A/N: Part of my intention was to try and address some issues Downton has not featured but very well could. I hope it doesn't feel historically inaccurate or false to the nature of the show. I welcome your comments and suggestions on any of it. Anyway, loads of thanks to my two wonderful beta readers, Awesomegreentie and bugs. I would be so lost without them. (Even if sometimes they misread things and think John climbed out a window… LOL.)
Charles Carson stared down at the unwelcome visitor with a sentiment rapidly approaching bewilderment. Never, in all his years of faithful service, had he been faced with such a situation. Apparently devoid of any notion of proper behavior, this complete stranger had boldly entered the back door of Downton Abbey and, unbidden, had seated himself in the servant's hall, refusing to budge until John Bates was duly summoned and made to appear.
Unperturbed by the host's distress, the young visitor was regarding the man with an easy, studious air. "Your eyebrows look something fearful," he observed conversationally.
Mr. Carson felt his mouth fall slack, and he hurriedly harrumphed in indignation to disguise the momentary lapse in propriety. He had not heard such remarks about his appearance — to his face, at least — since his regrettable days of youth. A plan of action involving the desperate but decidedly efficient measure of physically removing this boy from the premises himself began to take shape in his mind.
Just then, John stepped into the room.
"Mr. Bates," Mr. Carson rumbled immediately, stately disapproval emanating from every word, "Am I to take it that this youth" — his tone made it clear that only his steadfast adherence to decorum was preventing him from using a more damning label — "is an acquaintance of yours?"
John gaped at the unexpected sight of Henry, who leapt to his feet excitedly.
The valet quickly recovered his wits. "He is, Mr. Carson."
His next words were cut short by Anna, who followed him into the room. "Henry? What are you doing here?" She shot her husband a questioning look, only to find him with a confused frown to match her own.
"Do you have my book?" Henry blithely asked the pair. "I left it at the fair, and I thought you might've picked it up."
The butler of Downton Abbey was famous for neither his patience nor indulgence. "Would either of you care to explain who this is, and why he is here?" He spoke with great precision, utilizing to his best ability the emphasis and sarcasm necessary to properly convey his vexation. "Or am I to understand that we are now in the business of entertaining every village urchin who happens by our door?"
The village urchin eyed the tall, imposing man with new trepidation, suddenly wary of his thunderous voice and overcast eyebrows.
Anna was quick to explain. "This is Henry Stowe, from the village. We helped him look for his parents at the fair." She turned to Henry. "Your book is at our cottage, but… should you be here alone?"
"Mam doesn't know I've gone," he answered, with a shrug. "And me dad won't be up for hours."
The dignified butler looked scandalized. "But it's the middle of the afternoon!"
"Mr. Carson," John said hastily, trading alarmed glances with his wife, "Would it be all right if I escorted young Henry to his house? I'll be back in time for the dressing gong."
The proposition was carefully contemplated. "Very well," Mr. Carson finally conceded, with great visible reluctance. "And if you'll be so kind, Mr. Bates, as to inform Master Stowe that Downton Abbey is not a public house for loiterers…"
"Of course, Mr. Carson."
"Who was he, that scary old troll?" Henry kicked at a pebble as they walked.
The former Great Big Oaf could not help but chuckle at the epithet. "That's Mr. Carson, the butler. He runs the household, and is the head of all the male servants, including me." He put on a nonchalant attitude. "Why, did he scare you?"
"No, he didn't scare me a mite."
John turned his head to hide the grin that flared up in response to the insistent, rebellious tone. He had worried endlessly over the last few days, his imagination conjuring up the worst of fates for Henry and his mother after the public debacle. To all appearances, thankfully, Henry seemed unscathed, and as cheeky and energetic as ever, though John very well knew that not all injuries were always so visible.
"Can I really not come see you?"
Henry's head was bowed, but John could hear the pout in his voice. It would be the work of a moment, he realized, or even a single word, to dismiss this child from his life. It was as simple as that. Yet he was conscious of a desire to do the very opposite: to keep the boy nearby, under his own watch, and as much as possible.
