Part 3: A Woman There Was
Spoilers: 4.6-7
Warnings: Season 4 Anna/Bates canon fic, thus occasional disturbing references. Also graphic consensual sexual situations.
Summary: Her steps were labored but forward.
Anna wandered around their cottage, tracing every piece of furniture with her fingertips. The late afternoon sun lit the drifting dust particles, creating a golden snowstorm.
"I didn't keep things up to your standards?" John asked as he hung up his coat and hat by the entry. She could tell that he was trying for levity but still sounded wary. She'd wounded him on purpose and this was her price.
"It's so precious, that's all," she murmured.
"Let's have tea," he said, his relief heavy, before moving to the kitchen.
Once they were at their table, hands wrapped around teacups, Anna felt as though she needed to say a few things. "I know that I've hurt you-"
He shied away as if struck. "How can you say that I've been hurt, when you-"
"Let's not talk about it," she said abruptly. "I just wanted to say that I'm sorry, that's all. I should have had more faith in you." She knew there was no sincerity in her words.
He tilted his cup to see the leaves snared on the bottom, perhaps seeking his fortune. "There's nothing to apologize for. I've been thinking—"
No words made a married person's heart sink faster than I've been thinking. Anna felt that now familiar detachment overcome her. Numb, she waited for him to continue.
"When we first met, you knew my heart straight off, more than I could. You pulled me along—I didn't believe I could be happy, that I could be free, and you showed me the way. When I went to prison, I lost hope again. That was the man I was meant to be—"
His echo of her phrase made her wince but she remained rooted to her chair.
"And once more, you knew me. That I was an innocent man who should be free. Could love a woman and give her a good home." He glanced around the cottage as if seeing it for the first time. "Even if my painting skills left something to be desired."
She tried to laugh and just managed a gasp.
"So if you knew I wasn't strong enough to carry this burden for you, I must accept that. You know my heart better than I know it myself." He gulped his cold tea, leaves and all.
She couldn't speak. Her eyes burned as though she hadn't slept in days and she supposed that she hadn't. The sun sank lower, exploding the window with light, blinding her in the moment, and she welcomed the white sheet that seemed to fall over her vision like a shroud.
Finally, a single word escaped. "No." That was all she could manage and she hoped it was enough.
"I'll sleep in the other room," said John, lingering at their bedroom door.
Anna had rushed upstairs as soon as it was reasonable. She yearned for their bed, her pillow, his scent around her, all that had been kept from her for the past few weeks. She blinked at him over the covers pulled up to her chin.
"The other room?" It was a catchall space for now, the unspoken nursery.
"I've set up a cot."
"Why?"
"I thought-" He shifted on his bad leg.
"I need you, John." He still looked uncomfortable; she should have called him Mr. Bates. But he finally approached the bed and removed his robe. She noticed that he'd chosen one of his lordship's hand-me-down pairs of pajamas rather than a nightshirt. She wouldn't feel the gentle rasp of his bare, long legs twining with hers.
The mattress dipped with his weight. She immediately shifted to cinch her arm around his broad chest and bury her face under his chin. He carefully settled his own arm under her neck.
She breathed deep, needing to fill her swirling head with him again; his scent, the sound of his heartbeat under her ear, the taste of the day's salt on his skin. As her tongue lightly stroked the cords of his neck, his hand capped her shoulder and gave a squeeze.
"Anna-Don't think I would ask anything of you."
"Of course not." He never had to ask; she always gave freely.
"In the war...I saw women. Who'd been hurt. It's not something I've forgotten."
She curled away from him. She'd hidden her wounds from him to no avail. When he looked at her, he'd see her as some piece of refuse tossed aside by some other man after a violent and greedy act.
"Anna," he whispered.
"I only want to hold you," she said. "I've missed you."
She'd missed herself. At some point, they had become each other, never bored with conversation, could finish the other's thoughts, knew when to speak or to hold silence. That was torn and left fluttering the wind but she wanted it whole again.
"I've missed you too," were his tear-filled words and his fingers tightened on her arm.
"Then don't talk. Just hold me."
