Chapter 43
John tightened his scarf, and rebuttoned his coat. He was afraid for his hat. The wind had a bite. It had hit as soon as he had descended from the bus. John looked up the hill towards Haworth. It was going to be a long walk.
John had arrived back at Downton in early January to find that Anna had been called away by what remained of her family. She had departed a few days before he arrived, and had left a note. Her sister-in-law had died in childbirth, as had the baby, which was early. Her brother needed Anna to help him with the house, the funeral, finding homes for the surviving children. Anna had written that she didn't want to go, but she did see it as a duty. It was the right thing to do, and Mrs. Hughes and Lady Mary had insisted. She would return in two weeks' time. John was surprised that she hadn't responded to anything in his last letter regarding the lack of progress with Vera, but when he reached Dowton he saw the letter waiting with another piece of post for Anna. His letter looked as if it had travelled all of England. John was having trouble keeping his footing on the steep street. It wasn't rainy, but the cobblestones were wet. Someone had placed stones like steps along the sides for horses to keep traction. He considered using them for his cane.
John had written to Anna again the night he arrived. He told her about his trip north, and about his mother. His mother had made it clear she hoped to see Anna again before she died. John had chuckled as he wrote that. He told her what he thought the next step should be with Vera. He had given it a great deal of consideration on the train. Mr. Ford had been away when John stopped by his office, but John would write him. Adultery was the only basis on which he could sue; surely abandonment equated adultery. He knew it did, in her case, with her history. He wondered if a court would accept it. He told her she didn't owe her brother anything. Duty was a slippery word. John wrote that he was sitting in the servants hall with tea and a candle, and that the fire was dying. He imagined her there with him, sitting up far too late, in companionable silence. He hoped to see her soon. He thought, but didn't write, that he would come to her if she needed him to do so. He signed it love John.
That had been over two weeks ago, and Anna had not responded. She had been gone well beyond her allotted time, with no word. Mrs. Hughes was especially worried. She had confided to John one morning that she didn't know Anna's brother, but she thought it telling that she had never visited or spoken of him, and it was unlike Anna to not return when she said she would, or not to send word that she wasn't or couldn't. If Anna had decided not to return to work, she would have let them know and served out her notice. Mrs. Hughes didn't think that was what had happened. John said very little about what he knew of Anna's family, but what he said seemed to confirm Mrs. Hughes's unexpressed fears. John had left for Haworth next morning.
And there he was, holding onto his hat as he wrestled with his cane to keep balance as he climbed the hill of the village's street. Once he was about half-way up the hill, John paused to take in his surroundings. It was without doubt the most depressing place he had ever been, perhaps excluding prison. The buildings and road were grimy and black. The sky was a forboding grey. The wind blew with a purpose. He saw no people, but the shops seemed to cater to a tourist market eager for Bronte novels and picture-postcards of the parsonage. The place would feel bleak on a bright day.
Anna's brother's farm was beyond the village proper, but that was all John and Mrs. Hughes knew. John planned to stop somewhere and ask. A shop perhaps, or the pub. Bookshops lined the street. John picked one, and entered. It specialized in Bronte novels, and memorabilia. John didn't especially care for their works. They weren't without merit, and were worth reading once, but not re-reading, and certainly not loving. John thought Anne the talent of the family. She had a subtly lacking in Charlotte and Emily. The shopkeeper emerged, a stout woman with a high bosom and just a hint of a moustache. She spoke. John had no idea what she was saying. The accent was unlike anything he had ever heard. He couldn't possibly ask her for directions. He'd more likely to find Anna by just heading out across the moors. John smiled, and fumbled with a book he didn't want. He was wasting time. As he put it down, a slim volume caught his eye. Poems by Currer, Ellis, and Acton Bell. He flipped through it. Most were dreadful, but then one labeled Ellis stopped him. It reminded him of Anna. John paid for the book and returned to the street.
As John reached the top of the hill, the main features of the village came into view: the church, the pub, the post office, and the apothecary. John suspected the pub and apothecary saw more business, from the locals at least, than the other businesses. He entered the pub. The Black Bull. An ominous name for such an English establishment. It was likely to be a long walk, and his leg was already protesting.
