A/N: Thank you so much for all your responses so far! I look forward to crafting my future chapters from your feedback. The general idea of this fic is that each chapter will roughly represent 1 episode of Banna in a Downton season. Also, I think the pace will pick up soon. (Remember, S4 of DA started off with 2 fluffy episodes, before the you-know-what hit the fan...)
My undying gratitude goes to the keen eyes of Awesomegreentie, who has refused my offer of my yet-to-be firstborn child as a token of my gratitude and so must settle for this public shout-out. ALSO, a huge round of applause is reserved for bugs, who deserves a shrine in her honor for all her sharp insights, wisdom, and other Many Thoughts on my writing, among other things.
A quick note: I can't guarantee that Dr. Clarkson is the most well-informed of doctors, though certainly well-intentioned... (OK, Adams, stop talking now.)
Dr. Clarkson knew of the Bates', of course, having served Downton and its inhabitants for the greater part of his life, but he could not recall ever having received either of them in his office. But then again, they both struck him as the type to consider a visit to the hospital only in times of the direst need.
"You understand that science — medicinal science, that is — has not advanced to a point that these things can be determined with exactitude," he gently reminded, peering at the married couple with his habitual, cautious squint.
John was suddenly seized by an urge to leave; he felt he already knew everything he had come to discover. But the weight of Anna's hand in his, clasped tightly across his lap, kept him seated.
"Yes, we understand," she said, for once the more poised of the two.
The doctor leaned forward and began to speak again, deliberately and apologetically. He prided himself on his commitment to the plain, hard truth, but that did not ease the burden of delivering unwelcome news. "But I feel it within my duty to caution you to be prepared for the worst, given your age—" he nodded at Anna "—and your history." He nodded at John.
"You mean, I've been married twice and have yet to produce a child," John said drily.
Dr. Clarkson gave him a long, significant look. "Precisely."
"So, you mean — we probably won't be having a child," Anna said with a shake of her head, her lips tightly pursed.
"It's not… impossible. But I'm afraid the chances are very low."
John clenched Anna's hand tightly at the statement. He could hardly breathe, but he was determined to hide his current state of mind from both his wife and the physician. "Is there nothing we can do?" he heard himself asking, his voice steady and soft.
Dr. Clarkson eyed them for a moment, hesitant, before opening his mouth. "If I might be so bold as to speak openly…" He trailed off delicately.
"It's all right, Dr. Clarkson," Anna jumped in. "We servants are made of hardier stuff than His Lordship." John gave a stiff smile in response.
"Well, there are certain theories that particular times of the month are… more conducive to conceiving."
It took both John and Anna a moment to absorb this new information. Then they stared at each other blankly, neither really knowing how to react, as the doctor allowed himself an imperceptible sigh. It was amazing, indeed, how little anyone knew about the intricacies of the human reproductive system; even what he knew, as a doctor, was tentative at best. In polite but precise terms, he briefly sketched out his instructions to the couple.
"Thank you, Dr. Clarkson," Anna finally said, privately wondering what was running through her husband's mind, beneath his stony exterior. She gathered herself and stood up. "We much appreciate your time."
"Not at all," the physician replied, rising to his feet.
Wordlessly, John grabbed his cane and nodded at Dr. Clarkson with a courteous smile — what a pleasant smile that man has, the doctor thought with some degree of surprise — before following his wife out the door.
Anna hooked her arm through John's, who instinctively bent his elbow to accommodate her, but neither spoke a word as they ambled across the hospital courtyard.
"Mr. Bates…"
John gazed down at his wife, whose eyes twinkled with a mixture of mirth and concern.
"You're brooding again."
He chuckled in response, more out of appreciation for his wife than genuine amusement. "I suppose I am." Glancing up at the gateway just then, he caught a slight movement as something quickly vanished out of sight. Someone walking out of view, he supposed, though he could not remember having seen anyone in front of them.
"I wish you'd just say what's on your mind, for once," Anna said, sighing. He shot a quick glance at her, recognizing the exasperation in her tone. It wasn't the first time she had expressed this frustration with him by any means, but lately it had been growing sharper and more frequent in nature.
