FIC: The Heart of The Woman
Title: The Heart of the Woman
Author: bugs
Fandom: Downton Abbey (Yes, I'm officially writing for too many fandoms that I need to start marking this on each story. And I have like 100 different things I need to be writing for, wow, let's start on some new characters!)
Rating: K+
Word Count: 2,400
Pairing: Bates/Anna
Spoilers: S1 and S3
Summary: A courtship happens at tableside over teacups, mending, and poetry.
A/N: Some S1 UST and Highlands fluff to fight off any S4 blues.
~*~
Duneagle's housekeeper checked over the spare beds' list for the visiting servants, ticking her pen nib down the names. Her head came up when she stopped at Bates followed by Bates. She glanced from Anna to John waiting patiently for their assignments.
"Your sister serves the Granthams as well, Mr. Bates?"
"My wife," John corrected her.
Mrs. Brand looked him over slowly, from his weary face to the tip of his cane, then glanced to Anna again. One of her dark brows rose, saying much without a single spoken word. She was a young woman to be running such a large house, but exhibited the harsh judgment of a woman much older than their own Mrs. Hughes.
"I'm afraid you won't be able to share," Brand said briskly, returning to her list.
Anna opened her mouth to speak but Bates held up his hand to stop her.
"We're accustomed to that, Mrs. Brand," Bates said carefully. "Only when we're at home do we have our own accommodation. Otherwise, it's the women's and men's corridors for us."
Anna was fighting giggles, and he was grateful that she was not upset even if his own pride was burnt around the edges. Idly, he thought of the long Scotland dusks, and how nice it would be to stroll in the evening after they'd put their charges to bed, into the gardens with its many dense shrubs...
They settled into their rooms and then Anna came to the door that sequestered the female servants from the back stairs. John casually checked the lock as he held the door open for her.
"Mr. Bates," Anna said, but the warning in her voice was teasing.
"Just making sure that you'll be secure," he said, guileless.
"Mr. Grantham," the butler McCree said in a manner nearly as imperious as Mr. Carson. "You shall sit here."
John was directed to a chair at the very end of the table, suitable more for a footman than the valet of this grand castle's honored guest.
Before Anna could sit beside him, she was herded by Mr. McCree to a seat next to the butler's spot at the head. Bates only shook his head. Either McCree had already been captured by his wife's charms, or the butler had heard their situation from Mrs Brand and and believed if they were seated beside each other, they would be driven by such passion as to engage in marital relations right on the table before the entire assembled staff.
Bates allowed his imagination to wander at the thought. Such a shame that their own dining table in the cottage was so small and a bit rickety, despite his work with extra nails and glue...How long were they to be at Duneagle; ten days...
Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Anna's shoulders trembling with suppressed laughter as she sank into her seat. She was thinking the same thing. He bowed his head as Mr. McCree said a stern prayer before their meal. This was obviously a somberly kept house, and the Bateses must adhere to these standards or else bring shame on their own household.
Plates were set before them and the clatter of cutlery and glasses livened up the oppressive atmosphere. Until McCree noticed that Anna was only pushing the heavy potatoes and stewed beef around her plate. "Are you not hungry?" he asked, obviously in a pique.
"It's a bit early for us," she told him. "We eat our dinner after the family's."
Miss Wilkins, Lady Flintridge's maid, jumped in: "Oh, I agree with you, Miss Crawley. In London we eat last thing when all the work is done, and I prefer it."
The butler was not mollified. He turned to O'Brien. "How bout you, Miss Grantham?"
The maid glanced up. "Me? I do as I'm told."
Anna didn't look John's way when she started to speak, but he knew that she was firing a shot toward him when she said, "It makes me laugh when I hear Miss O'Brien and Mr. Bates called Mr. and Miss Grantham." Only then did she smile his direction, her eyes sparkling. Yes, as if he and O'Brien could ever be related, let alone wed.