The heat was overpowering, especially after being so long in the damp. John had heard that the best way to get to know a place was to visit the pub, but they were all the same. He supposed it was the people who were in the pub that was meant, but even so, they were all the same. Overtly. The locals were eyeing him, presumably attempting to determine his business. He nodded to one or two of them, ordered, and took a seat. John had assumed that this place would be relatively free of Bronte memorabilia, but then he saw the chair, carefully preserved and labelled, and remembered their degenerate brother. The self-conscious poet who really wasn't any good at anything, even drinking. John understood how living in a village as oppressive as this could lead even the strongest of minds to drink.
The place was actually rather bright and clean. John suspected it had to be, considering the literary pilgrims. It seemed whatever local character the place had was being corroded by Bronte nostalgia. He saw several photographs of other associated sites, and advertisements for guidebooks and commemorative publications. It was all the town had, but it was sad to see it didn't maintain any other sense of identity. Anna had never said much about it, other than how the graveyard ended just at the door of the parsonage and how sad she thought that was. The landlady brought his food. John thanked her. She hesitated. John asked if she could tell him the way to Edward Smith's farm.
The door slammed. The woman blinked as if she wasn't sure she had heard correctly. John repeated the question. She turned, and smiled at the latest patron. She returned to John, eyeing him up and down. Unusual for someone like him to be asking after Edward Smith. She smirked. Her accent wasn't as strong, but some of what she said simply didn't sound English. Unless he was collecting debts. John smiled. A chance for some local gossip. He wasn't collecting money, but he did have some business at the farm. John took a sip of his tea. It was strong and bitter and perfect.
The landlady wished him luck. She slid into the seat across from John. Edward Smith was a piece of work. Everyone knew he beat his wife; it was no surprise when she finally died. Of course, they both drank more than they should. She turned serious. But not at her establishment. She didn't serve the likes of them. This was a quality public house with standards and a reputation. She leaned forward. He looked like a learned gentleman. Had he ever heard of Branwell Bronte? She'd be happy to show him….John interrupted. He really didn't have the time, needed to be going. John was sure he was about to become the afternoon's topic. The farm was a fair walk. She looked at his cane. He could manage, he was sure. She didn't seem as sure. The path was steep and rocky. She could find him a ride. John protested. Walking was fine. She sighed. She didn't mean to be rude, but really, he should accept a ride. John wondered what he was in for, and accepted. She noticed he didn't have a bag. Obviously he had underestimated this trip. She'd keep a room waiting for him. John protested. Again, he didn't understand. He wouldn't make the last train. John didn't respond. She stood, brushing her hands on her apron. Edward Smith's young sister was staying with him, she'd heard, but she hadn't lingered in the village after the burial. She hoped she was alright. Annie, or Emily, or something like that had been such a sweet girl. She prayed Edward had some decency left in him. She said it as an afterthought as she walked back to the bar. John felt very cold.
John was glad he had given in and accepted a ride. He never could have managed this landscape with his cane and in a suit. The route was difficult enough in a cart. John couldn't understand much of what the driver said. In addition to having a heavy dose of local accent, he lacked teeth. He seemed glad of the company. How had Anna escaped this manner of talking? Her voice had a lilt, a softness, not these rough edges. The wind sounded like someone screaming. The landscape was nothing but rocks, with the occasional barren tree, branchless on one side and leaning from the wind. Dormant heather and gorse dotted the ground. Dilapidated cottages and tumble-down stone walls enclosed a few sheep, which stared as they passed. The driver had lapsed into silence. John was glad. But for the screaming wind and rattling wheels of the cart, all was silent. He was unsettled by what the landlady had said. A vulture passed overhead. John knew nothing good of Anna's brother, but it hadn't occurred to him to be worried for her safety until now. The idea that Anna might be hurt, might be in trouble, might be in pain consumed him. What these people found to farm John had no idea. The man was muttering something about how the Smiths hadn't always been this way.
The cart stopped. The driver gestured to John the path he needed to follow. John offered him some money. The man shook his head, and pulled his reigns. He didn't look back. John swallowed, and turned to the path. The sky was blue.