They had reached the gate and stepped out into the street, bustling with its fair share of people. His mind spinning to think of a reply to his wife, John scanned the street, simultaneously hoping to catch sight of whoever might have just walked out from the same gateway. But no suspects presented themselves.
Shrugging off his curiosity, he turned his head to face Anna and was opening his mouth to speak, when — something just within his line of vision caught his attention.
He broke free of Anna's arm and hastily limped over to a tree, peering behind it. Young Henry looked up at him sheepishly, his hair and clothes as dusty as ever. His toy wasn't within sight. "Hello," John greeted, his smile and tone betraying his delighted surprise, "Master Henry Stowe, was it?"
Young Master Stowe nodded as he crossed his arms. "And you're John Bates, valet to the earl."
The valet could not seem to stop grinning down at the boy. "That's right. You've got quite the memory," he said, pleased at having been remembered.
"Who's this?" Anna's lips were already curled up in an anticipatory smile.
John cocked his head towards the boy. "This is Henry Stowe, from the village. We had a bit of a run-in earlier this week." He turned to face Henry again. "Henry, I'd like to present my wife, Mrs. Bates."
"How do you do, Henry," Mrs. Bates said on cue, shooting her husband a sly, amused look.
The child paused for a moment to give her a nervous look over, but it was to John that he blurted out, "I wasn't following you, I swear!"
"Why would I think you were?" John asked in mock astonishment. Then, to the surprise of both his wife and the boy, John knelt to the ground, his hand slipping into his pocket and his eyes steady on the youth. "Actually, I'm glad I caught you."
Henry flinched and stumbled back a step, eyeing John's hidden hand. "Why? What is it?"
"Here." John drew his lightly fisted hand towards Henry, whose eyes were growing by the moment. I wish he weren't so afraid of me, the man thought to himself, as he opened his palm and spoke in the gentlest tone he could muster. "I bought this for you, as an apology for running you into the ground."
In his palm lay a miniature replica of a Bristol Fighter. It was well-proportioned, painted, and even complete with propellers, if a little crudely built. Its body had been carved out of a single piece of wood, it seemed, and had the rough, rounded quality of such wooden toys. But the unknown craftsman had thoughtfully replaced the delicate wings with sturdy sheets of metal, and the nose of the propeller gleamed brightly and proudly as well.
For an instant, Henry was like any other child, discovering the unforgettable joy of an unexpected gift. He gasped at its sight, his face flushing. But then he looked up, his eyes clouded with an uncertainty and apprehension that aged him. Here, again, was the strange volatility that had piqued John's curiosity at their first meeting. The child was petulant and aggressive at times — then fearful and hesitant in the next instant. This constant nervous energy perturbed John, though he couldn't say why.
"Take it. It's yours," he said.
All three of them held their breath — though none of them were conscious of it — as Henry reached out slowly and, with a last searching look at John's face, gingerly picked up the plane. "Does it fly?"
"Not exactly," John replied as he used his cane to stand up again, "But try pulling on that string there, by the tail. Gently… Now, let it go."
The propeller whirred into action, spinning about exuberantly and triumphantly for a few seconds before coming to a gradual stop. Henry's eyes shone.
"You might say thank you," Anna said, breaking the silence. She had been watching her husband interact with the child with an odd, bemused smile on her face.
Henry glanced up at his tall benefactor, his face a curious blank, and both John and Anna sensed that the boy was neither used to expressions of gratitude nor being told to say them.
Then, with a sudden, embarrassed exclamation of "Thank you!" Henry turned on his heels and took off, his new acquisition in tow.
Always an element of surprise to that boy, John mused, watching Henry disappear out of sight. He then congratulated himself on his successful purchase of the toy. Meeting Henry in town had been fortuitous, indeed. There had been something about the boy's makeshift airplane from their earlier encounter, presumably crafted by the child's own clumsy but eager hands, that had lingered in John's mind that day. In the bookstore, it had then seamlessly merged with the memory of a book John's own uncle had once bought him, a long time ago. A collection of the strange, fascinating tales of Greek mythological heroes and gods, the book had been the first non-primer book young John had been able to fully call his own; it was one of his few treasured possessions even now. Such thoughts had inspired him to act on an utter whim that day in the bookstore, pocketing the plane after its purchase.
"Mr. Bates, I believe you've got yourself an admirer."
