A/N: Not entirely happy with the way this has turned out, but time is tight and I want it up before series five starts. Thanks to everyone for the reviews. I worked in a scene that got mentioned in the series five press release, though I don't know how it will appear in the show.
4. His Love Will Conquer
It starts as any other day might. Anna awakens beside her husband, stretching out her limbs.
"Good morning," he says.
"What time is it?"
"Just after five. We've another half an hour before we have to get up to dress."
She groans, burying her face in the pillow. "Not enough time to go back to sleep, then."
"I don't know about that. You've managed it in the past."
She scowls at his teasing, though of course he can't see it. She rolls over to rectify this, and is struck by how handsome he looks. Slowly but surely the years are slipping away, and it suits him. She's glad he's getting back to where he was, even if she still feels as if she's trailing behind at times.
This morning she feels stronger.
Hooking her arms around his neck, she warns, "Stop smiling."
He tilts his head. "And what if I won't?"
"Then I'll make you."
"And how are you going to do that?"
"Like this," she mutters, and leans in to capture his mouth.
It does work, most spectacularly. And, Anna thinks afterwards as she lies there panting for breath, a most enjoyable experience for both.
The morning continues to go well. She's rushed off her feet, but it's a pleasant kind of bustle, her body relaxed and happy from the early morning activities. John seems to be in just a good a mood. She's sure she even hears him whistling when she passes by his lordship's dressing room.
But just like with everything else, Thomas just has to ruin everything.
He strolls into the servants' hall as they're taking a quiet tea together; everyone else appears to be preoccupied with other tasks. She ought to have sensed his confrontational manner from the moment he entered. His eyes are dark and sly, boring into them.
"All alone?" he says.
John doesn't even bother looking up from the page of the book he is reading. "No, there's a roomful."
The under butler's mouth twists. The snake rears its head to strike. "I'm surprised you are alone. There was a time not too long ago when Anna couldn't even bear standing in the same room as you, never mind having tea with you. And let's not forget the fact that she moved out of your home. So don't come all high and mighty with me when your life is far from perfect."
With trepidation, she watches as John's knuckles turn white. The distant sounds from the kitchen are the only ones that can be heard.
"Don't push me, Thomas," he growls.
"That's Mr. Barrow to you, Mr. Bates," he sneers. He turns towards Anna. "Come on, Anna, we've all seen what you've been like with him recently. Can't say I blame you much. If you're not in love with him anymore, well, it's not like he hasn't had any dealings with divorce proceedings in the past."
John pushes himself to his feet, the chair scraping along the cold floor.
"I won't tell you again," he says.
Anna lays her hand on his sleeve, her heart beginning a frantic drumroll in her chest. "Mr. Bates…."
He ignores her, his cold eyes staring the other man down. If Thomas feels any disquiet then he does not show it, taking another drag on his cigarette.
"Now, now, Mr. Bates," he says silkily. "There's no need to get frustrated. It's not my fault if your wife prefers gallivanting with other men. It's not my fault she preferred the company of Lord Gillingham's valet to you –"
The next few seconds pass in a flash, and yet seem to drag on for a lifetime. John remains stock-still for a heartbeat. And then he lunges. Anna gasps as her husband barrels into the under butler, the pair of them crashing into the wall.
"John!" she shrieks.
If her husband hears her, he pays her no mind. Snarling, he buries his first in the under-butler's stomach. She watches in horror as Thomas groans, but then he begins to fight back –
Scrambling to her feet, she flies around the table towards the scuffling pair. Now is not the time for fear. Her husband's grunts fill her ears. She can't listen to his pain. Not her John.
Small and slight she may be, but she takes a deep breath and looks for a gap. At the corners of her memories the flashbacks linger deviously, memories of blows raining down on her, driving the breath from her body, and pain, pain, pain –
She narrows her eyes and pushes herself between them. John stops instantly, clearly wary of hurting her, and Anna pushes her back against his front, quivering. Thomas pants through his mouth, pulling at his livery. His nose is bloody, staining his starched white shirt.
"You bastard," he says.
"I warned you," John wheezes. She turns her head to regard him. A bruise is blossoming on his cheek.
"Both of you stop it!" she says furiously. "God, stop acting like petty children!"
John glowers over her head, remains silent.
"He shouldn't say those things about you," he mutters.
"I don't care what he says! You know I love you, you know that none of it is true."
