Chapter 20

Usually John enjoyed train rides. The chance to watch other passengers, to speculate about them, to be truly alone with himself in a group of people. He enjoyed watching the changes in landscape. John usually didn't read on trains. He preferred to watch and think.

When John traveled alone, he rode in the third class carriage, as he did when the family went to London. Today, however, John was seated in first class next to the Earl. They were off to London for a few weeks for war related votes in Parliament. On these men-only excursions to London they always traveled together as friends and former comrades, ignoring their current status as master and servant.

Today John wished the whole family was going so he could be alone, or with Anna, which was just as welcome, in third class. Their parting the evening before had been thought provoking, and John was having a hard time keeping up his end of the conversation with Lord Grantham.

John's relationship with the Earl had evolved in their years together. The Earl's relationship with John had not. They had been assigned to the same unit in the African War, and even though one was a captain and the other a sergeant, they immediately liked and respected each other. John had admired the Earl for his ability to make tough decisions under pressure, to command, and to not show favoritism. Although they were both aware of the differences in their lives and stations, they never alluded to it. In war, it made no difference. As they turned to women and alcohol respectively to numb themselves, neither judged the other. War had a way of uniting men.

War also had a way of changing men. John and the Earl saw the exact same events day after day, but after a while, they saw different events each day. John saw horror, slaughter, the results of bad decisions by leaders he was sworn to respect and obey but who he obeyed without any sort of respect. John, who had been drawn to the military for its emphasis on duty and honor, began to see it as an implement of destruction and carnage. Might did not make right. John had been bred to be respectful, and to know his place, and to be mindful of those whose position was better than his, but as he gained experience in the world, he realized rank was nothing more than an accident of birth. It didn't make any one man better than any other.

Lord Grantham was one such accident of birth. As John lost faith with the Army, the Earl continued to believe in the honor of the military, the duty, the purpose. John knew, from the usually conversant man's increased quiet, from the women, that the Earl was troubled. John suspected that as a representative of the aristocracy, Lord Grantham had never been in a situation in which he would consider authority or respect. His birth demanded them. During their time in Africa, John noticed that in all discussions of the war, the Earl echoed what his senior officers had said without wondering or commenting if their positions were well reasoned. John began to pity the Earl. This was a man who was not equipped for deep critical thought, but then, it had never been encouraged or needed in his small world. John still respected him, he still liked him, but he saw him for the simple man he was. Questioning authority would undermine everything the man stood for, yet in a more just world, Robert Crawley would be a just another gentleman farmer with a wife and family who never had to think about roles and or his role in the greater world. No public role, no pressure to uphold outdated and misjudged standards.

The war in Europe was highlighting the same qualities. John had hoped age combined with their experiences in Africa had opened the Earl's eyes to what war really was: not a defense of their country, not a defense of their king, but an organized slaughter of men just like them. Sadly, Lord Grantham had not learned to reflect. He still maintained that war was necessary. John took great pains to make vague, agreeable comments. By now, John knew the last thing the Earl wanted was real conversation. It wasn't that he wanted to be surrounded by sycophants, he just didn't know what to do with real disagreement about real issues. John knew discussing the war with him would be radically different, perhaps even upsetting, from discussing shooting party plans with Lady Grantham. John wasn't sure if the Earl even understood how different their views were, but it would be cruel to the simple man to enlighten him.

Luckily John was able to maintain several threads of thought at once. While he looked attentively at the Earl, nodding, lightly disputing but not disagreeing, he thought about his parting from Anna the previous evening. It had only been a few hours since he had seen her, but it felt like days. Perhaps it was the uncertain length of their separation that troubled him. They could be apart a few days or a few weeks, depending on how the voting went. John hoped it was over quickly, so he could get home to her. John hoped it lasted until the whole family came down for the Season, so they could gain some perspective.

Although it had been a cold evening, with late season snow threatening the emerging spring shoots, John and Anna had gone outside for their farewells. He led her to a secluded bit of walled garden, away from the house, away from the outbuildings, away from the path to Mr. Branson's cottage. His leg wasn't bothering him as much as it had been; at Anna's urging he had consulted Dr. Clarkson, who suggested some new exercises to relieve the pain. Even so, he didn't want to risk standing too long with Anna holding on to him and lose his balance. Falling on top of her in the mud was not how he wanted to say goodbye. He found the bench in the corner of the garden, suggested to him by the Earl.

