Chapter 5
Mary, Robert, and Cora
There was nothing else for it. Mary had to tell her parents. The thing had happened to Anna, but it had happened at Downton. The perpetrator had been one of the invited guests to the family's house party. So Mary went in search of her parents and found them enjoying tea in Cora's sitting room. She put it to them bluntly, without preamble. They both recoiled.
"Sir John Bullock! In this house!"
"Poor Anna! How is she?"
Mary ignored her father's outrage and spoke to her mother. "I don't know. I've not spoken to her since I found out. She's been troubled these past few days, but I didn't know why."
"So has Bates," Robert said, frowning. "But he said he didn't know what the problem was. I can't believe he knew about this and hasn't already gone tearing off for London."
"He doesn't know," Mary said, and her parents looked as shocked as she had felt. "At least, Mrs. Hughes says Anna doesn't want him or anyone else to know." Her brows furrowed. "She told Mrs. Hughes only because she needed some help. The fact that I came to the information by the back door will not be welcome news to her."
"But to keep something like that from her husband," Robert said in disbelief.
Again, Cora had a more understanding look. "I'm sure she had her reasons."
"She'll have to tell him, now that we all know," Mary said. "I'm meeting Tom shortly. We have an appointment on one of the farms."
Mary left and Robert and Cora sat in stunned silence for a long moment, trying to digest what they had heard.
"Poor Anna," Cora said again. "I can hardly believe this. Any of this. Anna. Sir John Bullock. An assault like this."
"Well, he was in very bad shape the first night of the party," Robert said grimly, thinking back. "Losing badly and drinking too much. And then going back for more the next two nights."
Cora bit back a condemnation of gambling and frowned at Robert instead. "That doesn't excuse him," she said sharply.
"Of course it doesn't. It's not as though one expects all gentlemen to behave gentlemanly, but …." Robert drank again. "And Bates, Cora. As though they've not, both of them, had troubles enough."
"You must talk to him, Robert," Cora said urgently. "Once he learns of it, it may be a struggle to keep him here."
"And who could blame him."
"It wouldn't do Anna any good."
"Anna or anyone," Robert mused. "But … has she really not gone to the police?"
"We'd have heard if she had," Cora said. "Mrs. Hughes and Carson would have reported to us. And Bates could hardly have been kept in the dark if she had."
"Yes, of course. Well, we can be grateful for that, I suppose."
Cora gave her husband a searching look. "What do you mean by that? I hope you're not thinking of Downton, Robert."
"You misunderstand me, my darling. It is only the fact of the matter. Going to the police, the courts, putting Anna through all that, and Sir John Bullock, all affronted indignation. It would be unbearable for Anna. And do you think Bates could sit still, staring at Bullock across the courtroom, listening to that? And that's even before a verdict that would be unlikely to go her way."
They both took long, deep breaths, and then Cora nodded. "It happens that I agree with you," she said finally. "I can't see how this could go well for Anna. I only hope that we concur in our motives as well as our conclusions." She gave him an apologetic smile. "Only it is infuriating that Sir John Bullock should face … nothing. He should be imprisoned. He should suffer for his crime." Cora's voice rang with righteous indignation.
Robert held out his hand to her and she took it. "My darling, we are in complete agreement on that. If Anna chooses to pursue a legal course, then I will stand with her every step of the way and do my utmost to prevent Bates taking a more direct route to justice and swinging for it. But this is, as you have said, very much a case where it is not for us to say."
"We must do what we can for them, Robert. For both of them."
"Of course."
"But," Cora could not suppress her frustration, "this is so unfair. If only we could do something."
"We will never see him again."
Cora sighed and their eyes met in unhappy congruence.
"Not," Robert added, "that he is likely to notice."
Mary and Tom
Mary and Tom had arranged to meet for the latest session in Mary's informal course in estate management. She thought about putting it off altogether and going to find Anna, but could not see the benefit of it. Ambushing Anna in mid-day would only disrupt the rest of it for her. Better to wait until the dressing hour when they were alone in Mary's room and could take their time.
