NO MORE SECRETS

Chapter 6 Thursday Afternoon and Evening

Mrs. Patmore and Mr. Barrow

"What'd you mean, tea is cancelled?"

Staring at Mrs. Patmore, Mr. Carson was caught betwixt exasperation and confusion. He'd given a simple instruction. "I didn't say it was cancelled. I said Her Ladyship and His Lordship will take tea in her sitting room. And the others won't have tea in the library." Deeming that sufficiently clear, he turned on his heel and stalked to his pantry, where he slammed the door behind him.

Mrs. Patmore reacted with an exaggerated start. "He's in a state."

"I wonder what that's about," Mr. Barrow mused, taking a long drag on his cigarette.

"You know as little as I do," Mrs. Patmore replied, and then cast him a sidelong glance. "That must hurt."

He exhaled calmly. "I know who's closeted in the library," he said, to show that she was wrong. "Lady Mary, Anna, Mr. Bates. And two policemen from York."

This information did surprise Mrs. Patmore. "The police? What're they doing here?"

He stared meaningfully at her. They had all noticed Anna's bruises.

But Mrs. Patmore only scowled at Mr. Barrow. "Why're you looking so gleeful? You're not wishing them ill, surely."

"Not Anna," he said, pointedly leaving out mention of Mr. Bates. "And if you must know, it's only that I'm glad to see the back of Miss Braithwaite."

"Oh? I thought you were pals."

"Not at all, Mrs. Patmore."

She looked sceptical. "Could have fooled me."

Mary and Robert

Mary was alone in the Great Hall when her father came in.

"Have the police arrived?" he asked.

"Not yet."

"Have Anna and Bates come down?"

"Yes. They're in the library. What are you doing here? I thought you were having tea in Mamma's sitting room."

"I am. We are. But I thought I'd come by to show support for Bates." His gaze circled the otherwise empty room. "Unnecessary, obviously. And, although I don't know that it will help at all, I thought it might be useful to show the police that I support this inquiry."

"Influence isn't what it used to be," Mary agreed drily.

"How is Anna?" Robert asked quietly. "How are they both?"

A little line creased Mary's brow, a reflection of thoughtful consideration. "I don't know, really. Shaken. Numb. I don't know how I would be."

"Will you go in with them?"

A fraction of time ticked by and then Mary said slowly, "No. I don't think so." She saw the question in her father's eyes. "They are adults. They can manage on their own. And … Anna's not well pleased with me at the moment," she added.

Again her father posed a silent question.

"I've pushed her into this. Well, Mrs. Hughes and I."

"Was it the wrong thing to do?" Robert asked, reflecting what he thought he heard in Mary's voice.

She frowned. "No. I don't think so. Though whether Anna can forgive me is another matter."

Robert gave her an understanding smile. "Well, Clarkson wouldn't have it any other way. He seemed to think we might hush it up to avoid the scandal."

"That was presumptuous of him!"

Robert shrugged. "We might have done. Once. It will be in the papers," he added.

"Everything is in the papers," Mary said dismissively, more annoyed by the doctor's impertinence than by adverse publicity. The papers one could always expect to behave badly. Dr. Clarkson usually exhibited more tact.

"Have you spoken to Tony?"

"No. Not yet. If I'm to face Anna's wrath for all of this, then the least I can do is not tip off her assailant."

"Of course. Oh. I wanted to tell Bates that I won't expect him later or this evening, or your mother Anna. We'll muddle on without them, this once. Given the circumstances." It was the very least they could do.

"I've already told Anna," Mary said.

The front door opened and Tom came in, looking puzzled. "The police are just behind me in the drive," he said. "Has something happened?"

"Yes." Robert extended a hand to Tom's shoulder, guiding him in the direction of Cora's sitting room. He glanced back at Mary as he went.

She gave him a little nod and then drew herself up to greet the police.

Anna and John and the Police

Anna and John had sat down on one of the red sofas by the fireplace. Neither of them had ever sat in this room before, but the novelty wholly escaped them.