John tugged Anna down to his lap, and she placed herself across his knees, one arm behind his neck, one near his waist. Even with her sweater and shawl, she shivered against him. John wished he had worn his overcoat. He could tuck her inside of it with him. Instead he pulled her closer, one hand between her sweater and her dress, one hand on her lower back. He leaned forward to kiss her. She sighed into his mouth and he drew her closer, tighter. As he felt her body grow soft and weak in his arms, he felt her breasts grow tight and hard against his chest, and he felt warm. He felt a part of himself disengage.

It would be possible to unbutton the buttons along the back of her dress. He could slip a hand inside. Run it along the top of her corset. Dip a finger between her corset and her chemise. Dip a finger between her chemise and her skin. Her warm, soft, skin.

Anna shifted on top of him. She leaned her forehead against his and smiled.

"Will you miss me, Mr. Bates?"

Frost was forming on the grass, yet John felt warm. Faery. Nymph. He smiled.

"I might."

Anna raised an eyebrow.

"You might?"

His finger circled a button.

"Maybe."

John moved a hand to her neck, his fingers lingering near her lips. Anna took one between her teeth, running her tongue along it as she kept her eyes on him. He closed his eyes and gasped.

"Are you going to tell me not to miss you?"

John felt his hand, as if of its own accord, slip her hair from its tight knot. A finger found its way between the button holes on the back of her dress.

"No. Perhaps I should, but I'm no hypocrite."

Anna rolled her eyes as she shifted again, pulling her knees up towards them.

"Mr. Bates, your insistence on being undeserving can be so tiresome."

John pulled her mouth to his again, running his tongue along her lips. He felt her fingers along his neck, reaching into his collar, which felt tighter than ever. He heard only wind and her breath and her heart. Perhaps he was tiresome, but he still couldn't believe that he really deserved the love of this beautiful young woman who expressed herself so energetically. Or that she deserved him. But she wanted him. Maybe that was enough.

"And didn't you say something about thinking being a dangerous habit?"

"I believe I did."

Anna smiled. She smelled so good. Her hair was so soft.

"Well then."

Anna was right, he did think too much. She was trying to undo his tie. He managed to get a button unhooked with one hand and slid a finger inside her dress. He felt her inhale suddenly. His lips were under her ear. Her eyes were closed, and her hands had stilled. All John was doing was running one finger back and forth along the top of her corset. Women's undergarments had changed in the years since he had confronted them: there was a bit of skin reachable just above the top of her corset. Would it be the same if he tried around the front her dress? Would he find skin just above the corset line?

Anna was holding her breath. She released it and looked into his eyes, parting her lips. She would stop him if he went too far. She would. But he wouldn't go too far.

She whispered into his ear. John wasn't sure what she said. His hand was on her leg. It was under her skirt. It was slowly sliding up her leg to her knee. His hand loitered there, teasing the back of her knee through her stocking. The stocking went on forever. He could move farther up her leg. Find the top. Find where the skin was hiding. Find something other than cloth. She smelled like roses and lemons.

Her hands were pulling him closer. He put his mouth to her breast. His lips searched along the coarse black fabric. He couldn't find much through the layers, but he had to have more. She'd stop him if he went too far. She would. She had to. John felt like he was watching from above. He moved the hand from her back to her front. Buttons at the front of the dress as well. He slid a finger beneath the lowest button. Some sort of light fabric was poking above the corset line. He wished he could see. He could undo them all. Then he could see.

Anna softly whimpered. She wasn't stopping him. She wasn't going to stop him. John had to stop or madness would follow. He had to stop. They were better than this. She deserved better than groping under her dress in the cold, dark garden. He deserved better. He wanted to be able to see and feel and spread out. Slowly he withdrew his finger. He smoothed her skirt over her legs and pulled her sweater closed and wrapped the shawl around her shoulders. He wrapped his arms around her and held her against him. Anna shivered.

Anna looked at him. "Why…."

John kissed her forehead.

"We should go to bed. Tomorrow will be a long day."

Lord Grantham was saying something. John agreed. He hoped he was supposed to agree. It was going to be a long day.