Tom was a slight distraction. "You're looking better," Mary said, pulling on her gloves, her eyes roving over Tom. He'd not been himself since the weekend and when they'd been in London he'd admitted to troubles he dared not discuss with her. Now, his countenance was clear once more.
"I took your advice," he said brightly. "I talked to someone helpful and the matter has … gone away." It had so done quite literally, for after Mrs. Hughes had called Edna's bluff, the woman had departed immediately, even before the next meal. He grinned almost impishly and then, focusing on Mary, sobered a little. "I saw Tony leave this morning. Will we be seeing him again?" he asked delicately.
Mary had almost forgotten about Tony Gillingham. "No," she said abruptly. And then, shaking her head, "No, I'm afraid not."
"I'm sorry to hear it."
"I may regret it," Mary said, but then brushed aside this thought. "I'm glad you're back to yourself, because we need your sound mind." She told Tom about Anna.
"Bastard!" Tom said, with feeling. Like Mary, he had been repulsed by Sir John Bullock's boorish behaviour in London. But this…. Tom went from equanimity to rage in a flash. "He's one of those who take and take and think the world owes them a good time. This is what comes of setting one person above another, of allowing someone to think because he was born in a great house or with a lot of money he can do what he likes with another human being…."
"I don't think it matters very much to the woman involved what the man's circumstances are," Mary said, a little testily.
Tom's eyes flashed. "He thought he could do it, he thought he could get away with it because of who he is. And who she is. How is Anna?"
To this Mary could only shrug. "I don't really know. She's not been herself for the past few days, but I didn't know what it was. I ought to have paid more attention, but it's unlikely she'd have told me. She told no one but Mrs. Hughes. But for the valet's tale, that would still be the case."
"And then he had the gall to show up at your aunt's house as though nothing had happened!" Tom swore, his mind riveting back to Sir John Bullock.
They were in the car now and Tom was slamming the gearshift and pounding the pedals in a way that gave Mary just a little pause about taking to the narrow lanes of the county with him. "I expect he was drunk. Again. And not thinking at all of what he was doing. He might have exercised more discretion, but I don't think discretion is Sir John's strong point."
"You're not defending him!" Tom was irate.
"Of course not. I would like to see him strung up for it, boiled in oil, drawn and quartered."
"The reality is," Tom went on heatedly, "drunk or sober, he thought he could just do that and get away with it. After all, she was only a servant. Anna."
A shudder swept over Mary. Yes, Anna. Anna, who was kind and considerate and a booster to one and all. Anna, who gave so much of herself every day. No woman should know this experience, but it somehow cut that much deeper because it was Anna, of all people. "If I had known on Tuesday night," Mary said in a low venomous tone, "…but we didn't. And now, all we can do is not see him again." She glanced at Tom's white knuckles, his hands clenched on the steering wheel. "She didn't want to report it to the constable," she began, thinking to explain this. But Tom interrupted.
"Of course she didn't." He caught Mary's sharp glance. "Well, what good are the police to anyone?"
"Spoken," Mary said drily, "like a man who has stood on the other side of the law."
"Spoken," Tom reminded her, "like a man whose cousin was shot by a soldier merely for being Irish while the constable stood by and did nothing. The law works for some people, for you, maybe. But there are great swathes of us for whom the law is a burden not a blessing."
"But what other course is open if he is not to get away with it?" Mary asked despairingly, not really seeking an answer.
"A recourse to the law does not always yield justice. Anna's at a disadvantage in this case."
"I know."
Tom was shaking his head, still angry. "Not only is it a difficult charge to prosecute, but it would be Sir John against a housemaid. I'm sorry," he added, with a nod toward Mary, "but the upper classes get away with things and they know it and some of them act on that. A private word here, a favour called in there…."
"Well, I'm going to speak to Anna directly later today. Perhaps she's changed her mind." She paused. "I do know that the deck is stacked against her in this, both as a woman and as a maid. But … I can't stand the thought of him getting away with this."
"I've seen it over and over again," Tom said grimly. "The advantages of privilege."
Robert and Bates
The information Mary had imparted earlier in the day put Robert in a difficult position. He preferred not to know about uncomfortable matters, for he did not like to confront them. But he could hardly say nothing. This was about Anna. And Bates.
