A/N: Thanks to bugs and awesomegreentie, as always, for their sharp eyes and keen input! If anything feels a bit off, that's entirely my fault (and you should let me know) - I've been much too busy and sleep-deprived to be at my 100%, I'm afraid, but I didn't want to wait any longer to update.
The head valet of Downton Abbey, personal valet to the Earl of Grantham, took great pride and pleasure in dressing himself every morning. He could never tire of it, as monotonous and invariable as the process was: the feel of sliding his smooth, newly-ironed trousers on; the snug layers of his uniform encasing him within, one by one; the stiff collar, upright and secure; the polished sheen of the fob chain, looped carefully through a buttonhole and disappearing into his pocket; and the buttons themselves, shined and buffed to a respectable luster. Everything was meticulously done, immaculate when finished.
To John Bates, it meant order. Discipline. Control. A long time ago, the strict routines, rules, and regulations of the military had kept the chaos at bay. And when that had crumbled, he had gradually — finally — regained his sense of law and order in the age-old traditions that sustained the world of English aristocracy.
The pleasure he took in this first task of the day and in the unchanging routine of his duties at the manor, as well as the comfort that came with the sense of gratification, had only intensified twice-fold in each of his returns to Downton after an extended absence: following his stint at the Red Lion, then again at his return from prison.
He gave his tie one last tug as he studied his reflection in the mirror critically. Then, dusting off the invisible pieces of lint and dust on his sleeves, he turned to face his wife.
"Can I ask you something, Mr. Bates?"
Something about her tone alerted him to trouble. "Certainly."
"I won't ask it again, but I can't seem to get it out of my mind."
That sounded ominous. His heart thudded in his chest as his mind worked furiously to predict her next words. Had he forgotten to wash the teacups before retiring to bed again? Or perhaps some task she had assigned him to do had slipped his mind…
She took a deep, shuddering breath. "Won't you tell me what you were up to, in York?"
His heart sank. There had been a few trips to York in the past year alone, but there was only one she could have been referring to. It was the one she had often been curious about, and incidentally the one of which he could not reveal a detail.
Stalling, he feigned innocence with a frown. "You'll have to be more specific. I've been to York many —"
Her tone was impatient, clipped. "Last spring, the day before the bazaar. The day Mr. Green died. What were you up to that day?" The words rushed out in an unstoppable torrent, pouring into the atmosphere and spreading about; then they hung, terrible and irretrievable, thickening the air between them.
But he had not yet comprehended her tacit accusation, for three words were ringing loudly in his ears. "Mr. Green, dead?" he dumbly repeated.
She seemed taken aback by his reaction. "Yes, dead. They say he was hit by a bus, in Piccadilly…" Now her words came faltering and unsure, matching the mounting bewilderment on her husband's face. If he really were innocent — neither she nor Mrs. Hughes had found an excuse to mention it to John, and Lord Gillingham had not yet returned to Downton for an overnight visit to show off his new valet…
He could not have known. He hadn't known. Her head swam.
In the meantime, the accusations had finally begun to strike home. "And you thought… You didn't think that I —" He paused. But for the first time in their long relationship, Anna did not jump in to defend him, to swear her unswerving faith in him.
The realization was crushing.
"How could you think that of me?" He spoke in a pained, hoarse whisper — he could not trust his voice at the moment.
But how could she not? a quiet voice said in his mind, disturbingly clear and disassociated from his muddled train of thoughts. After all, he knew the extent of his own rage and darkness — he knew what he was capable of. It had been, perhaps, only a matter of time for her to see it as well.
Anna was stricken with guilt and horror as the apparent truth of the situation sank in. "You asked him where he lived in London," she said in a shrinking voice, stumbling over her words and wringing her hands. "And the way you looked at him — I knew you knew — and you were gone for so long that day, that very same day, and without telling anyone what you'd been up to…"
His heart was breaking. They both sensed it, and she frantically, desperately wished she could take it all back. A single minute. If she could turn back time to just a minute ago, she would be content to never again wish for anything else.
"Well," he finally said, his voice full of resignation and carrying a hint of bitterness, "At least you've admitted it was him."
She could no longer bear it. This was not her — this could not be what their years of trust and love had been reduced down to. The shame and horror of it all clogged her throat, fogged her senses. She walked briskly out of the room then, leaving John to stare after her with a broken, crushed look.