Even Anna did not know to what extent Henry and his family had been featuring in John's restless dreams since the fair; she had her own demons to fight, after all. He had managed to keep everything fairly under control. But the dam had almost broken last night, when the vision of Douglas Stowe, with his vice-like grip on his terrified son, had blended with the enraged roars John had heard so often in his own childhood. He had taken shelter under the kitchen table, as he always did — or was it the garden? — and John, hugging his knees to himself, had trembled in the darkness — but suddenly, inevitably, a hand had grabbed his shoulder, and yanked —
He had startled himself awake, his nightshirt soaked in sweat. Thankfully, Anna had not stirred. Fearful of going back to sleep, he had then kept himself company until dawn crept in through the window…
He thrust the dark thoughts away from his mind. "Well, you'd be facing Mr. Carson's fury if you did, but you're not afraid of that, are you?" His tone was light and teasing.
"No…" Henry said reluctantly.
"Mr. Carson isn't so bad. He's a fair man, with a good heart."
The child shot back a very skeptical look.
"You could try and win him over," John suggested, half teasing and half in earnest.
He was rewarded with Henry's now-trademark scowl. "But how?"
John stopped in his tracks. "Well, for one," he said, reaching down to adjust the boy's skewed hat before he could help himself, "You could dress more neatly. Look presentable." Moved by a sudden impulse, John knelt down and began to dust off Henry's shirt with the careful, trained eyes of a valet. The material of the shirt felt coarse to his hands, thinned and wrinkled almost beyond repair.
Henry stood still, meekly but attentively observing.
"Don't you have a jacket?" John questioned gently.
"I do," came the answer. "But…" Henry hesitated, his gaze trained on John's expert handling of his loose and mismatched buttons. "But it's got holes."
"I can mend that."
Looking up to catch the boy's blank stare, John smiled. "I'm a valet — it's what I do. Bring it with you next time." He gave a final tug on the ends of the child's sleeves. "There. You look better already," he appraised. He grabbed his cane and stood up, groaning slightly at the exertion.
"Thank you."
Neither of them fully grasped what had just transpired. There was, however, a sense of a slight shift in their relationship, a connection strengthened — and a vague, subconscious awareness of this made both of them suddenly feel shy in the other's presence.
Buying time, John cleared his throat and bent to dust his knees, which had gathered their share of dirt from the kneeling.
"What's wrong with your leg?"
John met Henry's eyes with a twinkle in his own. "I'm surprised it took you so long to ask."
"Mam says I shouldn't ask too many questions of people. Then they'll ask me questions, too."
The thought of the questions Henry was so eager to avoid made John uneasy. "I hurt it in a war," he said, answering Henry's query with a doleful smile. "A very long time ago, before you were born."
Henry seemed struck by a thought. "Me dad, too, he—" He stopped himself.
"What is it?" John urged.
Too late, Henry was determined to maintain his silence, and John was reluctant to coerce him into breaking it.
"Here we are." Unceremoniously, John swung the cottage door open and made his way to the nearby table, where Henry's book — and the teddy bear — lay; Miss Baxter had been kind enough to hand them to Anna the morning after the fair. "And here you are." He handed the book over.
Henry took it absentmindedly, too preoccupied with surveying the Bates' sitting room to reply. Everything seemed to attract his scrutiny: the modest clock and decorations on the mantelpiece; the small vase of white flowers from the gardens; the pretty but humble painting of a wooded landscape John had bought at a bazaar; the neatly spread tablecloth, fashioned from some old sheets and discarded lace thanks to Anna's resourceful, spendthrift ways; even the unremarkable white paint on the walls captured Henry's attention.
Daily surrounded by an aristocratic grandeur and opulence he could never dream of accessing for himself, John Bates the servant, wounded man and former convict, was not accustomed to feeling privileged nor envied. But here, standing in silence as a young boy with threadbare clothes studied the room, he felt keenly how different it all might seem from another set of eyes.
He walked back to the door and held it open. "Henry?"
Snapping out of his reverie, Henry held the book tightly to himself and followed John through the door.
The two began to make their way to the village, maintaining a thoughtful silence for a brief while.
The memory of Douglas Stowe surfaced again in John's troubled mind, accompanied by a long-forgotten past returned to taunt him. He should not have, perhaps, been so reckless as to grab and rouse up an ill-tempered drunk man, but there had been so many times when he had longed to, and yet had been too small, too weak, too afraid —
"I hate me dad."
It took John an insane, baffling moment to realize that it had been Henry who had spoken the words. "What?" he said, more sharply than intended.
