Chapter 8

They were home. John fumbled with the lamp. He couldn't seem to get the cover back over it. Anna was home. He had left her in the parlor while he went to the kitchen to make tea. Tea would never happen if he couldn't see what he was doing.

When he left Anna, with a gentle kiss to her head, she had been sitting in her chair near the fire, looking around the room, her face a blank. He hadn't stoked the fire. He should have. He would go back do so once he got the water on for the tea. The lamp was covered. He should do it now. Biscuits. Anna needed a biscuit with her tea. John wondered if they had any. Anna would be cold with the fire burned low. He didn't know where biscuits would even be kept if they had any. Neither of them ever baked much. He'd just run and get Anna a blanket and stoke the fire while the kettle heated. He picked up the tea pot. It had been his mother's. He saw a biscuit jar on a shelf. He stopped for a minute. He would not be able to carry two things and use his cane. When he worked at the pub he managed without it, he could manage in his own kitchen. Carefully, John limped to the shelf, tea pot clutched in his left hand. Empty. Toast. He needed to check on Anna first. Toast was always satisfying. The kettle was boiling. He hadn't even measured the tea yet. John turned. The teapot fell from his hands and shattered on the floor.

John froze, looking at the fragments of pottery at his feet. The door opened. The kettle was still boiling.

"John?" Anna's voice sounded so tired. "What are you doing?" She sounded patient. Patient in the way she had when she was very tired and trying not to be impatient.

"I dropped the teapot." Obviously. Why did he sound so surprised?

"I see." Anna headed to the range. The kettle was still boiling. "Why don't you clean that up and I'll finish the tea." She eyed the pile of dirty dishes near the sink, and said nothing.

That wasn't what John had planned. "I was going to make toast." Anna needed to eat. "That is…if the bread is still alright…." He looked down at the chards of the teapot. The bread was probably dry by now. Anna handed him a dust pan, and the broom. She was wearing her apron. John began to sweep. Anna was bustling around the range and sink. John had let the housekeeping slide in the time Anna was away. At first he hadn't bothered because he had believed she would be home soon, and since he took all of his meals at Downton, tea utensils and the odd plate were all that were ever used at the cottage. By the time John had realized that Anna's absence was likely to be of some duration, if not permanent, he had let things go too far, and had stopped caring. He had thought that if he had warning she was coming home, he would have time to clean. Now here she was, making short work of his mess.

"Anna, please, sit down." He might just be able to repair the teapot. "I was planning to do that."

She didn't turn. "It's alright."

No, it wasn't. John wanted her to sit, and be waited on.

"Well, I've finished and the tea is ready." She was wiping her hands on her apron, trying to smile. Tea and buttered toast was on the table. John took another look at her. Her eyes were red-rimmed and sunken. Her body was concave. She was pale, but the activity, the purpose, had restored some color to her cheeks. John smiled. He placed the teapot fragments on the side table. He had some glue somewhere.

Silence descended as they sipped their tea. Silence wasn't unusual for them; neither of them were great talkers, but this silence was different. Usually there was no need to talk. Anna had only taken three bites of her toast. Tonight they didn't know what to say. John wondered if it was the most she had eaten since it happened.

"I'd like a bath before bed." Anna was standing.

"Oh…yes, of course." John stood. The bathroom was not exactly up to standard either. "Whatever you like." She seemed to be on the verge of tears again. "Anna." He smiled at her. She tried to smile back. He stroked the side of her face, along her jaw line. She closed her eyes and leaned into his hand. "I should warn you though." The bathroom was foul. "I may have let things slip a little up there while you were away."

They smiled, tiredly. "I'm sure I've seen worse."

John led the way upstairs. Anna disappeared into their bedroom. The bedroom wasn't too bad, but he needed to freshen the bed. John always took care to leave his personal items neat and orderly, but he hadn't made the bed since Anna had left. When he was lying in bed not sleeping, he needed the illusion that the bed linens still held her impression. Anna could not sleep in an unmade bed. He had learned that early in their married life.

John wasn't sure where to start in the bathroom. He scratched his head. The tub had some sort of stain in it. He took a towel from the floor and swabbed. That helped. He'd work on the sink and toilet while the tub filled. He was grateful Mr. Crawley had pushed for plumbing in the cottages. He knew he couldn't have managed to stay clean if he had to rely on heating water in the kitchen. Even so, it wasn't Downton. The water made a churtling sound as it started. John looked at the toilet. He thought it might defeat him. He didn't have much time. It wouldn't do for Anna to have a tepid bath. He took a breath. He had never thought much about cleaning before, not until it didn't happen. Anna kept everything she cleaned with downstairs, and he wouldn't know what to use. He could at least deal with the seat. He ran the corner of the towel some water, and wiped. It came back yellow, and brown. John nearly gagged. He had done that. He wetted another corner, and wiped again. And again, until it came back clean. That would have to do. He turned to the sink. His toothbrush and shaving equipment were tidy, but the sink itself was grungy. John laughed to himself. He couldn't manage without Anna but he didn't want her to see how badly he hadn't managed. He scrubbed with the towel, eyeing the tub. It was nearly ready. He hoped Anna was. Soap. What there was was crusted in hair. He bundled the old towels and tossed them into the corner. Anna came in as he laid a fresh towel and a bar of the rose soap she had gotten herself last time Lady Mary had sent her after beauty products.

