Chapter 14

When John commenced his employment at Downton, he expected church attendance to be if not compulsory, highly recommended. He was right. John hadn't been in a church since he was a boy. He was raised in the Catholic faith, learned some basic Latin, and had a strict mother. As a boy, John always felt depressed after church; he felt like he was missing something. He knew his Bible, he was active in the service, he just didn't feel anything. John told no one. They wouldn't understand. He thought perhaps there was something wrong with him. Once John was left to his own devices, he ceased attending services. He explored other religions, but a sense of the divine seemed always just out of reach.

John didn't find the church services at Downton as dispiriting as those of his youth. He'd read enough to know he was not alone in his feeling of emptiness in the face of organized religion, and he had spent enough time in self-reflection that he was able to enjoy the experience as a mental exercise. He didn't believe, nor did he disbelive; he lacked faith. It was a morally relativistic position, but it couldn't be helped. John always sat in the corner of a pew against the wall so he wouldn't be a hindrance during communion. He would attend church, he would stand up and sit down as directed, he would comport himself in a prayerful manner, but he would not take communion. He respected religion too highly to take part in such a symbolic ritual.

One Sunday in November, John was in his corner with Anna at his side. The lesson was something from Deuteronomy, and ordinarily John would have given the vicar his attention, but this morning his mind was otherwise engaged. The crisp fall air tended to stir his blood in ways the poets associated with spring.

Anna's hands were folded in her lap. Her eyes were fixed towards the front of the church. John wondered how devout she was. If she'd ever entertained doubt. If she'd be shocked. No one could see more than their backs; he took her hand in his. She kept her eyes focused forward. John removed his gloves. Temptation seized John. He slowly unbuttoned the buttons on the wrist of Anna's glove. He wanted to feel skin. Warm flesh. He slid a finger inside the glove. It was warm, soft, tight. Anna opened her mouth slightly, and her pink tongue peeked out, moistening her lower lip. He enclosed her small wrist with his thumb and remaining fingers, while sliding the one inside the glove as far back and forth as he could manage. Anna's eyes closed briefly. Her breathing quickened. Her fingers stretched and tried to curl around John's.

John wondered how much Anna knew. How curious had she and this farm hand been? Did she understand the physical side of love, the need, the urgency? Did she know what they were missing? John wasn't sure sometimes, considering how things had been with Vera and the couple of girls before her, that he knew. He glanced at Anna again, and knew she did know.

Was this a sin? In the eyes of this congregation? John had always found the doctrine of sin troubling. The definition struck him as arbitrary, and the need to ask forgiveness for things he did not regret or see as wrong hypocritical. How could a god of love and life condemn an act of love that affirmed life? Why was it called knowing in the Biblical sense if it was wrong? Shouldn't that make it right?

John saw Anna and himself in a wood, the ground strewn with fallen leaves. They were unclothed. He was covering her neck, her breast, her sides with open-mouthed kisses. He was covering her, she was covering him in turn. They were fast and slow at once. His hands and mouth sought the places that made her gasp and moan. Her people, for she was of the fey, experienced the divine by lying with together out of doors. How could something so natural, so right, and so beautiful be a sin? Would he find the divine there with her? Would she call him John as they rolled in the leaves?

It was time to pray. John carefully and quickly extracted his hand from Anna's glove. When he bowed his head, he thought not of the unknowable divine, but of Anna's grace and beauty and her trust and her love. John was thankful.

Anna turned her eyes to him as the service ended. She looked pale, her eyes were large and dark. John smiled.

"Lovely service, wasn't it?"

Anna agreed that it had been most enjoyable. They hung back from the others, taking their time on the path home. Sometimes his handicap was very convenient. John looked at Anna again, and suddenly all the lustful thoughts that plagued him during church were gone. He wanted to confide in her. He'd never told anyone and he didn't think he ever would, but he wanted to tell her he wasn't sure if it was all real. Was this what love was? Was this trust?

He started carefully.

"Anna, would it shock you if I told you I wasn't sure if there really is a God?"

He couldn't believe he'd said it out loud. He never had. Would she be offended? Shocked? Saddened that they couldn't spend eternity together?

"Shocked? No, Mr. Bates, that doesn't shock me at all. It doesn't surprise me either. It shocks me more that you're telling me." Her eyes twinkled.

"Me too, actually, something just possessed me." He smiled.

"Was it something in Africa? Or did you ever believe?"

Africa. Africa only confirmed his suspicions. He didn't want to muddle things by adding Africa to the mix. John looked at the ground.

"No, Africa only strengthened my doubts. I think I've always lacked faith. Sometimes I'd like to think it could all be real. The promise of eternity, forgiveness, peace, life, but it just seems like a story. We read the religions of other cultures as stories; what makes Christianity so special?"

John realized he was dangerously close to sounding bitter.

"As a boy, I was filled with ideas of sin and penance, and it all seemed like nonsense. Especially now, when what I want most is considered a sin, yet I feel no guilt or shame."

Anna looked at him intently.

"Then why don't you take what you want?"

She knew.

"Because while it can't be a sin, it is wrong for many other reasons. Some societal rules cannot be broken. There are worse consequences than damnation."

Their eyes met. Anna looked away first, fiddling with the clasp on her handbag. She steered them to safety. She swallowed and cleared her throat.

"I noticed when you first came here that your mind seems to be somewhere else during services."

John grinned.

"I think I realized you didn't believe when I saw you never took communion."

"I respect religion too much to make a mockery of it by participating in a ritual entirely meaningless for me. And wine doesn't tend to enhance my finer qualities."

John didn't want to tell her that one sip of wine would lead to more until all the work to not be a drunk was undone.

Anna had grown quiet. They were within sight of the house. John felt nervous again.

"Anna, I hope I haven't troubled you with this."

She looked up at him. Was that hurt in her eyes? Was it sadness?

"No, Mr. Bates, you haven't troubled me. I'm glad you've told me, I'm just sorry you can't have faith like I do. I don't know that I'm right, but it comforts me. There is something, I don't know, arrogant maybe, about certainty, isn't there?"

John felt warm all over. He felt lighter for having told her. Was this love? Trust, acceptance? Was this what it meant to be in love with?

"Sometimes, Anna, I think I'm very blessed."