Downton Abbey 1. Chapter 1

**_So basically, ever since Series 5 of Downton began, I have been headcanoning things for Baxter/Molesley nonstop. This story will follow their story trajectory in the canon to a certain point. But I'm sure it'll veer off into fanon territory, especially since this is my contribution to NaNo this year. I'll try to post updates a couple of times a week. Bear with me though because I'm aiming for 50,000 words in 30 days, and my editing isn't nearly as thorough as it usually is. As always, I'd love to hear your thoughts (both good & bad). And to all of the other Baxley fans out there, enjoy! :) _  
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><p>The brakes shrieked into place, the churning of the train's wheels shifting to a slower pace. Phyllis Baxter jerked awake from the shrill noise and the change in motion, glancing around out of slight bewilderment.<p>

How long had she been asleep? Did she miss her stop?

She felt herself grow suddenly hot, despite the lack of heat present in the compartment. She gazed out the window, trying to find any signs or distinguishing marks that might set her nerves at ease.

To no avail, she glanced anxious to the seats across from her. And of the older couple that sat there, only the woman met her eye. Her husband appeared preoccupied with the worn book resting in his lap.

She smiled at Phyllis, and told her, "We're in Yorkshire, dear."

She could relax considerably now at this revelation. Still, she widened her eyes in disbelief, "Already?"

"Coming from a world away are you?" The woman probed curiously. "You were fast asleep for quite sometime," She explained.

Realigning their gazes, Phyllis nodded before adding politely, "London, Ma'am." She tightened her grip on her handbag, sitting on the edge of her seat while the train slowly crawled into the station.

"Oh a city girl, are ya?" She assumed knowingly.

This assumption made her a bit self-conscious, and Phyllis looked down at herself briefly. Her sandy brown coat was only a couple of years old, not yet giving off a worn appearance. And her black travelling boots, well those were new. Shined to near perfection. And her bell shaped hat, went along with the latest fashions, but it also belonged to her sister. She wasn't dressed ostentatiously for third-class car standards. At least in her mind.

She looked up at the woman and shrugged, "Not really, no."

The lady's brow furrowed and she frowned as if she didn't quite understand.

"I spent a time there. As a ladies maid, but...city life just wasn't for me." Phyllis answered plainly, glancing back out the window to see if it was safe to exit the train yet.

"Oh a ladies maid! How nice. I'm sure it was quite exciting leading such a life in a place like." She gushed, enthralled by ideas of grandeur that were associated with a big city. She then leaned forward, flicking her hand in Phyllis' direction, "I couldn't manage it of course but...you're young."

"Not that young," Phyllis replied, realizing she probably sounded more abrasive than she meant. "But...I'll thank you for the compliment if that was your intent," She inclined her head, and then stood when it felt as though the train fully came to a halt.

She pulled out her suitcase and the box that held her sewing machine from beneath her seat. Leaning forward, she unhitched the lock on the compartment door and carefully nudged open the door with her foot.

"Have a safe journey wherever you're headed," Phyllis told the couple politely before stepping down onto the platform, carefully balancing her luggage on both arms.

"Enjoy your time in the country!" The woman waved in return.

The door clicked shut and Phyllis was left standing on the platform. Her stomach knotted nervously as she glanced around, trying to determine if Thomas intended to pick her up directly or if he sent someone from the house.

She slowly walked towards the line in front of the ticket counter, watching the comings and goings of people unfold around her.

She watched families reunite happily, those returning home to loved ones and friends. And then there were those who were bidding bitter farewell to the ones they cared for, ready to get on the train as it sat in transit.

A heaviness wrought its way into her chest as she recalled her departure from London about a day ago, and how she had nothing more than a letter full of promises she was skeptical to believe in. It came with a one way ticket to Yorkshire and an overnight stop in Manchester. It was far more than she deserved. Especially from someone like Thomas Barrow.

They hadn't spoke in years, even before the whole business at Overton Square, quite some time had passed since their last letter to one another. The only strand connecting them still was his sister, Marie. And even her communication with Phyllis was spotty as of late.

She couldn't blame her though. It all came as quite a shock to her family. How could she expect her closest friend from childhood to feel differently? She couldn't.

Her lone departure from the factory house in London was welcoming in comparison to the one she experienced in Manchester that morning. Her sister's iciness was noted from the moment she received her.

Yet what other choice did Myrtle have. Phyllis was her younger sister, her family, in spite of everything. And she'd not break a promise that she made to their mother on her death bed. _Look after Phyllis, when I'm gone. I worry about her._ Myrtle felt compelled to remind her of this during her evening's stay on Thatchery Farm.

Even though the food was meager, her lodgings basic, and the farewell brief and unfeeling, Phyllis dared not to complain. She was free. And this new work that Thomas spoke of in his letter, it was more than she could have hoped for. A position higher than she ever expected to be considered for at this stage in her life.

Still, she wrestled with being dishonest about it. Struggled with the idea of withholding the crucial piece of information that explained why she went from being a well respected ladies maid to a sewing girl in a London.