"You don't have to do this," John said. He'd made this point upstairs, but now repeated himself. "Now or ever. It's your choice."

Anna gave him a ghost of a smile. Choice had played no part in this experience thus far for her. "They'll be here soon. Let's just get it over with." She was resigned, if not reconciled. Control of her own life had been wrenched forcibly from her hands on Sunday night and had eluded recapture ever since.

"I will be defined by this," Anna said hollowly. "I have been made a victim. I am changed. Everything has changed."

John reached for her hand, with a little more confidence than his tentative gestures upstairs. "Yes, everything has changed. But you are a survivor, not a victim. Anna, you are braver than anyone I know."

He was trying hard and Anna appreciated that, in some small part of her brain. That his whole focus had been on her, on them, had helped to dampen her most immediate fear – of John tearing off after Green in a murderous rage. She wasn't sure the impulse was gone, thinking perhaps he'd only set it aside for a time. It might surface again. In this moment, however, it was the way he looked at her that concerned her more. They had wept together in grief upstairs, but there were other emotions yet unexpressed. And though John had responded more lovingly than Anna had imagined, she was alert to any hint that she was no longer good enough for him. He had denied that this was possible. But for Anna that remained to be seen.

There were two plainclothesmen from York. Lady Mary escorted them in and then excused herself. A current of resentment rose in Anna at the sight of Lady Mary and this bolstered her courage to face the policemen who sat down on the opposite sofa.

They were matter of fact, the York men, impassive in demeanour, focused on the facts in their inquiries, and betraying nothing in their manner to suggest that there was anything extraordinary about this report at all. Under the guidance of the senior officer, Anna found it possible to narrate the incident coherently, if not seamlessly. Their clinical approach, like that of the doctor, helped her to navigate the way. But if she managed to speak the words of what happened in an almost neutral tone, she could not shut off her mind to the vivid images that those words described. She saw again the look on his face as he blocked her passage in the kitchen and could now see – or thought she did – the mean glee he took in trapping her, watching her realize what he was about, enjoying the onset of terror. She felt again the dismay-turned-fright as he used his body to corner her, restrain her, overpower her,…violate her. And then the casual, contemptuous leer he wore as he pushed her away, discarding her. She shuddered again.

But the dispassion of the policemen, the nonjudgmental calmness with which they waited out the silences in which she paused to regroup – their behaviour was more helpful, surprisingly, than that of her husband, who was there ostensibly to offer her support. His grip on her hands tightened painfully as she recounted her nightmare. And she could hear him swallowing hard to quell his feelings. Upstairs they had not dwelt on the details. Now he was hearing the story – what had actually happened – for the first time and living a pale echo of what was replaying in her head.

The lead officer asked a few clarifying questions and then announced himself satisfied.

"Thank you, Mrs. Bates. You have done a difficult thing. We appreciate your bringing the matter to our attention."

They all stood up.

"Now what?" Anna asked. The doctor and Lady Mary had pushed this conversation with the police as a way to safeguard her tempestuous husband. Anna had had her doubts. But somehow making a report had given her to hope.

"We'll speak with the housekeeper, Mrs. Hughes. And with the doctor on our way through the village. And we will have Mr. Green picked up for questioning."

"And charged?" John demanded, bristling.

The officer's gaze shifted briefly in his direction and then came back to Anna again. "There appear to be sufficient grounds, but it's early days yet," he said circumspectly.

"What does that mean?" John said sharply.

Beside him, Anna felt her own temper rising, irked with her husband rather than the police. She slipped her hand from John's.

Again the officer addressed Anna. "You will understand, Mrs. Bates, that the only way to deal with such a crime is for the victim to make a report."

Anna flinched at the word victim, but no one noticed. His remark only stirred her aggravation. So everyone said, she thought.

"But…."

Once more John interceded before Anna could open her mouth. She cast an impatient look at him, but he was glaring at the policeman. "But what?" he demanded.

"This is a very difficult crime to prosecute." The York man spoke flatly and responded as though Anna, not her husband, had issued the questioning prompt. "You understand that it is fundamentally a problem of your word again his, it being a crime without witnesses."