John's heart sped up, and he began to sweat. Anna was alright. He and Mrs. Hughes were overreacting. The clouds were lowering and the sky was black. John thought it was only in Scotland that the sky could change so quickly. John was walking slower than usual, but he seemed to be moving too fast. He thought of the poem. No coward soul is mine, it said. Anna had sent a letter, and it had gone astray. A dog was starring at him. John wondered if it was Anna's brother's. She would laugh at them, and John would be home in time to get his lordship ready for bed. He would take Anna to dinner on the way. He saw the house. There was no obvious indication that it was part of a farm. John wished rather than believed. It looked like all the others on the moors, but for the roof. It had one.
As John approached the door, he heard a sound he didn't like. Masculine shouting. He couldn't quite make out the words, but it hardly mattered what was said. He sped up, his cane tapping on the frozen ground. The door opened, and what appeared to be bundles of cloth flew out of it, followed by a large bag. Anna's suitcase. The door slammed shut. John was now close enough to hear what was being said. Anna had been planning to leave after her brother was unconscious, which based on what John heard, wouldn't be much longer. Edward objected. John stepped over Anna's white nightgown.
John saw no reason to knock. As he pushed the door open with his cane an empty bottle crashed into the wall just above where Anna was standing. He cleared his throat. Anna's eyes grew large. Her brother's were narrow and squinty. John looked around the room. It really wasn't bad. A touch shabby, but clean. He suspected that was Anna's doing. He wished to heaven she was not a maid, but she was a frightfully good one. John laid his hat on the table and removed his gloves. He asked Anna if she was ready to leave. Anna's eyes grew larger. John thought of the poem. She wasn't afraid.
John noticed empty bottles in the corners. Anna was dressed in her coat. John introduced himself to Mr. Smith. John watched as Edward processed his name. It shouldn't have meant a thing to him, but it seemed to. John Bates. The married man his sister was carrying on with. Anna's face had gone white. Nothing but a whore. Always had been. Didn't think she'd fancy an old cripple. John's letter had been intercepted. That was why she hadn't answered. Edward sneered. So she'd written him after all and here he was to save her, to keep her from her duty. An old cripple and a young whore. She wasn't going anywhere. Fancy man like him wouldn't want her after he knew about her, but then, he didn't care about reputation. He and Anna were alike there. Edward spat. He was exactly the type of man who would want a whore like his sister. All he could get. It was her place to take care of her family. Wasn't like she was sending him her wages like she should. Nothing for her to spend them on, and here he was with a family. John blinked, and took a deep breath. John suspected the children would never see the benefit of Anna's annual eighteen pounds. John felt his grip on his temper slipping away. He urged Anna to collect her things, as they were leaving presently.
Anna listened. John looked around the room. He saw no signs of children. Edward was taking a step towards him. His eyes were wild. He'd been drinking for days. Anna wasn't going anywhere. She'd been getting fancy ways, and it was time for her to remember where she came from. A fight was coming. It had been John's experience that small men were always the nastiest. John knew attempting to reason with Edward would, at this point, be uesless. Frustrating. He just needed to keep his temper. He saw a half-made doll near the fireplace. He took a breath. Anna was respected and valued by one of the most prominent and influential families in the country. A confidant of the daughters of the house. He should be proud. Edward spat. She was a whore. He eyed John. As he knew only too well. How many times had he had her?
John could feel his fist clenching and swinging at Edward's jaw, but he wasn't aware of his movements. He heard his mother's voice. Temper Johnny. How dare he call Anna anything other than a lady. Edward was lunging for him. Something about an old lame dandy. Edward reeked of alcohol and sweat. John barely registered the pain in his shoulder as it was hit. How dare he say anything against Anna? Temper, Johnny, with greater insistence. Sorry excuse for a man. Was he blameless? Was he? Useless stinking drunk. John swung harder, landing on Edward's nose. Drunk as he was, he fell. Anna returned clutching her suitcase, pale and her eyes wider than ever. John kicked at his chest. Temper, Johnny. Blood was pooling on the floor. It felt so good. Euphoric.
"John!" He really didn't think she'd object, too much. "What…"
John straightened his neck tie. "He insulted you." She looked pale, and haggard. "And I have a feeling it wasn't the first time." John hadn't broken a sweat. He still had it.
