Chapter 40

Something John loved but never indulged in was to lie in bed, awake, of a morning, well past time to be moving. He always fell asleep late and awakened early, not always refreshed, and was out of bed with everyone else. As much he loved the dark quiet of the evening, and an open window near his bed, he relished the warmth of his bed at dawn. If he were ever left entirely to his own devices, John thought he would like to lie in bed, tangled in the warmth of his blankets with the bright light of the winter dawn peering through the window as he began to collect his thoughts for the day.

The house was beginning to stir. John rolled onto his back. He rubbed his hand over his eyes and remembered. It was his birthday. He stretched and groaned. His back popped, and his mouth tasted foul. His mother had always let him do as he liked on his birthday. It was the one day of the year allotted to him to be the most important, the most special person, and if he wanted to stay in bed late or eat nothing but apple cake and sausages it was his prerogative and she was happy to indulge him. It would be back to reality all too soon. John slid under the covers, rubbing his legs together, pulling his pillow further under his neck. He wanted to stay in bed.

It was not to be. He heard Mr. Carson, already in full voice, making his way to the bathroom. The morning rituals in the men's quarters were like being back in the army. Military life, prison life, had been excellent practice for service. John arched his back. He couldn't fight it much longer. He would have to get out of bed. Usually John was one of the first at the breakfast table. Today he was on track to be one of the last.

No one knew it was his birthday but Anna, and they both had a half day. She had asked him what he wanted to do, if he had any special plans. John had tried to think of something. All he wanted was a day with Anna. He felt dull, and a little sentimental, but that was all he wanted. She had grinned and reminded him they spent most days together, to an extent. What John wanted was a day away from the house, where he didn't have to think about Lord Grantham's new chaffing issue or deal with Miss O'Brien or hear Mrs. Patmore screaming at Daisy or be forced to be aware of the war or Vera's inability to answer a letter. Anna had smiled, leaned into him, and said she thought that could be arranged without too much trouble.

It would be a wonderful day. He just needed to get out of bed and start it. John yawned. He had delayed as long as he possibly could. He threw back the covers and stood. He shivered as the cold air from the open window hit his bare chest. His leg was stiff from the cold, but the only hope he had of sleeping was with the window open. He put on his undershirt and dressing gown, and hobbled to the window. The darkness was just beginning to break.

John considered his face as he shaved. He wondered if he looked his age. What did 50 look like? John had no idea. His was more lined than two years ago, but his hair wasn't graying. He had some loose skin at his neck which the stiff collars only emphasized, but he didn't feel noticeably different than a year ago. His leg was perhaps more stiff sometimes. John saw younger men darting in and out of the bathroom in the mirror. Some, like William, looked very young. John wasn't sure he had ever been that young. What did old look like? He nicked his neck.

Dressing, John took the time to examine his body. Since his injury, he had tried to stay in as best form as he could. He was pleased, overall, with what he saw. Some things had spread, shifted with the years and his limitations. Others, like his arms, were in the best shape they had ever been in. He turned to look at his profile as he buttoned his shirt. John and Lord Grantham and Mr. Carson were in ten years of each other. He hoped he wasn't getting fat. John thought he looked the best of the three. His father had died at 53. It hadn't seemed old to John then, but it had been so sudden. He selected his favorite tie, brown with a small paisley pattern. If he only had three years remaining, he needed to make certain he made the most of it. As Anna had said in London in the spring, youth's a stuff will not endure. He had so much to do. He combed his hair. John wondered if combing his hair the way he did aged him. Anna didn't seem to mind. He put on his jacket and gave himself a long final look in the mirror. If a beautiful young woman found him desirable, he had to be doing something right.

John was the last to breakfast. Anna was talking to Mrs. Hughes about what she would accomplish before her half-day commenced. She raised an eyebrow at John as he entered, hesitating over her words as he smiled. She had never beaten him to breakfast. Miss O'Brien was too busy fussing about Lady Grantham's new hairstyle to notice how late he was. Mr. Carson was grumbling about the clogged toilet in the men's lavatory. William noted that the news from the front was all dystentary and frostbite. John brushed against Anna's hip as he sat. She kept talking to Mrs. Hughes as she slightly brushed her leg against his. No one would notice. It would be a good day.