"Is that really true?" Thomas sneers.
Anna rounds on him. "And you! Keep your nose out of matters that don't concern you! Next time I'll smack you myself!"
Thomas mutters under his breath, wiping his nose on the back of his hand.
"Go and clean yourself up," she says. "And you" she adds, jabbing her husband in the chest, "sit yourself back down. I'll clean you up."
"Don't think I won't be reporting this to Mr. Carson," spits Thomas.
"Do your worst," John retorts.
With one last contemptuous look, Thomas storms out of the hall. Anna waits for the inevitable cries of shock from the kitchen staff, but nothing changes. He must be going to his room to lick his wounds. She won't complain, not if it means the incident can be contained for a little while longer.
"Wait there," she says. "I'll fetch a cloth and some water. It'll soothe you."
She doesn't wait to hear his reply, moving down the corridor towards the kitchen. It's a scene of organised chaos, as usual, but Mrs. Patmore notices her.
"What's wrong, Anna?" she asks.
"I just need a cloth and some water."
"Whatever for?"
She shakes her head. "It doesn't matter."
"Well, help yourself. Just don't get in our way!"
She manages a tight smile, collects the supplies. Returning to the servants' hall, she finds John back in his seat, his head tilted forward. She resumes her seat beside him and jerks his head up with more force than is necessary after she has dipped the cloth into the water.
"What do you think you were doing, lashing out like that?" she hisses, pressing the cloth to his face. "You know Mr. Carson is going to be absolutely furious!"
"I don't care," he says stubbornly. "Thomas had no right saying those things."
"He doesn't know anything!"
"But he suspects something! Didn't you see the way he was smirking, egging me on?"
"And like a fool you rose to the bait."
John scowls, but he doesn't say anything else. Anna bites at her lip as she dabs at his cheekbone.
"That's going to bruise, you know," she admonishes. "Everyone is going to know."
"Look, I'm sorry, Anna. What else do you want me to say?"
"Nothing. But you have to stop letting that temper of yours govern your rationality. Thomas is a slimy sneak, but you've got to be the bigger man. You'll do yourself no favours."
They remain silent while Anna finishes nursing his hurts. Internally, she sighs. Just what will she do with this daft beggar? For all of his stoicism in the past, he seems to have a difficult time concealing his emotions now. She doesn't know if it's a good thing or not.
"There," she says at length. "All better." She places the bowl on the table. Tentatively, he reaches across to take her hand. She lets him, closing her eyes at the feel of his skin against hers.
She wishes it wasn't like this. The continuous struggle. Forever fearing that someone will discover her secret, exploit them. Thomas is a constantly skulking shadow, sniffing out scandal like a bloodhound. She shivers. He's not stupid. He knows that something has been amiss. What if he starts spreading things? It doesn't bear thinking about. She's had enough of those curious, sympathetic looks. And the way that Miss Baxter appraises her is disconcerting. Almost as if she knows exactly what has transpired in the last years. It's a constant, dreadful cycle.
"What are you thinking about?"
John's voice breaks through her increasingly miserable thoughts, and she lifts her eyes to find herself fixed with one of those looks that goes right through her soul. She traces her fingertip along the grain in the table, unable to maintain his gaze.
"Not a lot," she says. "Just…just sometimes I wish that we could move away from here. Somewhere no one knows us or our story. Somewhere where we could be Mr. and Mrs. Bates and live our life." Not without the shadows. Shadows follow everyone. But she would be free of the relentless feeling of being surrounded by menace.
Never again would she have to enter the scene of the crime.
"What's stopping us?" John's voice is cautious. "We could always contact Mr. and Mrs. Hayes, see if they're in a position to consider buying now. We could pick up the idea of the little hotel again, if it's something that you still want. Somewhere near the sea, perhaps. Scarborough, or Whitby."
She mulls over his words. A fresh start in a strange place. The idea sounds more and more appealing the more she thinks about it.
And then, the killer blow.
He continues, "And you know what they say about sea air. It leads to a healthy and happy life. I think we're deserving of one of those. Some place nice and peaceful where we can grow old surrounded by our children."
Like a deadly arrow, the words pierce her straight through the heart. She feels the colour drain from her face in mere seconds. In mere seconds, everything has changed.
John clearly senses that he has said something wrong, for his eyes widen in alarm, his spare hand reaching out to cup her cheek.