He could play this game too. "Mrs. Bates and I don't often work in the same house party," he said, deciding to see if daring to speak of their shocking entanglement would spur the ill-humored butler to say something which would send Anna into a fit of giggles. Her gasp of a laugh earlier wasn't enough; he missed her easy humor already.
Sure enough, McCree fixed Anna with his beetle-browed stare. "Of course, you two are married, Miss Crawley. How do you manage at home, being called Bates and Bates?"
Even before Anna replied, Bates saw O'Brien's hackles go up. His volley had missed its target and somehow found the miniscule lump of coal that resided in that lady's chest.
"We're not. They still call me Anna, like when I was a housemaid."
Right on cue, Miss O'Brien spoke in her drawling tone: "Which isn't right. I do so hate to see a lady's maid downgraded." She looked John's way with her half-lidded snake's gaze, and he knew that she wasn't just talking about the address. Anna was degrading herself with a vile man as well, and he had to take a deep breath to keep from chuckling. His game had turned on him; now he was the one fighting for control.
"Oh, I so agree, Miss Grantham, but then we would think alike, wouldn't we?" Wilkins nattered. He took a drink of water to push his bubbling laughter down. At least O'Brien would enjoy the holiday with a like-minded soul, even if it meant the rest of them suffered.
The maid seated beside him continued: "It's a treat to have a kindred spirit come to stay. It really is."
When O'Brien sent one of her pained smiles Wilkins' way, Bates realized that he'd never seen her ladyship's maid fully smile with her teeth and he wondered if they were rotten. It would explain a great deal about her temperament.
The butler rose regally and they all stood.
"Tell Mrs. Crane I've gone up. I'll announce dinner in ten minutes." He did not excuse them to sit, so they all waited until his wide back had passed through the doorway.
As soon as they were back in their chairs, Bates leaned forward and gave his wife one of his looks which spoke volumes. Yes, she had won that round. But she simply returned a quick smile before beginning to toy with her cooled supper once more.
He didn't need to sit beside her anymore to feel her warmth, but such a little thing had meant a lot at one time.
His first day at Downton Abbey, he'd sat at the servants' hall table waiting for luncheon, wanting to be out the way of bustling kitchen maids and rushing footmen. Slowly the table had filled as the dining hour drew closer and yet no one sat beside him. Finally Mrs. Hughes sat to his left with a sharp nod of greeting, but it was obviously her place; to the right hand of Mr. Carson.
Then every seat at the table was taken but the two to his right. Miss O'Brien and the pale footman Thomas had taken the chairs directly across from John and stared with open hostility. The footman had been usurped by his arrival, but what did some whey-faced lady's maid care?
Anna dashed in and without hesitation, slipped into the seat directly beside him. He'd seen that she was a sweet girl from the first moment when she'd offered her hand, even though her arms were full. No one else had.
He stared at his plate, not wanting to take advantage of this young woman's kindness.
"How do you find your room?"
He peered at her from under his glowering brow. "Very nice," he said tonelessly.
She ignored his distant manner. "Do you need a bath towel? Or a face flannel?"
"No, thank you. Everything was in the bureau and quite suitable."
"That's good."
She didn't speak again. The pleasantries had run dry. Another maid took the last empty chair by Anna and started chatting with the head housemaid.
Her interest in him was not by chance. Any time he was already seated in the hall and Anna arrived, she'd take the chair beside him; as one was always empty. Even if he sat at the end, with a great stretch of vacant seats beside him, she'd sit at his side. To test her, he moved around the table, trying different seats. And she always chose to join him.
Not that he found this unappealing. It had been decades since any housemaid had cast a tender look his way, but that had been the tall and broad-shouldered footman John, not this stooped and crippled valet Bates. He was easily charmed--pathetic really, he told himself.
It was her laugh, a low gasp, and the way her eyes stayed locked to his while she did it. She was not coy, nor was she a flirt. She was a buttercup, all yellow and white and sunlight, simple country beauty right there in the Abbey's dim bowels.
