Chapter 9
They settled into a routine. It wasn't their old routine, but John knew it couldn't be. He didn't want it to be. He now made their morning tea, and tried to do the majority of the housework. Anna needed time to rest. She pushed herself so, John believed that she needed time to rest, to recover, at home. The trouble was, Anna didn't seem to agree.
Her first morning back at the cottage, John had woken early to her curled in a ball against him, deeply asleep. He had decided to tell Mrs. Hughes what had happened, collect Anna's things from her room, and see if Lord Grantham would give him the balance of the day off. John suspected that he would. Mrs. Hughes would let it be known that Anna was sick, and that John had taken the day to see to her. John knew there would be talk about their apparent reconciliation just as there was talk about their apparent falling out. He could care less.
By the time John was dressed, and stumbled back up the stairs with Anna's breakfast, she was awake, dressed, and fixing her hair. John had tried to keep the disappointment from his face, had tried to persuade her to stay at home and rest, but he failed. She had turned, and said she would rather not be alone, and John remembered. It had been an itinerant rapist, not Green. He needed to remember that. She had sighed, and stroked John's face, and told him she wasn't ill and there was no need to treat her like she was. They had eaten sitting on the end of the freshly made bed.
No one at the house commented on their return to cohabitation, aside from Mrs. Hughes and Lord Grantham. They didn't count. They were so glad that it had all blown over. John was sure that Thomas at least had something to say, and really, he was a bit disappointed when he kept it to himself. John was looking forward to having a reason to punch him. He needed to hit someone, and if it couldn't be Green, Thomas would have to do. Green had robbed Anna of her soul, of her self, and he needed to be punished.
John had never felt so useless in his life. He wasn't sure what he was supposed to be doing. He wanted to show Anna that it didn't matter, that he loved her, however, whenever, whatever. He was finding that his way of showing her was only annoying her, but she wouldn't tell him why.
Each day was more or less the same. They would, to all outward appearances, be as they ever were. Busy, diligent, devoted. John was certain that the others noticed the change in Anna, noticed that the change in Anna hadn't gone away with her return to their cottage. The change had changed but it hadn't disappeared. She was less hollow, less haunted, and she smiled, and laughed, but John wasn't convinced. He wasn't sure if anyone was convinced. Anna had had such a large smile, such a genuine laugh, and these were poor substitutes. She had the sort of smile that could make others believe that all was right in the world. John supposed that now that she knew that wasn't the case, the gift was lost. He didn't expect anything else, but he wanted it. He wanted Anna back. He wanted Anna to find that lost bit of soul.
Anna's façade of normality crumbled when they were alone. John didn't expect anything else; he welcomed it. He welcomed the chance to hold her and let her sob, or to wait on her or put her to bed early. She would rarely allow him do so, preferring to work herself into exhaustion once they were home. Only once had she collapsed in the sitting room as soon as they were in the door. She wanted to be normal. John knew that normal no longer existed, but he didn't know what to tell her. He missed the sparkle in her eyes. He felt like he was watching her die, slowly and painfully, and was utterly helpless.
Nights were the worst. On days when John felt Anna had made the most progress towards finding herself again, he would be shaken from his doze by her thrashing, her moaning, her screaming. John had felt sick the first time it happened. He knew enough from the army, from prison, to know not to wake her. He had to comfort her. He was afraid, in her terror and panic, she would mistake him for Green, so he took great care to be gentle, to slip his arm carefully around her, loosely, so she wouldn't feel she was being held tightly or hurt. It took time that first night, but eventually she calmed, and burrowed into his neck, her tears soaking him. Sometimes he would kiss her forehead and tighten his arm around as she lay against him. She never woke during these ordeals. Night after night, John listened and held her as she relived every detail of her rape. He shed silent tears, he retched, as she snuggled gasping into him. One memorable evening his timing was off, and he arrived at work the next morning with a black eye. He dared Thomas to mention it. He wished he had, so he could have given him one to match. But Thomas was such a disappointment. John wasn't sure if Anna remembered the nightmares, flashbacks, whatever they were, in the morning or not. Neither of them mentioned him. He was glad at least she was able to find comfort in him. He could only assume he felt right. Smelt right.
This morning, about two weeks after Anna had returned to the cottage, they had had a particularly rough night, and it showed. Anna had called for him, and the sound of her shriek had made John's blood run cold. Then she had said Mr. Green. John didn't know what to do. He knew she didn't know. He knew he wasn't supposed to know. He looked at her as she prepared their morning tea. She was drawn, she was pale, and her eyes were sunken. He wanted her to stay home, and rest. She had refused. He had almost lost his patience, and said if it was Green she was safe because he was in London. Luckily he remembered in time. Since she wouldn't allow him to assist, John decided to mend the teapot he had broken the night Anna came home. It wasn't where he had left it.
"Anna, that teapot." They had two. "My mother's. The one I broke?" He kept doing this, talking like an idiot, but he didn't know what to say.
"Yes." She didn't turn.
"I finally found the glue." He loved her so. "But I can't seem to find the teapot." He would do anything for her. "Do you know where it went?" As if it had moved on its own. Perhaps it had.
"Oh, that." No spirit. She was saving her energy for work. "I put it out with the rubbish." She didn't turn.
"But…but I was going to try to fix it." He was. He could. He wanted to. He wished she'd turn and face him or sit and let him finish making the tea.
Anna sighed. "John, when will you learn some things can't be fixed?" Sharp, dry. She didn't turn.