"He always says I'm shaming him, but he's the one shaming us."
John scrambled to regain his composure. "Why do you say that?"
"You saw him. He always kicks up such a fuss when…" he trailed off. "I should've known. He'd been at the pub all day."
This time, John could not keep the alarm from stealing into his voice. "Does he do this very often?"
The boy's face was inscrutable.
"Henry, does your dad ever hit you? Or your mum?"
Henry's sullenly kicked at another pebble.
Sensing that the boy had clammed up again, John let the matter drop. It was becoming rapidly clear that direct questions would lead him nowhere. "Shouldn't you be in school, at this time of day?"
"I don't like to go if I can help it," came the apathetic reply. "I only get into fights, and I don't learn owt. Mam doesn't care for it, either."
"But if you want to learn how to fly an airplane, you've got to go to school."
This simple notion had evidently never occurred to Henry before. He stared up at the man in surprise, mulling over the words.
"Do you still have the plane I bought you? You haven't lost it?"
With a ready flourish, Henry produced the plane from his pocket. Some of the paint was already chipped, but its structure remained sound and unimpaired. John felt a surge of pride.
"I don't just want to fly a plane," Henry said stoutly. "I want to know how to make one, with me own hands."
Well, his father was a carpenter, John thought, though he suspected Mr. Stowe had not been a productive practitioner of his trade lately. "Just like Daedalus." He paused. "Do you know the story?"
The child shook his head no.
Quickly and eagerly, John narrated the Greek tale, a childhood favorite, of the clever inventor's attempt at escaping a tower together with his son, Icarus, using a pair of wings fashioned from wax, string, and feathers. Fueled by ambition, and the thrill of soaring through the sky on his own wings, young Icarus had then ignored his father's instructions to avoid flying too close to the sun, causing his wings to melt and thus plunge fatally — and tragically — into the sea.
Henry wasted no time in declaring Icarus a fool.
John chuckled. "Sometimes, we can't help but challenge our limitations, though we often fail."
Such philosophical musings meant nothing to the practical-minded youth, who scoffed. "I still think he was a half-wit."
"You're probably right," John allowed.
They shared a smile.
"Tell me another one," Henry requested, pulling on the strings of the plane's propeller.
John was only too happy to oblige. "Daedalus also built a labyrinth once, to house a monster called the Minotaur…"
All too soon, they were in the village, and Henry took the lead. Various houses, stores, and fields passed them by, and just as the buildings began to grow sparse again, Henry ducked into a dirt path. At its end stood a small, nondescript house.
Following the boy's example, John entered quietly, stepping with careful footsteps. He glanced about, taking in as much as he could without conspicuously lingering on anything. The windows were barren, devoid of curtains, and yet little light shone into the dusty room. The faint yellow paint was peeling off the walls, and the furniture looked bare, splintered, and unloved. A rocking chair sat in the corner, slumped and miserable, with only a very thin, worn cushion providing it with its own semblance of decoration or cover.
And the stale air reeked of an all-too-familiar odor.
To keep his mind from wandering down shadowy paths, John looked about for Henry, who had disappeared down a short corridor that John now followed. He treaded softly, though he did not know precisely why. Perhaps he feared waking ghosts, ones that haunted the edges of his consciousness with the stench of sickly sweet fumes.
Hearing murmurs, he followed the voices until he found himself in a small, untidy kitchen. There, bracing herself against an unsteady table, Mrs. Stowe was whispering rapid admonishments at her squirming son, who clutched the book to himself more tightly than ever.
"…And what if he sees—"
"I'll hide it, I promise! He won't see—"
They both looked up at John's entrance, the mother's eyes widening at the view. "Mr. Bates," she stammered, "Thank you for bringing my son back."
"It was no trouble at all, Mrs. Stowe," John replied affably, vaguely aware that every conversation with her seemed to follow a certain pattern. "I enjoy his company." He looked at Henry. "You shouldn't run off without telling your mum. You'll worry her to death."
Henry only shrugged off the reprimand, and John felt a sudden pang of pity for the mother. Parenting such a willful child could not be an easy task.
But John's sympathy did not seem to register with Mrs. Stowe, whose gaze and feet were shifting about incessantly. "I think you'd best go now, Mr. Bates."
