Chapter 23

John's leg was stiff. His neck hurt, as did his back. His left arm was numb, but he was willing to accept it. Anna was asleep in his arms, and for that, he would suffer anything.

She was beautiful against his chest. Her hair had fallen a bit. The bun was unraveling in the back and strands of gold were strewn across her face. John lightly brushed them away so he could see her. Her hair was so soft. She was so soft. So warm. She smelled so good. He felt so warm when he saw her slightly parted lips, her fluttering eyelids, her small hands. Her hands were curled under her chin and against his chest. The top of her head fit perfectly under his chin. The curves of her body aligned perfectly against him. A perfect fit. It was perfect.

It wasn't perfect. For it to have been perfect, they wouldn't have been fully clothed sitting upright in a public place, but it was what they had, and he was willing to accept it.

John would have to wake her soon. They were nearly home. Anna had fallen asleep almost as soon as they'd gotten on the train. After settling Lord Grantham and Lady Mary in first class, John and Anna had found a nearly empty carriage in third. Lord Grantham winked at him as they left, and John noticed Lady Mary's sly smile at Anna as they took their leave, and wondered how much discussion had taken place between them before their unexpected arrival in London. In any event, John was relieved they had arrived when they did. He never had a chance to write that letter.

When John returned to the club after leaving his mother's, Lord Grantham had received a telegram informing him that Lady Mary and Anna would be arriving at Kings Cross midday the following day. John would need to collect them and take them to Lady Rosamund's house, where they would be staying for a week before returning home with Lord Grantham and John. Lady Mary had sudden business in town, and was unwilling on this occasion to rely on her aunt's maid. John suspected the business involved eligible men, and she needed Anna with her not so much to fix her hair but as her only real friend. John had recently heard some whispers about Lady Mary. He hoped what he had heard was the product of jealousy, because he didn't want to contemplate the devastation it would bring to her father if true.

Anna shifted against his chest. He pulled her closer. She was so much more solid than he imagined. It didn't matter how many times he held her against him, he never quite remembered how solid she actually felt. John would happily hold her like this the distance of the journey four times over, no matter how much his body would punish him later. And punish him it would. He put his lips against her head.

John had been nervous, anxious, as he waited for their train to arrive. He was thinking not so much of how he would greet Anna but of what he might say, later, when they could be alone. His mother's advice had been with him all night, but he wasn't sure. He still thought this was unfair, dangerous. And then he saw her. Anna. He saw Lady Mary first, cool and regal, followed by Anna in her grey travelling coat, her eyes searching for someone. For him. John felt a powerful helplessness wash over him. Her eyes smiled first. He was a fool. The rest of her smile followed. He summoned a porter.

John saw Lady Mary into a cab while the porter arranged the cases. As he assisted Anna into the seat next to her, their eyes met. He ran his fingers over the top of her hand and was conscious they were taking too long. Lady Mary discretely coughed. John joined the driver in front and directed him to Lady Rosamund's.

He wondered if the barrier between the seats was hurting Anna. It seemed to be digging into her side. A hand had wandered under his jacket.

John talked to Lady Rosamund's butler while Anna and Lady Mary unpacked. The butler told John he had been told the evening before that they were expected. He believed the young lady would be attending some social functions with her aunt. John suspected Anna would have a great deal of leisure this week. Anna appeared, having changed out of her travelling dress, and confirmed that other than assisting Lady Mary in the morning, before dinner, and in the evening, her time was her own. She grinned.

After John finished his work on Lord Grantham's behalf each morning, he went to Eaton Square to collect Anna. Never since the change in their relationship had they had such a gift of so much uninterrupted time alone. John was determined to make the most of it.

They walked. They shopped. They talked. Anna told John about the moorland of her childhood, dotted with sheep and ruined cottages and howling wind. John told Anna about Ireland and how it was so green it was shiny. Anna told John about her first years in service. The staff had no heat, no hot water, and were only allowed to bathe when the family was out, which was never as they were a large family. John told Anna about his dead siblings and how selling his father's shop upset his mother more than his father's death. That had somehow made her great loss somehow more real.

John had lived in London much of his life, but had never thought much of it. Now he was seeing it through Anna's eyes, it was different. Fresh. New. Anna had spent a great deal of time in London since going to work for Lord Grantham and she enjoyed the change and adventure and potentials of the city. They went to Harrods. The walked in Kensington Gardens. John liked the new statue of Peter Pan. Anna liked the glimpse of the palace. They took tea in fine hotels. The went to galleries. They visited St. Paul's. Anna wanted to see the mosaic inside the dome up close and climbed the stairs into the whispering gallery. John snuck up the other staircase and smiled when she jumped to see if he was behind her when she heard him say her name.

