Without Fear of Consequences

Chapter 1 Sunday*

Anna

The invitation was unprecedented. The Granthams were entertaining in high style in a way they had not done since the spring of 1914 and almost everyone – upstairs and down – was seized with enthusiasm for the project. But it also meant a lot of work. And while organizational matters weighed heavily on the family, it was downstairs who did the heavy lifting, sometimes literally, associated with such an event. They expected little more for their efforts than their usual remuneration and the gracious thanks of their employers who were unfailingly assiduous in gratitude. It was, then, a surprise, a very welcome surprise, to have the Crawleys break with convention and invite the staff to join the family and their guests in the culminating event of the party, the performance by Dame Nellie Melba.

"Even the kitchen staff," Mr. Carson told Mrs. Hughes, unable to keep the note of astonishment from his voice.

"And why not?" she demanded in response. Mrs. Hughes could not but shake her head at the butler's … snobbishness. "Why shouldn't even a member of the kitchen staff appreciate a cultural event as much as a lord or a solicitor?"

Now he was shaking his head. They would never see eye to eye on the matter of class relations. But that was neither here nor there for the moment. The important thing was that they were all to see and hear Dame Nellie Melba.

"She's world-renowned," Mrs. Patmore said in a hushed tone. Mrs. Patmore had never been to so much as a play, but she read the newspapers. And she was delighted to be included in this major event. She seldom got out of the kitchen.

Anna was excited. She'd been having quite a good time this weekend, despite all the extra work. Upstairs house guests came with servants and this mixed things up a little downstairs. Mr. Carson did not have quite the same level of control over newcomers. Lord Gillingham's valet was the liveliest and Anna had enjoyed the banter with him about work and play, and had joined in enthusiastically when he had suggested a game of Racing Demon. You didn't get that every week at Downton. And now they were to hear a world-class opera singer in the very intimate setting of the Downton Abbey Great Hall. It was the opportunity of a lifetime.

It also provided Anna with a glimpse into her husband's soul. When the invitation had been made to downstairs – even Mr. Carson had not been entirely able to conceal his excitement – it was clear to Anna that the prospect moved John in a way she had not seen before. Growing up in London, he had had many more cultural opportunities than were available to working class families in the north. John was no complainer; he did not pine for things he could not have. But Anna could see that the chance to glimpse one of those finer things meant something to him. She was determined to enjoy it with him, as well as for herself.

It was, therefore, a great disappointment to her when the headache that had been lurking in the wings all day expanded into full force just as they sat down for the concert. Anna was tough and had weathered all manner of disagreeableness in her life. But she found it increasingly hard to concentrate on the singing and, indeed, found the high notes particularly aggravating. And it was not, after all, an entertainment that appealed to her. She endured it as long as she could, more for John than anything else, for she could see that she had been right about him. He sat there transfixed. She could have gazed all night at that enraptured countenance. But her headache would not leave her alone.

"I'll come with you," John murmured, always solicitous.

"Don't be silly," she breathed in his ear. "Stay and enjoy yourself." The ease with which he accepted this direction only confirmed her in her perspicacity with regard to her husband's hunger for culture. She descended to the kitchen in search of the headache powders smug in this understanding.

Sir John Bullock

Sir John Bullock had always had access to the finer things in life and most of them bored him. Whenever possible he escaped their clutches that he might indulge those things he actually enjoyed – drink, male camaraderie, women, and gambling. Such distractions often left him short of funds but rarely in ill temper.

He had accepted the invitation to the house party at Downton Abbey certain that one or two of these distractions awaited him there. The Earl of Grantham kept a fine cellar and was known to be discriminating with regard to whiskies as well. Sir John also had an eye on a woman there, though not for the usual purposes. Lady Rose MacClare had taken up residence with her cousins at Downton Abbey and this fact interested Sir John very much. Lady Rose was young, beautiful, and vivacious. Her family was wealthy – they had a fine house in London and an estate somewhere in the Highlands – and her parents were far away, on some diplomatic posting to India. It was rumoured at the Club that Lord Flintshire might be the next viceroy. These were circumstances that appealed to Sir John, who sought a comfortable sinecure in his accustomed social circles and the financial means to engage in his favourite pasttimes. Lady Rose had the advantages of personal attraction and parents out of the picture.