She looked away. "We'd better go before he comes round." She wasn't moving.
"That will be a while." John leaned over Edward. He was unconscious, whether from drink or John's punch he wasn't certain. "Where are the children?" Other than poor abandoned half-made doll, John had seen no signs of them.
"They've been spread amongst the neighbors." She took up the doll. "Edward…well….he's really not much of a father, and he said he was going to enlist."
John raised an eyebrow. "I'm sure His Majesty will be grateful for his service." It would be an illuminating experience for Edward. "Likely for the best with the children." The blood had stopped flowing from Edward's face. "We'd better go."
Anna didn't move. She was starring at the doll. Her shoulders were shaking. John moved towards her. Her face was soaked. He pulled her close. She crumpled against him. John could barely understand what she was saying her voice was so broken.
"The children…he…." She gasped. John wasn't sure he wanted to know. He could imagine. "And they said that he…." John suspected he knew exactly what he had done to their mother. "And I promised Hetty I'd finish her doll….and I didn't and now she's gone." John thought he could solve that one.
"We'll take it with us, and send it to her." Anna looked up, and blinked, as if she wasn't sure what he meant. "We'll send her a box. We'll send the doll, and a picture book and…whatever else it is that little girls like. Hair ribbons?" Anna smiled. John felt a bit lighter. "Tell me about Hetty." They really needed to leave.
Anna sniffed. "She's three, she's the youngest girl." She took a deep breath. "David threw her old doll down the privy." She looked away. "Their father did that once with mine. My mother never…." Tears overtook her again. She took a deep breath. "I…I promised she could have a new one." She dried her eyes on her sleeve. "I let her down."
John sighed, and pulled her tighter. "You didn't disappoint her. Think how excited she'll be to get the box."
Anna pulled away, and began to button her coat. "You're right." She found her hat. "I'm sorry. I…I don't know what it is about Hetty." She picked up her gloves from the mantle. "I don't even like children." Her voice wasn't firm. Of course she didn't. John had never fully believed that. "Make sure you get my money from his pockets." It was going to be a very long evening.
John wasn't sure why he was surprised that Edward had taken Anna's money. It made sense, but it appalled him in a different way than the violence and the foul language had. He rolled him over with his foot and saw a handful of notes sticking out of his back pocket. Anna looked puzzled as John rested Edward's head on his bent arm.
"So he won't choke to death if he's sick." He pulled himself up on the edge of the table. "I believe this is yours." She smiled, and put the money in her handbag. "Now, we really should be leaving." Darkness was falling, and it felt like snow. It smelled like snow. Edward regaining consciousness was the least of their problems. "Shall we?" John put on his hat and gloves, retrieved his cane, and took Anna's bag from the floor.
"I can carry it." She tried to take it from him.
John smiled at her. "I didn't come all this way so you could carry your own bag."
Anna was kissing him. His hat fell to the floor. She was kissing him so strongly that he nearly lost his balance. John dropped the bag and his cane, and wrapped his arms around Anna's waist, pulling her tight. She was kissing him with such vigor that John wondered what her intentions were. He hated to stop, it had been too long, but they really needed to go. Anna pulled away first, and smiled. It was so good to see her smile. "Well, we'd better be going."
The force of the wind was like a smack in the face. John started down the path the he'd used when he arrived, but Anna pulled his hand in a different direction.
"We're not going to Haworth."
"We're not?" The light was rapidly disappearing. They had missed the last train, that was certain. They needed to find a place to spend the night that had a roof, and a bed, and a locking door.
"This isn't the first time I've run away from home." John smiled. He had wondered. "We're going to Stanbury. It is easier to get to on foot, and before you say you can manage, you can't. On foot to Haworth we'd have to cross a waterfall. This way are only stone walls and sheep." Sheep. "And Edward will head to Haworth when he wakes up." That was not a scenario John wanted to watch unfold. He had a feeling Edward was a slow learner. "And everyone in Haworth knows me. I don't want…." She didn't have to finish. She didn't want to be the talk of the village.
