Chapter 36
It was an unlikely gathering at the servants' hall table: John, Anna, Miss O'Brien, and Mr. Branson. All were waiting to be summoned; John, Anna, and Miss O'Brien were sewing. Mr. Branson was looking at the latest set of guides for household servants that had arrived earlier in the week.
John had looked through them that afternoon. Mr. Carson had commended them to everyone's reading, even those not under his immediate supervision, as key guides to professionalism, decorum, and advancing in their chosen profession. John was curious. When he was younger and considering his employment options, he had never seriously considered a life in service. When he father was still living, it was assumed he would help in and eventually take over the shop. John wasn't old enough to run a business when his father died, and they needed the money, so the shop was sold and a few years later he joined the army. He took to soldiering, in part, and the men who were selected as batmen were trained. His application to Lord Grantham had been one of the most self-serving and calculating things he had ever done. Soon after his release from prison, living with his mother, no word of Vera, he knew he had to get out of London and move on with his life. When he wrote in response to Lord Grantham's advertisement, he knew, even with his injury, he would not be turned down. John didn't like it, but he knew it was his only real chance. He had saved Lord Grantham's life; Lord Grantham saved his.
Having had the military's version of valet training, John had missed out on these instructional guides. He agreed with Mr. Carson, to an extent: in order to advance in the profession, discretion was key, as was a certain extra sense that allowed one to anticipate a need not yet stated. He agreed that one's private affairs must never interfere with one's work, but he did not agree that in order to be a good servant one needed to become a machine, devoid of feelings or hopes or dreams. The humanity needed to be preserved, and sometimes, looking around the servants' hall, John wondered how many of his coworkers had subjected their own lives to the point that they no longer existed. John had hoped his life would go that way. He was grateful it hadn't.
Mr. Branson would never be at risk for losing his life in the service of others. He was appalled by the books. Obviously they were written with people like William in mind, but even so. Mr. Branson lowered his voice when he said that. Miss O'Brien chuckled. Anna and John looked at each other over their sewing. Even a boy as young and as simple as William should not be expected to repress his own will and desires just to open doors and fetch cups of tea for useless people.
John kept sewing as he let Mr. Branson's words roll around in his mind. He saw Anna biting her lip to suppress her smile. There was truth in what the young man said, but also hypocrisy. John did not like hypocrisy. He should let it go. He reached for his tea. He couldn't let it go. How could Mr. Branson drive them around, take their money, live under their protection, and call them useless? What gave him the right to judge them? Anna smiled and looked away.
John liked Mr. Branson, but sometimes the things he said were so thoughtless, so wrapped in ideology they couldn't possibly be what he intended to say. John agreed with him, to a point. The aristocracy in and of itself was a useless and unfair system, forcing simple men like Lord Grantham into roles they may never have chosen, but it was the way the world worked. Lord Grantham and family did not deserve respect because of who they were and what they had; they deserved respect because they were alive. John hoped Mr. Branson was mature enough to see this. John noted that, unfair as the system might be, Mr. Branson ultimately benefited from it.
Mr. Branson was sputtering. It wasn't the people themselves, it was the system, and that they expected people to turn into machines. He gestured with the books in his hand. Walk silently. Wear a blank look. Lack emotion. Never betray a need for sleep or food. He leaned on the table and pointed at John. He knew Mr. Bates wouldn't know this, owing to his special relationship with his lordship and never having to deal with any of the family but him, but these people said some of the most offensive things about each other, had some of the most revealing conversations, and it was like he wasn't even there.
John opened his mouth, but felt Anna's hand on his knee. He closed his mouth. Maybe this wasn't a battle to have. Miss O'Brien had been oddly silent. Mr. Branson had backed away, however awkwardly, from the useless people bit. That was a different conversation. John really didn't know much about life as a servant. Maybe he could learn something. He loved watching Anna sew. He stitches were so neat, and her nimble fingers so delicate. She was mending the seam on a blouse for Lady Sybil. She glanced up at him, and back down, smiling, as she caught him starring. She remarked that those books did have some good advice. Miss O'Brien agreed.
John didn't look up from his work. He was certain her perspective on their profession would be illuminating. It was. She found the sections on what not see especially helpful. These fine people did have a tendency to act as if servants weren't in the room. Anna agreed The way they acted sometimes would embarrass her, would've gotten her a slap from her mother, and rightly so. Mr. Branson and Anna laughed. John looked up and smiled. She didn't smile back. That had been hard for her at first. She'd never been one to hold her tongue. John wondered if she'd been drinking. She was almost civil. When she was first in service and they just talked around her like she wasn't even there, she had a mind to answer back, and it had gotten her more than one talking to from the housekeeper. She learned, from older maids and from these guides, what was expected if she was going to advance. And she knew early on she was going to advance. She certainly wasn't going to marry some farm hand.
