A/N: Thank you for all the encouraging reviews on the first chapter. I'll continue to try my best.
I realise that I stretch belief and credibility a little with the document of this chapter, but if we can have the dead communicating through a Ouija board, then we can have this kind of contract.
2. A Hollow World
Every day, she curses herself for being unable to rise above the storm clouds that hang low over her head. If she has any chance of convincing her husband that she is fine, then she needs to start acting like it. But her smiles are strained and painful, the muscles in her face refusing to co-operate.
Because she is childless. They are going to be childless.
A huge part of her knows that she should be honest with him. She had desperately wanted to be honest with him in the days following her ordeal, had longed to throw herself into his arms and let him reassure her that everything would be all right. But that had not been a possibility then, and it isn't now. He would shoulder the blame himself, torture himself with the thought that he should have been there to protect her in the first place, that all of the pain that she has suffered is because he is a useless excuse for a man and a useless excuse for a husband. He tortures himself enough. She will not allow him to brood further.
She is the only one to blame for this. And the monster. Once more, she will wrap the albatross around her neck and bear the full weight of her crushing failings.
She is still scaring him. She can see it in his eyes, in the soft way that he touches her. She tries to be the Anna he needs, but that woman is gone. Only a shadow of her remains.
The shadow of her shies away from human contact again. The shadow of her cannot bear to make love. She is reverting. Once more, he is afraid to touch her. They lay on their own sides of the bed, backs facing away from each other. The sea of sheets between them is cold and untouched.
Sometimes, she feels him shaking with tears. And she doesn't know what to do. Lies there helplessly beside him, listening to her husband's pain. She cries with him on those nights, equally silent, equally alone. How she wishes things could be different. They might have had children by now, little infants racing round and causing delightful chaos. They ought to have been exhausted at the end of the day from running after their children, blissfully happy together. Not this.
On this particular day, she had risen earlier, unable to sleep. She had always relished lingering in bed, though those days had been few and far between. Now she is too restless, too prone to dark thoughts.
She hadn't seen her husband until breakfast, had been forced to look into those hurt, questioning eyes. It had reminded her all too harshly of the days following that terrible night.
Thankfully, she's been busy most of the morning, and hasn't had any opportunity to see John since. He has not actively sought her out. She is grateful for the space he is giving her, even if she knows it is at his own expense.
But tonight she promises to make a special effort for him. He deserves a reward. Perhaps she can get permission to take him out to dinner, treat him to something nice. Maybe she'll find it within herself to allow him to touch her, to give him the reassurance that she knows he needs.
There's time to gear herself up for that. For now, she needs to speak with Mrs. Hughes to see if her plan can possibly come into fruition.
Approaching the door to the housekeeper's sitting room, she is stopped short by muffled voices. The door is just slightly ajar. Eavesdropping is wrong, she knows that, so she makes to backtrack and return later when the conversation is over, but she hears her name.
Who is talking about her?
All thoughts of leaving are cast out of her mind. The corridor is deserted. If she creeps a little closer, she'll be able to hear what is being said properly…
Lightening her steps, she sneaks forward, standing just to the side of the doorway. Mrs. Hughes is speaking.
"…I agree, she has seemed more out of sorts lately. She's withdrawing again."
"Do you think she's mentioned anything to Bates?" It's Lady Mary she's speaking to. Anna furrows her brow. Just why is the young woman down here, discussing her? What right does she have?
She hears Mrs. Hughes sigh. "I don't think so, milady. He looks like the world is falling down around him and he isn't quite sure how to right it again. I'm reminded of how he was just after…just after it happened. He doesn't know."
"Then what could have caused it? Some bad news?"
"It's possible, milady. But whatever it is, she's keeping it to herself. She must have her reasons."
Lady Mary lowers her voice. Anna leans in closer, straining to hear.
"You don't suppose she could have found out about Bates' ticket to London?"
The world around her spins as the blood drains from her head. She manages to put a hand out to steady herself against the wall, but her vision still spins. Somehow, she knows exactly what they're talking about. It could have been at any time. Her husband has travelled to London many times in the past, and many times since…since it happened. But with horrible instinct she knows that the two women are only referring to one dark day.
