A/N: I did warn you... but sorry anyway for the delay! My personal life has gotten more, er, exciting lately. At least it's a longer chapter than usual...?
I'd like to thank bugs and awesomegreentie for their meticulous, wonderful beta-readin' skills. Any errors you may notice are completely my own, as I edited much of this while peering at a small screen on the other side of the globe, with my English skills quickly deteriorating... And lastly, I'd like to thank anyone who's taken the time to review! I appreciate each and every one.
As the two lady's maids were being regaled with the local gossip, John Bates and Henry Stowe stood a few yards away, gravely pondering their options in a weighty decision that could conceivably inspire regret for years to come.
Vanilla was the safe choice, John thought, with its mild sweetness and general popularity. But Anna was so fond of strawberries, which had just come into season and had not crossed the servants' dining table as of yet this year. Then there was the irresistible sweet-and-sour tang of lemon ice cream…
Henry was the first to break free of the paralysis of indecision, choosing to go with strawberry. After another moment of hesitation, John was goaded by the vendor's impatient sigh into the same choice. If she didn't like it, John consoled himself, he would take it and buy her another one.
While he waited for the ice cream, his eyes roamed with a will of their own back to his wife. She was absorbed in conversation, a stern frown – one he privately found quite endearing – etched on her face.
Unbeknownst to him, a smile drifted into John's eyes and played on his lips as he enjoyed this rare opportunity. She was always close at hand, and then always interacting with him, that he hadn't noticed until now how rarely he had the pleasure of observing her from a distance. Such discoveries of little pleasures dotted his life with Anna even now, twelve years after the first of many shared smiles.
"Do you love her?" Henry's voice was solemn, an odd contrast to the image of a child licking his cone.
The question posed was strange, but its answer was simple. "Very much."
Both of them now peered across at Anna, who remained oblivious to the attention she was attracting. "I'm very fortunate to have her."
"I don't see what you're on about," Henry said peevishly. "She's plain enough to me. Me mam's loads prettier."
John thought rather differently, and in fact felt very strongly about it, but he made an effort to accommodate a child's natural prejudice. "Well, as they say, beauty is in the eye of the beholder."
Henry's response was to scowl and stick his tongue out. But the effect was tempered by the pink ice cream coating it, and John chuckled lightly before leading the way.
"Anna." She turned to find her husband, handing her an ice cream cone and taking a seat beside her. "It's strawberry," he said with a hint of anxiety.
"It's perfect. Thank you. But didn't you get yourself one?"
I was hoping you'd share. The words stuck in his throat, however, at the sight of the others. "I'm all right," he replied instead, turning to introduce Henry to Mr. Molesley and Mrs. Baxter.
They were eyeing the boy with a peculiar interest, he noticed, and Anna's frown had returned and settled back into a wrinkle between her brows. On the whole, there was a barely discernible tension in the air.
"I think we need to get you back to your mum," John informed the boy, who had managed to wedge himself onto the seat on John's other side. The book lay on the table, a victim to a child's fickle passions, and temporarily overshadowed by the already half-diminished cold treat.
Then Henry said something that unsettled the adults present. "Can't I just go home and live with you?"
He had spoken with such simple earnestness, as though it were the easiest thing in the world to abandon his family and adopt a new one. Perhaps to him, it was.
"No, I'm afraid not," John responded after an awkward pause.
The four servants burned with questions, but none of them knew how to form them into actual words.
Finally, Anna tried to salvage the situation. "I love strawberries. Don't you?"
Henry's answering glance was unrewarding, even reproachful. "They're all right," he said coolly, cutting off her conciliatory attempts with great efficiency.
As Henry then regally returned his attention back to his ice cream, Anna sneaked her husband an exasperated shrug.
"YOU LITTLE BEAST." The sudden roar ripped through the air, making everyone at the table jump and look about. A wiry, bearded man was heading towards them, rage burning in his eyes. He had a tight grip on a terrified woman John recognized instantly as Mrs. Stowe. She seemed even more anxious than he had seen her before, and for good reason. Her husband looked prepared to wage war.
Rising to his feet, John felt a slight bump as Henry ran to take shelter behind his back, the cone dropped and forgotten on the grass.
But Douglas Stowe had already spotted his son.
"I'LL TEACH YOU TO RUN FROM YOUR MAM LIKE THAT," he bellowed as he drew nearer, oblivious to all the attention he was beginning to attract. His expression was stormy, his reddened eyes seething, and there was a certain wobbliness to his movements with which John was all too familiar. He quickly summed up Mr. Stowe's condition from his teetering steps, as well as the reckless words that came flying out with a liquid abandon of inhibition.
