Chapter 19
John rolled over and groaned. His leg was throbbing. The cold damp weather always made it ache, and now that his evenings were largely spent out of doors, the ache had set in deeply and not abated.
John put his arms over his head and grabbed the headboard, arching his back off the bed and stretching. He groaned again as everything snapped into place. He had not been comfortable in days. He had spent the first part of the night in his chair with his bad leg propped up on a pillow on the bed, reading Rousseau. Around two, he abandoned that and moved to the bed, first smearing his leg with the muscle rub his mother had sent and wrapping it in flannel to protect the sheets. He felt cold, and wore a shirt to bed for a change. He was glad of the extra bed in his room, and used the pillows under his back and leg. He switched books. He needed something lighter. He opted for Arthur Conan Doyle. He read until the candle burned out.
When John realized it was time to start the day, he wasn't sure if he'd actually been to sleep. John wasn't a big sleeper, but usually he managed at least a few hours' light doze. Not with this pain that started at the wound in his thigh and radiated to his toes and back.
The day dawned grey and wet, with a wind. The perfect February morning. It was going to be a long day. He had told Anna he would walk to the village with her in the afternoon for errands. All he wanted was to stay in all day and try to stay warm. The face that looked at John from the mirror as he shaved was old and lined. He could tell Anna he didn't want to go, that he couldn't walk that far in the cold, that his leg hurt so much all he wanted to do was stay hidden in his bed and drink. Anna would understand.
John's leg protested as he attempted to put on his trousers. The lineament smelled pleasant and felt warm, but was so greasy it would ruin the fabric, so he'd wrapped his leg in more flannel. Anna would see him for the crippled old man he was if he told her how the cold affected him.
John was the last one down for breakfast. Anna looked worried. John smiled at her. He hoped it masked the strain he felt. Hot tea would help. Being near Anna would help. John brushed his leg against the table as he lowered himself into his chair and gasped. Anna looked worried. He smiled again. Anna mustn't worry.
John dragged himself to his feet when the Earl's bell rang. Mrs. Hughes looked concerned. John smiled. He cut her off by saying he'd slept on it wrong and would be fine when she started to ask if he was alright. It was going to be a long day.
Somehow John got through the morning. He only half heard what the Earl said to him, and hoped he agreed at the right places. John suspected he was a little curt with him, but he could tell from the look on the Earl's face that he knew his leg was bothering him and daren't say a thing. While they sometimes spoke of their time in Africa, they never spoke of the events that led to John's injury. John preferred not to speak of it at all, and was grateful the Earl never brought it up. He thought he might have been impatient with Daisy when she dashed in front of him on her way to the kitchen, nearly knocking into him with a pan of water. John put his back against the wall and closed his eyes. This dull ache that permeated his body was worse than any pain he'd felt when he was injured. Drinking was the best pain relief he knew. He was concerned his temper would show itself if he was too near Mr. Carson or William, both of whom insisted on engaging John in conversation about the war as they counted wine bottles and decanted what was to be used later. He almost wished Thomas back. Mrs. Hughes was best avoided too. She insisted he needed rest. He should be sitting with his leg elevated. She was right. John spent most of the time before luncheon standing in the Earl's dressing room, brushing coats.
John wasn't entirely sure what the purpose of this afternoon's walk to the village was, other than an excuse to be together away from the house. He didn't want to go, but he couldn't stay in. After luncheon he wrapped his neck in his thickest scarf, slowly put on his coat hat and gloves and waited near the door while Anna gathered her things. John looked out the window and pulled his coat tight around his chest. The sky was grey streaked with grey. It was wet. Not properly raining, but not snowing either. Just wet. And windy. And he was walking to town.
Finally Anna appeared. She'd changed her dress. John suspected she'd added warm layers beneath it, covering the flimsy undergarments he imagined with something more substantial. Not that he would ever know. He smiled and picked up his umbrella as he ushered Anna through the door.