He pulled her close. Perhaps those other women had cowered from strange men coming across their mangled bodies and spirits, but she knew where salvation lay and it was in his arms. It always had been. Beyond their minds, this was her body too. She needed it to be a complete person once more. As a castaway would cling to a raft, she held onto him. The planes of his chest, the spice of his smell, the pattern of his touch along her back, this was all she needed to move past what had happened.
John leaned over her and blew out the bedside candle. The darkness made her shudder and his hold tightened. If only she could dissolve into his skin, she thought as she clasped him with all her strength.
It was bath night. Together, they filled the hip bathtub before the kitchen stove. As always, John told her, "You first."
She removed her robe. He suddenly found things to do on the bench, sorting the tins that lined the back. Plucking at her gown, she couldn't pull it over her head. As she had every time that she bathed after that night, she climbed into the tub with it still on. She'd only be unclothed as quickly as possible while changing, her back to the wall and her frantic gaze trained on the locked door.
The nightgown was buttoned high under her chin and billowed around her on the warm water. John glanced over his shoulder and started to exclaim before pinching his lips together. Carefully, she washed under the gown, keeping it secure with one hand while the other moved quickly with a flannel.
Often John would offer to help, more as a part of their play than any practical assistance. Instead, he put the tea kettle on, and got down her favorite cup and saucer, allowing her to finish. Before she could ask, he went to the basket with the day's washing off the line and fetched a dry gown and undergarments, fresh-smelling of sunlight and rose blooms.
"Give me that," he said quietly and after a moment, she stood, stepped out of the tub and pulled the drenched nightgown off. He enveloped her in a towel and began to rub her dry.
She stared at the dim entry across the room. Had he locked the door? Shot the bolt? Her limbs quaked and there was a twitch on her cheek. Her breathing quickened.
"Yes, my darling," he replied even though she hadn't spoken aloud. He tossed aside the towel and slipping the dry nightgown over her head. Then he pulled her robe off the chair. She put it on with shaking hands, cinching the cord tight before buttoning her gown high and wrapping the collar over it, snug against her chin.
"I'm sorry," she said for what felt like the thousandth time since returning to the cottage.
He started to protest but stopped himself. Instead, he removed his own clothes and stepped into the tub. As she always did, she added boiling water from a large kettle but did it by his feet with none of her usual teasing trickle of water closer to his lap. Keeping his gaze trained on his raised knees, he soaped the flannel and began to methodically wash.
She sipped her tea before it became too cold, watching him. Placing the cup back on the saucer, she took the flannel from him. "Let me," she murmured. His broad, smooth back beckoned her.
He tipped his head forward, giving her access.
She must reward John for his patience, even if she had no want for relations. Using the memories to keep darker flashbacks at bay was one thing, but the very thought of her body being breached again...But she must do it for him soon; it was part of their normal life; an existence without their intimacy was not their life at all.
She replaced the soapy cloth with her lips and heard his breathing hitch.
"Anna...It's not time."
"What do you know?" she challenged him. After all, she'd nearly had to drag him to bed on their wedding night. His reluctance was old hat by now.
"I know my wife."
This filled her with fury; he was not completing her thought as before. She wanted to strike out, but only had the strength to take up the flannel again and begin to wash his arms. Kneeling beside the tub and balanced up on her toes as if to take flight at the slightest danger, she soaked the cloth before sweeping it across his chest, saturating the thick hair there. Her hand swept lower, across his belly and below the water. She could give him that pleasure while remaining as she was. A relief passed through her limbs.
She stroked him, watching from under her lashes as he leaned back in the tub, his breath quickening, moving into her touch. His hand suddenly grabbed her wrist with, "No, Anna," sharp in the silent room.
Rasping an animal noise, she began to struggle and he instantly released her. She stood.
"I'm sorry, Anna." He hid his face in his hands.
She gazed down at his bowed head. Yes, he'd hurt her. He should apologize.
"I suppose that I'll go on up to bed," she said, listless.
"Church tomorrow morning," John reminded her.
She had not seen him at services while she was away. But he would go with her. "Yes," she said.
