There'd be an unsettled over the house for days and no one could really put a finger on the reason. Mrs Patmore put it down to the weather, the cold winds that stubbornly refused to acknowledge it was nearly May and their time for dominance had passed. The other downstairs women were more circumspect. The family were at odds with one another over the business with the hospital and whilst it was exactly outright war, there was a mild tension underlying their exchanges over the dining table and this had seemed to transfer itself to those waiting on them. But there was one lone, albeit silent, voice against both these theories, that of Mr Bates.
John found himself in a bit of quandary and having spent several days mulling it over, he was still unsure as to what to do. The last half hour had been taken up with the usual business of dressing his master, one or two words exchanged as was appropriate for two men in the position they found themselves in, but now he found himself alone. Unusually, his Lordship had hurried away as soon as he was ready, muttering something under his breath about the Dowager Countess, leaving him to tidy away the various items of nightwear that had so recently been shed. It proved the perfect opportunity to ponder, and ponder he did.
That Anna was keeping something from him was clear, he concluded, picking up a pair of burgundy velvet slippers and tucking them just under the end of the bed frame. He reckoned he knew her secret and although he was dying for her to share it with him, to offer arms of comfort or whatever else might be needed, it was hers to share and not his to pry after. He let himself dwell on this for a moment before forcing his thoughts on, resting his came against his good leg as he reached for a hanger and his Lordship's dressing gown in one swift practised move. The thing was, he reasoned, it wasn't any problem of Anna's or his that was upsetting everyone, nor that of the family. There was also some kind of drama there and they all weathered it well enough. No, there was only one person who could affect the entire household with their mood but no one would be brave enough to name them, except for Mrs Hughes perhaps. But then she'd proved herself braver than most given she was prepared to marry him.
He moved towards the wardrobe, stick now back in hand, and the dressing gown was tidied away in no time and with just pyjamas to fold and stow under the pillow John's work was almost done. He swiftly took the cotton top in hand and folded it neatly, but as he reached for the trouser bottoms he stopped. Holding them at arm's length, a frow etched across his face, a thought suddenly occurred to him. Surely not, he missed, it couldn't be. Could it? He took a minute longer, letting his mind turnover whether the answer really could be as simple as all that. But as he felt his confusion meld into a wry smile he concluded that it might just be.
It was a moment before he was striding along the upstairs landing, the stone balustrade that ran along its length quickly turning to the wooden one of the main staircase. He reached out to grasp it, the support it offered helping him to take the shallow steps as fast as he could manage. He wasn't one for breaking the rules ordinarily, but an odd sense of excitement seemed to be carrying him forward without much thought as to anything else. Besides, the family were all out. At the bottom, he stopped and listened.
The day maids were clearly in the Library. Through the closed door he could just about discern their chatter, their shared giggles as they embarked on the most tedious of chores, pulling books off the shelves, section by section, carefully dusting them before putting them back exactly as they had been. He'd seen their heavy sighs as Mrs Hughes had outlined the day ahead and this alone meant she wouldn't be far away, not with a job as important as that one. But where?
Ruling out the Library itself and the Dining Room, he crossed the wide expanse of the hall and after a brief look about him, slipped quietly into the Morning Room. If the housekeeper was surprised to see him enter, she didn't show it. Clipboard in hand, she paused in her own task and simply waited.
"Mrs Hughes," he began, "I'm sorry to interrupt but I wondered if I might have a word?"
"Yes, what is it?"
John took a sharp breath inwards. "It concerns Mr Carson."
Never in a month of Sundays would Elsie have ever predicted the revelation that Mr Bates had just revealed to her. That over the years they'd shared their respective troubles with one another was true enough. He was as close in age to her as Charles after all and there were few people in which she could confidently place her trust. But this went beyond that. Far, far beyond.
"I'm as much a woman of the world as any other, Mr Bates," she uttered, managing something approximating her normal tone, "And whilst I appreciate your motives are no doubt kind…"
"They are, Mrs Hughes," he interrupted, "Very much so."
She nodded her understanding. "Nevertheless, you understand why I might not be entirely comfortable discussing this with you."
As she anticipated his reply, one that could frankly go one of two ways at this point, she offered a silent prayer that her cheeks were not as red as they currently felt and that he hadn't noticed how her hands were shaking. She suddenly felt extremely sorry for the position she'd put Mrs Patmore in and more than grateful that Anna had proven braver than she was right now.
"I do understand, more than you might know, and that's exactly why I had to speak to you. Marriage is hard enough without the additional worry of, well, what to…"
"Yes!" she said, cutting him off sharply before he could repeat his suspicions, "Yes, and I would normally agree. Much better to know these things beforehand than to try and deal with them when it's already too late. Although in this case I do wonder if a bit of mystery might not be best thing."
She collapsed into the chair at the small writing desk and let out a long, slow breath, her mind whirring a hundred miles an hour as she considered what on earth to do and say next. Fortunately, Mr Bates came to her rescue.
"Look," he started, shifting his weight from one foot and then back again, "There is no need to include me in what to do next. I simply thought you'd rather know what the cause might be behind Mr Carson's recent downturn in humour."
He paused as they both fought to suppress their shared amusement of that particular understatement. They both knew his mood had pervaded the entirety of the household, one way or another.
"Look," he took up again, his voice as soft and kind as always, "I've done what I think I can, what I think you'd want me to. The rest I leave in your more than capable hands."
She raised an eyebrow at that, but it was accompanied by a warm smile that was more than justified. It was gratifying to have so many people on their side, if not a little daunting.
They exchanged a few further words, the kind that were required so he could depart with the ground between them settled, returning them to their respective roles of housekeeper and valet. Yet they were entirely without meaning for neither had any strong view on what might be for lunch or the weather that might overshadow their afternoon. But with this ritual enacted, Mr Bates took a step backwards, dipped his head briefly in lieu of an adieu, and departed. The sound of his cane tip tapped receded as he circumnavigated the hall.
For her part, she stayed where she was, the unusual liberty of sitting on the family's furniture far from her thoughts as she considered the information that now threatened to consume the rest of her day. She doubted she'd be able to concentrate on anything now which led her to only one conclusion. She felt herself grimace. As kind and helpful as everyone was being, it really had to stop. This was no way for her and Charles to conduct themselves, through the conduit of others. No, they had to speak and speak frankly. And that, she realised, worrying her lip as her stomach lurched at the notion, was about as far from an exciting prospect as she could ever imagine.