."
"I'll send someone to help you, Ms. Baxter, as soon as I can."
"No need." She nodded over his shoulder and John dodged out of the way as a young girl practically tore to their sides, dragging another old man with her.
The girl fell on Mr. Mason, clutching him tightly as the second old man put a hand to Mr. Moseley's shoulder. "Are you alright son?"
"I'm fine Dad."
"I thought you fell behind."
"Mr. Mason-" Mr. Moseley stumbled and stuttered for words as his father's mustache twitched. "They would've trampled him and he's concussed."
"Concussed!" The girl shrieked and clung to Mr. Mason, huge wracking sobs taking over her body.
"He'll be alright Daisy," Ms. Baxter soothed, rubbing a hand over her shoulder. "He just needs rest and to have a doctor see to him. He'll be fine."
"What about Mrs. Patmore?" Daisy grabbed for the swaying woman, who then turned her head enough to not vomit all over Ms. Baxter or Daisy.
John gaped and then backed away from the scene, leaving the scene in what he hoped were capable hands. He turned back to the church, the crowd having backed away or dispersed as those families in possession of all their members fled from the fire. But with the smoke billowing half-heartedly and the rear of the building free of scorching, John peeked inside.
Sure enough there was Branson, with Matthew and the best man, leading their men with empty buckets out of the building. All were soot streaked and singed, smelling undesirably of burnt hair and skin. Branson nodded toward John and came up to him as Matthew broke off to see to his wife of less than an hour.
"Did you get that old man out?"
"They'll both be fine." John took a breath, almost afraid to ask. "What about in there?"
"No bodies but ours. Everyone got out safely, if not a little worse for wear on this fine Saturday." Branson dropped the empty buckets in his hand and slumped his weight on a low wall edging the path. "Who'd want to ruing a wedding?"
"The same people trying to bring down the Crawley mining venture most likely." John pulled at the fabric around his neck and laughed at it. "I guess I owe Lord Grantham a new morning coat."
"I'm sure he'll just be happy you're alive." Branson stood up again. "And I need to reassure my wife that I'm alive as well."
John nodded and kicked at a small rock. It pinged off the stone and hit the side of the church. He sighed, shoving his hands into his pockets, and turned on his heel to leave but stopped when he saw Anna there.
"I do hope you're not here to tell me how angry you are I destroyed the dress you slaved to make."
"If the circumstances hadn't been a choice between her life and the dress, I might be cross with you." Anna shrugged, "She's alive and everyone who attended her wedding is as well. Moreover, everyone saw the dress in its glory. The only dismal part is now I don't have enough fabric to make the christening dresses for her children."
"I don't know," John made a show of examining Mary, arguing with someone in the distance, "If she only has two you might have enough."
Anna laughed but her face fell almost immediately. John followed her eye line to see a man, the one who bumped his shoulder earlier, walking toward an immaculate Thomas Barrow. They exchanged a few words before the man walked away with his back toward them.
"His shirt." Anna's voice was barely audible but John turned to her.
"What about his shirt?"
"I mended a shirt yesterday with a rather extraordinary tear. One identical to the shirt that man wore." Anna's eyes flicked back and forth at the speed of her thoughts. "How odd to see him here."
"And talking to Thomas Barrow." John paused, "Although, Barrow did intimate something earlier."
"What?"
"He said he wouldn't wish me to enjoy the ceremony as it would make for unfair assumptions."
"Sometimes I think that man values his brains more highly than they're worth."
"He certainly maintains a very high opinion of himself." John pointed to the scrap of his morning coat dangling about her neck. "I hope that helped."
"It made it easier and I won't be coughing and spitting as much soot as some." Anna glanced back toward the path of the retreating man. "Something about him gives me a funny feeling."
"Like he doesn't belong here or like he might've been behind this?" John jerked a thumb toward the scorched church.
"I'm not one to believe in coincidence, Mr. Bates, so a man who came into town yesterday and had me repair a spare shirt with a tear in it you couldn't get from any work I recognize…" She shrugged, "That's someone who sets my teeth on edge."
"It's got my ears up." John offered her his hand, "Might I escort you home?"
"I think that'd be best." Anna sighed, placing her hand in his. "Though I apologize I won't get a chance to dance with you dressed in our finest."
"Then I'll need to find another occasion." John smiled, "If you're still willing."
"I think I'd be willing under a great many more dire circumstances." Anna grinned, "I never turn down the promise for dancing."
"Then it's a date."