John watched Anna as he ate. She was beautiful. The morning after she told him about Andrew, she had been nervous with him. John was concerned that once alone she had regretted telling him. He didn't want her to regret anything. That morning he found her in Lady Mary's bedroom. She was alone, making the bed. John, without saying a word, stepped in to help, lifting the mattress so she could tuck in the blankets. Their hands met, then their eyes. Hers were wide and deep. Trusting. John knew he could take her, then and there, and she wouldn't stop him, she wouldn't love him any less. As she deserved better than a barn smelling of animal, she deserved better than someone else's bed with a married man. Anna trusted him with her deepest secret; she had laid herself bare to him. He would never do anything that would hurt her. He had stroked her small fingers, slowly, as she smiled, and they began to talk of nothing. She was pouring herself more tea. John's porridge was stiff and cold.

John's morning was perhaps more mundane than usual, and had it not been his birthday, it would have affected his mood. As it was, Lord Grantham's crankiness didn't bother him. John faced the information that his lordship's piles were now bleeding and that the laundress needed to change her soap on his under garments with good humour. John did not, however, intend to spend any part of his afternoon investigating new remedies. John suggested it was time to have a word with Dr. Clarkson on the matter. What had distressed John the most about Anna's story was that she had been hurt and frightened and there was nothing he could do about it. He had not been able to protect her. Isis had rolled in and then eaten something dead on her morning walk, and John needed to escort her to the stable for cleansing and grooming. Lord Grantham had abandoned her in the courtyard. Lord Grantham's rough morning was not going to affect John.

The first post of the day brought a parcel for John from his mother. He opened the package first, eagerly. She always knew exactly what books he'd like. The book was fairly slim, with gold gothic lettering on the cover. Lays of Marie de France and Other French Legends introduced and translated by Eugene Mason. John thought it looked familiar. He thought he remembered reading it. He opened it, and turned a few pages, reading at random. This was the book where valet was spelled varlet. He had read it. John sighed. He didn't envy his mother the task of picking books for him. She was bound to misstep sometime. He turned another page. This was his book. He remembered purchasing it soon after his release from prison. The bookmark he lost was still stuck between the pages. That was something, at least. His mother had given him that when he left for Africa. It was wooden, sturdy with a dark stain, with his initials. Perhaps his mother meant to send him the bookmark, and just left it where she found it. John sighed, and moved on to the letter.

Her usually clear handwriting was slanted and uneven, as if her hand had been shaking while writing. Dear Johnny…Never thought she'd live as long as she had and here her boy was 55… John sighed and rubbed the back of his neck. When was he coming to London again…Bring Anna next time….Hoped he liked this book….Couldn't remember where she found it. John knew. It was in his bedroom, probably on the bureau. He needed to see her. She was slipping. Could have sworn she saw Vera lurking around Mrs. McGuinness's garden... John's heart skipped a beat. Couldn't get out in time to catch her….Mrs. McGuinness said it was her sister…Didn't believe her for a minute… Did he remember the birthday he fell off the roof in a snowstorm and broke his arm… That worthless boy Seamus had dared him. John remembered. He was seven, it wasn't his birthday, it wasn't even winter, and he was watching from the ground as his brother Michael fell from a ladder. Seamus hadn't had anything to do with it. Michael had wanted to see if the bird nest over the upper story window was still there, and the ladder slipped. John's biggest crime had been to drop large stones in the manure pit at his uncle's farm. They had made a satisfying sound when they hit. His mother and his uncle had not agreed. John needed to take some time off and go see her. Properly. Not just for an afternoon. Loved him and hoped he had a nice day. The corner of the paper looked as if she had spilled some tea on it.

John looked up from the letter to see Anna had entered the room. She was lingering in the doorway, watching him. She had changed into a dress of deep blue, and a grey coat that fit snug around her hips. John hadn't seen her hat before, and she seemed to be hiding something behind her back. They both smiled as she walked to him and sat in her chair.

"Happy birthday." She grinned. Her eyes sparkled.

"Thank you." John started to fold the letter. "I'm looking forward to starting it now."

She picked up the book. "This looks good."

John sighed. "It is. I've read it. I bought it when it was published four years ago."

"Oh." She opened to a picture of a damsel in a tower. "Well, as much as you read I'm sure it's hard for your mother to keep track."