John steeled himself against the shock of the cold. It hadn't been this way before prison. After the initial pain of the injury and surgery subsided, his injury hadn't bothered him much. Considering how much he drank, he wasn't sure if he had ever felt pain. Warmth and comfort were not priorities in prison, and the shrapnel that had been left in his thigh moved. When the alcohol left his system, he discovered real pain. Combined with the perpetual damp, rheumatism had set in in earnest.
John became aware that Anna was talking. He had no idea what she was saying. He agreed with whatever it was. He smiled at her. They still had two miles to go. What was she saying? She looked beautiful. Happy. Young. The cold made John hold himself tensely, as if it would help against the pain. Anna looked at him. He should say something. He agreed with her, whatever she had said was brilliant.
"Mr. Bates, would you like to go home?"
John was startled.
"No. Of course not. I want to be here, with you."
Anna smiled.
"Are you sure?"
John hesitated. He collected himself. He mustn't be short with her.
"How can you ask?"
"Well, I wouldn't, but I don't think you've heard one thing I've said since we left."
At least she didn't say he was moving more slowly than usual.
"I…didn't you just…of course I'm listening…."
They stopped. Anna's basket was swinging on her arm. John realized even if he wasn't carrying an umbrella and she wasn't carrying a basket, he wouldn't be able to take her arm as they walked. He couldn't balance properly with Anna on one side while leaning on his cane.
"You just agreed that William was the cleverest boy you knew and likely be prime minister if he manages not to get killed in France, if he's ever called up."
"Oh…I…no, obviously that won't happen."
John smiled weakly. Anna had a gleam in her eyes. She turned and started walking again, a little ahead.
"Let's get going. We've a great many errands."
John kept up, thankful that Anna had abandoned talking. She moved so easily, so elegantly, so effortlessly. Even in her warm layers, her figure was so dainty, so perfectly formed for his hands. The wind picked up. Never had John known such wretched weather. In London the elements were less pronounced. They were in the post office. He had heard about places, especially in the American west, that had something called dry heat. That sounded delightful. He hadn't been this cold since leaving prison. Now they were in a shop were Anna was purchasing mysterious jarred items. Perhaps this was the source of her array of floral scents. When he drank, he felt warm and the pain disappeared. Now they were in a shop that reminded him of his father's general store. Anna was selecting some millinery items for herself and Daisy. John was trying to look patient and attentive. Why did these things always take so long? The pub was just across the road.
They were back outside. The renewed shock of the icy air brought John back to his senses. One whisky wouldn't hurt at all, but he knew it wouldn't be just one. It would be two then three then six then ten then he wouldn't feel or remember a thing. He couldn't do that to Anna. She deserved better. He wouldn't do that to himself. He deserved better.
Anna's shopping was complete. John decided they should visit the little bookshop. It wouldn't have anything, but considering they'd been to all the other shops in the village, it seemed wrong to pass it without stopping. The proprietor was happy to see them, and immediately pointed out a new set of Walter Scott's Waverly novels. John grimaced. Scott was like a dull Dickens. John headed for the poetry. Anna picked up a copy of The Bride of Lammermoor. He had to stop her.
"Life is too short to read books like that."
He was behind her, breathing into her neck. His lips were brushing her ear. She leaned into him. He almost forgot the pain.
"Oh? Why? It looks exciting."
"It sounds much better than it is. A hundred pages in I realized I suddenly didn't know who the characters were or what they were doing, the plot had changed, and then the bride goes mad and stabs her husband on their wedding night. Of course I was drinking when I read it, but I've since tried to slog through Kenilworth and it was just as bad. Tawdry stuff."
Anna put it down, and John sighed with relief. The poetry section was still primarily Wordsworth and Shelley and Tennyson, but Anna unearthed a battered copy of Leaves of Grass. John read over her shoulder. Souls of men and women. Come closer to me. It was about nature, and America, and workers' rights and the body and the body's rights. I do not thank you for liking me as I am, and liking the touch of me—I know it is good for you to do so.1 Anna was leaning against him again. He barely felt his leg. He felt so warm. He didn't have a free arm to wrap around her waist. The book joined the purchases in Anna's basket.