No. No, it can't be…
The urge to be sick rises from the pit of her stomach, but she fights against it valiantly, her mind whirring as she processes everything. Just when had Lady Mary and Mrs. Hughes discovered that her husband had been to London? Why has this been kept from her? Cold spreads through her entire body, icing her veins. It's too much to take in. Tears burn, then fall. She presses her hand against her mouth to restrain her sobs. Her husband isn't a murderer. He isn't. He's innocent.
Isn't he?
She turns away from the door, unable to stand listening any longer, and flees from the scene.
She has to stay late after all, so she manages to convince John to go home without her. He has been reluctant to do that ever since that night, preferring to sit in the servants' hall for hours rather than leave her to make the walk home in the dark alone. Usually, she is glad of this even as she feels the unwanted contrast of bitter frustration that he coddles her so, a confusion of silly emotions that she has grown used to over the past eighteen months. But tonight she needs to be alone, to mull over the things that she has heard. To brood like her husband does.
She barely takes notice of the dark as she walks along, her head bowed and shoulders hunched, trying to make herself as small as possible.
The overarching thought in her mind is that he'd lied to her. Stood there and promised that he wouldn't do anything that would risk their future, all the while with a ticket to London burning a hole in his pocket. The next emotion is the fear, knotting her stomach, making tears blister behind her eyes and her insides twist with terrified sickness. She's heard no word from the police that the incident which had killed that monster is being treated as anything but an unfortunate accident…but what if they discover something else incriminating? Something that places her husband at the scene of the crime?
She can't watch him hang. She can't. The thud of the trapdoor would signify the end of her own life.
The cottages come into sight. Light burns in their bedroom. He is still awake. She isn't sure if she's glad about that or not.
Unlocking the door, she steps into the hallway. She takes her time shedding her layers, wanting to postpone the inevitable meeting between them as long as possible. But it can't last, and soon enough she hears John creaking about above her head, then his heavy tread along the landing.
"Anna?" he calls softly.
"I'm here," she manages to reply.
"Are you coming up to bed?"
She contemplates saying that she wants a cup of tea, anything that might mean he is asleep before she makes her way upstairs. But that is the coward's way out.
You need to confront this.
It's now or never. If she doesn't broach the topic now, she'll never be brave enough to do it in the harsh light of day.
"I'm coming," she says, her voice wavering. He smiles at her from the top of the stairs, then retreats back to the bedroom. She takes a moment to compose herself before following.
With every step she takes, the air filters from her lungs until she can barely breathe. It feels as if she has heavy irons tied around her wrists and ankles, weighing her down. She very much feels like a prisoner being dragged to her own personal gallows. Her entire future depends on John's answers here tonight.
In the doorway she takes in the sight of him, down to his undershirt and pyjama bottoms. His hair is loose and flopping over his forehead. There is strength contained in the gentle frame of his body. Brute strength, some would say. Reassuring to her. Dangerous to the people who have never forgiven him for his past.
Had they been right all along?
He gives her a soft smile when he turns to face her.
"I thought you deserved some pampering," he says. "You've been working so hard recently. It's time you relaxed. I've run you a bath, put in your favourite salts. There are a couple of kettles of boiling water in the bathroom for you to warm it up if you need to."
"Thank you. That's very thoughtful."
"It's nothing. Truly, Anna. You deserve to be spoiled."
His expression is open and worshipping. It almost feels sinful to look at it. She forces a smile of her own.
"I could do with a nice soak. My shoulders feel a bit tight."
"I can rub them for you afterwards. If you'd like," he is quick to add.
"We'll see," she says. "I'll go and have it now, if that's all right."
"By all means. Take as long as you need."
She nods vaguely, turning to go back the way she'd come. But she can't leave without asking. Pulling on her mask while she can't see his face, she faces him once more, scrutinising.
She says, "John, what were you doing in York just before the village bazaar?"
The shutters slam closed over his eyes. His jaw tightens. But he tries to lighten it, his tone jovial, if strained. "Are you really asking me about something I did more than a year ago?"
"Yes," she says, never taking her eyes form his face, "I am."
"I don't even remember, it was so long ago. I just had a look round."
He remembers. She can see it in that tightened jaw. Because he hadn't even been in York that day. Had been much further south than that.
Plotting someone's death?
A cold shiver runs through her body, and she breaks eye contact with him. Her voice is a little unsteady as she tells him that she's going for that bath. In their cramped bathroom, she leans against the closed door, trembling. She had given him the opportunity to tell her the truth. But he had stuck with his York story. It can only mean one thing.
He has something to hide. And she has to find out what, for her own sanity.