Anna led them up to the top of a small hill. John struggled with his cane and the bag, but kept up. The terrain was rocky, and steep, dotted with rocks and sheep. Anna had not been afraid. No coward soul.
"Anna." She waited for John to catch up. "How did he know?"
She turned and looked towards a distant tree line. "Andrew told him." Her voice was calm. "He married Sally, and, well, so few people ever leave here, and you know how people talk in families." John detected a quiver to her smile. Her voice was almost too calm. "It doesn't matter. I never plan to see them again."
"Anna, I…" He wished he'd been there sooner, he wished he could take her away and keep her safe and protected and loved and valued for all her days. He wished she didn't have to work in such a back breaking, dirty job. He wished the kick had broken something.
"It doesn't matter." Her smile was more convincing. "We really do need to go."
They trudged in silence. Silence broken by birds, sheep, the scream of the wind. The wind took John's hat. There was nothing he could do about it. Anna looked back, and giggled. He sighed. He had been fond of that hat. Crossing the stiles was challenging, between the bag, his cane, his leg, and the encroaching darkness. He managed. Anna flitted over them as if they weren't even there. Freedom suited her. Color was returning to her face.
"See that house?" She gestured to a ruined cottage with a tree coming out the roof. John nodded. "That's Wuthering Heights." She waited, and grinned. "Or so they say."
"Wuthering Heights was much larger than that. Though the location certainly is atmospheric." Romantic as well. "Are you a fan?"
"Are you?"
"Not especially, no. I wouldn't mind if it were simply a difficult book, but the characters have no redeeming qualities whatsoever. I cannot bring myself to care what happens to them." The snow finally started. "It isn't about love, or struggle, or even really man's inhumanity to man. It is about obsession, and destruction." John hoped Stanbury was just over the next hill. He needed to sit. "If anything, it is a hymn to death."
Anna was moving again. "Would it affect your opinion of me if I confessed to liking it, once?" John watched as she nimbly crossed a ditch. "I think it has something to do with knowing the setting. The moors really are a character, and sometimes, when I'm out here, I feel like I can understand it."
John hesitated. "One of the things that disturbs me most is how clearly I understand it."
The wind picked up with the snow. John couldn't see much, but he trusted Anna knew where they were going. If he fell, he hoped she would leave him and go on. She needed to be safe and warm, and he couldn't hold her back.
"I wasn't afraid, you know." She was waiting again. "He took all my money after he spent his at the pub. I didn't realize it was gone until I was packing to leave a few days ago." John heard a lone sheep in the distance. "He said I wasn't going back, I was going to stay and do my duty." John's heart skipped a beat. He was afraid of what she was going to say next. "I didn't say anything." He was relieved. "I waited."
"I'm glad you did."
"I didn't know you'd written until today." Her voice was wavering again. "I knew Edward was…well…like this, but I didn't think he'd steal my letters."
"When I saw the letter I sent you from London hadn't been opened, I sent a new one. It didn't occur to me not to. When you didn't answer, and when you didn't return on time, Mrs. Hughes and I knew something was wrong."
Anna smiled. "I didn't expect you to rescue me."
"Think nothing of it." John smiled. "It has been a pleasure."
They were moving again. Anna was setting a brisk pace. John didn't mind, but he was nervous. "I take it things didn't go well with Vera?"
John nearly tripped. "No, not especially." Ice was forming on the rocks. "Would you mind terribly if we delayed discussing Vera for now? At least until Stanbury? I'm not sure I can manage to both navigate and talk coherently about that at the same time." John's ears were starting to burn from the wind.
"I can wait." She was climbing a small stone stair over a stile. It was exactly the sort of structure John didn't want to navigate in the dark, with ice forming, and nothing to hold to for balance. He'd have to pass the bag to Anna. The other stiles had been lower, and ice-free. "In fact, I-ah!"
Anna disappeared. John heard a thud, and a groan. He hurried. He could barely see. His heart was skipping. Even a short fall could be dangerous, given stones and ice and sheep shit.
"Anna?" He heard rustling. "Are you hurt?" It wasn't snowing, it was icing.
"Bloody steps!" That didn't answer his question. He leaned over the wall. Anna was crumpled at the bottom of the three steps. She whimpered as she tried to right herself. "I…ahhh!…I think my ankle's gone wrong." Her voice was shaking.