"Anna? What's wrong?"
She jerks back from his touch as if he'd burned her, almost falling out of her chair in her desperation to put as much distance between them as possible.
"Anna?" he questions. There's a frightened glimmer in his eyes as he pushes himself to his feet too, reaching out but stopping short, as if an invisible barrier is between them.
"Leave it alone," she chokes.
"But –"
"I said leave it!" Her voice is shrill and panicked, and he holds his hands up in a gesture of surrender, though he is wild-eyed with confusion. She takes deep, shuddering breaths as her eyes fill with tears. Not a mention of children. She could have handled anything but that. But hearing him say the words, express a need for something that she can never give him…
Stifling a sob, she turns and flees from the hall.
Panic swirls inside her for the rest of the day. It makes her clumsy. Lady Mary scolds her. She barely pays any attention. All she can think about is her reaction. How could she have been stupid enough to let weakness show? Why had she been unable to maintain her indifferent mask? John knows that there's something wrong now, and she knows he won't rest until he knows the truth. Fear settles in the pit of her stomach. What lie can she feed him? How can she make him trust her when their trust has been shattered? She stares at herself through Lady Mary's mirror. Pale faced and sickly. Haunted eyes. It's as if the months have been stripped away and she's that vulnerable victim once more, frightened and alone.
During dinner, everyone is intrigued by the tense atmosphere between John and Thomas, at the bruises on each of their faces. John remains quietly dignified and Thomas says nothing either, though she's sure that he'll spread his poison as soon as they're gone. Mr. Carson's expression is thunderous, and she's in no doubts that he's had the two men in his office for a severe talking to. No doubt that Lord Grantham will have to be called on. Dread fills her. If John gets into trouble…
The notion doesn't seem to be bothering her husband, however. He sits across from her, his calculating gaze searing. He isn't going to let it go. Like in the days following the attack, his stare burns a hole through to her very soul, leaving her raw and pulsing. The metallic sound of the cutlery against the plates is overwhelming. Everyone casts little surreptitious glances every now and then, whispering behind their hands –
She pushes her chair back from the table, almost knocking it over in her haste. For a split second she is frozen and powerless, but then her eyes meet John's and it jolts life back into her limbs. The murmurs turn into full blown exclamations as she turns and flees the room. Her feet carry her towards Mrs. Hughes' sitting room, a place of salvation, a place to hide. She closes the door behind her and slides down the side of the cabinet, bringing her knees up to her chest, trying to curl herself into as small a ball as possible. She's been in this very same spot before. Had crawled here with a split lip and a ringing head and the worst pain stabbing under her torn dress. And Mrs. Hughes had found her in here, howling like a baby, unable to process just what had burned her golden life and made it black and bitter as ash –
"Anna, my God!"
Mrs. Hughes' voice startles her, and she whirls around in a blind panic. The housekeeper closes the door behind her, crouches down beside her. She seizes her hands and shakes her.
"Breathe with me, Anna," she says firmly. "Come on now."
In that moment she realises just what shallow, quick breaths she is taking, barely drawing in any oxygen at all. She finds Mrs. Hughes' kind eyes and tries to do as instructed, tries to match her inhalations and exhalations with the older woman's.
"That's right," Mrs. Hughes says encouragingly, "just like that. Calm down, my dear."
Eventually she gets her breathing under control, and Mrs. Hughes smooths her hair back.
"What happened?" she asks.
Anna knows that she can't escape without telling her something, but she can't confess the truth. The lies slip like honey off her tongue. "It's about earlier. Mr. Barrow…he was goading Mr. Bates about the time Mr…Mr. Green was here, and it's triggered the memories off again. I'm so sorry, Mrs. Hughes."
The housekeeper's gaze has softened, and she unexpectedly envelopes her in a motherly embrace. "Oh, my dear, I'm so sorry. I'll have a word with Mr. Carson, make it clear that Mr. Bates isn't to blame. I won't allow Mr. Barrow to get away with such comments. And you must go home right now, get yourself sorted out. I'll see to Lady Mary myself."
She knows she ought to protest, insist that she's fit to work, but a part of her whispers that if she slips away now, she'll avoid her husband. She can avoid a difficult conversation. She won't be able to run forever, but for tonight…
"Thank you, Mrs. Hughes," she whispers. "Please tell Mr. Bates where I've gone."
"Nonsense."
"Excuse me?"
