That night Anna sat up late, with the light burning low, trying to write her note to John.

The truth was, she didn't know what to say.

Everything she had thought about him early in their friendship, everything she had wanted, had been so transient, so beyond words, that trying to pin it down now was difficult. She'd never discussed those feelings with anyone, and would have sooner died than admitted them to anyone else, she was so afraid that she had been wrong. It had been difficult enough explaining to Mr Carson that they were married when he was arrested and taken away.

What had she wanted?

Anna thought back to the first time she had met Mr Bates. She'd come downstairs with Miss O'Brien to find him standing in the corridor, having come to investigate why nobody answered the door. And what had she thought?

That he looked kindly and friendly. Obviously a hard worker. Someone who would never complain about his lot or workload. His consistent refrain of 'I can manage' had assured her of that. It made such a nice contrast to Thomas and O'Brien's constant whinging.

He'd looked... well... tall. And well built. But most people were next to her. He was dark haired and with nice eyes that looked straight at you, rather than past you. She had liked his voice, with that vague Celtic lilt, and how it was always steady and calming, reassuring. He was a mature man, one of the first of that sort she had met, if she were honest with herself. He wasn't young and foolish like William or Thomas, but not older in the same way as Mr Carson, who she'd always viewed as a father figure.

But these, while nice to think about, were not the source of her passion.

So what had she wanted? When had she first felt that thrill of illicit longing for him?

She remembered a day when the staff had gone into the village to buy trinkets from a travelling salesman. She had remained behind, short on both money and time, with a task list to be completed as long as her arm. She'd resigned herself to a lonely afternoon.

And then he'd appeared, with his own work to do. And when she'd explained where everyone had gone, he'd said...

'Alone at last.'

Even remembering the words Anna shivered. Yes that was it. The idea of being alone with him, the idea that he'd wanted to be alone with her, that he'd thought about it and was pleased about it.

Alone at last.

Feeling the sharp intake of breath fill her lungs and her stomach clench with desire, Anna began to write...

Climbing the stairs after breakfast to go back to his room, John felt as though Anna's note was burning a hole in his pocket. He had been bold asking her to join in with the notes, to write her own, and was overjoyed that he hadn't offended or shocked her. Her wicked smile this morning confirmed otherwise.

He had known in the early days of their friendship that Anna liked him. He had tried to deny it to himself, to brush it off as a silly crush or the novelty of being the new person in the house, but try as he might he couldn't shake the feeling that he was important to her. Now, in hindsight and with the safety of distance, he longed to know how important. He almost tore the note in half in his eagerness to open it.

My dear John

This was more difficult to write than I thought. I'm nowhere near as well spoken or well read as you. But you asked me, and I can't deny you anything either so here it is.

I knew I liked you the instant that you arrived at Downton, for all the reasons that anyone cherishes in a friend. But the first time I knew I liked you more was in the servants hall, one day when I was cleaning some shoes and you brought your mending work to join me. You commented that we were 'alone at last'.

The moment didn't last long, because that dreadful man arrived to see Mr Carson, the other 'Cheerful Charlie'. But the idea of being 'alone at last' with you is still powerful for me.

When you said it, when you looked at me, I felt for the first time that you saw me as more than just one of the maids. I felt that you could really see me, and for the first time, I saw you. That night, when I was trying to sleep, I wondered what it would be like to really be alone with you, away from everyone else. Whether you would speak to me, tell me of your feelings. Whether you would reach for me, or kiss me. And in that night, wondering to myself, I found that I wanted you. Since then, I have always wanted you, with all of my soul.

I wanted your hand, to hold. To have you kiss me. To know what you tasted like, what your scent was like. I wanted to know how it felt to be in your arms, to hold you in mine. I didn't know then that there was more to want that I could desire, I was so naive. I still want all of those things now, but now I know to want more.

But as you said, that's a story for another note.

Your own,

A Bates

He remembered that day.

It had been the source of their first shared joke, the calming of Mr Carson's nerves. And he remembered the comment he'd made to her. 'Alone at last'. He had berated himself for it at the time, worried that he had upset her, or made her feel threatened. In his haste to get away from the idea, he'd stumbled through an insulting conversation about how she was 'supposed' to be head housemaid. Lucky for him she had taken it with a pinch of humour.

The truth was, he had longed to be alone with her, to exchange more than just a few words. To know this graceful, hardworking woman better, and enjoy her sharp wit and merry tongue, and her beauty, if he was honest. She was so lovely to look at, and he was only a man, after all.

The idea that the same moment had been so important to her was restorative, to know that they had shared the same values and dreams in secret, since the very beginning. It gave him further hope that their time apart in prison, and now in separate rooms, would not have damaged their relationship or their intimacy.

Bates took stock of his paper and resolved to go down to the village and buy more later today. After he had written and delivered his reply.