Bates was already in the dressing room when Robert came up to change for dinner. They exchanged a nod of greeting, as was their habit. Had Anna told him? Earlier in the week Robert had observed Bates's agitation and remarked on it. He could not see out of the corner of his eye that Bates was more disturbed tonight. He would have to be circumspect.
"You've been troubled of late about things with Anna," Robert began, far more boldly and directly than was his usual approach. "Have you … gotten to the bottom of it?" he finished delicately.
Bates stiffened and Robert understood. He knows.
"Yes," Bates said, his countenance like thunder, but held – if barely – under control. "I ….Anna … Something …." He could not speak.
Robert chose to save him the agony. Turning that he might face Bates directly, he said, "I know, Bates. I'm sorry, but …." He saw astonishment, tempered in indignation, rising in Bates's expression. "Lord Gillingham's valet came upon … Sir John Bullock … after. He said …. Well." Robert was hardly more articulate than his valet. "Lord Gillingham told Lady Mary. Lady Mary…." He stopped. The narrative of knowledge was irrelevant. "I'm so sorry, Bates. How is Anna?"
It took John Bates a moment to digest the various strands of Robert's statement.
"How you might expect," Bates replied distantly.
"Of course." Well, there really was no meaningful answer to that question. "How are you, Bates?"
Bates said nothing. Instead, his gaze swung round that he might meet Robert's eyes and in those them Robert saw the myriad emotions of a man reeling from a deep hurt, one inflicted not upon himself, but upon someone he loved.
"If there is anything I can do…." It was the conventional response, the hollow offer one extended in circumstances where there was nothing anyone could do. It was the embodiment of the sentiment that it was the thought that counted and now it lay exposed it for the cliché it was. Robert did not expect an answer to his statement, but he got one.
"There is something you could do, my lord."
The hair on the back of Robert's neck lifted in a way it had done in very few instances in his life and his gaze riveted on Bates. For the first time in their acquaintance, Robert confronted in Bates the chill depths that made it possible to believe the man had the capacity to kill.
"You and your kind, my lord."
Robert was not unfamiliar with a sneering rendering of his title. He had encountered aggrieved men before. But hearing it from Bates took him aback.
"You might cease abusing your social rank to prey on those vulnerable to your power," Bates snarled. "You could surrender the assumption that servants are yours to do with as you wish, to be abused with impunity. And you could start treating those not born to your level of material privilege as fellow beings, your equals in every way."
As the accusations spilled forth from Bates, Robert felt them as physical blows. It was hard not to take them personally. Such words, even such a tone, were cause for immediate dismissal and certainly worthy of an intemperate response in return. But circumstances were everything. Bates, Robert could easily imagine, was out of his mind with anger and shock and disgust. The perpetrator was one of Robert's class and in the moment Bates might be forgiven the impulse to see not individuals but a whole body of men and to hold them collectively responsible. And Bates had not taken himself off immediately to London to vent his rage and distress on the individual who was responsible. He had to express himself somehow.
So though the words ate into him and though he recoiled from the antipathy so starkly bared in Bates's countenance and tone as much as his words, Robert fell back on his well-developed skills of forbearance and dispassion, and chose not to response in kind.
"This is an unprecedented trauma, Bates," he said calmly. "For you and Anna both. You would perhaps – both of you – benefit from a few days' rest."
Whether it was the tone or the words themselves or only that Bates had heard himself, he seemed to find himself again. He drew back. "Very good, my lord." He sounded almost himself again. "I will finish out tonight."
But Robert shook his head. "I'll have Carson come later."
Bates conceded with a nod. They did not speak again.
Anna
The conversation with John left Anna in an unsettled state.
He knew. And now all her fears had come to a head.
He knew. And he had promised – promised as only John Bates, a man of honour – could that he would not rush off to London to seek revenge. He had promised, yet she feared still, for she had seen the potential for murder in his eyes. Anna had known him innocent of the murder of which he'd once been convicted because he had told her he was innocent. But she had seen affirmation of that fact in his eyes, too. This time it was different. Though his mouth spoke the words she demanded of him, his eyes did not. And so the fear which would have bolstered her determination to keep the secret haunted her still. She did not know that she could trust him to keep his word in this.