"Do you honestly believe I'd let you out into the dark night all alone? You're not going anywhere without Mr. Bates, my girl."
Her shelled heart cracks. "But –"
"I won't listen to any more. Mr. Bates is standing outside right now, beside himself with worry. He'll escort you home then come back to see to his lordship."
What choice does she have? Numb, she nods, and Mrs. Hughes leads her back into the corridor. True enough, John paces back and forth, his cane clacking on the flagstones. He rushes towards her when he sees her.
"Anna, are you all right?" he gasps, reaching out to cup her face. She flinches away, pretends not to notice the terror on his face.
"I'm all right," she says.
"Take her home, Mr. Bates," says Mrs. Hughes. "She's had a bit of an evening."
"Come on," John says softly. "Let's get you into bed."
Mrs. Hughes colours delicately, clears her throat, and makes her excuses. John bundles her into her coat as if she's a helpless child. She lets him.
"Anna –" he begins.
"No," she says harshly, then gets herself under control. "Not yet."
Slowly, he nods, then escorts her out of the door, his hand on her back.
They make the journey home in dead silence. Anna keeps her gaze trained on the ground so that she doesn't have to see her husband's face. She's afraid of what she'll find there.
John unlocks the front door, stepping aside to allow her to pass before him. She sheds her outer layers, moving up the stairs before John is even through the door.
"Anna, wait."
His voice freezes her to the spot, and she closes her eyes as she answers him. "What is it, John? I'm very tired."
"We need to talk."
"I've told you, not just yet. You need to get back to work. You're in enough trouble as it is."
For a moment he doesn't move, and she fears that he'll insist on staying anyway. But he heaves a great sigh.
"All right," he says. "But when I get back…"
His words linger. She doesn't turn.
"If that's what you want," she says. She has no intention of having that conversation tonight. She'll feign sleep when he returns home, then slip away before he rises in the morning. Like after that awful night. It will give her time to get her thoughts settled, to choose the most believable tale.
The door closes behind her, and she is alone.
The front door squeaking on its hinges foretells her husband's return. She burrows down beneath the sheets and closes her eyes tight, trying to regulate her breathing. It seems like an age before she hears John outside the bedroom door. Light flickers as he lights a candle, but she keeps her eyes shut. She listens to the sounds of his night time ritual, the washing at the basin, the soft sounds of him hanging up his livery, the whisper of his night clothes against his skin. She remains still as he clambers into bed beside her, slipping an arm around her, pressing them flush. His body is warm and reassuring despite everything. He presses a soft kiss to the side of her neck. She thinks that's the end of it.
But it's not.
"Anna, I know you're not asleep."
The words make her stiffen – her biggest mistake. In the next moment he's easing her over gently. She has no choice but to open her eyes. His soft smile greets her.
"I've watched you sleep and listened to your breathing a thousand times over," he says. "You can't fool me that way, Anna Bates."
She remains silent. He encourages her to sit up. She does so, pulling the sheets tight around her, as if it will keep everything at bay. He finds her hand, takes it. For long seconds neither of them speak. John is the one to break it.
"Tell me what this is about," he says.
"It's nothing. What Thomas said, it took me back –"
"That isn't it." John's voice doesn't lose its tenderness. "I'm not saying that what that slimy little rat said didn't affect you, but it's more than that. You seemed all right until we were talking."
"Looks can be deceiving –" she tries, but he shakes his head.
"I know you're lying to me," he says. There isn't any accusation in his tone; it's simply matter-of-fact. Gently, he cups her cheek, tilts her head up. "You know how I always know when you're lying to me? You can't look me in the eye. You drop your gaze as if you're ashamed, or as if you're frightened that I'll read the truth in it. Please don't lie to my any more, Anna. I love you very much. It's time to stop with the lies. They'll only destroy us in the end. I want what we had before."
"Things can't be the same as before, don't you understand?" she snaps, but he doesn't rise to her. "Why can't you leave it alone?"
"For the same reasons you wouldn't leave London alone, I imagine," he says. "It's driving me mad with worry. And you are unhappy. Knowing that you're in pain is the greatest pain for me. I told you once before: if I can do anything to make you feel better then I won't hesitate. You're in pain now. Let me know whatI can do."
"You can't do anything," she chokes, and is ashamed when the tears begin to roll. He brings her forward, kisses each one away.
"I disagree," he whispers.