"Might I have a word with you first?" he inquired gently, drawing the reluctant woman into the hallway.
Her movements only grew more agitated once she was alone with him. "Is this about the fair?" she whispered fervently. "We've got no money to pay you."
"Money?" He grimaced. "No, this isn't about money."
That did not seem to reassure her. "I was up and waiting all night, waiting for the police to come and knock on our door—"
He cut in. "Mrs. Stowe, I won't call the police. I just want to help."
Stunned, she stilled for a fraction of a second. "Help? But whatever for?"
He wished he had thought to plan his words in advance. "If your husband has been violent… If Henry—"
"What are you talking about?" She was shocked, offended – or frightened? "Douglas hasn't – hasn't lain a hand… He hasn't had a job in weeks— And it's only when he's had a drop to drink—"
They were talking over each other, whispering furiously.
"No, you don't understand, I know what it's like… I only want to help— But if there's anything I could do—"
"I don't know what – what you mean to suggest, Mr. Bates, but—"
"Mam? What's going on?" Henry peeked his head out of the kitchen entryway.
Creak.
The three of them froze. The sound had come from above. They all glanced up, as though expecting to see the ceiling itself move.
"You'd best go," Mrs. Stowe said urgently, her voice pitched so low as to be almost inaudible.
But it was the sudden fright in Henry's eyes that made John alert. The spike of fear and anxiety in the room was palpable.
"Hurry," Mrs. Stowe pleaded, all pretense at decorum gone. "If he sees you here… He won't like it."
John did not argue. He could only aggravate the situation if he lingered now. Tipping his hat and giving the others a tight-lipped smile, he quietly but swiftly made his way back into the corridor, then out of the house.
Once outside, he breathed a deep sigh, releasing the tension that had coiled up within him. The clouds had gathered, dark and gray, to blanket the sky. And yet the light almost blinded him as soon as he closed the door behind him — very gently — and began to walk.
Well, it was no wonder the boy seemed to seek every opportunity to escape the house, John thought. Even the downstairs halls of Downton Abbey were an improvement; there was, at least, no reek of alcohol and dusty disuse there.
"I wish there was something I could do," he muttered, glancing about the empty hallway for signs of eavesdroppers.
A small frown played on her face as Anna absorbed his words. "It's a horrid situation, obviously, and I agree that something ought to be done, but…" She was observing him carefully, reading him in a way even he himself could not. "You're taking this rather personally." It wasn't an accusation. "Is it because of your father?"
Of course she had figured it out. Not seeing much sense in it, he had never told her very much about his past – and she hadn't pried for more in years – but she knew enough. More importantly, she knew him all too well.
One of the maids passed by just then, and John took the opportunity to pause and gather his thoughts before speaking. "I know the life he's living. And it's not a pleasant one. I barely survived it — how will he?"
"Well, His Lordship might help, if you asked him."
John paused to ponder her suggestion, but he hesitated to bring in the earl himself into such matters — at least, not yet. "I can't think what he could do. I might consult some of his books first, from the library. He won't mind."
"But what are you hoping to find, exactly?"
He found his hands moving of their own accord, striking the air for emphasis. "A clean solution — a way to remove Mr. Stowe safely and make sure Henry and his mother are taken care of, perhaps."
Frankly, however, he hadn't the faintest clue what might be done. His own experience made a poor example. He had always dealt — if dealt was the right word — with the worst of his domestic problems privately, out of sight from the others, and he knew of no other method. To John Bates, furthermore, the involvement of the authorities was always the last and most desperate of measures. "I thought there might be something in the legal books, or even history, to show what might be done…" His voice had climbed to a dangerous volume, and he brought it back down to an urgent, near-whisper. "I just want to know what we're up against. What we've got to work with."
Anna sighed, then nodded, accepting his decision. "Then I'll ask around — see what anyone knows about the family."
He smiled. She was, in all things and in every possible way, his partner and best advocate. "All right. Thank you."
She gave him a little smile in return, one that was both knowing and loving, and he instinctively reached out to take her hand.
"Anna!" came Mrs. Hughes's voice. "Lady Mary is ringing for you."
She gave his fingers an affectionate squeeze. "I'll see you at supper." Then she was gone. And, not for the first time, John found himself wishing he could hold onto their stolen moments together for just a little while longer.