He began to wash the soap off, cupping water in his hands. Usually she did that for him. She sank to a chair to wait for him to finish. She couldn't face the dark bedroom alone.
Silence echoed in their cottage, putting her on edge. If they'd had children, this pain would be less, she was sure. Their home would be loud and clattering and Anna would not have time to remember and John would not have the energy to brood. Instead, she was his mother and precious daughter, he was father and blessed son. They were entwined, one needing to breathe out for the other to inhale. He always filled her to the point of delicious pain but a smaller man, a slim snake in their garden, was there now, his scales a sinister whisper as he moved in the high grass. They would never again just be two.
John rose from the tub and the water slid down his long limbs in sheets. She came to help him, towel in hand. But he took it from her, his smile guarded. "I've got it," he said.
Stepping back, she clasped her hands at her waist. Somehow, she's wasted away to the point that she could slip through the fissure in their glass globe and now stood outside, watching her husband within.
Day after careful day, Anna put one foot in front of the other with a bit more confidence that she would not stumble. When she was near John, she didn't have to hide in her stories. She must watch him carefully, fearful for every indication that he was thinking his own dark tales. When they were alone, he held her gently while she gripped him so tightly that her fingers cramped.
The first time that he kissed her, she had to step away. She had always closed her eyes when they kissed, but now the beast was in the darkness. So she tried to keep her eyes open and sensing her watching him, he pulled back, his brow furrowed in confusion.
Cupping his jaw, she promised, "It's alright. It'll be alright."
His reply was to bury his face in her crook of her neck, rocking her in his strong arms.
Anna couldn't lie when Lady Mary queried about her return to the cottage. "Have things sorted themselves out?" her mistress asked one morning.
"Not quite." After her first attempt, Anna could not possibly initiate marital relations and John did not give one of his familiar signals that he wanted her—why would he want her?
She added, "But it's better." Selfish, she had to continue to hurt John just to remain sane. That's what passed for better now.
Her ladyship sipped her tea. "You're obviously not going to tell me what it was about but I'm glad if it's resolved."
In Lady Mary's tone, Anna could tell that she was disappointing another person. She went to plug in the curling iron for hairdressing, shielding her own pain with her turned back.
Even as they stumbled awkwardly through their meal at the Netherbee, Anna was determined to push herself into her proper role as wife. This situation had gone on long enough, and was ridiculous. He rose before her now, instead of waking in each other's arms, so as not to frighten her with his morning arousal. Even as she desperately clung to him, there was a distance between their bodies that was never there since they'd wed, like a breath of poisoned air holding them apart.
They dressed for bed. John continued to bring up the insults of the hotel manager; something that was very unlike him.
"I can't even assure that you get a table for dinner," he finally growled.
"Mr. Bates," she said with exasperation and his gaze softened.
"I'll leave it then," he said gently. His gaze traveled over her when she removed her robe. "That's a pretty nightgown." His voice had deepened to the aged honey sound that always sent a shiver up her spine.
"It's old," she chided. But she understood. She'd only worn gowns that buttoned all the way to the top of the neck since she'd returned. This was one from the back of the drawer, with a scooped neck gathered by a satin drawstring. He would loosen the tie and slip the top from the bounds of her shoulders, revealing her bare breasts to his mouth and hands—
Clenching her jaw, she climbed into bed. He followed, lifting his arm so that she could cuddle close.
"John, I want you very much," she whispered. It was true.
His breath quickened. Cupping her face, he kissed her fluttering eyelids, her cheeks, and finally her lips, just a stroke of his own before lying back on his pillow. "Want doesn't even capture what I feel," he croaked.
"I know, dearest. And I'm so very sorry—"
"Anna," he warned.
"Yes, let's forget it all for this evening," she insisted and tugged at his pajama bottoms.
He mistook her frantic touch for eagerness and groaned, "God, yes. Let's just remember the good times—"
He slid her gown up, his fingertips skittering over her stomach, making it flutter. Remembering his coaching on their wedding night, she forced her breathing to slow. When he captured her earlobe in his teeth, she nearly screamed. Another deep breath—
His hand slipped under the waistband of her drawers. No matter how hard she tried to slow her breathing, she could not keep her thighs from clamping tightly together, broaching no entry for him. His touch stilled and he shifted back.