Miss O'Brien hadn't looked up from the beadwork she was mending. Lord Grantham and the dowager countess were two of the worst for pretending like she wasn't there. John wondered how she had wound up with her place. She obviously hated it, but then, she would find a way to be miserable anywhere. He was glad she and Vera were never likely to meet. With his luck they'd become friendly. Horrifying thought, that. She'd learned how to not be there, how to not react, and how to not see. Surely Anna knew all about that. John didn't like the look Miss O'Brien was giving Anna. Not see what?
Anna glanced at John and rolled her eyes. When she was first in service, she was lighting the fires in the guest rooms one morning, and the couple was awake. Miss O'Brien raised an eyebrow. Anna said she had been told to make up the fire and not disturb them, no matter what, but she felt so awkward. She had slipped in, as she had all the other rooms, and she hadn't heard anything from the room in the hall. But when she got in she realized that they there awake. Their nightclothes were strewn all over the floor, and she heard such groanings and gruntings coming from the bed. She was so embarrassed. She tried not to look. She was sure they didn't know she was there. She worked as quickly as she could. She couldn't actually see them—the blankets were pulled up since it was so cold in the room—but she could see them moving under them. The man did notice her and said something, and the woman had said not to stop, it was only a maid. Anna scurried out as quickly as she could. She'd mentioned it later to one of the older housemaid who had laughed and said it happened to everyone. Maids weren't really there. She'd since learned how to make herself even less noticeable. There were ways to walk, and ways to open doors without calling any attention to oneself at all. She took a sip of tea and looked at Mr. Branson. She'd also had to learn not to care what they said about her. It didn't matter. They didn't know her, and she didn't know them, and neither had the right to judge the other. Neither of them had created the system; they simply lived and worked within it.
Miss O'Brien snorted. Spoken like a true housekeeper to be. Unless of course, she took a sip of tea and looked at John, she received a better offer. John wanted to respond. Tell her to hold her vile tongue and mind her own business. It wasn't her affair. But there was no response he could make. He could admit to being married, and compromise Anna. He could say he was sure she'd receive a better offer, which would make it look like he wasn't likely to be that offer. Miss O'Brien did not need to know about Vera. Anna was intent on her work. Someone needed to respond. Miss O'Brien was smirking. Mr. Branson looked curious. He was asking something. Something that couldn't be answered. Anna needed to say that she didn't expect a better offer, which was true, but made them both look so so bad and let Miss O'Brien think she'd won. Why wasn't Lady Grantham ready to retire?
Mr. Branson crossed his arms and leaned back in his chair. At least Anna would be likely to have some choice in the matter. John smiled at Mr. Branson. Anna smiled over her work. Miss O'Brien pursed her lips and sniffed. John poured more tea for everyone.
They worked in silence for a few minutes, broken only by Mr. Branson's whistling and his noisy flipping of the pages. Anna kept glancing at John over their work and smiling softly. He pricked his finger when her bare foot slid into the leg of his trousers. He put his finger to his mouth and Anna called him Mr. Bates and urged him to be careful, as if she had no part in it. He didn't want to get blood on his lordship's shirt. Her eyes were large and teasing and her voice concerned. Miss O'Brien raised an eyebrow. Mr. Branson grinned at them.
Had they heard about Dorothy, over at Nethergate Hall? Miss O'Brien had heard in the village she'd been given her notice. She was in trouble. It always happened sooner or later. Girls got in with some no good man and then the man was gone and there was the baby. Of course the girls were no better than trash themselves, to get into that kind of situation. Always happened. She looked right at them. Nothing better to be expected from some people. Didn't happen as often as it used to now with everyone away but the boys and the useless old men, but it still happened. Was about time for it to happen here.
How dare she. John could feel the blood draining from his face. He couldn't react. He couldn't give her that satisfaction. But the bitch had just essentially called Anna a slut. How dare she. He stole a glance at Anna. She appeared unmoved. Miss O'Brien wasn't worth it. The smug look on her face. Anna was. He opened his mouth and Mr. Branson was shaking his head, laughing, telling her maybe she didn't know all the facts and shouldn't be so quick to judge. Anna's foot was resting on top of John's. He wished he'd taken off his shoes so he could place the other on top of hers and curl his toes around her. Mr. Branson was waving the book again. She was as bad as they were. He knew the grand folk thought the servants had no morals. And why was the woman always to blame? Last he understood the man had a very important role as well. And really, from the things he heard, not just driving but in his old job, where he waited at table, the aristocracy were just as bad, if not worse. And besides, maybe if the rules weren't so strict this wouldn't happen so often. Maybe if maids were allowed to see men, it wouldn't be as exciting. The forbidden always had an allure. He sighed. Anna looked at him, narrowing her eyes a little. John wondered if this was that thing about Lady Sybil again. The whole lot was a bunch of hypocrites, and she should just keep her mouth shut.