John gave no thought to how his body would punish him as he hurried to the stile, sat on it, and swung his legs across. He was afraid, given the conditions, he could fall as well as he tried to help her. He had to help her. He held his cane to her.
"See if you can pull yourself up with this." Anna gasped. "Don't try to stand. Just pull up a little, so you're off the ground, and then I'll get you on to a step and we'll see." She smiled weakly. "I'm sorry, I can't lift you off the ground and carry you to safety, much as I would like to."
"I know." Haltingly she hoisted herself to the lowest step using John's cane. He put his arm around her waist and lifted her to the top of the wall. Her feet dangled. John perched next to her. His touched the ground. He put his arm around her. She was shaking.
"Let's just sit for a bit. It's been too long since we've had a proper dark evening to ourselves." They needed to contemplate how they were going to proceed. Anna leaned against him. She was shivering. "But we'll need to try to move before we get too cold." John felt her nod into his shoulder. Cold and wet as it was, piercing as the wind was, John felt peaceful.
"I'm ready." Anna was pulling away from him.
John stood, and took her hands. "See if you can put weight on your foot." He didn't let go. She winced. They had to keep moving.
"It hurts, but we have to keep moving." Her eyes were enormous. "I'm so cold." Her voice was breaking.
"Let's see how we do." Anna took the bag against her good side, and gave John her hand. He hoped it wasn't much farther. His own leg was making its presence very known. "This isn't so bad." Their steps were halting. It would take hours.
"We're almost there." Warmth, a bed, perhaps even a bath, food, a bed with Anna in it. "I think."
John sighed. Anna was keeping a steady pace. He tried to speed them up. Her hand felt so fragile in his, and her gloves seemed thin. He turned his gaze from the path to her. His cane hit a small ditch, and he lost his balance. He regained it quickly, but Anna didn't. Even as she clung to John's hand, she kept falling forward. John tried to pull her back up, but he couldn't manage to do it and not join her on the ground. John's weight did manage to prevent her from hitting the ground, but her legs buckled as she dangled from his hand.
"John! How could you!" She was sobbing.
"I'm sorry. I turned to see if you were alright, and missed the path." Why were they not there yet?
"I was fine! You didn't need to check. You always do that! You always check and worry, when if something were wrong I'd tell you." The ice turned back to snow. John's ears were burning. "Why did you even come here?" She was trying to pull her hand from his.
John didn't let go of her hand. The wind had died. He needed a drink. A large one. He came because he was concerned. Because he loved her. He could barely feel his fingers. Because he missed her. He could barely feel his toes. Because he knew her brother to be a violent drunk who would try to hurt her, manipulate her, and steal from her. Because their time together had been so sparse of late he relished any opportunity. He was wet. He mustn't lose his temper. Because it was his duty.
"Why did you?" He extended his cane towards her for leverage while he pulled her up by her elbow.
Anna looked ashamed. "Because….because I thought it was my duty." She blinked rapidly. Her voice was quiet. "And don't say you wouldn't have done the same thing, because you would have."
John smiled into the sky. She had a point. "How bad is it now?"
Anna tried to take a step as John held her elbow. She winced. "Worse." She was sobbing again. She turned in his arms, burying her face into his neck. "I'm sorry. I just…and Edward…and he said…and Vera…and the children…." She took a deep breath. "I didn't know you'd written. I almost wish you hadn't."
John sighed. "I know." He pressed her against him as tight as he could. "We need to find a way to get there, otherwise they'll find us in the spring, like lovers in a tawdry novel." She looked up at him, and smiled. "Or a comedy gone horribly wrong." She smiled through her tears. "I have an idea. Let's see how it works."
Anna wrapped her right arm around John's waist and leaned into him. He leaned on his cane, and by using their good legs and bad legs together, they made progress. It was slow, and difficult, and they didn't speak for concentration, and Anna's bag was beating against her leg, but they reached Stanbury. John was almost giddy when he saw the lights of the little inn. No one else was on the streets. He could barely see, but it seemed to be a slightly larger, less depressing village than Haworth.