"It's too soon." He sounded defeated.
"It's been weeks," she insisted.
"Anna, it will take as long as it takes."
His infinite patience angered her. She turned her back on him and blew out the bedside candle.
He shifted away as far as he could in the bed. The creak of the springs used to mean something else entirely—their bodies moving together, their gasps and groans in time with the bed's emissions. She frantically clung to those pictures, for others were coming like a great dark wave. The table where she was pinned down screaming as loud as she was; filthy, horrid curses, many words she didn't even know their meaning, but only that they injured, raining down like blows—
She must have cried out. John reached for her and at first she struck blindly, then the smell of her terror was washed over by his scent and she knew that she was safe again, at least until sleep took her and the nightmares came.
Mrs. Hughes spotted Anna passing her sitting room and called her in. Bustling around to sit at her desk, she folded her hands in her lap.
Anna sat as well, giving a little sigh of relief to take the weight off her feet. "What can I help you with, Mrs. Hughes?"
The housekeeper liked the brighter note in Anna's voice. The younger woman had always enjoyed assisting her and Mrs. Hughes hoped this opportunity would cheer Anna up.
She started in. "I must confess that I may be getting too old for all this—"
Anna raised her eyebrows. "You? Don't say it."
Mrs. Hughes pursed her lips. "When I'm trying to deal with these maids, I feel downright ancient."
Cocking her head, Anna asked: "There's a problem?"
"Not with their work. Or at least not directly. It's their love lives, I fear."
"Oh dear," said Anna, a twinkle in her eyes. Mrs. Hughes's heart soared at the first sign of humor from her in a very long time.
"Perhaps because Alfred's gone, Jimmy felt he could be too bold with Ivy. I think because of his forward manner, now she's regretting tossing sweet Alfred over, which is upsetting Daisy-"
With a shake of her head, Anna agreed, "This is a right mess."
"Indeed," Mrs. Hughes said, sighing deeply. "Ivy was terribly shocked, which makes it all twice as aggravating—"
"She was shocked? After the way that she flirted and led Jimmy on?" said Anna. "What did she expect to happen?"
Mrs. Hughes opened her mouth, but then didn't reply. The silence stretched out, and the clock's ticking became the only sound. Finally Anna said, "Do you remember Lucy Madsen?"
"Not likely to forget that girl," Mrs. Hughes said, her voice strained.
"The mess we found her in—"
"Anna, you shouldn't think about such things," urged Mrs. Hughes.
Unheeding, Anna went on. "That we decided that his lordship would be devastated to discover that his best friend from university could treat women in that way, even a servant girl. You sent her away so that she wouldn't have to face Sir Colin again when he visited. And warned all of us girls to stay away from him—would only send a footman to serve him or even make his bed."
"I did what I could."
"Yes." Anna stared across the room but her gaze was unseeing. "I don't want to ruin Lady Mary's chances. If it's with Lord Gillingham—"
"He would never come to live here if they were to marry, surely," Mrs. Hughes said.
"Mr. Crawley did," Anna pointed out.
"Let's not worry until it happens. If it happens."
"No, I suppose not," Anna said, pushing herself up from her chair. Her buoyancy of the earlier moments was gone. At the door, she added, "I remembered thinking Lucy had been a silly tart, and brought it on herself. How she'd giggled at everything he'd said to her."
"Anna, it was a completely different situation."
Anna smiled stiffly. "Did you still wish for me to speak to Ivy before Alfred comes for his visit?"
Mrs. Hughes shook her head. "It was a silly idea. I'll tackle the girl. Caution her about going out alone with any boy—"
"Yes, they can't be trusted, can they?" With that, Anna closed the door behind her, leaving Mrs. Hughes in frustrated silence.
In the dim corridor, Anna looked right and left quickly as she did now. Her breath caught in her throat. John was at the far end, his tall bulk a familiar sight. But his shadow seemed to rise from the floor and plunge him into darkness. The beast had the shape of a man, could stain all men, turning even her beloved husband dark.