And Lady Rose was appealing and Sir John had every intention of paying her court at Downton. But then he was distracted by an unexpected temptation. Among the assembled guests was a Mr. Terrence Sampson, a man whose social origins were obscure but whose reputation in gambling circles was well known. A table for cards was set up the very first night and Sir John abandoned his desultory pursuit of Lady Rose for the greater immediate gratification of the game. After all, there were many young women in the world. He lost badly that night, and the next night, too. Well, he often did, but surely his luck would change some time. The odds were with him. And he wasn't the only one to fall before Sampson's skill. Tony Gillingham found his pocketbook that much lighter and chose not to return for a second round. Lord Grantham took a beating the second night. And the obscure journalist named Gregson – Sir John couldn't imagine how the man had inveigled his way into the family's social circle - went down so badly that night that it was almost possible to believe he was losing on purpose.

A third night at cards was not, perhaps, in Sir John's best interests. Had there been a more enticing diversion offered for the last night of the house party, he might have mustered the wherewithal to decline yet another round. But the Granthams had arranged for a cultural event as a culmination of the weekend, inviting a famous opera singer to entertain them all. Nothing could have deterred Sir John more. He reviled opera. The prospect of having to sit through two hours of a soprano screeching selected pieces that did not even have the façade of the opera story to give the Italian and German words meaning appalled him. Fortunately, Mr. Sampson had made other arrangements and, along with that dupe Gregson, Sir John slipped off to the library where the grating singing was only a dim echo.

He began the evening in high hopes, only to be quickly disappointed. Lady Luck did not shine on him and he continued to lose. It was a while before he realized that the fortunes of the table had shifted, however, and now Mr. Gregson, who had been bled almost dry the previous evening, was sweeping the night.

Sir John was irked. Why could not he have been so blessed by Fortune? Had not the drink in which he was heavily indulging clouded his mind, he might have understood that a contest was emerging between Sampson and Gregson and that it was moving very quickly to a cutthroat level. In such circumstances, a man of more discernment and less arrogant pride might have cut his losses and bowed out quietly. But Sir John was not that perceptive, even when sober, and this led to a more discomfiting moment still.

"Why don't you sit out a few, old chap. Let Sampson and I go a few rounds of high stakes." Gregson's tone was genial, his manner affable, but there was no way to say what he was saying without the implication of insult. Gregson thought him an amateur, not in their league. Perhaps that he was in over his head. Well, he was in over his head, and certainly over his income, but that was none of Gregson's business. Condescension on this order might have provoked a duel in past centuries. Sir John had the wherewithal not to utter such a hollow challenge, but a bitter retort was bubbling up to his lips when Sampson chimed in.

"You've got nothing left," the card sharp said harshly, "and this is about to get serious."

Sampson's gaze was on Gregson, a cool, calculating appraisal. He was clearing the field of distractions rather than dismissing Sir John per se. Sir John had played with such men before. They seldom had scruples about pushing a man well beyond his limit. But it was hard not to take this personally. This invitation to withdraw stung. And though he complied with affected good grace – because both men had made their desires clear – inside Sir John seethed.

It took all his concentration to maintain physical equilibrium as he rose from his seat and left the library. Once in the passage, which was empty, he relaxed into inebriation and staggered along, bouncing off the walls, first on one side, then the other, aimless in his direction. He had never been to Downton before and was not familiar enough with its layout to find his way. The one thing he knew was that he did not want to end up in the great hall where that caterwauling continued. In an effort to escape it, he lunged through the first door he came upon and found himself in a stairwell, the servants' stairs. His room, he was vaguely aware, was upstairs. But going down was easier. And he always took the easy way. Perhaps he would find there some other lonely refugee from the dreadful entertainment who could help him to his room, or, perhaps, find him a couch on which he might collapse for a few hours.