Sensing danger, John grabbed his cane and straightened himself to his full height. He could feel Henry's little hands gripping his sides tightly, and he could hear the boy's heavy breathing. It occurred to John that this child knew, more than anyone else at this table, what was about to happen.
Mr. Stowe's voice mercifully dropped to an angry, nearly incomprehensible growl. "Get over here, you useless rat. No son of mine – A right little bastard – An embarrassment to the family—"
He was now face-to-face with John, who stood just about two inches taller than the irate man.
Mr. Stowe peered up at the valet with squinted, straining eyes. "Who are you?" Then he shook his head impatiently. "No, never mind. Move," he hissed, swiping at John's bulk. "Let me at him."
Louisa Stowe clung to her husband's arms desperately, but he shook her off with an impatient movement.
"He's very frightened, Mr. Stowe." John's tone was mild, though his stiff refusal to budge betrayed his steely attitude. "He simply lost track of time with us, that's all."
"Yes," Anna jumped in, her eyes darting from the seething drunkard to her husband, then to the trembling Mrs. Stowe. "We tried to help him look for his mum and dad, but you weren't anywhere..." She trailed off. "We're very sorry to have caused you such trouble."
Hardly in a state of mind to heed words, Mr. Stowe stumbled, then reached around John to grab a fistful of his son's hair, yanking him into view. "You sly little tosser. Hiding behind strangers, like it'll do you any good."
Henry yelped, but struggled very little.
John felt his anger begin to climb, everything but the boy and the man before him slowly fading from his awareness. "Now, wait a moment." He gripped his cane tightly.
"Douglas—" Mrs. Stowe started, eyeing the others skittishly.
"You shut your mouth," came the bitter retort. "Or I'll—" Mr. Stowe suddenly seemed to really take note of his company then, his squint returning to take stock of their appearance. "Who are you?"
John only glared, his fury beginning to simmer over.
"They work at the Abbey," his wife muttered urgently. "They work for the earl."
That gave Mr. Stowe some pause, but he soon resumed his air of bravado and brash swagger. "Bugger that," he said. "What are they doing with my son – holding him for ransom?" He gave a fierce tug at his son, who yelped in pain. "Shut up, I tell you!"
John saw red. Before he knew it, he had reached out to grasp the man's arm, giving it a powerful enough shake to force Douglas Stowe to release his son with a grimace. "That's no way to treat a child."
"What the 'ell? He's my son."
This time, John saw stars. He felt his head swing roughly to the right. Then the ground was rising up to meet him at full force, the left side of his face reverberating in pain.
"John!" he heard Anna cry out in horror, followed by the others' startled exclamations.
"Nobody tells me what to do with me own flesh and blood," a voice growled. "Now, come on, the both of you, before you shame me any further."
Then there was a yelp, a thud, and three rapid sets of footsteps fading off.
Two pairs of hands helped him up. Anna's distressed expression swam into view for a moment, as did the way her two hands clutched and kneaded each other.
"Are you badly hurt, Mr. Bates?" Mr. Molesley's concerned question floated its way slowly into John's head.
He shook his head. Bad idea. It seemed as though he could feel everything sloshing about in his skull. His ears were still ringing, too. "No. Just a bruise, I think."
"Mrs. Bates?" It was Miss Baxter's voice this time, wafting through the air. "Are you all right?"
Anna sounded startled. "Yes, I'm fine." He tried to find her face, just in time to see her purse her lips in redirected concentration. "I should take him back right away. We could use some of the ice from Mrs. Patmore's kitchen to stop the swelling." Her voice trembled slightly, he would later recall.
Then somebody slung his arm around Anna's shoulders – he almost laughed out loud at the sudden mental image of his tiny wife supporting his weight back to the Abbey. "That's all right, I can walk on my own," he said. Indeed, now that both his feet were planted squarely on the ground, he was beginning to regain his sense and balance.
Anna placed his cane back into his welcoming grasp. "Here, let's go together."
John nodded and began to walk slowly, his wife hovering by his side.
Miss Baxter glanced at her companion, who was looking after the pair with a frown. "Should we call the police?" he fretted.
"I don't know," she said thoughtfully, and not a little sadly. "They might stick him behind bars for a few days, but… where would that leave his wife and son?"
Mr. Molesley's frown became more pronounced as they both let out a sigh.