"This is the copy I bought."

She put it back on the table. "How is your mother?"

John sighed again. "She's getting old. I need to go see her." He wanted to see her.

"When will you go?"

"I don't know. I know his lordship isn't planning to be in London anytime soon, so I'll need to take some time off and go. After Christmas." He should have gone before.

"I'd like to see your mother again." Maybe Anna could join him. She never took her allotted time off, and there would be no hint of impropriety if she was invited to stay with his mother. She grinned. "At least she didn't send Dickens!"

John laughed, and passed his hand over his eyes. "No, and if she ever does, we'll know her days are numbered."

Anna placed what she'd been hiding under the table on the table. "I thought you might like to open this before we left." She looked pale, and tired.

John smiled. They held each others gaze before Daisy dropping a pot made Anna jump. John started on the package. It was obviously a book, wrapped carefully in green paper. Essays from the Scottish Englightenment selected from the works of Adam Smith, John Reid, James Beattie, and David Hume. It was perfect. Anna always knew. It would be a good day.

"I glanced at Hume's essay on miracles, and I think you'll enjoy it."

"I love it." All he would risk was a hand on her knee, under the table. "Now, I believe I had an outing scheduled with a lovely young woman to the city of Ripon. I'd hate to keep her waiting."

The wind was strong as they made their way to Ripon, the sky low and dreary. It would snow before the day's end. Anna had been more quiet of late. They had not been back to the temple since that night. The weather had been quite chill, but Anna had seemed suddenly tentative. John knew, as much as she knew he loved her, she was unsettled by her revelation. It was as if her trust in herself had faltered again and she wasn't sure how to regain it. John was concerned that Anna thought he might be somehow different, knowing what he now knew. He needed her to realize he was the same. Meanwhile, they had not kissed since. Their contact had consisted of long embraces in the darkened servants hall at night, a lingering touch under the table at meals or in passing in the hall. John didn't mind. As much as he desired Anna physically, he desired her companionship more. He loved her, and so he was prepared to wait.

The omnibus to Ripon was crowded, and they were unable to sit together. John was nearly thrown to the floor when it started to move while he was still trying to get Anna to take the seat near the front. She shook her head as she made her way to a free seat near the back, next to a fat old farmer with a pipe. When John turned to see if she was alright her shoulders were shaking and her cheeks were pink. John smiled. It felt good to see Anna happy.

She was still smirking and giggling when they alighted in Ripon. Had it been anyone else, John would have been angry, but Anna was able to make him forget about his leg, or at least laugh through his embarrassment. Had he fallen in public alone, he would have felt old. He put his hand just in the small of her back.

"Didn't anyone tell you no laughing at the birthday boy?" He could feel her shiver.

"No. I've never heard that." She grinned. "What do you intend to do about it?"

"I'm not sure." John removed his hat as they entered the cathedral. Anna was placing a coin in the box. "I suppose I should teach you some respect."

Her head snapped to John. She stared a minute, then grinned. "Someone has to." John's heart leapt as she said it. He chuckled. She was relaxing.

They walked slowly up the nave. Women were busy arranging garlands and angels. John had never been inside before. It was something he always meant to do, but never managed. His trips to Ripon were almost always on behalf of Lord Grantham, and what remaining time John had was almost always spent in the bookshop.

"Seems a waste to decorate such a place, doesn't it? It is grand enough on its own." John was struck by the details the stonemasons had added, the expressions, the vines. The cathedral was lighter and less ornate than some of the others John had visited. He found the comparative clean simplicity refreshing. He found he could almost believe in God.

"It does." Anna was bathed in the light from the stained glass windows. "Those women are hanging that garland the hard way."

John urged her forward. "Ignore them." He whispered. "Forget you know anything of hanging or cleaning or swagging today." The Christmas tree near the choir looked sad and feeble in the shadow of the pillars. If John had his way Anna would never hang another silly garland as long as she lived.