He spoke. "Anna."
"Yes, Mr. Bates." Her feet dragged as she went to him.
When she arrived before him, she looked up into his face and saw her reflection in his eyes. She did not like what she saw there. Placing one hand on his chest, she tried to make out his heartbeat through the thick fabrics of his uniform.
Instead, he lifted her hand his mouth and pressed his lips to her wrist, capturing her thudding pulse.
"Hello," he said simply and the shadows retreated.
All progress was lost at the sound of its voice. The sight of an oil-slick grin. And she could smell It again, as the odor of rot wafted out when opening a cemetery vault. Voices swirled around her in the servants' hall and she answered Baxter's question automatically before fleeing.
She had to sit across from It at dinner. The beast jeered, confident that Anna would say nothing. She was struck silent, every sense attuned to her husband beside her. What was he thinking? Could he tell? Would he do anything? Her dinner roiled in her stomach, and she had a horrible moment where she thought that she may vomit right there on the table.
She'd been selfishly grateful that John had stayed behind while sending Thomas in his place so she had his solid form to cling to every night, but now she wished him as far away as possible. She'd even allow that devil to hurt her again, only so that her husband would never discover the truth and act as she feared.
When Mr. Carson finished his meal and rose, Anna could barely stand. Mrs. Hughes met her gaze and gave a signal with her head.
"I should check on Lady Mary's after dinner plans," Anna announced as a way to move from the hall. The housekeeper murmured her own excuse and followed, taking Anna's arm as soon as they were out of sight and pulling the younger woman into her sitting room.
The door closing was such a blessed sound to Anna. Wrapping her arms tightly around her middle, she said, "I have to go home. Please tell Lady Mary that I'm ill," while shaking as if freezing. She stared at the closed door, her eyes wide and frantic. "If he is to taunt Mr. Bates with what he's done—"
"You're cold," Mrs. Hughes fussed. "Let me get you some brandy."
"Yes, yes," Anna said, nodding. She accepted the delicate glass, clutching it with both hands.
Trying to reassure her, Mrs. Hughes explained, "I've had a talk with that man. Told him that I know what he did—"
Anna made a guttural sound.
Mrs. Hughes rushed on. "That I would be watching him—"
"What did he say?" Anna rasped.
"He asked if Mr. Bates knew," Mrs. Hughes admitted. She held up her hand at Anna's fear-filled gasp. "I told him not!"
Anna's eyes narrowed. "What else?" She could sense something boiling under Mrs. Hughes's well-starched surface.
The housekeeper took a sip of brandy before speaking. "He said...That the two of you had just gotten carried away...Had too much to drink..." Looking at her own glass, she put it aside as though it held poison.
"Of course," Anna said, toneless now. "I told you. That would be the story that he'd tell the police and they'd believe him. Men all together—"
"But who would believe that of you? No one here would say that you drink to excess—"
Anna just jutted her jaw. "I should go home."
"Yes, I think it's for the best. I'll explain to Lady Mary."
Shuddering again, Anna rubbed her arms. "May I take the brandy? We don't keep spirits in the house. I feel so cold...Something may be coming on."
Helpless, Mrs. Hughes told her, "Of course."
Feeling a fugitive, Anna tucked the bottle into her apron pocket and slipped from the sitting room. Wrapping herself in her coat, she pulled her hat low on her head, blocking out anything but the path before her feet. The bottle felt heavy in her pocket, as heavy as the bottle had been in their picnic basket as they'd found a private spot beside the stream on the Duneagle estate.
"What have you got in here?" John had asked, swinging the basket.
"You'll see," she'd replied, her smile secret.
When she'd shown him the beer bottle, he'd seemed pleased, but when she went to fill two cups, he stopped her from filling the second one. "I'll just get water," he said, rising awkwardly to go to the stream.
When he returned, she was looking down at her own filled cup, a bit of the joy lost. "Beer isn't really alcohol," she pointed out. "Not like hard spirits."
He lowered himself to the blanket again. "I tried just drinking beer, and it led back to whisky every time." He took a deep breath over his cup. "I swear, I can smell whisky just in the Scottish water."