The next morning, she moves silently around Lady Mary's bedroom, gathering together dirty laundry while her mistress eats her breakfast. She can feel the younger woman's eyes burning into her back as she moves. She braces herself, waiting for the inevitable questions that she has become so used to over the years.
"Anna, are you all right?"
"Perfectly, milady," she says tonelessly.
"Are you sure? You've been acting…distant lately. I'm a little worried."
"No need to, milady. I'm made of strong stuff, I'll be all right."
Even if she still feels like she'll shatter like fragile glass at any moment. Even if she's so delicately set that a single blow could break her. She can pull on her armour. She's watched Lady Mary do it enough times in the past. She has picked up the art.
Lady Mary frowns, but she drops the subject, moving onto something else entirely. "I'm actually planning a trip to London next week."
The words catch her off guard, and she almost drops the expensive Grecian shawl that she's holding into the crackling fire. She struggles to keep her voice neutral. "Oh?"
"Yes, I'm meeting Lord Gillingham while I'm there, thought I could make a little break of it. There's only so much farming talk I can take at times." She pauses, frowns suspiciously. "Is there a problem with that?"
"No, not at all," she rushes to reassure.
"I know you don't like being parted from Bates, but it's only for a week. Perhaps the distance will do the two of you good, give you a bit of space."
"Perhaps you're right, milady." It will provide her with something. The chance to do some investigating of her own without scrutiny from anyone else.
"So you can be prepared?"
"I can." At least, she can try. Whether she truly can be prepared for what buried secrets are about to be uncovered in London, she can't say. Because she has to know the truth, no matter what.
She just prays that it won't tear them further apart.
They stand in the corridor outside the servants' hall together. John shifts from foot to foot, evidently searching for something to break the silence surrounding them.
"I'll see you soon," he settles for finally.
"A week will pass quickly," she murmurs.
"They never do when you're not here with me. I'll miss you, very much."
She wonders if he will miss her as much as he had done in the past, when she had been vibrant and fun-loving, when their days had been spent so happily, their nights so passionately. She manages a tight smile.
"May I kiss you?" he asks softly.
He had wanted to make love to her that morning, had nuzzled against her like a shy, fumbling boy, and she had pushed him away, unable to face it, unable to feel such joy in the light of all the confusing things she has discovered about both of them in recent weeks. But she can manage a kiss. So she nods, and he leans in towards her, one hand barely touching her waist. She accepts the kiss quietly, knowing that they can't get too carried away out here in the open. He pulls away slowly, as if he can barely bear to do so, raising his hand to brush his thumb over her bottom lip.
"I love you, you know," he tells her.
Enough to kill for her? Enough to risk everything that they've ever worked for?
He's waiting for a reply, she realises. His eyes are shuttered again, almost stone. He looks as if he is bracing himself for a rejection.
"I love you too," she manages.
Because she does. Despite all of this confusion and horror and uncertainty, she loves him fiercely, more than she had thought it was possible to love somebody else. She would do absolutely anything to keep him safe.
Maybe it's no different for him.
Anything. Murder. Can she really blame him if it's true? Isn't there a vengeful, horrible part of her soul that takes joy in the fact that the monster has been silenced for good, will never again slither up behind her – at least in reality, for she cannot control her dreams – and will never hurt anyone else in the same way?
There is. But she doesn't want it to be at her husband's hands.
That's not the man he is. He's not a cold-blooded killer. Looking into his soft eyes, she finds it so hard to believe.
But York. London. Those questions.
The smile drops from her face.
"Do you mean that?" he asks quietly.
"Of course I do," she says without missing a beat. Hesitation now would spell the beginning of a life of doubts on his behalf. She cannot cause him any more agony, not after everything. He had doubted her love for him once. She won't let those same thoughts fester again. "I'll see you when I get back."
He nods solemnly, and she feels compelled to lean in. Her hand slips into his loosely, so small and fragile compared with his. She reaches up on her tiptoes to catch his mouth in a soft, lingering kiss. Tears well behind her eyes, but she forces them back. She loves every inch of this man so very, very much. The thought of life without him is not worth contemplating. She wouldn't survive it. Not after everything she's endured.
Slowly, she pulls away from him. His own eyes are closed, evidently savouring the most intimate contact between them in weeks. She brushes her thumb across his cheekbone before stepping away entirely.