She wants to hate him for insisting, but she can't. Not her John. And part of her wants to share her agony, to not be the only one torn to pieces.
"Let me help you," he whispers again.
And she breaks. Sobs openly and wretchedly, for all the times they'll never have. The ghost of their baby hovers above them, like a tormented spirit caught between worlds. John's flummoxed and horrified expression is only visible for a few seconds before he seizes her in his arms, cradles her head tight to his chest. Her own arms come up around him of their own accord, and she weeps bitterly. His quiet murmurs are unintelligible over her sorrow, and even his steady heartbeat does nothing to comfort her. John is patient with her, though, not pressing her any more until the cries finally begin to peter out. She feels his lips against her temple and sits back slowly.
"I'm sorry," she sniffs.
"Never be sorry, my darling. Not you. Now please, tell me what's wrong."
She takes a deep breath to gather herself. She can't bear to look him in the eye even now, doesn't want to see the life fade and know that she's responsible for it.
"Do you remember a while back now, when we planned a picnic on our half day?"
"I think so." He sounds puzzled for a moment before his tone clears. "You went to the village and Mrs. Johnson was cruel."
"That's just it," she says. "It wasn't Mrs. Johnson at all. I never even saw her that day. I went to see Doctor Clarkson instead."
"Doctor Clarkson?" John's eyes widen. "Why?"
Anna chokes on another sob. "A part of me thought I might be pregnant, and I went to see him to confirm it."
"But you…weren't?" John's tone is broken, and it slashes her heart open.
"No, I wasn't," she whispers. "And he told me…he told me…"
The sobs wrack her body again, but John's hands find her cheeks and cup her face gently.
"Calm down," he tells her. "I'm right here with you. Right here."
And there's nothing left to do but say the words, to get them out in a rush.
"He told me that I can't have children."
Silence rings in the wake of her confession. She closes her eyes, desperate not to see his face. To black out the agonised, accusatory pain. The blame. But he hooks his index finger under her chin. Forces her to lift her head.
"Anna, look at me."
She doesn't want to. Evert fibre of her being revolts against the idea. And yet she can't deny him. Tears building all over again, she opens her eyes. John stares at her, but there is no malicious condemnation behind his eyes. His too are filled with tears, and a powerful sadness.
"Is that true?" he asks.
She can't answer him with words. It's too painful. So she nods. He takes a harsh, shuddering breath.
"Oh, my darling," he says.
His response breaks a dam within her. Anger and confusion and devastation battle for dominance, tearing her open from the inside. He should be blaming her. His blame would be easier to deal with than his sympathy. Still, she can't prevent herself sagging into his arms as he pulls her close, holding her tight against his chest. He doesn't say any more. She doesn't want to know what thoughts are running through his head. His shirt is being saturated with her tears. Too many tears.
And then the worst thing.
"I'm sorry," he offers.
"Don't," she cries. "Don't you dare say that."
"But you've been put through so much heartbreak…"
"Stop it! I don't want to hear you say it! It's my fault too, don't you understand!? It's my fault too!"
"Now listen here," he says, and his voice is low and fierce. "I never want to hear you blaming yourself again, do you hear me? None of this is your fault. It's all him. All of it."
"But I can't give you children now! If I'd…I'd fought harder…"
He presses her head back against his chest, and she resumes her sobbing. "Stop thinking like that."
"It's true! I couldn't stop him, I…"
"No, he was the one who did this, who…who forced you. You are not to blame for his actions. It was all him." His voice is bitter and hard. She shrinks back a little from it, but he comes back to her. "Have you thought of something?" he prompts softly. "Have you ever considered…that it might not be your body that doesn't want children?"
"Of course it's me," she chokes. "Doctor Clarkson told me himself, there's a growth and scar tissue…" She can't say any more, swallowing hard as the tears prickle again.
"Doctor Clarkson has been wrong in the past. Perhaps he's wrong now."
"Don't try and make me feel better John, don't you dare."
"All I'm saying is that he made huge errors where Mr. Matthew was concerned. And…and we hadn't conceived before…before all that. Perhaps it's down to me. But maybe there's something we can do. Perhaps we can get a second opinion. Or visit a fertility clinic, there are plenty of those in London –"
Something inside her snaps, and she pounds her fists against his chest, furious with him, furious with herself. "Stop it! Stop it! Stop making it about you!"