Descending stairs was a challenge, but he managed it without falling. The passage at the bottom was dimly lit, perhaps to economize on electricity. But there was a bright patch down at the end. He made for it. It was mercifully quiet here, the upstairs entertainment unable to penetrate the thick foundations that separated the floors. It was quiet, but not silent. As dull as his senses were, he heard movement. There was someone.

The lit room, he discovered, was the kitchen and in the kitchen was a woman. She was rummaging in a cupboard as he staggered up, the sound of bottles clinking disguising his approach. Even from the back, he knew he did not know her. Well, she was one of the servants. Finding the packet she wanted, she turned to the sink and then jumped at the sight of him.

"Sir John! You startled me." She smiled to let him know that she had recovered.

He took no notice of the fact that she knew who he was. That was only how things should be. He did notice her smile. She wasn't the prettiest thing he' ever seen, but that didn't matter. He steadied himself on the door frame.

"Why aren't you are the concert?" he asked, taking care to enunciate clearly.

"Headache," she replied, holding up the medicinal packet.

"Dreadful entertainment," he said.

She poured the powder into a glass of water and stirred. "I didn't care much for it," she said, as though they were having a conversation. As though a pair like them could ever have a conversation. "I've never heard anything like it before. But this headache's been building for days."

He didn't know what it was that gave him the impulse. Was it her inviting smile? Her …familiarity? She seemed at ease, too comfortable, not quite deferential with her betters. Perhaps that grated. But it might have had nothing to do with her at all. His own circumstances were enough – the great losses at the table, the contempt of his fellow players…. His fellow players. Neither one of them a gentleman and yet they had had the nerve to….

He pushed himself off the doorframe and crossed the room to her, moving more steadily than he had since leaving the library. Purpose gave him equilibrium. He had failed at cards, taken a financial loss he could not afford, and been humbled by two men who were not fit to associate with him socially. Well, there were other ways to assert one's pre-eminence in the world, to exert one's manhood, and to best social inferiors.

"Come on," he commanded, grabbing her arm. He had no idea of taking her to his room, but no matter. He'd passed a few appropriate nooks on his passage to the kitchen. And it wouldn't be the first time he'd made it in an unlikely spot.

"What?" He had startled her again. "Let go of me. Please."

Please. He jerked her along. The glass she held in her other hand was jarred from her grip and fell to the stone floor, shattering there.

She resisted, physically and vocally. Both annoyed him. There she was, down here alone, almost inviting him, and now she didn't want it? He slapped her, hard, once, twice, to shut her up, though she only shrieked in pain. And then, perhaps in fear, she began to fight, making almost as much noise and at the same grating pitch as that witch upstairs. That angered him more.

Sir John Bullock was a man in the prime of his life and, though given to excesses of food and drink, he radiated the physical strength of a man his age. She might struggle all she liked, but she was no match for him, even in his state. He was too big, her blows glanced off him, and his blows felled her. Her clothes gave him more trouble, but he was equal to well-sewn buttons and seams. He was not aware of the irony that it took him longer to tear her clothes off than to perform the act itself. But that didn't matter. The satisfaction here was in the execution of the act, the conquest of the object., not mere physical pleasure. He had revitalized his manhood, soothed his wounded sense of self. That was all that matter. All that mattered.

The inebriation that had seemed to fade before the driving determination to dominate and conquer her returned as he spent himself and it was with no little fumbling that he climbed off of her – scraping his knees on the stone floor – and righting his clothing. She ceased to exist the moment he withdrew from her and he was oblivious to the moans and whimpers emanating from her as gained the passage. He stumbled off, seeking the stairs, in search of his room. A good lie-down. That's what he needed now.