"You have witnesses," John persisted, his tone increasingly belligerent. "Talk to Mrs. Hughes! And to the doctor! They will corroborate…."

"As I have already said, we will," the officer said curtly, interrupting. "And there is, too," he added, almost delicately, "the question of consent. Could the man reasonably have believed that there was consent?"

Anna had to grab John's arm lest he lunge at the man. "Does this look like consent?" John roared pointing to Anna's face.

The policeman was unmoved. He stared steadily into Anna's eyes. "I am only trying to be honest with you, Mrs. Bates. It's difficult to believe, but you have done the right thing, the best thing, even if what follows is not wholly satisfactory."

While John fumed, Anna only nodded, an icy calm having descended on her. "I understand," she said, without inflection. "Thank you." She took a breath. "Should we take you downstairs to Mrs. Hughes's sitting room?"

"No, thank you. There was a footman in the hall." The two men nodded to her and left.

The door had hardly closed behind them than John erupted.

"Consent! Your word against his! Not wholly satisfactory!" He almost spat these phrases. He strode the room, back and forth, his step thundering with the vehemence of his feelings. "What is the point of having police, then!"

Anna did nothing to dispel his anger. Instead, she was working to control her own.

Mrs. Hughes

When he'd seen the police in the passage, Mr. Carson had waved Mrs. Hughes to one side.

"Use my pantry," he said.

She was grateful. The butler's pantry was larger and was not haunted by the scenes of Sunday night that she would have to describe.

"Would you like me to stay?" Mr. Carson asked gently.

Mrs. Hughes appreciated his concern and she would indeed have liked someone to hold her hand while she gave her evidence. But Mr. Carson could hardly do that. So she shook her head and replied in a matter-of-fact tone that belied her inner distress, "No, thank you, Mr. Carson. I'll be fine." She would not have let a maid of the house be interviewed by the police without supervision, but she was a mature woman and the housekeeper.

The conversation was brief and to the point. The police were concerned only with the facts and she gave them. There was nothing emotional about it. The officer in charge asked a few perfunctory questions, thanked her for her time, and left.

Mrs. Hughes remained where she was. The dispassion of the police had made for an almost dry exchange, but her feelings were stirred all the same as they reviewed the chronology of Sunday night. She sat still, trying to find a way to manage them that she might get on about her business.

"Are you all right?"

She looked up to find Mr. Carson in the doorway, looking concerned.

"Yes," she said automatically. Then, "No."

He came in and sat in the chair beside her rather than take up his usual place behind the desk. He said nothing, waiting.

"I promised Anna I would keep it secret. That's what she wanted. And now I've gone and told everyone." Mrs. Hughes met the butler's steady gaze. "It grates to break a promise." Grates. That was an understatement.

"It was a promise that should never have been made," he intoned sympathetically. "Or asked."

"Perhaps. But it was. And I did. And I can't help but feel…." She recalled the venomous note in Anna's accusation and the fury of betrayal in her eyes, "…that I've done wrong."

"You may feel as you like and no one can tell you differently," Mr. Carson said. "But you were not wrong, Mrs. Hughes." There was no lack of confidence in the butler's words. He spoke from the outside, from an objective perspective where right and wrong were clear. "The reason we have a state that is responsible for the law and takes enforcement out of our hands is that an individual cannot make a sound decision in moments of pain or hurt. If another transgresses against me and mine, my reaction is likely to be inappropriate at best, possibly excessive, and may even be aimed at the wrong person entirely. When we are in the midst of it, we are governed by our emotions. We make poor choices."

"Left to her own devices in this, Anna might be … she might be attacked again, if that man ever returned here, which he might. Unchecked, he poses a threat to women everywhere. And, ungoverned by the state, Mr. Bates might take matters into his own hands. By acting as you did, you behaved responsibly. You looked to the greater good, Mrs. Hughes. Of Anna, of the whole female contingent here at Downton upstairs and down, and of Mr. Bates. And I salute your wisdom," he added solemnly.