Anna murmured something in her sleep. John felt her lips move slightly against him, her breath warm. She turned her head slightly. John ran his finger along her nose, feeling how it turned up slightly at the end.

After a visit to the National Gallery, John took her to his favorite bookshop near Charing Cross. It wasn't large, but it was full of variety. They spent the bulk of the afternoon there. John picked up a copy of The Tales of Belkin. Anna was looking at an edition of At the Back of the North Wind.

"Ooh. MacDonald. I liked his Phantastes and Lilith." John was looking over Anna's shoulder.

"My father and I read this when I was a girl, but my copy is gone." She sounded wistful. Another casualty of her mother's sale.

"Then you must have a new one." John wanted her to have anything she wanted. What good was his money if he couldn't spend it on her?

John saw a new edition of Twelfth Night. Anna was looking at The Blithedale Romance.

"Anna, have you ever been to the theater?"

"No, but I read that years ago. 'Come and kiss me, sweet and twenty, youth's a stuff will not endure'1."

John smiled.

"My mother was right."

"That doesn't surprise me. About anything in particular?" Anna didn't look up.

"That while I may be twenty years your senior, with four times your life experience, you have wisdom I will never have." John walked to where Anna was standing and scandalized the shopkeeper by putting his hand around Anna's waist. What was to come was still unsure.

The train stopped. John couldn't reach his watch, but he thought they had just over an hour. Two old women—stout, dumpy, hats jammed low on their foreheads—entered the carriage. They eyed him and Anna as they passed, eyebrows raised. John acknowledged them by smiling and tightening his grasp on Anna's shoulder. They sat a few seats away. He heard their loud whispers. His daughter? Never. He must be rich. Don't be daft, if he were rich they wouldn't be in this carriage now would they? Well, he must have something! A certain lilt on the something. Cackling. Maybe he was protecting the girl as she fled some sort of evil? She looked too quality to be a kept woman. Maybe she was traveling with her uncle. They snickered. If he was her uncle, then the woman speaking was Cleopatra! John smiled. No fool like an old fool. They were jealous.

They parted long enough each day to prepare Lord Grantham and Lady Mary for their evening engagements. It was quite easy for John and Anna, as Lord Grantham always met his daughter and sister at Lady Rosamund's house and then returned the ladies there before retiring back to the club for bed. John simply accompanied him to and from Eaton Square. Most evenings, after such busy days, they simply enjoyed a quiet dinner out. After dinner they would return to Lady Rsoamund's and sit by the fire in what should have been the housekeeper's parlor, talking, reading, or just being quiet. John knew an invitation to dine with mother would be very easy to obtain but after their last visit, he wasn't quite ready to return.

John wanted to give Anna something he knew she had never had: a proper night out. Actually, it was something he had never really had either. He wanted to treat her as the lady he knew her to be. He knew the opera, while it would be a new experience for them both, might be a bit much, and he knew Anna didn't have evening wear. He considered the theater, but then John saw reviews of the performances of a pianist called Arthur Rubinstein.

John was a little breathless when Anna came down the stairs to him. She looked beautiful. Her hair was in a lower, softer style, her dark blue dress was simple but elegant, exposing more neck and collarbone than usual and wrapped entincingly around her chest. She had long gloves. Lady Mary had lent her earrings and a necklace and a small beaded handbag. They took a cab to dinner, and John escorted her into the restaurant on his arm. He hadn't had much experience balancing Anna against his cane, but it wasn't as precarious as he had feared. Other diners, especially men, looked at them as they entered. John suspected they were wondering what that beautiful young woman was doing with him. John smiled. He wondered that too, but he didn't question it.

The concert hall was packed. John liked to sit on the aisle near the back so his leg wouldn't be bothered by people getting to their seats around him. It looked to be a lengthy program2. The first thing that struck him as Rubinstein walked on stage was the young man's wild hair. The second was how he carried his hands, which were large and muscular and yet looked somehow fragile. Rubinstein acknowledged the polite applause and sat at the instrument, staring somewhere in the distance beyond the piano. And then there was sound.