But old habits were hard to break. Despite the awkwardness hovering over them for the past few days, the married couple continually found themselves slipping into their usual routine.
"Would you care to accompany me into the village, m'lady?" He extended his arm toward her, playing the perfect gentleman to his lady.
"I'd be honored to, Mr. Bates." Grinning, she slipped her gloved hand into the crook of his elbow.
There was hardly an element of surprise in his offer, as the two of them had long been planning to accompany the other servants to the annual fair, but they nevertheless relished these little jests of feigned formality.
The housekeeper bustled into view just then, coming from the servant's hall entrance. "What, you're still here? The others have set out already."
"Aren't you joining us, Mrs. Hughes?" John asked.
She shook her head. "Well," she sighed in good-humored resignation, "Someone's got to keep Mr. Carson company, and I've got Saturday's menu to plan with Mrs. Patmore." Her eyes regarded them with an affectionate gleam in her eyes. "Well then, off you go."
The pair took this as their cue to depart, trading amused glances with each other as they headed out the building.
Outside, the air was cool and damp, a fog beginning to settle with the onset of nighttime, and an occasional wind came to nip at their faces. But it was a welcome and refreshing alternative to the stagnant, trapped air of the Abbey's downstairs hallways, as well as the frosty bite of a Yorkshire winter.
Anna breathed the air in deeply, and as she did so, she felt the uneasy tension settle back in between them, especially as the silence stretched on. She had tried to apologize on the same day of her horrific confession, the words of her most desperate and profuse apology balanced on the tip of her tongue, but he had impatiently waved her words away before walking away himself.
And still he did not say what his business in York had been.
With the years of constant company shared between them, it had been thus far a surprisingly easy task to go on as they always had. Even Mrs. Hughes' keen eyes had spotted nothing unusual, nothing that she commented on anyway, and Anna herself knew there was nothing left on earth to break the foundations of their love or jeopardize their marriage.
Still, all was not well. She had sensed the return of a certain glibness, a lighthearted superficiality that felt familiar, in John's manner. It was his coping mechanism, the wall of defense thrown around himself to hide the brooding man within; he joked merrily, flashed his most winning smile, and engaged her enthusiastically in their usual gossip and talk — but she knew it was all a show.
She had first seen the same smile all those years ago, the night she had taken up a tray of food to comfort him: with all hope for his future gone, his eyes still red from his weeping, he had smiled obligingly and assured her he would be fine. She had seen glimpses of it again since then, not the least in the days following her move back into the cottage. Both of them had been engaged in a furious wrestle in those dark days, within and without, to forget the impossible. She shuddered at the memory. Would the shadows never leave completely?
If only, she thought, he would let her apologize and explain herself — or if he would at least say something, and tell her what he was thinking.
Despite the fresh air, Anna was beginning to feel suffocated. She had to break the silence. "Mr. Carson hasn't been feeling well lately," she commented lightly.
He glanced at her. "Hasn't he? I hadn't noticed."
"It's his heart again. And I suppose he's getting on in years, now. Some of us downstairs think it's time he started taking it easy."
"What, and let Mr. Barrow take over? God help us." There was always a hint of sarcasm every time either of them said the under-butler's new name out loud. "I suppose there's always Molesley. He is a trained butler after all."
She paused, gathering her words. "Well, what if you were to take over?"
Her husband stopped in his tracks to look down at her incredulously. The thought had apparently never struck him before.
Realizing she was in earnest after all, he resumed walking. "I doubt Mr. Carson would find it appropriate to have a lame, former convicted criminal running the distinguished household." His voice was full of that deceptive lightheartedness again. "But thank you for suggesting it."
Anna did not think anyone — anyone who mattered, that is — minded his limp or past misfortunes any longer, but she decided to let the matter drop. It had, after all, only been an attempt at making casual conversation.
On his part, John dolefully wondered if his wife had decided once and for all to give up on their precious but aged dream of buying and running a hotel on their own. He had never formally extinguished its possibility – it meant too much to him. It had kept him warm, and comforted, during the long, dull days in prison and the unending, desolate nights; the dream had too strong a hold on his nostalgia and gratitude to be so simply let go. But perhaps he was being too stubborn.