He takes her beating silently, hands loose by his sides, waiting for the wave of anguish to pass. Only when she collapses, weeping, against his chest does he move to hold her tight against him. She has no strength left in her to fight, simply sags against him and lets loose every tiny, pent up emotion she's been keeping locked inside herself. She cries until she has nothing left. He kisses her hair, trailing his fingers up and down her back. She's tired, so very, very tired.
"Don't you understand?" she whispers. "We can never have children. We're never going to have the family we've always dreamed of."
"And don't you understand?" he murmurs. "I don't care. I wanted children, yes, I won't deny it. But I want you and our life together more than anything else in the world. I love you. I could never be unhappy as long as I have you."
"But –"
Gently, he eases her away. She has no choice but to look into his soft, hazel eyes. They radiate love and warmth. They radiate truth. He smooths his thumb under her eye, wiping away sticky residue from her tears.
"I love you," he repeats. "Exactly as you are, with or without children."
Her lip wobbles as she tries to contain her emotion. Why hasn't she cried enough tears for a lifetime? How can she still find more? Her head feels woozy and her nose is running, but John crushes her back against him and murmurs sweet nothings into her hair.
All of her shame is out in the open. Once again, she's failed in her mission to protect him.
But there's also a sense of intense abandon. A freedom in her anguish. The last barrier between them has dissolved. There's nothing keeping them apart now. He doesn't see her as a failure. He still loves her, wants her. She squeezes him tighter and feels him respond in kind. Life has tested them time and time again, but they're still here. Maybe they really are unbreakable. Maybe there's hope.
With everything finally out in the open, perhaps they really can get on with their lives. It can be dangerous to cut out a cancer, but she thinks that it's worth the risk. Better to have the chance of a full life than the inevitable slow and painful death.
She feels awkward for the next few days, shy, as if she's learning herself all over again. Learning that she doesn't always have to be the strong one. That her husband is there for her. All she needs to do is lean on him and use his strength. He's proven time and time again that his shoulders are broad enough to support anything.
The emotions come and go. Anger at herself, relief that John doesn't blame her for anything. And, finally, happiness at the belief that they can work things out, step by step.
One night, when they're lying tangled together in the heat of lovemaking's end, John presses a kiss to her hairline and murmurs, "What do you really think to the idea of that little hotel?"
She shifts so that she can see his face a little better, all dark-eyed, frail hope. She remembers her words from the servants' hall. A fresh start where no one knows them. A new life together. Another shot at happiness where it doesn't need to be reined in and muted.
She winds her arms around his neck, kisses him deeply. She doesn't need to answer him with words, but she does anyway.
"I think it's time," she says.
Plans move quickly. John goes to see the Hayes family again. This time, he returns with good news. Together, they start to sort out their prospects. Nothing in Skegness. A couple of promising ones in Scarborough. One in Whitby. They look over the papers, visit each one on half-days. They make a choice between them, settling on one of the manageable properties in Scarborough, the nearest location to Downton. She doesn't want to cast off entirely, not when she has people like Mrs. Hughes there. John understands that.
When they hear that their offer has been accepted, it's time to put in their notices.
The news seems to come as a shock to everyone. Clearly, with the absence of a family, everyone had assumed that they would stay in service for the rest of their lives. But it's not a real career for a married couple, where husband and wife barely get to spend any time together outside the working hours. During times in the past there had been nothing that Anna had been more grateful for, but those days are mostly behind her now. For the first time in a long time, she wants to grab any happiness that she can, and sharing her life with her husband will go a long way to achieving that.
His lordship is morose when the news is broken, John tells her. The two have a shared history that even she does not know the full extent of. No doubt it will be hard for the both of them to say goodbye and cast off. There is no question about who will replace him. Mr. Molesley is given the opportunity to rise to his former position, although, John says with a nostalgic smile, his lordship would rather he stay.
Lady Mary is equally sad to see her go. The two women have almost grown up together on the different sides of the social divide, have shared things that only true friends would share. They have been there for each other more times than it's possible to count. Anna will miss her mistress' no nonsense ways, her steady council. Like her husband and his lordship, their bonds have been forged by wars and battles. Not in the same way. But they've navigated countless storms together and made it out alive.
It's Mrs. Hughes who gives her the most fond and sentimental goodbye, however.