He opened with one of Lizst's Hungarian Rhaspodies. Schumann's Carnaval followed, then a Brahms Intermezzo. The first half ended with Mozart's A Major sonata, the alla Turca faster and faster, echoing off the walls of the recital hall.

Anna's eyes were sparkling. They stood and walked to the foyer for the interval.

"Are you enjoying the concert?" Could he kiss her here? With all these people? He hadn't kissed her today; he hadn't kissed her much at all since her arrival in London. She looked so natural in this setting. The crystal chandelier made her hair sparkle. The dark blue of her dress was reflected in her eyes. John felt a little dizzy. Maybe it was the music. Maybe the room was overheated.

"I am, though but for the last piece, it seemed like a lot of flash and not a lot of substance. I like how gentle the Mozart began and how passionately it ended."

John laughed. Mozart. Elegant. Gentle. Intelligent. Irrepressible. Passionate. Hedonistic. Anna.

"I confess I wasn't sure where one ended and the next began until there was applause!"

Anna smiled.

"The others must think us so simple."

"We're just honest. Shall we return, or sneak home?"

Anna took his offered arm.

"No, I want to stay. I'm enjoying it."

Gentle and passionate. John felt pensive as they settled in for the second half.

It was in the second half that the music caught up with John. The first piece was Debussy's La fille aux cheveux de lin. Then Bach. Two preludes and fugues from the Well-Tempered Klavier. Something clicked for John with Bach. It was so busy, almost too much was happening, but then it fit together and was so satisfying.

All the while John watched Rubinstein. He was hard to watch. He was hard not to watch.

It was the Beethoven that really got John's attention. Sonata in C Major, opus 53/1, "Waldstein." As the rapid repeated notes of the opening began, John closed his eyes. He was lost in sound. It was at once violent, hesitant, insistent, triumphant. How was such sound coaxed out of a wooden box? The sound was nothing more than hammers hitting strings, yet it was so much more. Who was the poet, the man at the instrument or the dead man who never heard it? John's breath quickened. He felt he was floating away. There was a calm part in the middle. John sighed, his tongue running along his teeth. So calm it was tragic in what it didn't say. John's head jerked a bit. He couldn't bear to look at Anna. Not here, not now, with all these people. The conclusion began quietly. Slowly. Like a dawn. Triumphant. It built and built with the same hammering intensity of the opening, but not the same. It had overcome whatever it was. It seemed to stop and start. It was soft and loud. Gentle and passionate. Fierce. Unpleasant and breathtaking. How did this little man at the instrument with such odd hands create such sensations? Suddenly, when John thought it was over, it was twice as loud, twice as fast, busy, furious, triumphant, fingering flying, eruptions of sound, the piano moving imperceptibly across the stage. John took a deep breath as the repeated theme sounded against the trills and hammered notes in the left hand. And then, with a few echoes in octaves, it was over.

John opened his eyes. The applause seemed like something happening in another place. Applause didn't seem quite the answer. And such polite applause. Were these people dead? Had they not heard what he heard? Seen what he had seen on the stage? Rubinstein's ecstatic agony? His head back, his arms and wrists strained over the keys? The man was sweaty, his eyes unfocused. But then he blinked, stood, bowed, and returned to the instrument. Just like that. John released a breath he didn't realize he was holding.

Only one work remained. Selections from Chopin's Nocturnes. John thought it odd to have the seduction follow the passion, but as he listened, he felt it worked. So melancholy and wistful. He looked at Anna. Her eyes were wide. Her face was frozen, but open. Her lips were slightly parted. He thought there might be a tear. He saw her gasp at one note, a high note as Rubinstein's fingers glided up the keyboard. She held her breath. Such longing, such aching. He opened his hand to Anna. She laced her fingers through his without seeming aware of what she was doing. Just as blindly her hand moved to the top of John's thigh. She closed her eyes. Her chest rose and fell. Her hand moved down his leg and gently back to the top. Her fingers were so nimble. They inched close to the middle. John closed his eyes and let the longing wash over them as Anna's fingers moved even closer to the center of his legs. She sighed as her hand rested there. It was a perfect fit, and an intriguing idea. John was glad of the darkness and glad he needn't stand for a bit. He glanced at her. She was still starring, frozen straight ahead. She tightened her hold as the music intensified. John stifled a groan. The tear he saw lingering in Anna's eye fell. Applause was starting. John lifted her hand and joined their fingers. He thought of peeling off her long gloves and putting his mouth to the bend of her elbow, her wrist, her palm, her fingers. Instead, he looked at her. She blinked and caught her breath and slowly met his eyes. Neither smiled. Neither clapped. While the applause and bravoes thundered around them, they looked at each other squarely and openly. There was an encore, but it registered only as sound, as if happening somewhere else.