He knew. And that had to have an impact on how he felt about her. How could they be together ever again without this intruding upon them? Would he… could he still desire her? Still love her in that way, knowing that another man had…? She feared that, but more draining still was her grief for the marriage that had been so true. Now it had been sullied and that broke her heart.
He knew. And he grieved. That, too, she had seen in his face. He was broken-hearted for her. Mingled with his fury and the primal impulse to protect, defend, and avenge, were his tears of sorrow for her pain. His breaking heart almost broke hers.
But he had not pressed her to go to the police and she was grateful for that.
"I will support any decision you make on that," he had said.
"Even if it means…he …faces nothing?
John looked grim. "Even then. I have been through the criminal justice system," he said stonily. "It failed me." So it had. He, an innocent man, had been sentenced to hang. He took her face, slick with her cascading tears, in his hands. "You were there for me, Anna. You saved me. I can only try to do as much for you."
"Anna."
Anna looked up. She had been preparing Lady Mary's dinner clothes and not heard her come in.
"My lady. You startled me."
Mary and Anna
Mary had thought to speak with Anna at the end of the day when, if Anna became distraught as might be expected, she could then go home to the cottage. But Mary found she could not wait. So when she came up to her room before dinner to find Anna making the usual preparations, she closed the door and went to Anna's side.
"Anna, you are the one person with whom I am unfailing honest. I…understand…that there are things you may not want to tell me, but I cannot keep my own counsel." She paused. "I know," she said. "I know what happened on Sunday night."
An alarmed look came over Anna's face, replaced almost immediately with the shadow of anger.
"Mrs. Hughes…," she said.
But Mary shook her head. "Mrs. Hughes has said nothing. It was Lord Gillingham." It took a moment to explain and as she did, Mary saw Anna's equanimity begin to fray. What had happened to Anna in the kitchens of Downton Abbey had robbed her of control, in that instance over her own body. And now the story of that incident was not even her own, but already a matter of general account. This must be both distressing and infuriating.
"We needn't go through it all again," Mary said hastily. "What matters is what happens now."
"Now?" Through her own perturbation, Anna managed to convey bewilderment. "There's nothing to be done, my lady."
"I understand your not wanting to go to the police, or even to call the doctor on the … that night. Is that still your decision?" Mary almost regretted asking. Her words seem to have stirred Anna to anger.
"Why would I have changed my mind?"
"If you say nothing, he will get away with it."
Perhaps it was the many years they had been together, the number of confidences they had shared, the experiences they had had but, whatever it was, Anna managed to rein in what had looked like an imminent outburst. "My lady, can you imagine any scenario, other than one ending with Mr. Bates being hanged, where … he… will not get away with it?"
Mary was stymied by that. "But…the law. He should face the law."
"But will he get justice, my lady? And what about the scandal? His Lordship and Mr. Carson…."
"Oh, hang the scandal, Anna. Neither I, nor His Lordship, nor, I daresay even Carson would want to forego justice in this instance because of the potential for scandal. And," she added, remembering, "it won't be just your word against his, Anna. There is a witness. Of sorts. In Mr. Green."
"He saw nothing."
Mary took a deep breath. "I understand, I do, your decision, Anna. I cannot honestly say what I might want in such circumstances. But … will it ever be possible to recover if you don't act in some way?"
To Mary's relief, Anna did not recoil from or rebuke her, but said, in her disarmingly mild way, "I don't think this is something from which one does recover, my lady. Sometimes … there is no answer."
They stared at each other for a moment and then Mary relented. "I'm so sorry, Anna. I'm sorry this has happened to you. I'm very sorry it happened to you here. I feel as though Downton ought somehow have been able to protect you from such a thing."
"Well, it wasn't," Anna said shortly, and turned abruptly to finish her preparations of Mary's dinner clothes.
"Does Bates know?" Mary ventured mildly.
Anna's shoulders heaved. "Yes. He does."
Mary digested this in silence. Thank God! "We will never see him again, Anna. You won't have to worry about that. God, but that sounds like such a pathetic gesture. And I'm sorry about the other night in London."
