Chapter 45

John was struggling with the letter. He knew he shouldn't hurry. Haste would show. Anna had told him that if Vera wouldn't cooperate, it would be alright. He wanted it gone with the morning post. Anna had said that they had far more than she had ever thought possible, and he knew they had more than he had ever had with Vera. That was a week ago, before they left for London. John wasn't entirely sure he believed Anna, and he had long since decided they both deserved a proper life together.

It was starting to snow. Usually late spring snow was depressing, crushing the flowers and disappearing quickly into mud, but John didn't mind as much as he would have previously. He had to rid himself of Vera. Anna had often repeated her words, her suggestion, of just loving and being loved in return. She maintained that while it was sometimes frustrating, they needed to be thankful for what they had. John's window at Grantham House didn't show much other than sky and the neighboring roofs. He would rid himself of Vera. His life had aspects now that never would have been possible with Vera. He was about half-way through the letter. His life had things Vera could never understand. He was stuck at the point where he told her that their marriage had been over for years. She knew it was over; she had ended it. He rubbed his hand through his clean hair. So long as they remained married on paper she was able to extort a hold over his life.

The snow was falling heavily now. He had awakened earlier than usual, and knew if he was going to write Vera while they were in town, this was his best chance. John was a fitful sleeper at best, and the strange room and bed and schedule made sleep even more elusive. The flakes were caught in the streetlamps. Sentimental as it was, John had never felt as refreshed as he had felt when he woke with Anna that ever more distant morning. There had been only rest, only sharing of warmth, no struggle for dominance, no demand for satisfaction. It was sentimental, but in the quiet of the still hours, John didn't mind. He had found peace in protecting the one person he valued above all. A week after Anna had finished the doll, John and Anna took their half-day to deliver her to Hetty. John was thankful for what they had, but he wanted, he needed, so much more.

They had been in London for two weeks, and John wasn't certain how much longer their stay would be. A summons had arrived from the War Office, and Lord Grantham was certain it was to inform him he would be returning to active duty. John had held his tongue. They may not be old men, but they were too old for this war. At first just the two of them were going, and staying at the club, but Lady Grantham had decided she and the girls would benefit from a change of scenery. London in the off-season was better than a frozen Yorkshire. He tapped his pen on the table. The business with the War Office hadn't amounted to anything. He wished they'd stop toying with Lord Grantham.

John and Anna had arrived at the McGibbons' in the early afternoon. The weather had been fairly mild, and they had walked to the McGibbons' farm from Ripon in relative silence. John could feel Anna's tension. He had wanted to tell her that Hetty would remember, would still love her, tell her whatever it was that was worrying her would be alright. He hadn't. He didn't know enough about small children to be confident. As they rounded the corner into the farm lane, a very small girl with very blond hair came running at them. That was an aspect of children that had always made John nervous: their tendency to run without discretion. She ignored him, throwing herself at Anna. Anna had introduced Hetty to her friend Mister Bates, and Hetty had grown shy, burying her face in Anna's neck and sucking her fingers. John hadn't expected much better. Anna had whispered to her as they walked to the house, and she warmed up, especially as they passed the barn. Her words were fast and imprecise, and John had had to work to make out what the girl was saying, but Anna seemed to understand. They had stopped to see the animals in the barn. She seemed to glow. The doll was produced after they had reached the house. Hetty's eyes were like saucers when she saw her, deep blue saucers. She clutched her for the rest of their visit, even while having her tea and cake, while sitting on Anna's lap. Mr. McGibbon had chuckled, and promised to read them both a story from Hetty's new book at bedtime. The parlor had a sizeable amount of picture books and toys. He had smiled at Anna over Hetty's head, and saw her relax.

John was strangely cold. His bed was warm, but he hadn't been able to get comfortable. Anna had told him that she was happy, that while she did want him for her own, she had far more joy than she had ever expected in her life. She would accept it for what it was. John couldn't. In the early days it was possible, but no longer. He was right about the McGibbons: they were about his age. They had moved to Yorkshire from Lanarkshire. Mr. McGibbon played fiddle, and their farm was one of the more prosperous in greater Ripon. No one had asked about John's presence there with Anna. John was impressed by how Anna managed to drink her tea with the girl wrapped around her neck. It seemed the most natural thing to her. Hetty had said nothing to John the entire visit, until it was nearly time to leave. She had loosened her grip on Anna long enough to reach into the pocket of her pinafore, and handed him a ribbon, before re-attaching herself to Anna's neck and resuming sucking her fingers, starring at him over Anna's shoulder. John had thanked her, and placed it carefully in his wallet. Mrs. McGibbon had told him it was her favorite. John remembered being struck by how like Anna Hetty was. So small, so pale, so sensitive and kind.