The heat from the reception area was overwhelming. John was relieved there was no one about but the innkeeper. Her eyes grew as she looked over them. John hatless and wind burned; Anna filthy and clinging to him, both limping and soaked. John smiled and said it was a very long story, but did she have any rooms? The woman looked from John to Anna and back to John. He was sure she was trying to decide what sort of criminals they were. He suspected the dim light hid the worst of it. Anna smiled, faintly, and the woman said indeed, she had one double room left. John felt like a weight had been lifted. Anna slumped against him in relieved laughter. The innkeeper smiled. She'd send up a maid to build up the fire. There was no proper bathroom, but she'd send up the tub and plenty of towels. John signed the register Mr and Mrs John Bates, and hoped Anna didn't take off her gloves. And they had a restaurant, more of a pub really, but weary as they looked, she was sure they wouldn't want to come back down and she'd just send a up a tray. John thought he hadn't been happier since that night Anna had told him she still loved him. Was there a telephone he might use?
They struggled up the stairs to their small, dimly lit room, followed by a parade of maids with trays. Anna collapsed into a chair as a maid made up the fire. She was shivering. John caught her eye, and winked. Servants tended to by servants. Bedwarmers were tucked into the bed. A pile of fluffy towels. A tray of food. Ale. John asked for some tea. He hung his overcoat. He really wasn't all that wet. A bucket of wood. A large man with a large tub, immediately in front of the fire. It would take a while for the bathwater, they were told. They began to eat, perched in armchairs with trays, Anna still in her coat and hat and gloves. She wasn't able to maintain hold of her spoon, swollen as her hands were with cold. John peeled off her gloves, slowly massaging warmth into her hands. He shivered at the first touch. They were swollen, and red, and icy. Her gloves were useless. She would need new ones. He held her hands between his while the maids finished bringing in the bathwater. The maids kept looking at them out the corners of their eyes. John did not want them to see that Anna wasn't wearing a ring. They would not be a topic of conversation any more than they already were. It didn't matter to Anna, but he would not have her talked about. These girls, this village, would look for anything amiss.
Anna ate fast, faster than John had ever seen. She was like an animal, protecting her food. They were alone, blissfully alone, and warming.
"I won't take it from you, I promise." She looked up, then at her plate. It was roasted beef with potatoes and carrots and an apple pudding.
"Oh…I've been eating my own cooking for so long, and I'm really not much of a cook. I'm sorry."
"Don't be. But I think you should slow down. I'm sure she'll send up more if we ask." It was plain, but quite good, and warming. John had hope. He gave Anna his pudding.
"Aren't you going to drink your ale?" It would do her good, and John hated for it to go to waste.
"Oh." Anna looked at it, and blinked. "No." She kept eating.
"Whyever not?" She had had wine and ale with John before. It couldn't be anxiety about his problem.
"Well…I'm afraid that….that I won't be able to stop." She was looking at her hands.
John smiled as his heart sank. "I don't think that will happen." She looked up, her eyes large again. "I think, given what's happened, that if you drink the ale the only thing that will happen is that you will feel warm and sleepy." He looked into the fire, and back at Anna. "I understand your concern about being unable to stop, but believe me when I say you do not have the same tendencies as your brother, and as me."
"You're nothing like him." She wiped her mouth.
John smiled. "In most ways, no, thank God." He put his tray aside. "Now, drink. I need to telephone Mr. Carson."
Anna took a large sip, and sighed. "He'll be worried. But you won't tell him about Edward?" She looked embarrassed.
John suspected he knew. Mrs. Hughes certainly had an idea. "I only plan to tell him we've had a spot of bother, but we're safe, and that he might want to send Mr. Branson to the station tomorrow afternoon if the family doesn't require him." He pulled himself to his feet, using the arms of the chair and his cane. His leg had gone completely stiff. He kissed Anna's head. Of all people, Anna knew he never said more than he needed. "Drink. I'll be right back."
John got down the narrow dark stair by leaning heavily on the banister. The telephone was in a small room between the entrance and the pub, which was full and noisy. Mr. Carson tried to not sound relieved, but John suspected the man was on the verge of sending the police to search for them. When he returned to the room, Anna was standing on one foot, facing the fire, trying to unbutton her blouse. John locked the door.