At this Anna glanced over her shoulder at Mary and said, in a gentler tone, "You didn't know, my lady."
"If there is anything I can do, Anna…." Mary sighed. Another bromide.
Anna gave her a half smile, an acknowledgment.
"How is Bates?"
A shudder passed through Anna. "I don't know," she said hollowly.
Here, Mary thought, was where there was something she might do. "You should take some time, Anna. You and Bates, together." And when Anna turned with a protest on her lips, Mary held up her hand. "Work may be a tonic sometimes, Anna, but in something like this … you need time. Both of you. To digest it yourselves, with and for each other. I'll speak to His Lordship about Bates." And then, in the kindliest manner of which she was capable, she added, "Please, Anna. If anyone can help you … I won't say through this, for I'm not sure one gets through it … but with it, to cope with it, perhaps, it will be Bates. And I fear only you can contain Bates."
This appeal appeared to pierce Anna's resistance. "You may be right my lady."
"And if there is anything, anything, I or any one of us can do to help, please let us know."
Robert and Carson
Carson had received Robert's request to attend him that evening with equanimity when made in the dining room at the end of the meal. But now, in Robert's dressing room, he was not making much of an effort to conceal his irritation. This was, Robert knew, an imposition on Carson's time, one that warranted an explanation.
"I should have thought of Barrow, Carson. I'm sorry. I will get him for the morning." Barrow had served as his valet before and ought, Robert realized, have been the logical choice. But in moments of disruption, Robert relied on Carson and he just hadn't thought it through.
Carson was hardly mollified. Mr. Barrow had his own duties, after all. "Mr. Bates did not look off colour when I saw him earlier," he said stubbornly. "Perhaps somewhat more morose than usual, but…."
"You don't know then," Robert said abruptly. "I thought perhaps…. Well." He paused. "It may not be my place to tell you, Carson, but it is something you should know." Should, now that the secret was out. "Something…happened… the last night of the house party." Briefly, he conveyed the information.
Carson's whole aspect changed. "I did not know, my lord! That makes the situation understandable and, now that you've said so, I have noticed a difference in Anna. What…," he slowed, looking for an appropriate approach, "may I ask what is being done about it?"
"So far as I know…nothing." Robert sighed. "The police were not called in the moment and it does not seem as though Anna wants to press charges."
Carson may have looked a little relieved. "But what is there to do but nothing?" he said. "To prosecute would hardly bring any satisfaction to Anna and accomplish little but dragging her ordeal into the public eye. And…it's always best to avoid scandal."
It was only what Robert had said himself to Cora earlier. He could hear, as Carson said it, how empty it sounded. Robert stared moodily into the distance, his gaze unfocused. "I confess I have been more concerned that Bates not go off half-cocked and kill the man, than the potential scandal of it. But I agree with you that there doesn't seem much prospect for satisfaction in the courts, even if Anna were willing to press the matter."
"Sir John will not be welcome in Grantham circles in the future," Carson assumed. "Is there…anything else that may be done?" It was a delicate question.
Robert shrugged. "Well, what else is there?" He turned to look Carson full in the face. "What if it were you, Carson? What if it were your wife?" Robert himself had been thinking of hardly anything else since he had heard.
It was a serious question and Carson gave it his full consideration. "I should want to kill him, my lord," he said evenly, but with a steely tone. "One does not need Mr. Bates's volatile temper for that. And, if I were to take such action, I should face the hangman with equanimity, knowing that I had avenged her honour. But that would hardly be of comfort to my wife."
Again Robert sighed. "It is a very bad business, Carson. There doesn't seem to be any appropriate response."
They took a moment.
"I will inform Mr. Barrow about tomorrow, my lord."
"Thank you, Carson."
Tom
In Mary's company it had been possible for Tom to focus on Sir John Bullock and his sins. Later, alone, his thoughts took a different turn. Anna. He was not her husband, but he had known Anna in more than a passing acquaintance for several years when he was the chauffeur at Downton and spent so much time downstairs. He would have been inflamed by the assault on any woman, but familiarity, friendship even, brought his blood to the boil. He knew John Bates, too, to the extent that anyone apart from Anna could, and was sympathetic both with the anguish the man must feel for his wife and the impulse to violent revenge which must be convulsing him. Tom couldn't imagine any other recourse for a husband of a woman hurt in this way. Indeed, Tom entertained briefly the fantasy of seeking out Bates and offering his assistance in any action. It was a gratifying few seconds.