John smiled. "I thought he would give me a kick in the shins again," he remarked.
"I suppose you bought that for him when you bought those candles for me earlier."
He nodded. "I don't know what prompted me to buy it. I didn't think I'd actually manage to give it to him." At this point, he felt obliged to provide his feeble excuse for having bought the item nonetheless. "I thought I would end up passing it onto you to give to Master George."
"I must say," she said, puckering her lips together in an effort to contain her grin, "It's quite a present to buy for someone you didn't think you'd even get to pass it on to."
He chuckled as he took her arm in his again and began walking down the street, the visit to Dr. Clarkson temporarily banished from their minds. "Why, are you jealous?"
"Well, you've never given me an airplane before."
They were entering the quieter outskirts of the village, with no one in sight. Struck by a spark of mischief, John swung his wife around a parked automobile (even sleepy Downton was not immune to the indomitable tidal wave of modernity), which conveniently hid them from potential would-be spectators. "But I've given you other gifts — doesn't that count for something?" And to demonstrate, he gave her a chaste peck on the lips as she giggled.
"Now, that's enough of that," Anna admonished. "Or you'll cause a scandal in the village."
John obediently drew back with a mischievous grin, and they continued on their way. A faint chill hung in the air, reluctant to depart even after the wearying, long winter, but it went unnoticed by the couple; any time spent together outdoors tended to afford them both enough pleasure and warmth to ignore anything but the harshest of weather. And besides, today was, all in all, warmer than it had been in months.
John felt utterly at peace with himself, though he wasn't conscious of it. His thoughts lingered instead on the soft tread of his wife's shoes, and the smart tilt of her hat. He had a particular fondness for her hair, in its every shape and arrangement: when it was down and braided, as at night; when it was piled into a hat and concealed from view, as now; when it was pulled tightly into a neat bun, as during the work day; and when she let it tumble down loose, his favorite of them all.
"I didn't know you were fond of children." Her voice broke through the silence.
"I didn't, either," John admitted, emerging from his thoughts. "That is, I like them enough, but I don't know what to do with them."
"Well, I think you'd make a wonderful father."
She had uttered the words casually. But their implication was at once painfully clear to both, and the memory of the doctor's visit returned in a rush.
"Do you?" he flashed her a smile, one she recognized as being forced. "That's good to know."
She tried to search his face for a hint of his true sentiments. "You do want children, don't you?"
"Of course." He frowned, as though he could not understand the source of her her confusion. "You know I do." But seeing that his wife did not seem completely convinced — how she read him so easily, he still did not know, and marveled at it — John admitted, "I didn't always. I barely thought of it, when I was with…" He trailed off, the unspoken name hanging between them. "But I do want them, with you. I always have. It would be a dream."
She seemed more than satisfied with his answer this time, though there was not a little tang of sadness in his words now.
They lapsed into an uneasy silence, each lost in thought. Truly, he had not questioned his childlessness throughout his first marriage — had even, on occasion, thanked the heavens for it. But now it began to feel like a heavy curse, yet another deficiency that marred his worthiness of his wife…
"It must be my fault," John said out loud.
She might have guessed. Anna gave a sigh, then came to a stop to face him squarely. His shoulders had the characteristic hunch of a man burdened with a weight too great for him to bear, and she longed, as she always did, to lighten his load for him. She reached up to his face and stroked his cheek, ever so gently, feeling him press into her hand as he took comfort in her touch.
"I've deprived you of the chance to be a mother." His words were both dejected and utterly convinced.
"It might be my fault."
His response was quick, emphatic. "That's impossible."
She took his hands in hers with a firm set of her mouth and the faintest hint of a twinkle in her eyes. "Mr. Bates, why are you so determined to blame yourself for everything?" she demanded in affectionate exasperation. "And do you honestly believe, after all we've been through, that I would love you any less, whatever Dr. Clarkson says?"
"No, but that's not—"
"I'm happy exactly as I am, right at this moment." She gave his hands a squeeze. "As we are."
His shoulders relaxed, and his fingers roamed over hers affectionately as he finally smiled back in return. "As am I."
They seemed to lean in at the same exact time — it was always difficult to tell which of them had moved first, as the other naturally followed so soon after — and they kissed again, this time neither caring a whit if anyone could see them.