Miss O'Brien sniffed again. John smiled at Anna, placed his sewing on the table, and handed Miss O'Brien his handkerchief. He wondered if she was feeling quite well. Mr. Branson had to look away. Miss O'Brien blinked, refused, and kept at her work. Anna's shoulders were shaking. She put her fist to her mouth and looked away. He met Anna's eyes as she turned to him. She nearly started again when he winked at her. He did love her so. After that night in the temple a few weeks ago, the need for intimacy had calmed. It wasn't that their desires had abated, not in the least, but the urgency had diminished, giving them more time to savor and explore each other within the boundaries. He did love her so. A few nights ago, he had found a particularly sensitive area that reduced Anna to shaking, laughing, gasping, near tears in his arms. It was unlike anything John had experienced. Just helping her get there was enough, but not for her. He was amply rewarded in turn. John wished Lady Grantham would hurry up and decide to retire.
Miss O'Brien was saying something about being a good servant. Couldn't she just hold her tongue? Something about a good servant knowing what not to see. A slap from the master to the mistress. John started to rise in his chair. Not Lord and Lady Grantham. Hypothetically. Anna imperceptibly shook her head. Don't react. A kiss to a maid. Mr. Branson raised his eyebrows. A dead body moved in the night. Anna should know all about that.
John saw Anna prick her finger and watched as all the color drained from her face. Mr. Branson looked at John quizzically, then at Miss O'Brien. Was this something about that Turkish gentleman who died here before he came? He'd heard some whispering about that when he was driving the countesses. He didn't hear anything. He smiled at Miss O'Brien. Then he looked at Anna. What could Anna possibly know about the Turkish gentleman? Hadn't he died in his bed? Miss O'Brien gave Mr. Branson what passed as a smile. Had he?
A bell rang. The dowager countess was ready to go home. Mr. Branson put on his jacket and bid them a goodnight, looking thoughtful.
They sat in silence. John looked at Miss O'Brien, wondering, not for the first time, what had happened to make her this way. Some people were just nasty, but no one was born this bitter. He knew almost nothing about her. He suspected her home had not been happy, that she had left young and was sent into service without much choice, and that she never gave much thought to it. But then, the same was true of Anna, and two people couldn't be less alike. He wondered if she had ever had a chance of marriage, if she could love. John had been prepared for hostility from the other servants when he arrived. He couldn't do certain tasks and it was natural they might resent that, but he was unprepared for the level of animosity from her and from Thomas. It just didn't make sense, and if anything, the valet and the ladys maid should be allies. John didn't need the bickering, the picking, the plotting. He had had enough of that with Vera. He tried to be as professional, as correct with Miss O'Brien as he could manage. It did, however, try his patience.
She was smirking at Anna. John had had enough. He might regret it later. What did she possibly hope to gain by repeating unfounded gossip about the family? Was this something the good servant did? He wouldn't regret it. Someone had to say it. Miss O'Brien blinked. It wasn't unfounded, it was true. Everyone knew it. Or hadn't little Anna told him about helping to carry poor Mr. Pamuk back to his bed? Well, maybe she hadn't seen anything.
John threw down the shirt and pushed himself to his feet. How dare she? Anna was saying it wasn't worth it. Lady Grantham's bell rang. It was worth it. Miss O'Brien raised an eyebrow and left.
John left the shirt on the floor. Anna looked up from her work. "Alone at last." Her eyes twinkled when she said it. John smiled and chuckled.
"I thought Lady Grantham would never ring." Anna looked pensive. John wondered if maybe there was some truth to the story. He couldn't ask her. She wouldn't lie to him, and she wouldn't betray Lady Mary. John couldn't put her in that position. He looked at her again. It was true. She was uncomfortable. She wasn't looking at him. She would have helped Lady Mary. John would have helped Lady Mary. The poor girl always seemed a little lost, and John would have helped her and would have kept it from her father. It would destroy her father. He needed to let her know her knew without saying he knew. He brushed her knee with his.
"I'm not sure where that story started, but every time I hear it I deny it. As a representative of her father's house I have no choice but to also uphold Lady Mary's honor and I always will. But that's a cruel piece of gossip."
Anna looked relieved. "Yes. It is cruel." She smiled. "You're doing much better about not letting her get you."
John laughed. "I suppose I am." She was looking at him, trying not to smile. "Must be your positive influence. But it was rough tonight."
Anna shook her head. "She isn't worth it. You'd just be giving her what she wants and then she could tell Lady Grantham you have a violent temper and then we'd have another mess on our hands."
"I know she isn't worth it, but what does she hope to gain?" He stroked her leg with the toe of his shoe. "And you're worth it. She as good as called you a whore."
Anna blinked and shook her head. Her mending was nearly finished. "It doesn't matter. I don't care what she says anymore. She's always been spiteful." She grinned at him. "Maybe she's jealous."
"Anna, you have a real nasty streak!" He inched his chair closer and leaned over her, speaking near her ear. "Maybe she's jealous of me."
Anna gasped and slapped his arm. "Now that is cruel Mr. Bates!"
Lady Mary's bell twinkled. Then Lord Grantham's. They stood together.
"See you later?" Her hand was in his. He rubbed her fingers.
She smiled. "Maybe." Probably.