Then, something else, lurking in the shadow of his mind, forgotten since Mary had told him about Anna, pushed its way to the fore. Edna Braithwaite. Only yesterday afternoon he had watched from an upstairs window as she, with a bag full of all her possessions, had left Downton Abbey for good, scurrying down the gravel path to the village and the train which would take her … somewhere … away from here. And good riddance.
Since her departure … no, since Mrs. Hughes's efficient dispatch of the woman and her nefarious plot, Tom had felt elated. His problem had been resolved and so very cleanly, too. Mrs. Hughes had confronted Edna, called her bluff, and sent her packing with no recourse but to remain silent about the whole business. He had admired the housekeeper's technique.
And he…he had taken cover behind the housekeeper, taken no part in his own defense, and emerged scot-free, without fear of consequences. And suddenly, in light of what had happened to Anna, Tom felt ashamed.
Oh, the circumstances were different. Edna had preyed on him. She had gotten him drunk. She had exploited his uneasiness in the social milieu of the Granthams' house party. She had tried to blackmail him. All of that was true, but….
But …she had made clear her interest from their earliest acquaintance and he had never actually discouraged her., though he had never had any intention of taking up with her seriously. And she had not poured the whisky down his throat. He had welcomed the relief it brought him. He was no novice with alcohol; he knew what it might do to his senses and how much was too much, but he had exercised no restraint. And he had had no business, either, playing the fish out of water, feeling sorry for himself all weekend, and currying her pity. And … she had not made him make love to her. He was responsible for his own body and what he chose to do with it. As responsible as Sir John Bullock was with his. Alcohol either absolved them both or was irrelevant. And as he could not dismiss Sir John's assault on Anna, nor could he blame someone else for his own misbehaviour.
Tom had gotten off lightly. The servant woman in his case had initiated their encounter and willingly participated. He had not committed that crime. But had he not exploited her in a different way? And who paid the price for their folly? She did. She had lost her post twice on his account.
No, he was not Sir John Bullock, but nor could he point fingers at the man. Like it or not, he, Tom, had become one of them when Sybil died and he had not left Downton to make his own way on his own terms. In such a position, he had responsibilities, and as just about everything he had done this weekend illustrated, he had failed to shoulder them properly.
This did not diminish his anger and disgust with Sir John Bullock. But it did humble him. And it offered him a check on his own behaviour. He did not have the excuse of class privilege so imbued in a man like Sir John Bullock. He and Edna were of the same caste. What was done was done, and she was gone now. But he must take greater care in the future.
Carson and Mrs. Hughes
"And when, exactly, were you going to tell me about this?"
Mrs. Hughes did not take offense at Mr. Carson's belligerent tone. He had every right to be furious about being left out of such an important loop. But she had had her reasons, so she responded temperately, but firmly. "It was not my story to tell, Mr. Carson. Anna asked me to keep her confidence in the matter and I thought it right to do so. The … the thing happened to her, after all."
Mr. Carson stood before the closed door, drawn up to his full height and looking unlikely to give any quarter on this. "You and I, we have responsibilities to this house, Mrs. Hughes," he said, in a low, controlled, but still angry voice. "You know me to have a capacity for discretion. I wouldn't have been gossiping about it at the dinner table. But I am responsible for the house and the household. I need to know such things."
She studied him for a bit. "Why? So as better to manage the sweeping of it all under the carpet? To cover up the scandal that might descend on the house of Grantham because of it?" She spoke mildly, but there was a bit of an edge to her voice. He had a point. She had made a promise of confidentiality to Anna, but concern over Mr. Carson's reaction had fortified her decision to keep her own counsel in the matter.
"I hope you know me better than that," he said coolly. "Anna is an employee here. As such, I am responsible for her welfare. To take appropriate action, I need to know."