She turned. "I can't quite get it. My fingers are still too thick." John noticed both glasses were empty.
"Let me help. We need to get you in that tub while the water is still warm." He made his way to Anna, and began to work open the buttons. "These were not made for men's fingers." He was whispering. "I have it so easy with Lord Grantham." Anna giggled. He peeled off her blouse, exposing her white shoulders, arms, and underthings. "Is there a proper order to this? What comes next?"
Anna giggled. "It doesn't matter, really. Though it would with a real lady." John started on the corset. "This is something I've dreamt of for so long now, and I'm too tired to take advantage of it."
John pulled her to him, and kissed her. She tasted of apple and potato and a strong ale. "Good." He rested his forehead on hers. "I wouldn't want to have to pretend to fight you off." They laughed.
John moved to her skirt, and then had her sit with her feet in his lap for her shoes and stockings and underthings. He bent her feet back and forth after removing her shoes. Her right ankle was enormously swollen, and bruised. The stockings and drawers, he peeled slowly down her legs. Her knees were bruised. Anna leaned back in the chair and sighed. She had to stand for the petticoat and corset. She was very unsteady, between the injury and the ale and the exhaustion. John smiled as he unhooked her corset. Anna sighed as John ran his hands down her sides as her body relaxed. She was so small, so pale, so perfect. John unfastened her petticoat let it pool at her feet. He removed her camisole, and saw, as she raised her arms, that her left arm was bruised. The bruises were beginning to fade, and resembled fingers.
"Anna? How did this happen?" Not that he needed to ask.
"Oh." She tilted her head to look. "I was trying to leave once before, and Edward grabbed me." John shut his eyes. He wished he had kicked him harder. With intent. John didn't respond. He helped Anna into the tub. She leaned her head against the edge and sighed. "I never asked after your mother."
John put wood on the fire. "She's stubborn and refuses to admit she might need help." He began picking up Anna's clothes. "She'd like to see you."
"Sounds familiar." John looked over his shoulder and smiled.
John hung Anna's wet things around the room. Luckily she had fresh clothes. He turned down the covers and removed the warming pans from the bed. When he turned back to Anna, she was asleep. He hated to wake her, but he didn't trust himself to lift her from the tub and carry her to bed. He stroked her shoulder. She moved. John whispered, and encouraged her to sit up. He coaxed her up, and helped her to step out of the tub without hurting her ankle further. She slumped against him as John began to rub her dry with the towel. Her nightgown was filthy from the afternoon's events. John wrapped her in a dry towel, and led her to bed. She winced as she limped. He sat behind her on the bed, and swiftly plaited her hair. John wondered if she had her lavender cream. She was asleep as he worked. Her hair needed to be washed, but that wasn't an option. He laid her down and covered her. She was shivering.
John quickly undressed. He contemplated a turn in the tub, but the water had gone tepid, and as much as his leg was shaking he wouldn't be able to get in and out. He washed from the bucket by the fire. It was refreshing. He was looking forward to a proper long soak when they returned to Downton. He hadn't brought a book, and he didn't think he could take many more of those insipid poems. Anna had clean clothes. John had nothing. He would be hatless and unshaven. Even if he had a book, the light would disturb Anna. Better to just get into bed. Mr. Carson would be shocked.
John slid into bed. Never had a bed felt so warm. He didn't think he'd sleep, but he longed to stretch his back, his leg, and close his eyes. He never slept with the window shut, and the room was overly warm. Anna was shivering. She rolled towards him, resting with her head on his shoulder, his arm around her. It was like his dream, but different. Her feet brushed his leg. They were icy. John never slept well covered, but for Anna he burrowed into the covers. She needed his warmth. Her breathing was deep and slow, her mouth slightly open, with the faintest of snores. Laughter and slamming doors downstairs. His eyes were heavy. She needed him. The wind was screaming. A dog. Anna had been hurt. She was naked in his arms. He hadn't been able to keep her safe. He wished someone would bring that dog in. He would never let her go. He saw lights swirling with his eyes closed. The morning would bring so much, if they didn't sleep it away. The darkness was heavy. It was better than his dream.