Mr. Green

Alex Green rather enjoyed his position as Lord Gillingham's valet. The work itself was pedestrian and he did wonder about men who required the assistance of other men to get dressed. But it wasn't onerous work, it took him to interesting places where he met interesting people, and it paid him enough to seek his own pleasures on his own time and to put a bit by as well. He wasn't going to do this all of his life. And Lord Gillingham was a pleasant enough chap, as far as that sort went.

This weekend sojourn to Downton Abbey had been one of those pleasant diversions. There was a bit of flurry with frequent clothing changes for different activities, but there had also been a lot free time, too, when he'd been able to engage in one of his favourite pasttimes – flirting with some of the downstairs women. He rather thought the small woman with the sharp features who was Lady Grantham's maid was going out of her way to flirt with him, but he wasn't interested. The more attractive woman was the sparkling blond who was always smiling and who had countered all of his boldness with saucy comebacks of her own. She was married, he had soon learned, to that humourless cripple of a valet. But that neither dimmed her spirit nor put Green off. He could tell that she was just the friendly sort and was enjoying the novelty of guests and that it meant nothing more. He was fine with that. They had a ripping time playing Racing Demon and he very nearly won.

The only down side of the weekend was the last part. He had been looking forward to a lively evening downstairs while the upstairs lot were closeted in the hall, immersed in one of those events of high culture that he was certain bored the pants off most of them. One of the footmen, he understood, was a piano player who could make that old stand-up instrument in the corner jump. They might be able to raise their own choruses to rival the performance of the world-famous opera singer upstairs. He had a good voice and enjoyed singing.

But, no. The Granthams, it turned out, believed in foisting high culture on their staff, and had invited them all to attend. There was unexpected enthusiasm downstairs for this and Green found it difficult to beg off or to find someone to play truant with him. So he went. And it was every bit as bad as he'd anticipated. Fingernails on a chalkboard could not grate more. He longed to slip away and was plotting his strategy when his downstairs friend, Mrs. Bates, slipped out. Something must be amiss, for, observing her, he had thought she enjoyed the first few pieces. She did not look troubled and her husband did not leave with her. Not that Green really cared. What was important was that she had set a precedent. It was possible to slip out. He quickly followed her example.

The moment he stepped out into the hall, he felt free. And he decided to take the opportunity for an unauthorized tour. He was a valet. He saw downstairs and the attics and spent a lot of time on the stairs. But his acquaintance with the rest of the place was limited to what he glimpsed on his way to and from Lord Gillingham's room and always in a hurry. He wanted to see how the other half lived, not so much to admire the art on the walls as to wonder at the cost of it all. And it was not like he was plotting ill deeds. He wouldn't go into any rooms with closed doors. But there was nothing preventing him from standing in doorways and getting a good look around. Grinning, he slipped through the green baize door to the servants' staircase and … found himself face to face with Sir John Bullock.

To say the man was standing on the landing there was too much of an exaggeration. Rather, he was clinging to a newel post to hold himself upright. This bearing alone gave Green cause for alarm. Had the man had an attack of some sort? Rushing to his side to offer assistance, Green noticed other dissonant notes. The man's clothing was in disarray, his shirt untucked, his cravat askew. He had a scratch on his cheek and the right knee of his finely-tailored trousers was ripped. His trouser buttons were undone. And then he exhaled into Green's face and the valet was almost overcome by the potency of the fumes. Well, what was a game of cards without a few drinks?

"Give me a hand!" Sir John ordered crossly, oblivious to the fact that Green had already put a supporting arm around his back and taken some of his weight. "Get me to my room."

Sir John was not Green's gentleman, but he could not decline to serve. Sir John didn't have his own valet. Couldn't afford one, Green thought waspishly, not with his losses at the table. Clearly he could have used a man, though, for it was unlikely this was the first time he had come to grief. It was a struggle to get up the stairs, as the man was of little help.