He could tell she was troubled. It was in the way she sighed as she closed the door on their way out of the cottage, and it was in the way her gaze flickered past him multiple times as they talked over breakfast. Her anxious ministrations in treating his bruises last night had kept both of them busy, but the night had evidently provided her an unwelcome opportunity for thoughts. She was lost in them now.
The first few hours of the day flew by in a flurry of frenzied activity, as always, and it wasn't until after lunch that he found her submerged in the shadows of the boot room, scrubbing away furiously at shoes that, to the casual eye, seemed as unused and clean as any new pair in a store window. But it was hard to tell, as little light entered the room on cloudy days like this.
"Anna?" He held his breath, ready to adjust his next action to her reaction.
She looked up at his approach. Her eyes softened as she put aside her equipment, giving him allowance to come stand by her.
It wasn't him that she was upset with, then. He wrapped her hands up in his, feeling them tremble ever so slightly before becoming still.
Studying their entangled hands, she relaxed visibly, a tiny smile playing at the corners of her mouth. She withdrew a hand to caress the bruise forming on his face, not enough for him to feel any pressure, much less pain.
"Does it hurt?"
He shook his head. "No. It's just a bruise." He closed his eyes and enjoyed the feeling of her cool, feathery touches, imagining that each flutter of her fingers healed in ways that all the turpentine in the world could not.
But when he opened his eyes, he realized her lips were quivering, the way they did in her most vulnerable moments. Of course it wasn't just a bruise. Not to her.
He covered her hand with his, laying them both flat on his cheek. "Were you frightened?"
Though she neither spoke nor nodded, he knew the answer. What he did not know, even after all this time, was what he could say or do to ease her torment.
Maybe she drew herself nearer first — perhaps he was the one to draw her in – but within a few seconds, she was snug within his arms, her face hidden against his chest. Was she crying? Was she forcing herself to take deep breaths? Was she shaking? He could not calm his own ragged breathing enough to tell.
He rested his chin on her head, fiercely studying their environments as though ready to fend off an approaching menace. But the danger was entirely within – and he felt powerless against it.
"There's quite a package arrived for you, Anna," the housekeeper announced with a probing look. Anna, however, could offer no immediate explanation.
Her confusion only grew when her eyes alighted upon the large and bulky package, its identity unknown and its presence baffling.
Mrs. Hughes was finding it difficult to contain her curiosity. "What is it?"
"I'm not sure," the maid answered with a slight frown, her gaze fixed on the mysterious bundle.
From a few seats away at the table, Miss Baxter looked up and eyed the situation with her kind smile. "You weren't expecting anything, Mrs. Bates?"
"Not that I'm aware of," Anna said, though her mind raced through every possible theory.
The suspense was taking its toll on the impatient housekeeper. "Well, open it, then," she urged. "I haven't got all day."
Anna did not need a second push. Nimble fingers tore at the wrapping, and once the tightly knotted strings had been dealt with, the coarse paper gave way to reveal —
"There must be some mistake," she breathed, not daring to touch the contents of the package. Mrs. Hughes, too, stared in shock, and the elder lady's maid gave up her stitching to walk over and obtain a better view.
"Is that a frock?" It was Daisy. She had popped into the servant's hall and was now craning her neck between the others to peer at the package. "Is it Lady Mary's?"
Gingerly, Anna picked up the dress and held it up for all three women to admire. Its smooth, cerulean sheen shimmered and winked in the dimmed light, its material silky smooth and incredibly soft to the touch. There was no denying that the garment was humble in design, but that only diminished the possibility of it belonging to one of the ladies. It seemed ready to hug its wearer's body quite nicely, with sparse but strategically placed ruffles and folds to accentuate the best of her figure.
Miss Baxter was the first to realize Daisy's question still had not been answered. "I don't think it is, no," she said, in her soft but confident tone of voice. "One of us would've known about it."
"Then it must be Anna's," Mrs. Hughes concluded.
"I don't know," Anna said, still puzzled. "I never ordered one, that's for sure."
Daisy could not seem to stop gaping. "It's beautiful."
With an unconscious smile, Anna glanced at the young cook, then studied the frock again. It was beautiful, far superior to anything she owned. And there was no denying it: the dress looked ready to fit Anna's petite body, though she nervously pushed away the thought. She could not let herself become attached to it, not when it had clearly landed in her hands due to some gross, unfortunate misunderstanding.
The housekeeper shook her head. "There must be an explanation for this."