She gave an embarrassed laugh, still uncomfortable.
"But you enjoy yourself. Good hearty country beer like in your youth. None of that posh sherry with Mrs. Hughes." His eyes were twinkling at her, and she took the challenge, lifting her cup to her lips and taking a gulp.
She managed to drink half the bottle before she waved off his offer to refill her cup. "No thank you," she said with the grave dignity of the inebriated. He was grinning at her. She fell back on the grass, arms stretched out wide. "Mr. Bates," she said, still very formal, "Are you trying to get me drunk?"
Shifting the basket and dishes out the way, he scooted over to her side. "Why would I do that?"
"So that you may have your way with me." She squinted from under her askew hat. Clucking at the back if his throat, he removed her hairpin carefully and then her hat.
With slightly uncoordinated fingers, she toyed with his tie and he took that as an invitation to remove it and his collar.
"Or are you having your way with me?" he suggested, shedding his jacket and unbuttoning his vest.
She watched his ease, mentally cursing that her blouse buttoned up the back. With a flash of sobriety, she glanced around warily. "John...Do you think anyone will see us...If we..."
Falling back on the blanket, she couldn't even say it aloud, only blushing deeply.
His fingers were loosening her hair now and his lovely-ugly face loomed over hers, swimming in and out of her sun-blurred vision. "Everyone's out today with the hunts and ladies' luncheon. But I have a thought...We'd remain nearly clothed—"
The corners of her mouth turned down. That didn't sound very fun.
He whispered in her ear as though they were surrounded after all. "His lordship and I were in transit to Africa, and we had a stop in Naples. While there, we had the opportunity to view ancient Roman mosaics of a...Racy nature."
She started to giggle nervously. "Oh Mr. Bates," she gasped.
He nodded seriously. "Indeed. Such things as I never even knew were done."
"Such as?" Her eyes were very round.
He glanced away. "Let us just focus on the one I'd like to try with you."
"Me?"
"Yes, I've never done this with any woman. It would be just for us, if you enjoyed it."
Pushing up on her elbows, she managed to kiss the edge of his jaw. He turned to meet her mouth for a breathless kiss.
"Just us?" she gasped when their lips parted. It did bother her occasionally, to know that he would ever be her sole lover, while other women had lain with him—women who may have pleased him in ways of which she was ignorant.
"If you enjoy it," he repeated.
She held her tongue in her teeth, unsure but her breath quickening. "What is it?"
He gently pushed her onto her back. His hand swept up her skirt. She looked around again.
"If anyone appears, you can just pop your skirt back down," he assured her. "We'll only take off these..." He undid the bow at the waist of her drawers.
Scooting the garment down her legs, she immediately felt exposed to feel the fresh air on her bare flesh. She was aroused already though.
He reclined between her legs. "You enjoy when I touch you here..."
"Yes..." she admitted, playing with the blades of grass with one hand, while her other hand crept down to stroke his hair.
"And you enjoy my kisses?"
"Of course, silly." She gave his shoulder a light slap before clutching the fabric of his shirt.
"So perhaps you will enjoy if I kiss you here?" he suggested, his breath tickling her flushed and moist folds.
Her head snapped up. "Oh no, John. You wouldn't want to do that! It's not—"
She covered her eyes, not even sure what to say.
"Won't know until I try," he pointed out. She could hear the grin in his voice.
Her head was still swimming, but now she wasn't sure if it was the beer or his light kisses tracing from the top of her stockings to the crease of her hips, moving ever closer to his announced destination. But it was his fingers caressing her first, achingly familiar and stimulating, making her gasp in rhythm with his touch Raising her knees, she lolled her head on the grass and her senses filled with the smell of crushed chamomile. Sunlight streamed through the leaves of the tree above them, a kaleidoscope in shades of green. Her roaming hand found John's head again and now she gave him an encouraging nudge. Why not? Just a try—
His lips tugged at her lightly but her gasp was still loud as the water thumping against the rocks in the stream.