"Did you fall, sir?" Green asked politely, wondering as he spoke why Sir John was in the servants' staircase at all. He was the sort who didn't consort with the lower orders.

"No," Sir John replied, managing to slur even that single word. A lop-sided grin slid across his slack face. "I had a little romp."

Mrs. Hughes

Mrs. Hughes had applauded 'til her hands smarted. She hadn't much exposure to opera – well, none, really – and she wasn't entirely sure how much she liked it. But she could appreciate the quality of the performance. Any art form or sport could be made appealing by the genius of a gifted performer or player. Some people's talent transcended their form. Dame Nellie Melba was one of those people. And she, Elsie Hughes, a housekeeper, had been privileged to see and hear this great artist at work. She knew she would never forget this night. As she descended the servants' stairs and headed for her office, she was trying to decide whether she liked the German or the Italian pieces better. Likely the Italian. It was a more attractive language.

She was torn from these pleasant reveries by the unexpected presence of Anna in her office and the alarming state she was in. Mrs. Hughes heard her seconds before she saw her, a whimper that chilled her blood preceding the cowering presence of Anna there, in the dark corner, rising quivering to her feet.

"What?"

And Anna, in the grip of several layers of terror, begged her to close the office door and to help. Without conscious thought, Mrs. Hughes accomplished the former and then turned to begin to digest the horror of Anna's tale.

The crime was not physically self-evident, not until Anna stepped into the pale light of the desk-top lamp and Mrs. Hughes saw the mayhem of her dress. It was almost as though Anna had put it on back to front, but there were also rips, violent rips in the fabric that could never have been made by catching a fragment on a nail. But Mrs. Hughes came fully to understanding of what had happened when she looked into Anna's eyes, for there it was laid bare. Mrs. Hughes had learned to meet adversity with imperturbability, not least because she was usually the one who had to clean up the messes and hysteria wasn't very helpful in such circumstances. But this sight wrenched her from her dispassion.

"What is it? What's happened to you?"

"Ssshhhhhh!"

Mrs. Hughes almost looked over her shoulder, wondering from whom she must keep silent. But the demand was so insistent, so raw that she only nodded vigorously. Yes! Of course! "Anna! What…."

"Help me!" Anna said again.

"Any way I can," Mrs. Hughes responded, reaching out, not sure what to do.

"Find me a dress!"

"Of course, but …"

"Find me a dress so that I can change and look … all right again." Though in a state of near-hysteria, she yet could be exasperated with Mrs. Hughes. "You can't tell anyone! Just get me something to wear and…."

Mrs. Hughes felt as though she was swimming through a fog. She heard Anna, but almost distantly. Her brain was whirring on its own track. "I think the doctor is still upstairs. And we'll have to call the constable…."

"You aren't listening to me!" Anna raged. "Don't tell anyone. Not the doctor! Not the constable! And not…"

"But Mr. Bates," Mrs. Hughes pleaded.

"No! No! Especially not Mr. Bates!" Tears had begun to stream down Anna's face again.

Mrs. Hughes hesitated. "But…he can't not know, Anna. You can't keep such a thing from him."

But Anna had lunged forward, grabbed her arm, almost in apoplexy at the thought. "Mr. Bates must never know. He will kill him! He will kill him and then he will hang, Mrs. Hughes! I don't want …. He must not…." She turned her pleading eyes on the other woman.

Mrs. Hughes gathered herself. Whatever the question of Mr. Bates, she must focus here in this moment on Anna. "Yes, of course. I won't say a thing." She took a deep breath. "I'll find you a dress. And … and something to wash up with." And she left to do precisely that, closing the door carefully behind her. She fetched a dress she knew to be hanging in the laundry and brought along, too, some wet cloths and a towel that Anna might clean herself up, though there was no scrubbing away the bruises, nor the wounds that lay beneath. She moved as in a dream – a nightmare – among the lingering revelers still basking in the glow of the performance, and prayed God she would not encounter Mr. Bates. He was likely upstairs attending to His Lordship, upstairs where Anna should now be, awaiting Lady Mary. Well, she would have to wait.