"I love you," she repeats, stronger this time. She picks up her valise and heads towards the servants' entrance. She feels his wondering gaze heavy on her all the while.
They arrive in London with little incident. The bustle of the big city has always been somewhat frightening to her, a country girl used to the quiet and peace of Yorkshire. But now she knows better. The countryside is no safer than the city.
Lady Mary marches purposefully towards the car that Lady Rosamund has sent to the station for them.
"I don't think there's any point starting anything today," she says. "The travelling has rather worn me out. I think I'll have a rest when I first get there."
"Very good, milady."
She doesn't think there's any point in starting anything today, either. She needs one more night to face whatever is coming in the future.
In Lady Rosamund's London home, she paces back and forth. This is it. Tomorrow, Lady Mary is out all day, visiting with Lord Gillingham. She has the day to herself. She had told her mistress that she would do some shopping, take a look around. It's not exactly a lie, just a half-truth. She's become very proficient dealing with those.
A part of her wishes that she had never listened in to that conversation, was still ignorant of everything. Doesn't she have enough to deal with right now? She screws up her eyes, caresses the ghost of the child in her stomach. Forces out a breath. Can she bear the weight of both?
After another moment, she opens her eyes. She can. She has to. Concentrating on one at a time.
For the next few days, she will focus solely on her husband's trip to London. A different kind of agony to the one that she has been enduring. Perhaps the pain of that will distract her from her own failings.
Her mind is made up.
She has some investigating of her own to do. But she can't do it alone.
Tate and Walker, the sign says. The little office is tucked down a discreet side street in busy Belgravia. She has passed it many times in her ventures in the capital, but has never taken much notice of it.
At least not until now.
Cautiously, she pushes open the door. A bell tinkles somewhere, alerting the occupants of the building to her arrival. For a moment, she almost bolts back the way she had come – she'll be braver tomorrow – but the opportunity is robbed from her when a squat gentleman bustles in from the back room. He's older than she is by a couple of decades, but his eyes are young and watchful.
"Good afternoon," he says. "How may I help?"
She finds that the words stick in her throat. Sweat slimes hands beneath her gloves. But she pulls herself together and holds her head high.
"Hello," she says. "I was wondering if you might be able to help me."
"That's what we aim to do, ma'am."
She flushes; how stupid she sounds. But the man's smile is kind, and he gestures to a seat in front of a wooden desk, moving to turn the Open sign to Closed.
"We never allow anyone to disturb us when we're with a client," he tells her. "Make yourself comfortable and tell us what you have to. Would you like a cup of tea? I'll just fetch my associate."
"I'd love a cup of tea, thank you." Something strong and sweet to steady her nerves.
"Sit yourself down, then. I'll be back shortly." The man bustles out of the room, leaving Anna alone. She does as she's been bid, sinking into a plush seat in front of a handsome mahogany desk. Needing to take her mind off the nerves that are eating her alive, she glances around the room. Sparse. Functional. No-nonsense. Exactly the kind of place she appreciates. Mr. Tate and Mr. Walker are clearly professionals. And as much as she hates doing this, doubting her own husband, she knows that she'll never rest again until she has the truth. One way or the other.
The two men return minutes later, Mr. Tate, the shorter of the two, carrying the tea tray. He's added a couple of biscuits too, and she nibbles at one, more to be polite than out of any real appetite. Mr. Walker perches a pair of spectacles on the end of his pointed nose, peering at her.
"Now, how can we help you, Mrs…?"
"Mrs. Bates," she supplies, then stalls. "The matter is rather delicate…"
"Rest assured that discretion is our motto," says Mr. Tate. "Whatever you tell us here will remain in the strictest of confidences."
But what if they uncover a murder?
Are they still bound by the same code of the law? What if her own hands send her husband to the gallows?
"Will the outcome present moral problems?" she asks in one breath, as if saying it quicker will soften the blow of the answer.
"If you are asking if we will report our findings to the police…you can imagine the predicament we might face. Of course, usually we face no worse than a man seeking to know if his wife is having an affair."
"And what you bring us is far more troublesome than that," notes Mr. Walker. She isn't sure she likes his no-nonsense manner. She feels like a colt being fed to the wolves.
"But we might be able to help you," says Mr. Tate. "Tell us all about it."
She is struck with sudden inspiration then. "I want a contract drawn up."
The two men exchange looks.
