Chapter 2 Monday

The trauma of the previous night met a muted response the next morning, but the currents of discord were there.

Anna

Anna was exhausted. She had not slept a wink. How could she? When not fending off the waves of harrowing memory of the incident itself, she was acutely aware of the man beside her and all of the ramifications for the assault on their relationship. The terror that had seized her first was that John would find out and that that would be the end of him. He would not be restrained. He would find and kill Sir John Bullock. The nobleness of his character, even more than the volatility of his temperament, would assure that. And then he himself would die at the end of a hangman's noose. There could be no other outcome. Avenging a woman's honour did not mitigate murder.

But as the night wore on, Anna's fixation on this consequence paled before another one, how she would be changed in his eyes if he knew. She had been his, always and only his. And now she had been defiled. She was unclean, unworthy to be his wife. How would he ever look upon her again with the pure adoration that had shone from his eyes for a decade and more? He would still love her but he would never, could never love her the same way, and the knowledge of that transformation, which he would nobly try to suppress but never quite achieve, broke her heart.

He must never know. And that meant hurt and more hurt, for both of them. But it was the only way.

John

John Bates had gone to bed more troubled than he had been in years, perhaps more troubled than he had ever been. He was bewildered, wounded. Something had happened between him and Anna. Somehow, the light that had illuminated their mutual adoration had gone out and he could not see how to rekindle it. Somehow, between her lighthearted withdrawal from the concert and his greeting of her afterwards, something had changed, had gone terribly, terribly wrong. She had been hurt. Those bruises on her face!

" I must have fainted," she had explained, not looking at him.

But…there must be more to it than that. Falling might account for the bruising, but hardly the radical alteration in her behaviour from the warm, loving, lively Anna he knew to this cold, distant person. Perhaps the fall had hurt her more than she let on, perhaps even more than she knew. Head injuries, he knew, could do that. He thought she should see the doctor, but when he suggested that, when he'd finally caught up to her at the cottage, she turned on him frigidly, so off-putting that he relented, even against his better judgment. They went to bed. He slept badly. He imagined the same would be so for her.

Things were often better in the morning, but they were not this morning. When John awoke, Anna had already left. And when he found her at the Abbey and remonstrated with her about her bewildering behaviour, she berated him for hounding her and went in to breakfast without him.

Mrs. Hughes

Mrs. Hughes was having the devil of a time. They could not pretend nothing had happened. Anna's marred countenance was there for all to see. But she was bound by the confidence – and the lie – that Anna had exacted from her. And, truth to tell, she didn't know quite what she would do or suggest be done even if she had a free hand. Sir John Bullock!

"What happened to you?" Thomas could, of course, always be counted upon to confront the elephant in the room, particularly if doing so might discomfit Mr. Bates.

"I fell," Anna said shortly, and set about buttering her toast so fiercely that even Thomas, though he raised his eyebrows at her tone, desisted.

Mrs. Hughes noticed incidentally the sharp look that Lord Gillingham's valet gave Anna at this statement, but she brushed it off. They didn't need another busybody poking his nose in. She had other people to worry about, not least Mr. Carson. He had stared in surprise and then a little consternation at Anna's bruises, but appeared to have accepted her explanation. Had she been a servant with a public role, such as one of the footman, he would have insisted she remain below stairs until her unsightly bruises had faded. But she was entirely a backstairs servant, not to mention one under the jurisdiction of the housekeeper, and so he kept his own counsel. But Mrs. Hughes worried about him on a different account. It was unconscionable of her to keep from the butler the information that an act of violence had been perpetrated at Downton. But how could she tell him without breaking her promise of confidence to Anna? Well, she couldn't. And there was the other thing. The fact that the perpetrator was upstairs. Did she herself really want to know how Mr. Carson would react to that?

And then there was Mr. Bates, who was clearly out of his mind. So, Anna had not told him. The housekeeper had not thought Anna up to the pretense, not within the intensity of intimacy the couple had. But his agitation was that of confusion and bewilderment, not fury. Anna might keep from him the crucial facts, but she could not conceal that something had happened. And when Anna could not take the inquiring glances, not least from her desperate husband any more and had gone off to see to Lady Mary's things even before she had been summoned to it, Mr. Bates turned to Mrs. Hughes.

"Did something happen to Anna last night?" he asked. "When you gave her that dress?"

Yes, her own complicity was obvious in the provision of that dress, but summoning all her skills of dissimulation, she had brushed him off. It was not easy. God alone knew from where Anna was summoning the strength to keep her worried husband at bay. But Mrs. Hughes reckoned she knew: it was Anna's fathomless love for her him that had kept her silent.