John felt jumpy. Anna's hair was pinned back, and she was clutching her old nightgown and shawl around her neck. Her dressing gown had gone to Downton with her. John tried not to look too closely, but he saw how frail she was, how her hip bones were jutting forward through the fabric. He felt a quiver in his chest. No more tears. He smiled. He saw her seeing the towels on the floor, and his efforts at cleaning.

"I tried to…"

"I know." She looked up him. "It's fine." Her voice was so flat, but at least it wasn't cold any longer. "I'll have plenty to do." They smiled. John moved to embrace her, to kiss her head, bury his nose in her hair. She flinched, and pulled away.

"I'm sorry."

"No. I'm sorry."

"There's no reason to be sorry." They said it overlapping.

"Well. I'll just be in the bedroom then." John knew he needed to be out of the room while Anna got in the tub. She hadn't said, or asked, but he knew. "You'd best hurry or it will be cold." He closed the door quietly behind him.

Once in the hall John leaned his head against the cool wall. Why had it happened. To Anna, of all the loveliest, gentlest people in the world. For that depraved savage Green to reduce her to this shell. He felt his tea and toast come back into his throat. He swallowed hard, and took another deep breath. He needed to keep moving. There was a fire to stoke and a bedroom to tidy.

John worked quickly, thinking only of his tasks. Within half an hour, the fire was blazing and the chill was coming off the rooms. The bed had fresh sheets, the room was aired, and the pile of books next to the bed was reduced to a manageable two, with the others back in their usual homes. John found his pajamas, and a clean nightgown for Anna. He did and didn't want her to know that he'd been clutching the one she left behind in the night. It would hurt her. He wondered if he had time to let this one warm by the fire. She would know how much he needed her. He bundled the old one into the sheets for the laundry.

John realized he was out of things to do, and he thought of Anna. She was still in the bath. The water would be icy by now.

John hesitated outside the bathroom door. He knocked. He waited, and listened. Silence. He knocked again, and called her name, softly. Silence. John heard his heart beating in his ears. He closed his eyes, and remembered he'd left his razor on the sink. John opened the door, and called her name.

He released his breath. She was there, alive, asleep in the bathtub, her head angled back against the rim, her mouth slightly open, one arm across her lower body. John starred. He saw the yellow blotches, the memory of bruises once red and purple, across her arms and legs. He saw every rib, every bone. The bar of soap had fallen to the floor. She seemed to have drawn into herself, in body and spirit. He needed to get her to bed. At least there was no baby.

"Anna." John didn't want to startle her, and he hated to wake her, but this was not where she would spend the night. "Anna." He said louder, and approached the tub, gently touching her shoulder. "Anna, you need to get out."

"NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!" John took a step back. Anna was flailing her arms. "Get away from me! Stop. STOP!" Water was flying. She looked blind. John wasn't surprised. "John. John. Where are you? Help me." Her voice didn't sound like hers. John had hoped after Africa, he would never again see or hear such panic, such fear.

John took a step, slowly, towards her. "Anna." She was shaking, hugging her knees to her, in the cold water. "Anna, you're safe. You're home." He worked so his voice wouldn't shake. He couldn't give in to tears, not again. He put his hands on her shoulders, gently. Anna lurched back, but John didn't let go. She blinked, and recognized him. Sobs overtook her.

John pulled her to her feet. She was shaking, with cold or fear he wasn't certain and he supposed it didn't particularly matter. He dried her while she gasped for air, stopping now and then to hold her, soaking wet as she was, against him. Finally, slowly, she calmed.

"Let's go to bed." John whispered into her hair.

She nodded, but pulled away. She was looking at the bathtub, still wrapped in her towel. "I still feel so dirty." She turned her eyes, so large and pure and blue up to him. "Like I'll never feel clean again."

John closed his eyes, and drew her close to him. "I wish I could tell you that that's silly, but I won't." She started to shudder. "But I will tell you it isn't true. And you are very clean." She was freezing. "Now let's get to bed." John felt her take a deep breath, and nod.

He sat her on the bed, and pulled the warm clean nightgown over her head. She was still shaking. John put as many quilts as he could find over her, doubled, because he wouldn't be able to sleep with them. He moved to shut the window.

"No, don't." Anna was almost asleep. John thought it was another flashback. "I want it like it was. Leave it open." She was crying again.

John quickly removed his clothes, now soaked with the cold bathwater. He hadn't slept in a full set of pajamas in years, but it seemed appropriate tonight. He turned down the light, and slid into bed. Anna immediately rolled against him.

"What's this?" She was fingering his pajama shirt. "Take it off." Her voice was sleepy and hoarse. "I don't like it." John obliged. Anna was asleep by the time he laid down. They fell into their usual sleep positions, John on his back with his bad leg at an angle, Anna under his arm with her head on his chest. John didn't think he'd sleep. Just having her home was enough. Next thing he knew, the room was bright with dawn.