Anna's eyes flickered down to what remained of the package on the table and spotted a small, white card bearing a short note, scribbled in a hand she easily recognized:
For our next dining adventure.
Happy birthday, my dearest.
"It's from Mr. Bates," she said wonderingly. It was hers, then.
Her heart rose to her throat — but it sank at the very next instant. She had berated her husband in the past for his capricious purchases, but this! How much had it cost?
She realized the two older women were eyeing her with an air of amusement. "I can't decide if I should give him a kiss or a smack when I see him next," she said with a laugh.
"But why?" Daisy inquired in shock. "Don't you love it?"
"Aye, but it must have cost him a pretty penny," Mrs. Hughes observed with a raise of her eyebrows. "And if there's one thing that dampens the spirit of romance in a marriage, it's the matters of the purse."
Anna nodded smartly. "Quite right, Mrs. Hughes." Quashing the girlish urge to dash off and try on the frock, she began to wrap it up again. She would have to take it back to the cottage in the evening and try it then.
"What's all this?"
It was the man himself, standing at the mouth of the hallway and wearing an all-too-innocent look of curiosity.
As if prompted by some unseen cue, Mrs. Hughes, Miss Baxter, and Daisy hastily filed out of the hall and into the hallway leading to the kitchen, though Anna could see their shadows giving away their lingering position, just out of sight. Privacy was always an illusion here.
Anna turned back to her husband, whose gaze flickered to the package before settling on her with a soft, knowing smile.
She struggled to keep a severe expression on her face – but it was a lost cause, her grin nullifying the force of her chastisement. "Do you care to explain this, Mr. Bates?"
"I had it ordered for you in York last year," came the unexpected reply. "Last spring, in fact." The deliberate way he spoke left no room for doubt as to the significance of his words.
Anna frowned, unnecessarily masking the sudden relief that flooded her. So that had been his occupation in York.
"It was meant to be your early Christmas present, but… I'm afraid there were quite a lot of botch ups along the way. I'm surprised it managed to arrive at all."
They studied each other, trying to both read the other and not give anything away.
She finally caved, after a weighted pause. "Well," she released a sigh, "I feel such a fool."
"Don't." He looked pained, as he waved her words away. He regarded her with a solemn gaze and lowered his voice, leaning in to ensure the others could not hear. "You had every reason to think it was me. There's no use denying it."
She shook her head – just the slightest of protests, but she did not press the issue. "I just wish you'd tell me what's in your mind. Instead of always having me worry."
"I'm sorry. But I couldn't spoil the surprise."
She placed a hand on her hip. "Well, I'd rather you did, next time."
"All right," he acquiesced. He smiled, one she recognized as a sincere one.
And, just like that, all was forgiven.
"But how exactly did you pay for it?" Her tone was much lighter now, despite the rebuke in her words.
"Lady Mary wants you to consider it her early Christmas present, as well as a birthday present."
She stared up at him, caught off guard again in spite of herself.
"What?" he teased, his eyes crinkled in glee. "You didn't think I would use up our money without telling you, did you? You should have more faith in your husband."
Indeed. She stepped closer to him. "But how did you know my measurements?"
He reciprocated her movement. "Well, Mrs. Bates, you did marry a valet."
The temptation of his impish grin was too great. Anna raised herself on her toes, and was leaning in for a kiss — when Joseph Molesley walked in, clueless as always, his eyes automatically darting to Miss Baxter's usual spot. He did not notice Mr. and Mrs. Bates quickly draw apart, and he remained equally oblivious to the flash of irritation in John's eyes.
"Have you seen Miss Baxter?" the footman asked.
Anna gestured towards the kitchen, a smile still playing on her lips. "Yes, she's just gone into the kitchen."
"Oh, all right, then," Mr. Molesley mumbled. "Thank you."
As he walked over to the kitchen entry, there came a flurry of hasty rustling noises – the startled eavesdroppers – and then, "Miss Baxter! I-I was just on my way to find you."
"Is that so? I was just about to return to mending Her Ladyship's coat."
Mr. Molesley re-emerged into the servant's hall, Mrs. Hughes and Miss Baxter following close behind with an altogether too serene of an expression.
Anna and John turned to each other. "I suppose I've got to wait until tonight," she said reluctantly, fingering the dress again.
"I suppose you will," he said as they began to move apart, his eyes full of promise.
A/N: I may have taken liberties with the whole ordering-a-dress process... Let's just go along with it... (Fellowes has people pop up to London for day trips all the time, after all.)