And there was still more with which Mrs. Hughes must grapple. There was also Sir John Bullock. The thought of him – every thought of him – made her incandescent with rage. How dare he! How dare he assault any woman! How dare he brutalize Anna! How dare he abuse the hospitality of the Granthams! And swirling beneath all of these particulars, How dare he abuse the advantage of his social status to abuse those who did not have the privileges of his birth! There was no doubt in Mrs. Hughes's mind that he had spent an untroubled night, that he would awake this morning with little sense of remorse at his actions, if he thought about them at all. And that his mind would be free of any apprehensions of consequences.

This last caused her great grief, for it was unlikely that he would face any consequences. Even if Anna could be persuaded to go to the law, there was little likelihood anything would come of it. It was possible Anna had already waited too long to make a viable complaint. At this stage, it might be dismissed as a mischief and Sir John never even made aware that it had been made. If the police could be persuaded to pursue the matter and actually question him, it would come down to he said / she said, and Anna's testimony, the quickly fading physical evidence notwithstanding, would count for less. In the most unlikely of scenarios, where the complaint proceeded to any type of formal process, Anna would be put through the ringer, while Sir John posed as the indignant innocent, and, rape trials demanding the highest burden of evidence, Anna would walk away further traumatized while her assailant most likely would experience only ruffled dignity.

It was this sort of thing that often set Mrs. Hughes at odds against Mr. Carson. The man could not see the deficiencies in the class system that fed this kind of injustice. A case of this kind would be challenging on its own merits, but it carried as well the additional burden of class expectations, wherein the lower orders were always at a disadvantage. Yet Mr. Carson could never admit to this fundamental inequity, turned a blind eye to the fact that ordered social ranks did not always stay in their own lane or behave honourably, and that those of the lesser ranks always paid when transgressions occurred.

Her responsibilities to her position as housekeeper and to Mr. Carson as the butler of Downton Abbey weighed on her, but not nearly so much as did Anna. It was Anna who had been attacked in the vilest of ways. No man could ever appreciate what had been done to her, while every woman would shudder, with an innate and visceral understanding of what it meant. And Anna bore a double burden, for she must keep silent about her trauma, not only because of unsympathetic legal and public reception, but also to save her husband. And shielding him demanded more from her still – denying her the comfort she might have had from the only person who could help her to heal. The whole thing brought unaccustomed tears to Mrs. Hughes's eyes. She could not see how this would all play out.

Mr. Green

On Monday morning, Alex Green found himself in the midst of an ethical dilemma, a very unenviable place to be. Last night he had helped an inebriated Sir John Bullock to his bed and listened, with only half an ear, to the man's slurred ramblings. He paid little attention to the garbled account of losses at cards, at the effrontery of his social inferiors rejecting him, and then … the part about what had happened in the kitchen. At first, Green ignored this. He had himself no illusions about the innocence of housemaids and kitchen help. They weren't all demure innocents. Take Lady Grantham's maid, for instance. That one knew her way about, she did. That sort wouldn't have minded a bit of fun with Sir John. It was none of his business. It did not occur to him, then, that the only person he knew to have escaped the performance was Anna Bates.

It was not until he saw her at the breakfast table on Monday morning that the pieces began to fall into place. Like the others, he was shocked by her appearance. Unlike the others, he quickly realized that the story about her taking a fall was a lie. And he realized, too, that she had been the woman of Sir John's boast and that the encounter had not been a consensual one. The man had clearly beaten her into submission. Her bruises attested to that.

And then he recalled his last glimpse of her the evening before, in heated conversation with her husband, just outside the housekeeper's office door. They had been in the shadows. He had not seen her then. But he could tell by their body language that it was not a pleasant exchange. He ventured a hearty "Good night," and Anna Bates had acknowledged him, and then he had slipped away. But now it made sense, a terrible sort of sense.

What could he do? What should he do? He thought she must have told her husband, but the man's agitation at the breakfast table, the confusion in his eyes, said that she had not. The brooding volatile valet would have gone after Sir John and Green wouldn't have liked Sir John's chances in that dust-up, even with the valet's handicap. No one else knew either. No one but the housekeeper. Yes, she knew.

So it was not for him to betray Anna Bates's secret, not to her husband, nor to anyone else. And yet, at the first opportunity, he was telling the tale to Lord Gillingham, as he dressed the man that morning.

"Something happened in the kitchen last night, my lord, during the performance. One of the staff, a lady's maid I think, she came downstairs. And Sir John Bullock…."

Tony Gillingham stood stock still while Green tied his tie, saying nothing. But when he had finished and stood back, both to check His Lordship's look and also to absorb the response, the valet was disappointed.

"Did you see this happen?" Lord Gillingham asked crisply. "Were you a witness?"

Green was caught off guard. "No, my lord. Had I come upon them I would hardly have…."

"So you have only the ramblings of a man too inebriated to stand on which to base this accusation."

"He was clear enough in the particulars," Green mumbled, feeling somewhat abashed.