Anna let out a long breath and looked around her. "It is beautiful. I've been here many times, but there's always something new." A clergyman approached them. Perhaps, if they were visiting, they would like some information about the cathedral. Anna began to protest. The man wouldn't hear it. They would be interested to know that the ceiling bosses in the choir were five feet across. John wasn't interested to know that. He was interested that they were beautiful, and intricate, and showed detail and emotion and life. The man meant well. John smiled and looked up as the priest gestured. His daughter would certainly be interested in seeing St. Wilfrid's Needle in the crypt, where all the local brides tried to fit through the evening before their weddings. The priest was loud and fat. It proved they were maidens. He snickered. Wouldn't the young lady like to see that? Not that there would be any worries on that score.

While John was still considering his response, Anna had turned pale. She smiled at the priest, said they were in a hurry, thanked him for the information, took John's arm, and marched him out of the building. She didn't speak until they were well away from the cathedral precincts. "Well." She attempted a smile. "It was frightfully warm in there. Where to next?"

John raised an eyebrow at her. "The man was crass, but I think he meant well." Anna smiled. "It is an easy mistake, though you aren't quite young enough to be my daughter." Anna giggled. "I should take it as a compliment."

She grinned at him and clutched his arm. "Bookshop?"

"Bookshop."

The bookshop was tucked away in one of the narrow streets near the cathedral. It wasn't large, but it was well-stocked. John sometimes thought if he had a different life, a different career, he would like to run a small bookshop. Most of his best friends lived in books. Today, however, John was in the unusual position of not finding a single book to tempt him. Each title was either something he had read or knew he wasn't going to read. Other than in inferior bookshops, like that one at Downton, this had never happened. John felt confused, empty, disappointed. Dissatisfied. He found Anna. She was engrossed in a large ornate volume.

"Did you find something you'd like?" He peered over her shoulder. The text was embroidered with roses and peacocks and women who reminded John of the combs he had for Anna for Christmas in the drawer in his bedside table. Silver and enamel women with flowing hair and bare up-turned breasts. John swallowed. Anna noticed him standing behind her, and turned her head, smiling.

"It's so beautiful. Look at all the roses, and the princess." She turned the pages slowly so John could see. "I don't usually care for Tennyson, but there is something about this…"

"Then you should have it. I've always had a fondness for the sleeping beauty." They made their way to the counter and rang for the shopkeeper, who emerged from the back room, dusty and harried. It wasn't the man John usually dealt with. As he took John's money and wrapped the book, he remarked that it was so lovely to see a father and daughter out shopping together, especially this time of year. Anna smiled broadly at the man, and took John's arm. John thanked him, took the book, and wished him a good afternoon.

"Impertinent boor." John pulled his scarf tight around his throat. The wind had picked up.

"I thought it was an easy mistake?" Anna's cheeks were pink. "And that you took it as a compliment?"

"I…well…I do. I take it as a compliment that someone as young, and beautiful as you could want anything to do with me." Anna looked at the ground. "But something about the way he said it…I don't know." John sighed. "I suppose it is only natural to think about my age today."

Anna shook her. "You shouldn't do that. It just makes you morose." John laughed. "Our ages hardly ever occur to me. Only when other people point them out, like that minister. But then I remember, that really, it isn't any of their business."

John was cold, but he felt warm. "I love you too." He ran his hand lightly down her back. "Those men are just jealous. I suspect the one in the bookshop lives with his mother." Anna laughed. "You're right, as usual. If it weren't my birthday I wouldn't have cared."

Though it was a cold and windy day, Ripon was bustling. The second Christmas of the war seemed determined to be cheerful and festive. A few new shops had opened since John's last visit. He had no particular plan in mind, other than to spend as much time with Anna away from the house as possible. They waded through the people in the Corn Market, past the spot where the town trumpeter played each night, and came to a stop in front of a photography shop. John tugged Anna inside the door.

A young woman, who reminded John of Gwen, emerged from the back of the shop. When John told her they would like to have some pictures taken, she ushered them into the back room and showed them where they could leave their coats and hats. John helped Anna out of her coat. She pulled off her gloves quickly and turned to the mirror to fix her hair. John saw her reflection lick her lips as she watched his reflection remove his gloves. He smiled. Her reflection smiled back as she repaired what the hat had done to her hair. The jeweller had told John the combs were based on designs by the Glasgow artist Rennie Mackintosh, who designed tea rooms and houses with similar women. His were always discreetly wrapped in their hair, and adorned with roses. The bare breasts on the combs were only noticeable under close inspection; tucked in Anna's hair all that would be visible would be the bits of green and blue on the silver and the roses tucked in the nymphs' hair. They had reminded him so of her.