"But this was Anna's decision, Mr. Carson. Anna does not want to pursue the matter with the police. Anna wants to keep the matter confidential."
"Well, the cat's pretty well out of the bag, now, isn't it?" he countered. "They all know upstairs."
Mrs. Hughes sighed. "Yes, now it is a whole different matter." She considered Mr. Carson for a moment. "Put aside the concerns of your post for a moment, Mr. Carson. What about … what about what happened?"
His shoulders, drawn up to accent his displeasure, slumped a little and a troubled look descended on his face. "I am not unacquainted with the foibles of our employers and their class, Mrs. Hughes. I have seen some questionable behaviours over the years. But my entire professional experience has been in this house and I can say with confidence that nothing like this has ever happened here before."
They were silent.
"But you say she has decided not to act in any way?" he asked, at length.
Mrs. Hughes gave him a curious look. "You don't object?"
"No, not at all. Of course, it is her decision, but I can't see any good coming of this by resorting to the law."
Mrs. Hughes looked away. She hoped that Mr. Carson supported Anna's choice for the right reasons, because it was what Anna herself wanted, because it would avoid the terrible trauma of reliving the event in police interviews and perhaps in court. But she suspected that, at least in part, he was relieved that Downton Abbey would thereby dodge a scandal.
"What did His Lordship say?"
"He's given Mr. Bates a few days to … to be with Anna." Mr. Carson shook his head. "I'm not sure that was wise. Unsupervised, the man may be on the first train to London to avenge his wife."
"And what would you think of that?" She just wondered.
Mr. Carson came over very grave. "It would lead him to the hangman's noose that he mercifully eluded a few years ago," he said soberly. "But," he added, "anyone could understand why he might take such a course anyway."
Robert
They neither of them thought of anything else the rest of the day but spoke no more about it until they were alone in their bedroom that night. It seemed unbecoming to discuss such a dreadful event in general conversation and, too, they were not certain who knew and who didn't among the staff. But what more was there to be said, really, than what had passed between them after they had first heard of it?
"Mary says Anna is adamant about taking it no further," Cora told Robert as he came in from his dressing room.
"So I gathered."
Cora sighed. "It's only that it's so frustrating that the man will get away with it." It was futile to keep saying so, but she kept coming back to it.
Robert murmured agreement.
"You're distracted," Cora observed, her brow furrowed as she considered him.
"Well, it's this business, isn't it? I've given Bates a few days, though I don't know what that will accomplish. It's not like the thing will go away."
Cora smiled at him as he crawled beneath the covers beside her. "Mary's given Anna a few days, too. There's little enough we or anyone can do for them. But time, even so brief a period and in the face of such a grave calamity, won't hurt."
They kissed and then settled in for the night, neither of them in the mood for anything else. As darkness flooded with the switching off of the lamps, Robert breathed a silent sigh of relief. Let Cora think him distressed over Anna and Bates. It was not untrue, but there was more on his mind.
Bates's words had stung him, there was no denying it. Lord and valet had always gotten on so well, Robert going so far as on occasion to declare that they had breached the great divide between the classes. But Bates's ringing indictment suggested otherwise.
As far as Bates was concerned, Robert was inclined to shrug it off as the heat of the moment and few other avenues for expression of a rage and frustration that surely knew no bounds. The man was distraught. Robert had been, frankly, astonished that Bates had learned of the assault and not immediately set out for London to avenge his wife, a natural impulse in such circumstances. But Bates loved his wife even more than that, enough to forego a visceral urge to violence and instead to stay with her and support her through it. Robert admired that. And was grateful that Bates had such a capacity, for though justice might be on Bates's side in the matter, the law would not be. Ascending to his dressing room before dinner, Robert had been debating how he might talk Bates out of such a course, but they had gotten derailed before he had even started.
Robert found that he could easily forgive Bates the outburst. But he could not be so kind to himself. Your kind. Abusing your social rank. Preying on those vulnerable to your power. And Robert's mind went directly to Jane Moorsum. It all worked out for the best, he told himself promptly. And then winced. Best for whom?