She did not doubt his sincerity. And his confidence, more than the words themselves, bolstered her spirits a little, if only for that it showed he did not despise her. And she agreed with him in her head. But in her heart she felt the weight of her treason. It carried a heavy price, paid out in Anna's good opinion of her. That was now an empty account.

"Thank you, Mr. Carson." He was, after all, doing his best to ease her burden. "But to misquote Mrs. Patmore, being right butters no parsnips."

Anna and Mr. Bates had retired to their cottage after their interview with the police. Mrs. Hughes and Lady Mary had tacitly agreed to this. They also agreed that Mrs. Hughes might attend to Her Ladyship and Lady Mary would, this once, look after herself. Her Ladyship, Mrs. Hughes was relieved to find, did not indulge her curiosity or ask awkward questions. After a single statement of sympathy, they just got on with their business.

"Barrow claims to have a candidate for the position of lady's maid," Her Ladyship said. "As he will vouch for her, I think we might call her up as soon as possible to lighten your load, Mrs. Hughes. What do you think?"

Well, after the fiasco of Edna Braithwaite Mrs. Hughes was more of a mind to insist on proper procedures, especially as the source of the proposed lady's maid was Mr. Barrow. But in the circumstances, she did not have the will to resist.

"We can give her a trial, anyway," Her Ladyship said, perhaps sensing the hesitation.

Mrs. Hughes agreed.

Supper downstairs was quiet, dictated by the moods of the butler and housekeeper, and the absence of the valet and lady's maid. Mrs. Hughes noticed Mr. Barrow and James exchanging smirks, but she said nothing. Her attention was drawn, instead, to the maids at the foot of the table. They were all young women, not all of them pretty, but almost certainly innocent (for Mrs. Hughes would not have a compromised girl in the house). It might have been any one of them, she thought. In the perverse logic that was the mind of a predator, the fresh and innocent, or the warm-hearted and open, were more attractive targets than the jaded and experienced. Terror was more easily induced in those who were not acquainted with evil and there was more satisfaction to be gained by the twisted in the shattering of trust.

As she headed for her sitting room after the meal, Mrs. Hughes heard a snatch of conversation between Mr. Barrow and James.

"…is unusual for a man to face the police for knocking his wife about." It was Mr. Barrow's voice. "I wonder at Anna going back to him."

Before James had the chance to reply, Mrs. Hughes had planted herself firmly before them. "Come with me, Mr. Barrow."

She led him to her sitting room, closed the door, and then gave rein to her distemper.

"It is not your place to speculate on events about which you know nothing," she said heatedly. "I know you enjoy baiting Mr. Bates, Thomas, but this is not the time. Mr. Carson is only looking for an opportunity to pare down the staff. Don't give him a reason to consider you."

She shut the door behind him with too much force and immediately regretted her words. Such a rebuke was more likely to spur Thomas on than deter him. She had let her anger get away from her. Innuendo and gossip were what came of discretion and concealment.

And yet, despite all of this, despite the assuring words of Lady Mary and Mr. Carson, and despite her own conviction that Mr. Bates had a right to know, when she retired to her room for the night, none of this mattered to Mrs. Hughes. All she could think of was Anna.

Anna, in tears and tatters on Sunday night.

Anna, begging for her assistance and discretion.

Anna, relying on her to keep a secret.

No. Anna relying on the housekeeper to respect her wishes, to allow Anna to play out the cards that had been dealt to her in her own way, and how she judged best. Mrs. Hughes agreed with the logic of state and the law as Mr. Carson had outlined them. But did one's own wishes have no legitimate place in the unfolding of human affairs? Why were not Anna's needs as an individual as important, or more so, than the nebulous demands of the many?

Mrs. Hughes had made her decision and acted upon it and there was no going back now. Second guessing was never productive. But she had hurt Anna grievously in this and their relationship, which was one of the few in her life at Downton that Mrs. Hughes cherished, would not be the same. In the darkness and loneliness of her room, Mrs. Hughes pondered this. And wept.