Anna nuzzled her face into his neck. John hated to wake her, but she would need to restore her hair and get the sleep creases out of her face before they arrived. He would let her have another twenty minutes. He hoped whatever whim it was that had brought Lady Mary to town has been a success. He would be forever in her debt.

John knew a corner of Hyde Park that was practically on their way back to Eaton Square. In March, it would be empty. It was too cold for the shady business deals that sometimes took place there. It had a grove of trees within which one could be hidden. Aside from John helping Anna with her coat, they did not speak or touch as they walked. Anna didn't ask the reason for the detour. The cool air, with the hint of spring, felt so good after the stuffy concert hall.

The grove was indeed deserted. John removed his overcoat and draped it around Anna's shoulders. He needed the freedom and her dress would need the protection from the bark of the tree. He leaned his cane and hat against the tree. She was looking at him, her eyes wide. She was standing on a large root, so the discrepancy in their heights was not as awkward. John removed his gloves. He put his hands on her neck at that delightful area where her hair swept up and pulled her to him, his thumbs on her jaw. He kissed her. Repeatedly. Greedily. He pulled her closer and closer, feeling how soft and firm she was at the same time. Hands found their way beneath clothing. John blessed the low neckline and cursed the tiny buttons only nimble feminine fingers had a hope of working. He could just feel the intriguing curve of her breast. Anna was leaning half into him, half onto the tree. One of her hands was at his hip, the other had found its way back to where it had rested during the Chopin. John leaned closer until only the tree supported them. Anna's mouth was at his ear, teasing his earlobe with her teeth. John made no effort to stifle his groan. She worked his tie lose, and ran a finger just beneath his collar so it sprang open. She kissed along his neck, long lingering kisses she traced with her tongue and teeth. John suspected he'd need a higher collar tomorrow. Tomorrow. John pulled away enough that he could speak.

"Anna." His lips were still against hers. She kissed him.

"Anna. We need to get you home."

She kissed him again. She looked down.

"Why do you always stop?"

He smiled into her mouth.

"Because at some point we have to stop. Otherwise this could go on all night, past the point it should. I'm at great risk of not stopping."

Had he ruined it? But it needed to be said. He pulled away little further so he could look at her. Her eyes looked wet. They had looked wet since the concert.

John brushed her hair behind her ear, pulling her chin to him, while his other hand pulled her waist against him.

"This is an idea worth pursuing, and I don't want you to think it isn't, but this is not the time or the place."

Finally a smile.

She had the most perfect ears. Small, pink, shapely. John ran his finger along one. Anna burrowed her face into his arm. He kissed her forehead. Her eyes. Her nose. When he got to her mouth she kissed him back.

"We're nearly home."

She blinked. She made an indistinct distinctly happy noise.

"You're beautiful when you're asleep."

She smiled sleepily. Her neck popped when she squared her shoulders.

"I had a such a nice week."

John released her from his arms so she could rearrange her dress and hair.

"So did I. I must thank Lady Mary for this. Or did she have as much to do with it as I've been led to believe? Her father seemed awfully vague about this sudden trip."

Anna grinned.

"Well, she did need to come to town to do some shopping, and she want to see someone before he left for France, but…."

"That's what I thought. Whatever you did, thank you. I was lost without you."

She grinned again.

"Yes, I thought you might be."

1 Shakespeare, Twelfth Night, Act II, iii, 51-52.

2 Rubinstein's program that evening: Lizst: Hungarian Rhaspody No. 2; Schumann: Carnaval, Op. 9; Brahms: Intermezzo Op. 118/2; Mozart: Piano Sonata no. 11 in A major, KV 331: Andante grazioso—Menuetto- Alla Turca; Debussy: La Fille aux cheveux de lin, Préludes, Prémier livre, 8; Bach: from the Well-tempered Klavier, Book 1: Prelude and Fugue in G major, BWV 860 and Prelude and Fugue in e minor, BWV 855; Beethoven: Sonata No. 21 in C major, Op. 53/1 "Waldstein": Allegro con brio- Introduzione. Adagio molto—Rondo. Allegro moderato-Prestissimo; Chopin: Nocturne in B-flat minor, Op. 9/1 and Nocturne in E-flat major, Op. 9/2