The photographer was ready for them. She was very businesslike, arranging them in the conventional pose of John sitting with Anna standing behind him, a hand on his shoulder. Between shots Anna's hand crept up John's neck, tickling just along his hairline. John shivered, and saw her lips twitch out of the corner of his eye. She moved her finger slowly beneath his collar, back and forth, and then removed it. John turned to her, and they smiled. They jumped and blinked at the camera's sudden sound and flash. The young woman smiled. She did enjoy taking pictures of couples in love. Anna blushed pleasantly as the smoke cleared. The photographs would arrive by post before Christmas.

Back in the street, John couldn't stop smiling. Anna fussed with her hat.

"Is that new?" He wanted to take her in his arms, right there, and kiss her.

"New to me." She shrugged her shoulders. "Old to Lady Edith."

"It suits you. Lady Edith has good taste."

"Well…" She looked away. "I picked it out, and trimmed it, knowing she wouldn't wear it more than one season before giving it to me."

John laughed. "You've been around Miss O'Brien far too long."

"Perhaps. Or perhaps I just know Lady Edith. Tea?"

The tearoom was crowded and overheated. John had never understood the convention of ladies of keeping their hats and gloves on while men removed theirs. He was so warm, and wondered how women managed in their extra layers. John didn't have a particular fondness for sweets, but ordered a slice of the Ripon spice cake. Anna ordered a scone. The pot of tea was very large, and strong. John was grateful for that.

"How is your birthday so far?" Anna stirred milk and sugar into her tea.

"The best in recent memory." John took his tea black. Anna's face dissolved into the large smile he loved. Considering birthdays in recent memory had included one spent trying not to get shot, and another cleaning prison toilets, it wasn't a difficult choice. "At the risk of sounding like a sentimental old fool, I think this is the first time I've actually gotten exactly what I wanted." Anna's smile couldn't expand, but her eyes could.

John took a bite of his cake. "When I was a boy I regretted that it was so near to Christmas." It was dry and sweet and served with cheese. "My mother always made sure that my birthday was a separate event from Christmas, but my aunts didn't." It was terrible. He took a long drink of tea. "There were so many of us at first that we never received many gifts, but mother made certain we each had a special day." He couldn't possibly finish it.

Anna had a dab of clotted cream on the corner of her mouth. "And how do you like your cake?"

He poked at it with his fork. "Not at all. I should have listened to you." He ate the cheese. Anna wiped away the cream with her napkin.

"Is there anything else you'd like to do today?" She poured the last of the tea in his cup.

Many things. "Anything you'd like." She smiled. Nothing had changed, really, since her revelation. John understood now why she needed him to be in control of stopping. She trusted him enough to let her let herself go as she needed to. John understood. Her discipline was not unlike his own with drink. It all made sense, the fear he thought he sometimes saw in her eyes was not of him, it was of herself. John suspected the lack of interest in children was a way to deal with the trauma. Her confession had strengthened their love. The vulnerability she had offered him was so much more valuable than virginity. Virgins didn't know what they were offering.

It began to snow as they waited for the bus outside the Unicorn. Anna shivered. John wanted her to step into his embrace and be warm and snug, but neither of them would be comfortable with so many witnesses. They were able to sit together on the ride back to Downton. John took her hand. It felt cold beneath her glove.

They took the path through the woods back to the house slowly. It was dark, and John's leg was starting to ache. They stopped near at a stone wall. John sat. Anna couldn't quite reach. He wrapped an arm around her and drew her near.

"Thank you for a wonderful birthday." He whispered even though he didn't need to.

"You're welcome. I'm glad I could spend it with you." Anna had a snowflake on her nose. "And…I'm so glad I told you." She was blinking like she might cry again. John couldn't have that. He pulled her to him, lifting her on to his lap, and wrapped his arms around her.

"So am I." He whispered it into her soft neck. She smelled of lemons and lavender and dried sweat and powder. For the first time since she had told him he kissed her. He had almost forgotten how good it felt. She twisted to him and groaned as the snow dusted their hats.

When they returned to the servants hall just before dinner, smiling broadly, laughing dangerously and sparkling with snow, a letter awaited each of them. Anna's was from her brother. John's was from Vera.