Again, Anna was the one to break the renewed silence between them as they drew closer to the fair, its flurry of excitement beginning to stir up a girlish eagerness within herself. "You don't suppose they'd have any ice cream, do you? I've been hankering for a taste since our visit to the shore last year."
John looked down at his wife with a smile. "That's a long time to pine for ice cream."
"Well, as my mum used to say," she said, her eyes distractedly scanning the festival up ahead, "Good things come to those who wait."
His gaze remained locked on her. "A wise woman."
Then they were plunged into the midst of it all: colorful booths, stalls, and tents everywhere — full of games, refreshments, rare wonders of the world (available for viewing at tuppence a person), and merchandise of all kinds, with children and adults alike flush in their thrill. A lively jingle from one booth overlapped with the music of an overeager fiddler in another corner, creating a cacophony that added to the jangling energy of the scene. Pungent smells and fresh scents overlapped, as even did the sights, so that one could not decisively tell what was what. It all teetered on the edge of overwhelming one's senses.
"Mr. Bates! Mr. Bates!" A high-pitched voice pierced through the air. They both turned at the sound, straining to pinpoint its location.
Anna was the first to spot him in the crowd. "Isn't that young Henry Stowe?"
Then the boy himself was before them, his cheeks red with excitement. "Hullo."
John bent down towards Henry, lest his voice be lost to the noise. "Good evening, Henry. Isn't your mother with you?"
The child shrugged, an impatient and dismissive gesture, and eyed Anna's tight hold on her husband's arms curiously, biding his time. He seemed to have suddenly clammed up, though neither John nor Anna could make out an apparent cause for it.
Seized by this mysterious bout of embarrassment, Henry toed the ground and continued to stand in silence.
"Well?" Anna interjected, her tone both kind and commanding. "You look like you've got something to say. Spit it out."
At this, Henry looked up again — as a matter of fact, she was startled to see him actually glaring at her — but then his gaze shifted to John and softened. "I haven't got any money, and Mam won't give me any," he finally blurted out. He peered up hopefully through his dusty blond locks, his hat only barely clinging to the top of his head.
Mr. and Mrs. Bates regarded each other and echoed each other's surprised laugh, causing Henry to blush even deeper.
"You're not one to beat about the bush, are you?" Anna said with a grin, unable to contain herself. This time, she matched the boy's scowl with a playful one of her own.
John reached into his pocket. "I'm not made of money, Master Stowe, and I don't owe you an apology this time." At that moment, he caught sight of Henry's shoes, every visible seam fraying and straining to hold the fabrics together, and the toes bulging at the tips. Clearly, the shoes were long overdue for a replacement pair — and just as clear was the fact that the Stowes could not afford it. Of course, John suddenly reflected, affluence was always in the eyes of the beholder.
He glanced at the child's crestfallen face and felt himself cave in. "Choose wisely — I'll grant you one purchase, and one thing only."
The effect was immediate. Henry beamed brightly and sprang back to life. "Follow me," he said, dashing off into the crowds and disappearing from sight, spurring the couple into hurried pursuit.
"Is this wise?"
John scanned the bustle ahead for a glimpse of Henry. "Oh, he'll just want to play a game, or buy a pack of sweets. Surely we can spare that."
She just rolled her eyes in response, though a smile floated up to the ends of her mouth. Resolving to curb her husband's careless spending habits had been a hopeless task from the start — denying him the pleasure he found in his little gifts, especially when he could be so sweet about it, was impossible.
But it was not a game booth or a sweets stall that finally stopped Henry. John and Anna almost stumbled into the boy as he stood gaping at a modest collection of worn, used books in a nondescript stall, presided over by an aging man snoring in a nearby chair. Anna shot her husband a surprised look, which he reciprocated.
With a curious mixture of hesitancy and certainty, Henry picked out a dusty thick volume, A Manual on the Principles and Application of Aerodynamics, and held it up. Anna took it and flipped through the pages, angling the book to allow John a glimpse of the contents. The text was small, dry, and dense, with the occasional diagram or sketch to illustrate the mechanical processes denoted within.
"I'm sure I couldn't read any of this, much less…" She looked down at the boy. "Are you quite sure it's this you want?"
Henry nodded, impatience and stubbornness ingrained in every shake of his chin. "Yes, it's what I want."