"You must do them for all your clients," she says. "I want a contract that says that the information I have will never go any further than this room, no matter what is discovered. The woman…the woman involved in all of this wouldn't be able to bear it, do you understand? I think it would kill her."
She must look deranged herself, making vague, unnerving comments about the law. But she won't leave herself open in that way. She won't jeopardise his life.
Mr. Tate stares her out, but he is the one who breaks, sighing heavily. Perhaps he sympathises with the desperation that enshrouds her like a widow's mourning garb.
"Very well," he says. "I'll draw up the contract myself. I'll do it now so you haven't had a wasted journey."
Mr. Walker turns to him with raised eyebrows, but Mr. Tate only jerks his head, an indication that he should follow. Once more, she is left alone in the room. She twists the handle of her little bag until she thinks that it will snap. John had mended this for her once, mere days after his release from prison. He's done wonders with mending bits of her since that day. But her heart still weeps blood from the smallest of incisions. He'll never stitch that closed until she has the truth.
She doesn't know how much time passes before the two men return. Mr. Tate clutches a freshly typed bundle of paper.
"Here you are, Mrs. Bates," he says. "No hidden traps. Sign here, please."
She takes it cautiously in her hands, rustles through the pages. She won't put the pen to anything until she knows that she is safe from every angle. She reads immeasurably slowly, reads it twice, making sure that she understands every word there for fear that she'll miss some loophole. But it all reads legitimately, and there is nothing to do but sign her name at the bottom with a careful cursive.
It's done now, whatever is discovered.
Mr. Tate offers her a gentle smile. "Now that we've taken care of that, why don't we start at the beginning?"
Anna takes a deep breath to compose herself. And then she begins to speak.
"Anna, are you all right?"
Lady Mary's voice breaks through her heavy thoughts, and she lifts her head to find her mistress staring at her with those perfectly sculpted eyebrows raised in curiosity. She manages a smile, but it is not a happy one.
"I'm all right, thank you, milady."
"Are you sure? You still seem out of sorts. Has something happened today?"
"No, honestly. I took a walk along the Thames and had a lovely time. I'm a little tired now."
"I suppose the capital tires the best of us," Lady Mary allows, though she still sounds suspicious. "Perhaps you should get to bed early tonight."
"I will, milady."
There is silence for a few minutes while Anna works on her mistress' hair, making sure it is perfectly coifed for her dinner at the best restaurant London has to offer. Apparently Mr. Blake is meeting her tonight. Lady Mary is certainly testing them both out well before committing to either. Anna is privately sad that Mr. Napier has fallen by the wayside again.
"Is there something else you wish to say?"
So Lady Mary has noticed. Anna takes a deep breath, wringing her hands together. "Milady, do you think it would be possible to telephone Downton tonight?"
"Whatever for?"
She bites at her lip, refusing to meet the younger woman's gaze in the mirror. "I just…I need to hear Mr. Bates' voice tonight." After the day she's had, she needs any kind of comfort she can get.
"All right then," Lady Mary says slowly. "I won't pretend to understand why, but I don't see any harm in it. Ask Mr. Fuller to connect you."
"Thank you, milady," she says softly. "I can't tell you how much it means to me right now."
Lady Mary fixes her with a hard look.
She says, "No. And I don't suppose that I really want to know the reasons why."
She waits a long time while the operator connects her to Downton Abbey. The receiver is slick with sweat. She tugs at the collar of her dress with trembling fingers.
And then, at last, a voice.
"Good evening, I am Mr. Carson, the butler of Downton Abbey. How may I be of service?"
The clipped monotone of her superior washes over her, and she relaxes her coiled limbs just slightly.
"It's Anna, Mr. Carson," she says.
"Anna?" He sounds surprised to hear her. "Is something wrong with Lady Mary?"
"No, Lady Mary is fine," she is quick to reassure him. "I just wondered if I might have a word with Mr. Bates."
She hears his huff of frustration. "I'm not sure I like my pantry being used for a social call."
"I'm sorry, Mr. Carson. It won't happen again."
"See that it doesn't. I'll fetch Mr. Bates for you."
She is left alone for long minutes with just her own maddening thoughts for company. The phone slips in her greasy palm; she tightens her hold on it when she hears the faint noise of the phone being picked up at the other end of the line.
"Hello, my darling." Her husband sounds tired, and more than a little worried. "Are you all right?"
The sound of his voice makes an embarrassing wave of emotion wash over her. She gulps hard, ashamed with the tears that well up in her eyes. "I'm all right."