"You've grown up under my charge," she says, misty-eyed and maternal. "And I couldn't be more proud of the woman you've become, Anna. I know times have been trying in the last few years, but I truly believe that you and Mr. Bates have something worth fighting for."
"You're right, Mrs. Hughes," she agrees. "We're really going to fight for the future now. I promise."
"And you must come back to visit sometime. Don't be strangers. You and Mr. Bates will always be welcome in this house."
"Thank you. And when we're up and running, you should come and stay with us. See if you can slip away for a few days."
Mrs. Hughes laughs. "I'll have to see what I can do. God knows that having a break from the relentless work would be very nice."
It's decided that Miss Baxter will pick up her duties when the leaving date arrives until a suitable replacement is found and trained. Anna worries that she is putting on the other woman, but Miss Baxter merely offers her a smile and quietly says that she doesn't mind doing a bit of extra work.
Every day, the leaving date creeps closer and closer. Their nights are filled with packing up their belongings, ensuring that they have everything boxed that they wish to take from their first home. Anna knows she'll miss the cottage. It was the first place to be truly theirs, where they could close the door and be away from prying eyes. She runs her hand fondly over the covers of their bed. The first marital bed, where so many happy – and racy – moments have taken place.
But there have been moments of heartbreak and anguish too.
As if he can sense what she's thinking, John sidles up behind her, wrapping his arms around her and encouraging her away. She leans into his touch, her pillar of strength.
The morning comes, and their fresh start begins.
The breeze sneaks in through the window. Anna sighs and rolls over onto her other side. She is greeted by cold sheets, and sits up. She finds John at the other side of the room, slipping his tie around his neck.
"Good morning," he says, catching her eye through the mirror. "Finally decided to join me?"
"Very funny," she grumbles, flopping back down. "Why don't you come back and join me here?"
"I can't," he says. "The Tamworths are leaving this morning, and the Joneses are arriving. Someone has to be there to see to them all."
"Couldn't the lads?" she asks, but she's not really serious; Henry and Peter, two of the local boys, take care of the night shift, and will be wanting to head off home.
"You can stay here a bit longer if you'd like," says John. "I can manage without you if you want to get a bit more sleep. We didn't manage much last night after all."
She blushes to her roots, but pushes the covers back all the same. "No, that's all right. I'll come and help you. We're supposed to be a team, after all."
"Perhaps we could take a walk to the beach later, have a stroll along the promenade."
"This evening, perhaps. I've got a few errands to run, and I promised to look in on old Mrs. Howard."
"All right. We'll slip away after dinner."
She nods. He pads towards her, slips his arm about her waist. She tilts her head back, offering her mouth to be kissed. He takes her unspoken invitation meshing his mouth against hers. It's harder to let him go when they part again, but she does, seeing him out of the door with a smile.
It's promising to be a very good day.
All things considered, leaving has been good for them. The darkness still lingers, but with the bright sun it's difficult to see. She's not fool enough to think that it will disappear without a trace, but it doesn't control their lives anymore. They are the masters of their own paths.
Part of her knows that lifting the final veil of what had been consuming her mind has gone a long way with that. They've built their trust back up. They can still be happy. Facing a burden alone is a terrifying prospect. Sharing that burden with a trusted soulmate makes it easier to bear.
In some ways, it makes it miraculously insignificant.
They walk along the promenade together, arm in arm. The sun is just beginning to set, casting a warm orange glow over everything. Anna cranes her neck so that she can see her husband's face. He looks serene, at peace with the whole world. His forearms are tanned, his face has caught the sun. These surroundings suit him. He looks younger, walks taller, has more confidence. Towards the end, Downton had started to feel like a prison. Now they have escaped their jailer.
"Anna, are you all right?"
She blinks as she realises that they have come to a stop. John leans against the railing, searching her face with a slight frown on his own. She smiles – a genuine one.
"I'm all right," she says. "I was just thinking."
"Happy thoughts?"
"Thoughtful ones. I was thinking about Downton, and how glad I am that we're here now."
He dips his head to press a kiss to her cheek, and she laughs when he bumps his head against the rim of her hat.
"So am I," he says. Together, they turn to gaze across the sea, at the way the rays of the sun catch the waves and make them sparkle.
Seemingly oblivious to the rigid rules of propriety, John steps behind her. She leans against his chest as he slips his strong arms around her waist, his hands coming to rest on her stomach. She slips hers on top of his, keeping them in place.
Very glad indeed.