Anna turned to her husband to gauge his response, but he had already turned to the slumbering old man. "Excuse me."
With a startled snort, the man shook himself awake. "Yes?" he croaked, his eyes bleary and slow to focus.
"I'd like to purchase this volume for the young man. How much is it?"
The book quickly found its way back to its new owner, who clutched his new possession to himself with great rapture. Sighing, the old man sank back into his chair and tilted his head back, his role now concluded.
John watched Henry for a few seconds, the vestiges of his childhood memories pulling at the corners of his conscience. He chuckled lightly. "What have we told you about saying thanks?" he chided the boy, who seemed happily preoccupied with the mere presence of the book in his arms.
Henry looked up, a flash of rebellion in his eyes. But then he seemed to visibly deflate. "Thank you," he grumbled.
"Where's your mum and dad?" Anna said. "Won't they be missing you?"
"No, they won't," he said, sulky and defiant, before turning to John. "Can't I come along with you for a bit? I promise not to be a bother."
John was quick to reply, plowing over Anna's hesitation before she had a chance to say anything. "We'll look for your mum together. But I don't see why we can't have some fun in the meantime." His eyes crinkled, but they sought his wife's permission as he spoke.
Sighing, she rolled her eyes good-naturedly for the second time that evening. "Oh, all right," she acquiesced. "But let's keep a sharp eye out."
She moved to take a hold of John's arm again, but to her surprise, she found herself thwarted by Henry, who moved with astonishing deftness to place himself squarely between her and her husband.
Anna exchanged a look with John before studying the boy curiously, trying to divine if he had intercepted her on purpose, but he only hugged the book to himself and kept his eyes trained on the ground. For a child, Anna privately concluded as the three of them began walking, Henry Stowe was sometimes as indecipherable as the fully grown man striding beside him. In any case, she was only too happy to sense that John was thoroughly distracted and amused.
It was difficult to divine, for the next hour or so, who was the child and who the adult out of the three. Thanks to Henry's protective hold on his bulky manual, John's wallet was spared the cost of two sets of rounds at every game booth (despite his injunction, he would have been easily coerced into additional expenditure on the boy's behalf), for Anna, in a rediscovery of her younger days, insisted on trying her hand at everything they came across.
On his part, John was only too happy to watch her mostly-futile attempts at winning the prizes, though she did eventually manage to win — more thanks to a note stealthily snuck into the booth keeper's hand than her accuracy in throwing objects — a small, misshapen teddy bear. She kindly offered it to Henry and was brusquely rejected, prompting her to gleefully name it "John" and bestow it upon her husband as his lookalike. He laughed, accepting both the jest and the gift.
Soon enough, all three of the group had consigned to oblivion their original mission of finding Mr. and Mrs. Stowe, who were nowhere to be found among the festivities.
Instead, they found Mr. Molesley and Miss Baxter seated at a wooden table near the ice cream stall, chatting and trading shy smiles with each other. Anna hesitated at the thought of interrupting them, knowing all too well the preciousness of a private moment, but John had already engaged the attention of the nearby vendor, forcing her to acknowledge their friends.
Leaving her two companions behind, she approached the other servants with a simple greeting and took a seat across from them, engaging them in conversation. Miss Baxter was quick to notice Henry. "Who's the boy standing with Mr. Bates?"
"Oh, that's Henry Stowe, the carpenter's son. He and Mr. Bates have been forming a friendship as of late," Anna explained. "Though I don't think he fancies me very much."
The other lady's maid smiled in return, but Mr. Molesley's face had grown troubled. "I'm sorry, but did you say Stowe?"
"Yes, what about it?"
He glanced about nervously before leaning in. "Well," he muttered, "His father has a certain reputation in the village. Ever since he came back from the war, that is."
A foreboding feeling began to creep over Anna.
"What do you mean?" Miss Baxter asked, polite but curious.
Mr. Molesley hesitated. "Oh, it's just rumors, nothing proven, but…" He was nervous and solemn, studying the others' faces for a moment before reluctantly parting with his next words. "If you're smart, you'll stay away from the man. They say Douglas Stowe" – here, he shook his head for emphasis – "Is not one to meddle with."
Oh, and since I'll be out of the country for the next 2 weeks... I apologize in advance for a delay in the next update. I'll be working on the drafts in the meantime, though!