"Are you sure? You sound a little odd."
"It must be the line."
Awkward silence for a moment. John is clearly scrabbling for something to say.
"I wasn't expecting a call tonight," he settles on at last.
"I wasn't expecting giving one either. I just really needed to hear your voice. I love you, John."
"Well, I shall never turn down an opportunity to hear that," he says, but he still sounds unsure. "Anna, has something happened?"
"No," she says quickly, too quickly. "I've had a perfectly lovely day. I went for a walk, did a bit of sightseeing."
"That sounds very nice. Better than endless hours of mending, anyway."
"And I just wanted to say I love you because I don't know if you really understand how much I do." The words come in a rush now, running into one like the downward current of a stream. "I appreciate everything you do for me and I'm sorry if I'm not the person you want me to be or need me to be, but I promise I'm trying, and –"
"Slow down, slow down!" he interrupts her. He sounds genuinely nonplussed. "Anna, my darling, you have absolutely nothing to apologise for. God knows you're allowed to feel the way you do. I just wish there was more I could do to take away your pain."
"You just loving me is enough," she reassures him. "I wouldn't be here without you, John."
He makes a sound of protest. "Anna, don't say such things –"
"I mean it," she says. "If…if something were to happen and I lost you –"
"Nothing is going to happen," he tells her firmly. "I promise, Anna."
"You can't promise it," she says. "I used to think there were things in life that were certain, but even those I'm not sure of any more –" She catches herself, takes a shuddering breath. "Never mind all that. I just wanted to say I love you and I miss you."
She can hear the worry dripping off his words. "Anna, this sounds like something we need to talk about now –"
"No," she says firmly, "no, it isn't. We'll talk when I get back."
Before he can offer up another protest, she replaces the receiver.
And she cries all over again. Enough tears to drown the world.
As she lies in bed, she replays the words she had said to the two men. How she had explained the story of the poor unfortunate woman she knew who had trusted the wrong man and paid the price, and had been frightened in turn by what her husband might do. All retold calmly, coldly. As if telling it this way makes it true, as if separating herself from the horror separates her from the pain. As if it hadn't been her body ripped apart, her spirit destroyed, her husband a stranger.
She pulls the sheets tight to her, suddenly freezing. The monster isn't John's only tie with London.
Tomorrow, she will investigate them herself.
Her heels clip on the cobbled street as she makes her way through London. She has only been to this part of the city a few times in her life, but she knows it well.
John's mother's house is down this street.
Her insides coil at what potential answers she may find inside. Although the house is still in her name, it is not unreasonable to assume that John might have visited that day. Though why he would feel the need to be secretive about it, she doesn't know.
She reaches the front door and knocks.
There are several seconds of nothing, which only allow Anna's fears to fester all over again. But then the door is opened by a young, petite woman, a babe attached to her hip – Mrs. Hayes. Anna's breath catches. She can barely stand the sight of the baby's round face and flailing limbs, knowing that she will never have that same experience for herself. But she straightens her back and replaces her mask.
"Can I help you?" the young woman asks.
"I hope you might be able to. I'm Mrs. Bates."
At the realisation of who she is, Mrs. Hayes gasps. "Oh, Mrs. Bates! How rude of me! Would you like to come in for a cup of tea?"
"If it wouldn't be a bother."
"Not at all! Please, this way."
Anna follows her down the hall. It's been so long since she was last here. When she'd sorted the house out for renting with Mrs. Hughes. With her husband in prison. She closes her eyes, blinks away the urge to cry. Not now, not here.
The house has changed a lot. She remembers visiting John's mother all those long, long years ago, seeking out the truth. The house had been tidy but a little dusty, the older woman's failing eyesight making it difficult to clean as effectively as she had before. She remembers John employing someone to clean once a week not long after that, to take the strain from his mother's shoulders. He'd been a good son, even if he hadn't always been easy. The sitting room is transformed. Gone are the two little seats, the endless trinkets. Now there is a sofa, countless children's toys, much less china. The room has been redecorated, is lighter than it had been when the elder Mrs. Bates had occupied it. There is nothing of the old owner left. Time moves on for everyone. Anna's mouth twists. She just wishes that it would move on for her, too.
"Would you like to sit down?" Mrs. Hayes asks. "I'll put Harry down for his nap and I'll be right with you."