The housekeeper watched in dumb horror as Anna wiped herself off and set herself to rights as best she could, and in those few moments a semblance of calm returned to her.

"Anna, what happened?" It was clear enough what had happened, but she needed more details.

Anna understood. She swallowed hard. "I had a headache and came down to fetch some paracetomol," she said hollowly, still hovering in the shadows. "I told Mr. Bates to stay and listen to the music." Her voice caught at this and Mrs. Hughes understood. That one casual decision might reverberate so powerfully across time and space. You could never know. What if Mr. Bates had insisted and come downstairs with his wife?

"And … and…."

"He was waiting down here?" Mrs. Hughes kept her tone even.

"No. He … I was here first. He … I don't know … I don't think he followed me. He just…."

"Who was it?" Mrs. Hughes didn't want to make a guess.

Anna stared at her, distraught, pleadingly, and Mrs. Hughes shifted very uncomfortably. Someone, some man under Downton's roof, guest or resident, upstairs or down, had perpetrated this violent act. In a way, she didn't really want to know who. It … it could be anyone. "Who?" she repeated.

"Sir John Bullock." Anna barely whispered the name.

Mrs. Hughes was struck with two overwhelming waves of feeling at the same time. There was relief. A stranger. A guest. Not one of the several men with whom she and Anna had long associated at Downton Abbey.

But there was also a crest of something like foreboding. There was no preferable candidate for such a crime, but some were more problematic than others. Mrs. Hughes's gaze had gone out of focus at the name, but now she rallied and looked into Anna's eyes once more. She saw there a reflection of her own dismay. Sir John Bullock. They both knew what that meant.

Anna

She had almost come apart in those several minutes in Mrs. Hughes's office. Having to say, having to talk about it. But the exchange also helped galvanize her for what came next. She could tell Mrs. Hughes. But she could not tell John. Not now. Not ever. She knew him. She knew how he thought about her. Although she had taken care of herself all of her life and never courted a man's protective arm, she knew that for John keeping her safe was part of who he saw himself as as a husband.

But there was more than that, too. He loved her. He loved her more than his own life and it would be grief, even more than the anger of which he was fully capable, that would drive him to an extreme response. He would seek out Sir John Bullock this very minute and kill him with his bare hands! And then … and then they would be plunged again into the hell they had endured for the almost two years it had taken them to surmount Vera's insidious revenge. And she would lose the person whom she loved more than anyone or anything else ever.

She could not bear it. So she must bear something that was almost as great. She must face the worst trauma of her life alone and, more, she must bar from any awareness of it the one person with whom she shared everything. And she could not do this without hurting him. For she would not be able to disguise her wounds, so she must lie, and hold him at arm's length. And though she could hardly bear to contain her own grief and anguish and pain, they were in an odd way the very things that also gave her strength to step out into the corridor and not into his embrace.

And to lie. I must have fainted.

And to put him off. I just feel like walking on my own, that's all.

And to hurt him. She had walked off into the night without him, walking fast so that he could not catch up with her, tears streaming down her face in the darkness.

* Author's Note 1. In all of Downton Abbey, the plot line that troubled me the most was the one introduced by Mr Fellowes in Season 4, Episode 3 where Anna is raped. So many aspects of this plot, and its subsequent endless twists to a flat denouement, reflected poor imagination and poor writing. If he insisted on taking this tack, I thought Mr Fellowes might have done a better job of it. I have offered different options in other stories: Cornering a Killer, No More Secrets, and An Original Ploy. These have all taken different approaches. I offer this story as a final venture with regard to this plot, departing from canon on a critical element and then seeing where that goes.