John had it now, marking his place in The Beasts of Tarzan. He was a little embarrassed to be seen with Burroughs in hand, but it was so readable. The ribbon was pale purple, and frayed at the ends. He touched the bit sticking out from the book. It was delicate, and silky. He had felt it in his pocket as he and Anna walked back to Ripon. They had delayed leaving as long as possible, and John knew it was going to be difficult for Anna. She had hugged Hetty and promised to come again. The girl was half asleep by then, and John had hoped she'd stay that way, but when she and her doll were passed to Mrs. McGibbon she woke up and her large eyes overflowed as she saw Anna slipping into her coat. John had thought it would have been less disturbing if Hetty had some sort of sound while she cried, not these mournful silent tears and the look of heartbreak. Anna had gone to her, had tried to embrace her, but the child had turned her back and clung to her foster mother, who both shushed Hetty and reassured Anna that with such a wee lassie, so young, who had been through so much…well…it would be best if she and Mr. Bates just left. Hetty would be alright. They loved her so. They had left.

Halfway to Ripon John had realized the true purpose of his presence that afternoon. Anna hadn't said anything after they left the house.

"I am glad she's with people who love her." They would need to hurry to make the bus back to Downton. Anna didn't respond. She was clutching her handbag tightly. John looked closely. She was blinking fast.

"Anna." He stopped walking. "There was no other choice." John hadn't been sure what to expect, but he was glad he had joined her. The girl's soundless tears had been heartbreaking.

Anna sniffed. "I know. I just…." She collapsed against him. "I didn't…and she…" She took a breath. "Everyone has left her. Even me. That's what she'll remember. Being left."

John took Anna into his arms. She shook as she tried to suppress her tears. "She's very young. She'll remember that you loved her, and that you made her a doll and that you came to see her." Anna sniffed into his coat. It was getting dark. "She'll thank you for giving her the best chance at love and happiness she was likely to have."

"I know." Anna pulled away. "I just…I just didn't think it would be so hard." Neither had John. As he pulled his handkerchief from his pocket for Anna, the ribbon came with it. He had tucked it away, and now, as he saw it sticking from the pages of his book, he realized he too had fallen in love with Hetty. She had a charm, an innocence, that John wanted to protect and indulge.

Such an understanding was beyond Vera. Vera was only capable of self-gratification, and her understanding was solely self-serving. John began to write again. He had never considered their lack of children as anything other than a blessing, and he still did, considering their relation. Luckily no one would suffer during the legal proceedings. He was willing to take the blame if Vera wished to divorce him on some sort of fertility basis, but he knew it was her. Considering all the men she'd been with in the last twenty years, and never a hint of a problem, of a potentially difficult situation, it had to be her. John stopped writing. He wondered what he would have had done if Vera had had another man's child. He wanted to think he wouldn't have accepted it, but if her lover had abandoned her, as they all did, he knew he would have. Vera, in all likelihood, knew he would as well.

His pen wasn't working quite right. John was particular about his writing implements. He tapped it on the table. Ink splurted out, staining his dressing gown. He swore. This letter would never be finished. He only wore the blasted thing on these trips to London or going to and from the facilities in the night. Something about London made him feel just the sweater and his undershorts weren't quite right. He took it off, and found his pitcher had no water. Damn Vera. Now he would have to walk down the cold hall in just his undershirt to bathroom. He threw it on the floor. Of course, he'd have to do that in the morning if he soaked it all night in cold water. He pulled on his emergency pajama pants and slippers and trudged down the hall. He'd never manage a pitcher of water and his cane, so the robe went with him. Stains required prompt attention.

William's light was on. John had tried to talk to him again about war, but it hadn't gone well. William had snapped at him that he already had a father, he didn't need another and had left John standing in the courtyard. John hadn't meant to come across that way, he had meant to simply have a conversation about war. Mrs. Hughes had apparently heard their exchange, and she had smiled at John, sadly. Nothing was ever simple. Indeed not. The servants' bathroom was a dank place. He turned on the cold tap and filled the sink.