His tongue replaced his fingers, lying down broad strokes that sent her limbs shaking. "All right?" he asked, raising his head to peer at her.
Her only reply was to grasp the back of his neck and lead his head back between her legs. The sensations were new and she was still unsure, but something was driving her want more.
He growled in agreement and returned to his ministrations. His fingers sank deep, giving her something to grip with frantic need. While his tongue tried any number of things, hard, soft, fast, slow, she vocalized her reaction, shy at first, then stronger. Through the haze of ecstasy, she realized that he was a quick learner as her hips rose to meet his mouth again and again, both becoming more bold and confident. He lifted one of her legs over his shoulder, opening her even more to him and she was nearly lost in one lightning strike before he eased back, causing her to whimper in frustration. He built the sensations again until her release coiled out through her limbs and spine, knocking her head back to the ground. She called out his name in a long triumphant cry, then collapsed onto the blanket, tugging at his shoulder to make him stop. He grumbled in discontent, but rolled to his side.
Through the haze of her disheveled hair, she could see that he'd undone his trousers at some point and his own arousal was very evident. Breathing deeply, he watched her return to her body from under his dark brows as he stroked himself lazily.
If anything, she felt more inebriated when she said, "Do ladies do such a thing to men too?"
He fell back on the blanket as though she'd struck him. "Anna," he gasped.
She would take that as a yes, she decided. She clumsily crawled around, pushing down her skirt at the same time, then spread his trousers open wider.
He continued to protest, if a bit half-heartedly. "You don't have to—"
That only got him an arched eyebrow from her. Did he think that she was not a bold lass, willing to try anything once? True, what faced her was definitely more intimidating that what was between her legs, but no one ever said a woman's lot was an easy one. As he had with her, she tried a number of ways to pleasure him, before settling for a very basic, yet effective method.
Afterward, they were a respectable couple again, cuddling on a blanket, all their clothing back in place. Only someone hearing their guilty giggles and chuckles may wonder what they'd been up to.
"That won't work at all on our bed at home," Anna mused, always practical. "Not long enough for you and me both."
He smiled against her forehead. "Will have to think of some other solution."
"More picnics?" she suggested.
And that's what they'd done. It had been a lazy and decedent summer, escaping the dark house of mourning that was the Abbey and the narrow confines of their own cottage bedroom. They'd take a blanket and stroll to the far glens of the estate to indulge is such intimacies as would likely kill Reverend Travis if he ever knew. Spilling seed on the ground instead of its rightful use for procreation; Sodom and Gomorrah right there in Yorkshire; pagan practices instead of following the Lord's path—Anna did have these fleeting thoughts herself at the time, but their joy felt so necessary with the gloom left by Mister Crawley's death.
Now she wondered if one of the footmen or hallboys had seen them and somehow told the beast. That It had thought this meant she was a wanton woman who would give any man what he needed. They should have remained locked within their blessed cottage—the solid brick shape loomed ahead in the darkening dusk.
The rumbling of a utility jerked away the last flickering scenes of an idealized summer scene from the screen. She clutched the bottle as it swung in her apron pocket. The vehicle stopped beside her and Mr. Bates climbed out, quickly thanking the driver before turning to her.
"You should have waited for me," he chided her. "Not walked home alone."
"I wasn't feeling well," she said weakly, giving him no proper answer.
He wrapped an arm around her. "Let's get you to bed then."
She felt the weight of the bottle again. "I need to use the privy first," she told him with a blush.
"Of course." He walked with her around the cottage and stood watch at the little hut from a few strides away, ever her guardian.
Inside, she emptied the bottle down the hole, muttering an apology to Mrs. Hughes under her breath, and tucked it under the bench for retrieval later.
John put his arm around her again when she appeared, taking her pale face for illness. "A hot cup of tea is what you need," he said.
"Yes, that's just what I want to drink," she agreed.
As they walked back to the cottage, her arm looped through his, she felt the cold breeze move between their bodies again. Her lie whispered in her head, a rasping, vile voice that spoke in curses. Seeing the beast again, knowing it was not some horrible nightmare but a waking terror, showed her that she could not give John her burden after all.
~end Part 3