Robert had been feeling sorry for himself. Matthew was about to marry Lavinia Swire, making more acute the failure Robert had faced for decades of not producing a male heir. Sybil had announced her intention to marry the chauffeur, an Irish Catholic, and then to move to Ireland. Mary was betrothed, or almost, to a vile newspaperman who made little attempt to disguise his vulgar aspirations. And Cora … Cora had found other interests, interests other than him. My whole world had turned upside down, he thought. And then recalled with a jolt that he had said almost those exact words to Jane Moorsum.
She was new. That was why she'd caught his eye in the first place. And she was kind, sympathetic, and interested. And she was interested. She had noticed his downcast mood and asked after him.
And she was pretty, too. And a woman of experience, a married woman, a war widow. It was not as though she were some youthful innocent.
Nor is Anna. What a woman is or was has no bearing on the matter, he reminded himself abruptly. And this time he flinched and hoped that his sudden movement did not stir Cora. Was he really making excuses? Was he trying somehow to rationalize his behaviour? Yes, she, Jane had taken an interest, but had it been more than the polite response of a well-brought-up person? She was a servant, a servant in a tenuous position, a married woman (albeit widowed) in a post reserved for an unmarried woman. It had been in her interest to be pleasant, especially as it had been he who had made the decision to hire her anyway. Not that she knew that.
But…she liked me, too, he argued back.
So she did. He could believe that without self-deception. But did that matter? She was solicitous of my self-pity and I…. He had seized her and kissed her. As though he had a right. As though he might impose himself with impunity on a servant, a woman in a vulnerable position, one whose job depended on his good will.
It did not matter that she was receptive, that she was lonely, too, feeling the absence of her dead husband. It did not matter that she confessed herself willing to snatch fevered moments of passion in the shadows. What mattered, the only thing that mattered, was that he – knowing nothing of her feelings, of her loneliness – had seized her and kissed her. And then immediately apologized, as if that made up for anything. The only thing that mattered was that he was the lord of the manor and she a housemaid. Could she ever be said to be exercising free will in such an unbalanced equation?
He did not think Bates knew. But Bates did not have to know to be right, for Robert to be ashamed of himself. Bates had rebuked Robert and his kind for using those who could not reasonably resist as playthings. And in this Robert had to acknowledge his own guilt. For God's sake, Cora had been in the next room hovering between life and death, and he had been prepared to seduce a maid. What reprehensible behaviour! And who paid the price for his folly? Not him. He owed that to Jane, too. She forfeited her position, a job she needed, for his honour. And what had he done? Paid her off. Generously, to be sure, and in the guise of helping her son. But he had felt that some recompense was necessary.
Robert had not thought of Jane for some time. He was skilled at pushing uncomfortable subjects from his conscious mind. But now here it was again, lying there on the mat, dragged to the fore by a violent act perpetrated against a woman in his own house. How could he be angry or indignant with Bates over those cutting words? It was only the truth.
Anna and John
They had met in the servants' hall after dressing His Lordship and Lady Mary for dinner.
"Lady Mary has suggested I take a few days," Anna murmured to John, who had put a sheltering arm around her as he came up to her.
"His Lordship said the same to me," he told her.
They gazed at each other for a long moment, oblivious to the comings and goings around them.
"I'm not sure what that's supposed to accomplish," Anna said, agitated. She had been clinging to her work as a framework for normality in a world turned upside down for her.
"Who can think, let alone feel, in the midst of this circus," John muttered, jutting his chin in the direction of the little knot of junior maids gossiping at the end of the table.
"But I don't want to think. I just…." But Anna could get no farther. It had been a momentous day emotionally. So much had happened. First the revelation from John and then Lady Mary. She had steeled herself to manage the crisis that had been forced upon her in one way and it had been wholly upended, obliging her to scramble for stability. Now her voice gave her away and she trembled.
"Let's go home now," John said. "Mr. Carson is managing His Lordship tonight. I'm sure Lady Mary…."
"She said to go now," Anna interrupted him.
John needed to hear no more. They would retire to their cottage and there, whether they cried or raged or argued or merely held each other as though there was nothing else in the world but each other, they would be alone. And there they might begin to think about how they might go on, together.