Anna was thoughtful on the ride back to Downton. The bus hadn't been crowded, and John had been relieved in case Anna had another outburst. He knew she wouldn't like people staring if she did. She sat quietly for a mile or so, fiddling with her handbag. John watched out the window as they left Ripon. "I don't know what it is about Hetty." John turned to her. "I've never had much use for children. They always seem to be dirty and underfoot, and they make a mess and break things and are noisy." Anna turned to look out the window. "I suppose Hetty isn't that different from other children, but…"

"I suspect, given proper nurturing and attention, Hetty will soon be on her way to being a noisy, dirty, unpredictable demon."

That got a smile from Anna. "She barely spoke when I got there." She meant her brother's farm, not the McGibbon's. "Her mother, well, Molly was never much of a mother. She was always pregnant or drunk or looking after Andrew so the children were left to themselves." Sheep were in the road. They would be late. "I think I was the first person to say more to the child than get out of the way. And she was never in the way, she was always good." One of the sheep was baaing at the driver, who was sounding the horn. "She wanted to help me when I arrived. She followed me, and she climbed in my bed one night." The driver left the bus. "Andrew told me that she didn't need to be beaten as much as the others. I told him that no child required beating."

"Did he?..." John wasn't sure he wanted to know.

"Not while I was there he didn't." John smiled. He slid his arm around her waist.

"Andrew was out most of the time, and the older children as well, so Hetty was my constant companion." John watched as Anna smiled out the window at the mess of sheep. "She found her tongue when left alone. And she remembered everything I told her." John tightened his hold on Anna. "She didn't care about fairy stories, but she wanted to know about animals." John smiled. "We practiced the animal sounds she knew. It wasn't as silly as it should have been, but I had to make up a sound for a rabbit. And my pig was rusty." Anna giggled. "I found things around the cottage she could help me with, and she did better than I had expected." John sighed. It hadn't taken Anna long at all to fall in love with the child. "I fixed her hair and her dress….she only had one…and showed her how to sit and sip her tea like a young lady. I'm not sure why. I knew she'd never have much, but it seemed….I don't know. I can't remember who showed me those things." She leaned her head on John's shoulder. "It certainly wasn't my mother." The sheep were parting. "It was an amazing thing. As I watched, Hetty turned into a small person. I was only being kind. I wasn't going to get attached to her. I've never cared for children, but now…"

The bus had started moving again at that point. John's dressing gown was now sopping wet. As he wrung it out he nearly flooded the bathroom. He swore.

"Mr. McGibbon reminded me of my father." Anna never talked about her father. "When we were small, he said he wanted to teach us both what we would need in life. Andrew learned about farming, and management, and he had extra lessons in math. Our parents hoped that he would be able to expand the farm." John saw her smile, ruefully, in the window. "Mother wouldn't make him finish his work, and would give him treats when she thought dad wasn't watching."

"Did he know?"

"I'm not sure. I was so young, and even though mother would try to start fights, dad insisted they not argue in front of me. I heard them sometimes at night though." Anna began to rummage in her handbag. "Dad taught me to read before I started school, and would take me out with him at night, wrapped up, to look at the moon and stars. Sometimes, when he went to town, he'd bring me something back." She removed a tin of peppermints from her bag and took two. John took one. "I heard them talking about that once." Talking was emphasized in a way to suggest it was fairly heated. "She said he was filling my head with nonsense. He said he was showing me possibilities."

"He saw possibilities." The were approaching the Downton village stop.

"Sometimes I wonder what my life would have been like if he hadn't died." John shifted in his seat. If her father hadn't died, Anna's life would have been so much easier. Even if she hadn't become a teacher, she would have married a respectable farmer. Or someone worse than her brother. If her father hadn't died, John never would have met Anna. "But packing me off into service was the best thing my mother ever did for me." Anna looked at John. Her eyes were so deep and so blue and so like Hetty's. John knew he was a selfish creature, and thanked heaven for Mr. Smith's death.

John threw a towel over the puddle on the bathroom floor. It was the best he could do: proper mopping of it would demand he get on his hands and knees and the puddle wasn't close enough to anything solid he could use as leverage. He could use his cane as a sort of mop. John was pleasantly surprised by how well it worked. He did hate to make work for the others, especially when it was due to his own clumsiness. He returned to his room.

The sky was lightening. The snow had turned to rain. Large, heavy slow-moving drops. John's leg ached just thinking about it. He groaned, and spread the wet robe on the clothes horse near the fire. The fire was nearly out. John poked it, and sat back down at the table. He just had time to finish the letter. In his hurry to prevent the ink stain from setting, John had left his pen uncapped on the letter to Vera. It was a sodden unreadable mess, and the ink had bled to the table. John swore. The paper was beginning to distingrate. He swore loudly. Damn Vera.