I've seen Perfection

Part ten

Hello, my dears! What can I say? I seem to be quite inspired these last few days...
Good for you that I have a forty-minute train drive to University and nothing else to pass the time! Not yet...

Short again, but better than nothing anyway!

And a note: the first two scenes start around the same time, to avoid confusion with temporal sequences;)

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"Are you ready?"

Anna Bates had just finished the embroidery she had had to attend to for Lady Mary. It was far later than they normally used to go home to their cottage, but as John also had work to do he only reluctantly would have put off until the next day, they had agreed to stay longer today to finish their tasks.

"In a minute", John smiled at his wife with a shoe brush in his hand. "You can go ahead to get your coat, darling, I won't be long."

"I'd rather stay and watch you", she suggested instead with a hint of a mischievous smile.

"Watch me polish His Lordships shoes?" John looked at her disbelievingly and Anna couldn't help but laugh lightly.

"No", she said lovingly. "Watch you work concentratedly. I like the way you look when you're concentrated."

"In that case, my dear, feel free to watch", John declared and made an inviting gesture with the brush, causing them both to giggle.
Anna was just about to come in and sit at her husband's side, when they heard a bump echoing through the corridor, followed by the scratching sound of a chair that was pushed back hurriedly. Anna threw a glance in the direction where the noise had come from, and when she looked back at John, he met her eyes with likewise questioningly raised eyebrows.

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Charles Carson stared at the paper in front of him, the quill ready but motionless in his right hand - the untouched wide surface of white before his eyes seemed to mock him, empty, apart from three little words right on the top.

Dear Mrs Hughes,

He didn't know how many times he had written that today. Had written it, had written a little more, had degenerated it and crossed it out. He had lost count of it.
He brought the quill down on the sheet and watched how the words appeared as he wrote.

I hope you'll believe me when I say that I'm very sorry about yesterday and that you'll accept my apology. Our conversation didn't go as I planned, I was-

A stupid idiot, he finished the sentence in his head. Unable to make himself clear, too afraid to just tell her. Instead, he had behaved like a fool, had talked around it and not only failed in his confession, but probably ruined everything.
An idiot and a coward.
Now he was even too afraid to talk to her, had decided to try and tell her on paper instead, but that was not of much success either.
He looked down at the words he had written, finding them to be empty and inane, not at all what he wanted to tell her. It was all wrong. Again.
He ripped the sheet from the pad, crumpled it up in frustration and threw it in the paper basket in one of the corners of his pantry. It was already overflowing with paper balls, so as the last one hit the top, it bounced off and fell to the floor with a quiet rustle. But Mr Carson did neither care nor notice, his attention already on the new piece of paper before him. He dipped the quill into fresh ink and put the tip to paper to write the words again, when he hesitated.
Was it right to begin with "Dear Mrs Hughes"? Or was that already too familiar? Would she be offended as she was already cross with him? Maybe he should simply address her as "Mrs Hughes", he considered. But then again, what if that sounded too impersonal and would make her lay the letter aside without even taking a further look at its content?