Anna nods, moving to make herself comfortable on the sofa. Little balls, toy soldiers, a soft bear. Her own cottage floor will never know the same chaos. She swallows hard.
Mrs. Hayes returns minutes later carrying a tea tray. She settles down beside her, turning to face her.
"What is it that I can help you with, Mrs. Bates?" she asks. "I trust we're being good tenants?" She can detect the worry in the younger woman's voice as she stirs in the sugar.
"Very good tenants," she reassures her. "I've just got a couple of questions that I'd like to ask, concerning my husband."
Confusion crosses Mrs. Hayes' face. "Mr. Bates?"
"Yes, that's right." She takes a deep breath. This is it. "I was just wondering, did Mr. Bates visit you one day last summer?"
Evidently wondering if this is a trick question, Mrs. Hayes nods slowly. "Yes, he did, for an hour or so. Why?"
The brief, overwhelming relief is soon strangled by the oppressive fear. It changes nothing. There are plenty of hours in the day; plenty of hours for John to have got from his mother's old house to Piccadilly…
"I would like to know what he discussed with you."
Mrs. Hayes frowns, looking uncomfortable. "Didn't he tell you?"
"I'm afraid not, which is precisely why I'm here now, asking you in person."
"Will he…will he be angry if I tell you?" she asks. "If he didn't want you to know…"
"Don't worry, I shan't tell him." More lies. She wonders if this young woman can see through them as well as anyone else. "There's just something that I am very eager to get to the bottom of, and I believe you can help me."
"All right," Mrs. Hayes relents. She takes a long gulp of tea, before setting the cup back down. It rattles in the saucer. "Mr. Bates came down to London to see how my husband and I were getting on…and to see if we'd be interested in buying the house outright."
Anna's imagination has conjured up all manner of scenarios, but she hadn't thought of this. Her heart swings in her chest, not sure whether it should leap to her throat or plummet to smash beneath her feet. She takes a deep breath to calm herself.
"I see," she says, though it's still murky black, impossible to navigate through. "Did he say why he was making such enquiries?"
Mrs. Hayes casts her a wary look. "Well…he mentioned something about a change of scenery, that the two of you were looking to do something else, and you needed extra funds…"
A change of scenery. For what? Her mouth twists bitterly. The memories will never be completely gone, no matter where she lives. She wonders sometimes if she'll ever be free of the shadows. She should be better than she is.
Or perhaps there is a more sinister reason. Perhaps…
No, she won't think it.
Seemingly oblivious to her inner turmoil, Mrs. Hayes continues, "Well, while this is a lovely house, Mrs. Bates, it just wasn't feasible at the time. I'd just found out I was pregnant and my husband was trying to pick up extra shifts at work just for a bit of extra money, and we just couldn't afford to even consider it…" Her eyes widen. "That's not why you're here, is it? Mr. Bates was very kind at the time, said he understood, but he seemed very disappointed…you're not going to give us our notice for someone else who wants to buy outright?" The very idea of it makes the young woman's lower lip quiver. "I mean, we would consider buying at some point, but our life is just starting to settle back down and we'd quite like it to stay like this for a little while longer…"
"I'm not here to give you your notice," Anna says quickly, even as her heart pulses at the rotting core at the thought of a normal life. "I just wanted to know what Mr. Bates was doing in London that day. You've been immensely helpful. Thank you."
Mrs. Hayes still looks confused. "That's quite all right."
Replacing her still full cup of tea on the little table in front of her, Anna says, "I really must be leaving now."
"Of course." Mrs. Hayes stands and shows her back to the door.
"Thank you for your time," says Anna, stepping over the threshold.
"Any time, Mrs. Bates."
Anna ducks her head in acknowledgement, and swivels round to retrace the path she'd taken here. Her mind is buzzing. John visited the tenants in London. But had he had any ulterior motives in mind that day? She checks her watch. Mrs. Hayes had said that he didn't spend more than an hour there. He didn't get back to Downton until late.
Plenty of time to get to Piccadilly…
Anna swallows hard.
Two days later, she gets the phone call. It's Mr. Tate.
"Mrs. Bates?" he says. "Can you come by the office?"
"Yes," she manages. "Will this afternoon by all right?"
"It will."
His tone of voice gives nothing away. She just hopes that it won't end her world once more when the time comes.
A/N: Anna's own troubles haven't been forgotten, but I believe there's only so much heartache you can focus on at once.