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It had been almost four weeks since Joseph Molesley had last seen Miss Phyllis Baxter in person.
More accurately, it had been three weeks, four days, and (if the church bells could be trusted) slightly over twenty hours since she’d informed him that she would be accompanying the Crawley family to France. Since his teaching duties would not allow him such a long time off so near the end of the term, even if Molesley had been asked to accompany the family in his capacity as a footman (which he had not), he would not have been able to.
So three weeks, four days, and slightly over twenty hours ago, they’d said their goodbyes, complete with several frantic kisses that most certainly would have shocked their friends (had they been caught).
Their friends would have been even more shocked had they witnessed what occurred between Mr. Molesley and Miss Baxter in his cottage precisely three weeks, six days, and slightly over twenty hours ago.
Even all this time later he felt a blush at the memory. Despite the terrible mugginess of the day, as he hurried to finish weeding his garden before the summer storm hit, he could feel shivers all over at the memory of what had transpired on that fateful afternoon when Miss Baxter– Phyllis –had simply requested he should remain silent.
Molesley crouched down, wiping the sweat from his forehead as he allowed his mind a moment to linger on the memory of the afternoon they’d shared–so far from proper, yet not quite completely improper. He’d long since given up fighting it–his mind would return to the kisses they shared, the feel of her body, the pleasure they’d given each other on that fleeting, thrilling afternoon. At least with classes finally done, he was no longer drifting off into totally unacceptable flights of fancy when he was meant to be helping the pupils revise.
A quick survey of his peonies assured him that he was no better at focusing on pulling weeds. Two of the small dianthus he was pruning lay in tattered ruins before him. With a sigh of apology, he pulled the remains of the poor destroyed plants from the soil.
Less than two days. The Crawleys were due to return on Sunday. Less than two days, and he’d see her again.
He’d written to her every day since she left.
He’d sent one letter each week, as most were simply too…explicit to send through international mail.
He couldn’t help himself. What would start as a simple recount of the day’s events would rapidly devolve into a shameless dissertation on her various charms–physical, emotional, spiritual–and his desire to explore the most intimate architecture of her body. The first one, upon rereading, had him blushing so furiously at his candor that he dare not send it to her. After the first two attempts, he gave up trying to control his words. He poured his desire for her–to see and touch her, to hear her laugh, to bask in her slightly crooked smile–onto the page. Day after day, letter after letter, his descriptions grew more distinct, his bold desires finding free expression on letters he knew he would not post. After a week of such chronicles, he dashed out a quick, bland letter and posted it without a second read. While he couldn’t send the letters his heart (and body) composed, he certainly did not want her to think he’d forgotten her.
Her letters came once a week, full of kind words and lovely descriptions of the house in France. Her letters were peppered with anecdotes about the French housekeeper who had decided Mrs. Patmore could not be trusted in the kitchen, and the tiny dogs the French ladies dressed up in ridiculous fashion. (She’d included a sketch of one such beast–a curly-haired Cocker Spaniel festooned with ribbons–that made him laugh so hard it hurt.)
He envied her composure more now than ever. It was true, what his dad had once said. Joseph Molesley was better than any man in England for talking his way out of a good thing.
Less than two days.
In less than two days, he would present himself at Downton Abbey, dressed in his Sunday best, and give her his mother’s wedding ring. Molesley knew he didn’t deserve her. He knew he was lucky she even gave him a second glance. He’d carried that ring in his jacket pocket for over a year now, waiting for the perfect moment to pop the question.
But now, he was determined. He would make the perfect moment. He would make it happen, and he would declare his love for her unequivocally and undeniably.
He’d had a small taste of paradise, and he knew he would never be satisfied until they were good and properly married. Until she and the whole world knew the scope of his love for her.
“Those poor flowers.”
Perhaps it was the heat, but he actually thought he heard Miss Baxter’s voice. Glancing up from his thoughts, he saw her standing at the edge of the garden, her slight body framed against the cloudy sky. “Miss Baxter!” He practically fell as he sprung to his feet, aching joints be damned. “You’re here!”
She laughed softly, extending a hand to steady him. She was dressed not in her uniform, but in a soft blue dress with a matching hat. She wore no gloves but carried a basket covered with a simple cloth. “There was a storm headed for the Channel, and Her Ladyship decided it best to come home early.” By the time he had stumbled across the remains of his flowers to her side, she was grinning widely. “I’m certain it had nothing to do with Mme. Duchamps and Lady Mary being at each others’ throats for the last week…” She nodded to the basket. "Some treats from France."
He could only stare at her, gaping like a balding Cocker Spaniel, minus the ridiculous ribbons. “You’re here,” he repeated, his voice matching the huge grin on his face. He leaned in to kiss her but stopped with an “Oh!” He pulled off his gloves, shoving them into the pockets of his work trousers. “I…I didn’t realize….I’m a right mess. I would have….”
She took his hands in hers and pressed a tender kiss to his lips. “You look marvelous. A sight for sore eyes.”
The touch of her lips ignited a shock wave through his body that nearly knocked him off his feet. Decorum forgotten, he pulled her into a deep kiss, pouring everything he was feeling into that one gesture. It could have been seconds, minutes… days before they parted. He didn’t know, honestly. The entire universe, all of time and space, had collapsed into Phyllis Baxter, and nothing else held even the slightest relevance to him.
“You’re home,” he whispered, kissing her again.
“I’m home,” she responded against his lips.
“I’ve missed you.”
She smiled, leaning her forehead against his. “I’ve missed you, too.”
When she kissed him again, time stopped.
At that moment, Joseph Molesley felt a clarity of mind and purpose he’d never before known (and would probably never know again.) His racing pulse calmed. His thoughts, always a chaotic swirl in his mind, fell into place. It was as if all of history had synced, harmoniously, into this one, pure moment of joy.
When they separated, he found himself going down on one knee. Filthy, slightly sweaty, and as far away from acceptable as he could imagine, he lowered himself into the dirt and took her hand in his. Her eyes widened, but she–being wise enough to know when to speak and when not to–said nothing.
“I don’t ever want to be apart again,” he said softly.
“I don’t either.”
“I have a ring–in the house.” He smiled up at her, and her laughter felt like a shower of light around him. “And several letters that I don’t dare show you until our honeymoon.” He lowered his lips to her hand. “But I can’t wait any longer. Please marry me. I don’t deserve you, and I don’t care. I want you in my life, and I will literally spend the rest of my life making you happy.”
“Of course, I’ll marry you,” she laughed as she kissed the top of his head. “Now get up, silly.”
He grinned up at her. “Um, I think I might need a bit of help with that.” True to his word, his grand gesture had been slightly more ambitious than his knees could handle after an afternoon in the garden.
She reached down to pull him up, only to slip as they both went tumbling into the dirt. Her basket of French jams lay scattered about them. As they lay there, laughing too hard to get up, the sky opened and begin to spill large drops of rain on the couple. Before they could finally stand, they were both soaking wet, laughing, and holding each other tightly as they ran towards the cottage.
“Typical,” Molesley said to the rain, and the rain just continued laughing with them both.
The End