John was achy and cold again as soon as they were outside. Anna had turned pensive. They had a few hours before they needed to be back at the house. John wondered. Anna suddenly suggested they stop at the pub. Now there was an idea. He could silence his leg with a few drinks. The pub rented rooms. Quiet, private rooms with large soft beds. John ushered Anna through the door, and looked into her eyes. He swallowed hard. He couldn't do that to her. He couldn't do that to himself. He found himself seated across from her in the dining room, ordering tea.
Anna was very quiet. John took her gloved hand. He stretched his leg out under the table as far as he could. He was too tall for the chair.
"Anna, I want to thank you for something."
Her eyes fluttered to him.
"Actually, a few things. I've been something of a trial today, and you've been more than tolerant. You've kept me from succumbing to temptation, and you haven't once mentioned how slowly I'm moving. You are a dear and wonderful woman, and I can't imagine what I've done to deserve you, but I intend to keep you. Thank you."
Anna's face slowly melted into a grin. John removed her gloved, remembering that day in church, and kissed her hand. This was what he wanted. The tea arrived.
"Mr. Bates, I learned soon after we met never to mention your leg. I know when it is bothering you. You get short tempered and distracted and grumpy. I wish you wouldn't insist on confusing sympathy with pity, but you are determined to. There's nothing for it but to act like you're fine until you admit you're not. In fact, I rarely even think about your leg until you call attention to it by pretending nothing is wrong."
John stirred his tea. He looked at the table. It was bare wood, and reasonably clean.
"When I was injured, it was said I might not walk again, so I was determined that I would. When I did, everyone I encountered, even people I knew before the war, treated me differently. No one knew better than I that I was less able. And for some reason, many act like it was my fault. I managed well enough without a cane until I was released from prison, but the cold and perpetual damp had done more damage."
Anna looked at him.
"What happened? You can tell me."
John looked at her. He felt so cold. He could tell her. He opened his mouth. The enemy shot at him and didn't miss. He looked out the window. No one was in the street. He heard not wind but birds. The enemy shot at Lord Grantham and hit him. Gunfire. Explosions. Screaming. He smelled not wood smoke and baking and beer but blood and sweat and excrement. The enemy shot in their direction and he threw himself on top of Lord Grantham and three other men. His leg was throbbing. Men were screaming. He couldn't see anything but darkness. He was wounded in the service of his queen and country. He felt nothing. Silence. Screaming.
"I..I bought a limp corrector soon after His Lordship dismissed me. I had put him in a difficult situation, and I was sick of Thomas's jibes and I knew I was making more work for William."
Anna looked confused.
"It didn't work. In fact, it made the pain worse and my leg more grotesque. Before I had a scar on my thigh. Now my leg is truly disfigured. Mrs. Hughes caught me out, and made me throw it into the pond and promise never to try to heal myself again."
"I'm so sorry you felt you had to fix yourself. Your leg is part of who you are though."
John smiled grimly.
"Yes, it is."
"No, I mean, I wish you hadn't been injured, but if you hadn't been, if you hadn't struggled with it, you wouldn't be the man you are today. Just like if you hadn't struggled with drink."
She met his eye as she took a sip of tea.
"Did you really want to drink today?"
John exhaled. How was she so wise?
"I did only in that it is the best pain relief I've ever known. I didn't in that I know one drink would undo all I've worked for. I stopped drinking when I went to prison, and I will never do either again. I just felt so bad, and so cold, and so miserable that the warmth and oblivion of whisky were calling to me. I wasn't in serious danger. I would have stopped myself before I started. I would have remembered all I have to lose."
Anna looked relieved.
"Good. My brother drinks. He's…well, he's nasty, and he's made no effort to stop."
John linked his fingers with hers.
"It is like a sickness. That doesn't excuse anything your brother has done, but it is more difficult than you can imagine."
He ran his thumb over her index finger.
"Anna, I promise I wasn't in serious danger. I was, I am, cold and in pain, but I will not succumb to temptation. It is weak, it is sordid, and it isn't who I want to be. I promise."
Anna looked at her free hand, and then at John.
"Are there any temptations you think you might ever succumb to?"
1 Walt Whitman, "Carol of Occupations", Leaves of Grass