"I suggest you keep your speculations to yourself, Green," Lord Gillingham said briskly. "Drunken men spew all sorts of gibberish."

Their eyes met. Green was not sure what he saw there. Was Lord Gillingham rejecting his evidence or reprimanding him for daring to bear witness against a social superior? Or had he taken the information on board and was merely keeping up the side? Green had no idea. But he knew he did not wish to risk the disapprobation of his employer, so he nodded acquiescently and withdrew. He had done all he could. Or, rather, he had done all he would.

Sir John Bullock

Sir John Bullock woke on Monday morning with a pounding headache, an empty pocketbook, and a burning resentment of card sharps. His most visceral emotion was that of wounded pride at the unmitigated gall of the two other card players, men of no rank or social distinction, telling him to leave the table. He didn't remember the other thing until he had stumbled over to the dressing table and caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror.

"What's that?" he mumbled, touching the scratch on his chin. And then it came to him, though vaguely, for the incident itself was shrouded in the mists of alcoholic overindulgence. Concentrating, some of the details came back to him. His anger at expulsion from cards. The labyrinth of the Abbey and how he had somehow ended up in the kitchens, of all places. The woman.

She resisted, he recalled. Hence the scratch. Possibly he had not acted the gentleman. Well, there was nothing to be done about it now. And then he paused. There was some sense of obligation in the matter. So before he went downstairs in good time to be off for the nine o'clock – he was skipping breakfast, he always skipped breakfast after a long night at the card table – he set out to make amends.

In the pretty but for practical purposes useless writing desk in his room, he found pen, writing paper and envelopes. He opened his pocketbook to find it was indeed empty and for a moment he stared at it, chagrined. Then he riffled in his pockets and came up with several coins. It was the habit on country house visits to offer the butler a modest emolument and so he had set aside – and miraculously not spent – a trifle for this purpose. Well, the butler would have to go without, this time. As though he doesn't get paid enough, Sir John thought sourly, begrudging the senior servant this small perquisite.

Lord Grantham might think ill of him for slighting the butler in this way. But he would think even more ill to learn that his guest had had it off with a maid and given her nothing for her troubles. Sir John would just have to try to slip past the butler so as to avoid an awkward moment.

He folded a piece of paper, writing nothing on it, and enclosed the coins within it. Then he sealed this in an envelope. For a moment his hand hovered over the pen on the table, but what could he write? He did not know her name. He was not even sure he would recognize her if he saw her. Oh, well, the servants knew each other. Putting his head out the door, looking for a courier, he found one almost immediately in the form of an immaculately dressed footman or something. The fellow understood his mute summons and came over.

"There is a maid," Sir John said, frowning, trying to remember. "Blond woman. Not young." He had not been drawn to her by her looks, so he could describe her only flatly and hazily.

The footman frowned thoughtfully. "Do you mean Lady Mary's maid, my lord? Anna?"

Sir John shrugged. "In her thirties, I think."

The footman nodded. "Yes, that's the most likely candidate for that description."

"Can you be trusted to give this to her?" Sir John demanded, holding out the envelope.

The man glanced at the envelope and then met Sir John's gaze again. "Yes," he said tonelessly, not reacting to the insult.

"Take it, then."

And almost as soon as the thing was out of his hand, it was gone from his mind. He had more important concerns, not least the weight of the I.O.U. note he had given Terrence Sampson, which would be presented for redemption when he returned to London. There was also the matter of Rose MacClare. He'd squandered his opportunities here, but he wouldn't let that happen again.

Before he left the Abbey, however, his luck took an upward turn. He was saying his goodbyes to Lord Grantham, when Gregson appeared beside them. Sir John thought the man might have the grace to allow him a leisurely leave of his host, but then he presented them both with their I.O.U.s, brushing off their thanks with gentlemanly humility. Sir John's spirits rose and his headache receded with startling dispatch as he slipped by the butler and headed for the car. The weekend had been a success, after all.

Thomas

Thomas Barrow pocketed the envelope, which he could tell contained coins. Curious. As he made his way down the servants' staircase, he pondered the meaning of this communication. Of all those beneath Downton's roof, he was perhaps the most capable of putting two and two together and making four.

Anna Bates had appeared that morning looking like she'd fallen into a fist rather than the floor, as she had asserted. And there was a look in her eye, too, that testified to a pain and terror beyond that of an unfortunate misstep. And now Sir John Bullock was giving her money? And not much by the feel of it.

"Well, this is interesting," Thomas murmured. For the moment he meant to keep his thoughts on the matter to himself, though he would carefully observe Anna's reaction when he gave her the envelope.

And then his own thoughts were disrupted, for her turned a corner and saw ahead of him a most unlikely pair: Mr. Branson and Edna Braithwaite.