She was more than a physical object to him, but also someone with whom to talk. In a household full of souls, their chatter an endless din that even rung in his ears when he was in bed, he felt terribly alone.
"What's your book?" she had asked as she took the chair beside him once again, but then added quickly, "oh, don't you hate when someone asks what you're reading. Just get your own book, I want to say."
He closed the slim leather-bound volume around his finger. "Not at all. I'd be happy to share my books."
She flipped open her sewing box and smoothed out her mending to find the tear in the fine silk. "That would be ever so nice," she said.
"What do you enjoy reading?"
"Long novels and poetry, the sadder the better- -" Her expression was bittersweet when she added, "Makes my life seem brighter, do you know what I mean?"
John nodded, but Patrick, one of the younger footmen, cut in, his Yorkshire dialect rough as grit: "Books? I prefer to see a show, I do. With lots of pretty girls."
Anna smiled at John and he felt himself smiling back.
Ignoring the interruption, he told her, "Reading's a good habit. Good for the mind. Keeps it nimble and not engaging in idle thought." He glanced over at Thomas and O'Brien, whispering together in the far corner of the room. "Which can be a poisonous thing.'
She peeked over her shoulder and gave him an outright grin. "I agree."
"Tea?" Daisy asked, struggling along with the large crock teapot.
John thanked her and slid two cups together to be filled. Closer than he and Anna sat. Finished serving, Daisy flopped down beside William at the end of the table, but watching for Mrs. Patmore with a worried shift of her dark gaze.
Turning slightly in her chair so her legs were closer to his, Anna took a sip of tea. She told Bates: "I was lucky, being the youngest. I was able to stay in school until I entered service."
She flushed and checked to see if William and Daisy had heard her as they flipped through a tattered old copy of Punch, looking at the pictures together.
"Not to say I'm any better than I ought to be, but I've had a bit more education than most girls in my situation."
He dared to turn in his chair so their legs were even closer together. "How very fortunate," he said.
"And my mother enjoyed me reading aloud to her. Her sight was failing and she saved it for her sewing. So I could read for hours."
"That was very sweet of you," he commented.
"T'was nothing." She blushed again and bent her bright head back to her sewing.
He contemplated for a moment, then opened his slim volume of Yeats. The page was on 'The Lover Asks Forgiveness Because of His Many Moods.' Best not...He turned to another verse.
"O what to me the little room, that was brimmed up with prayer and rest-"
She whispered, "Thank you, Mr. Bates. That's lovely."
He continued: "He bade me out into the gloom, and breast lies upon his breast-"
Miss O'Brien's caustic voice cut in. "Now, now! Ladies present, Mr. Bates! If you must read such trash, take it to your room."
John folded the book back around his finger and took a deep drink of his tea so that he could not shoot off a retort. Beside him, Anna's sigh was loud. They both shifted back in their chairs to return front and center.
Then there was the day that no one was in the servants' hall, or the kitchen, or around the long table. Only Anna working with one of the ladies' shoes, cleaning off scuffs from the pale satin.
"Where is everyone?" he asked, uneasy.
"They've gone down to the village," she told him. "Some traveling salesman's set up at the pub for the afternoon."
The afternoon. Hours.
The words came out of his mouth before he could stop them: "Alone at last."
She cast up her gaze and it was as vulnerable as he'd ever seen. Gone was the intelligent sparkle, the bright humor. In its place was pure, feminine yearning and he had to sit before his legs gave out.
It had been a small moment, and he had kept talking, went along with his own drudgeful duty polishing brass buttons on the Earl's hunt coat, but he also knew now that she loved him. All from sitting at that scarred oak table, day after day.
At Duneagle's own country table, he leaned forward and looked Anna's direction down its length. As if he'd called out her name, her head turned to meet his gaze. Her smile was slow and promising. As Bates drained his teacup, he decided perhaps Mr. McCree was right to keep them apart, at least for these ten long days.
Anna smile widened and he had the sense that she was reading his mind yet again. Whatever her game would be, he was sure that she would win.
~end