But Thomas promised her a second chance, just as swiftly as he promised he'd find someone else for the role if she didn't make up her mind in a timely fashion. Or, if she couldn't agree to the terms he made, in the event that she were hired, he'd make a point to tell Lady Grantham and her chances of ever finding work in service again would go from slim to nonexistent.

And she couldn't go back to the factory house.

It was cold, and barely the middle of autumn. She was lucky and had a coat, but she wouldn't be allowed to wear it since it didn't comply with the dress requirements. The overseer was cruel to the point of nearly abusing his employees, all of which were downtrodden women.

For once in her life, she was grateful for her plain face. Grateful he'd pass over her for such favors that the younger, prettier girls were forced to endure else they'd lose their jobs. And without receiving tips or other "benefits" these younger girls claimed in exchange for demeaning themselves, Phyllis' wages were incompatible with the grueling hours. She could barely afford to keep up with the high demands of her landlord, and keep food on her table.

But she refused to fall further in the world. She wouldn't give up her virtue, or whatever else of it remained in tact. She wouldn't sell her body to the night like some of the other girls secretly did. Just as she wouldn't give up the few precious things she had prior to her time in Holloway, no matter how scarce the money became.

So in spite of her newly restored morals, Phyllis accepted the proposition. How bad could it be? The Thomas Barrow she knew was a mischievous little boy, who cried until he got his way or gained someone's sympathy. He couldn't ask her to do anything worse than what she'd already done. Could he?

Doubt overtook the hope that once kept her spirits buoyant, but she refused to let them sink to the bottom of an ocean full of despair. She wouldn't squander this opportunity. So many women she'd met in recent years fell victim to wasted second chances at a good and meaningful life. Phyllis Baxter promised herself she'd never be one of them.

Shuffling forward in line, she fished her ticket out of her handbag and presented it to the teller. He tore it in half, giving her back an uneven piece, and she made her way out into the gravel lot full of cars, carts, and trolleys to take those arriving on their way.

Phyllis squinted against the brilliant sunlight, bringing a hand over her brow to shield her eyes while she searched for any sign of Thomas or anyone who looked just as lost as she did. She started aimlessly weaving through the parked vehicles, her head turning with each cry or shout that reached her ears. But beyond staring up into the faces of each person that made up this expansive crowd, she didn't notice anything familiar.

She took in a deep breath, trying to remain calm. She reminded herself that she only just arrived and while he assured her getting away from the house wouldn't pose a problem, something may have changed. She wouldn't let herself worry just yet. Even if the thought of being stranded in a city she knew nothing about made her stomach clench.

The sounds all blended together. The whinnying of a couple of horses who were startled by the engines of motorcars that sputtered noisily to life. The cries of children, dissatisfied or agitated for various reason were soon dispelled by the gruff scolding from their parents. And the buzz of lowly chatter. That was what she focused on. The consistency of conversation unfolding while people stepped around her.

She wondered how odd she probably looked, standing motionless against the sea of people forced to part around her. She kept her head down, arms pressed inward at her sides, attempting to keep out of everyone's way.

As the crowd began to thin out, she noticed a particular cart led by a horse resting by a stone wall. A man in a long, dark coat and matching hat, leaned into the wall, causally smoking a cigarette. She noticed his face was clean shaven, but beyond that, the distance blurred any distinguishing features. Still, his demeanor reminded her of Thomas at eleven, smoking openly in the schoolyard, much to the teachers dismay. Part of her held onto the slight hope that perhaps it was him.

Once he finished his smoke, and she watched him toss it onto the ground, effectively crushing the butt of it with the toe of his shoe. Then his face turned in her direction, squinting as if he saw something recognizable in her. She stared back at him, and he tilted his head to the side. His mouth curled into a sly grin that brought Phyllis back several years to one of the times he flung mud at her dress after Sunday Mass, and he found it was amusing.

A sense of relief washed over her, and they both walked towards one another, meeting halfway between the wall and the station office.

"Well, well, well," Thomas sneered, his eyes traveling across her form as if sizing her up. "Phyllis Baxter."

Rolling back her shoulders, she returned neutrally. "Hello Thomas," Her jaw clenched as she tried to anticipate what might happen next.

"Never thought I'd see you again," He stated, reaching for the heavy suitcase that hung by her side.

"Well..." She handed over her bag to him and shrugged again, "...now you'll see a great deal of me."

"Assuming you get the job," He answered smartly, jerking his head in in the direction of the cart so she knew to follow him.

Bringing her hands together, she started picking at her leather gloves, focusing her attention forward. She wouldn't let him know that his comment rattled her, even if it did intensify her nerves.

_You were once a ladies maid in a great house, you know how everything works._ She remembered his words, thinking they were meant to be encouraging. How quickly he could manipulate them to mean something else entirely. _This is the best and only offer you'll ever receive. I would think about it carefully before you so easily dismiss my terms. Besides, where do you get off being all high and mighty? You've fallen as far as anyone can. Your only way is up, and I can get you there._

"I expected you to back out, truth be told," He cast a glance over his shoulder at her, his eyes darkening with glee. "But it's good to know your moral compass still doesn't point at true north."

"I won't do anything illegal for you," She piped up suddenly, surprised to hear the bought of strength in her voice.

He scoffed in response, "Don't be daft. I didn't ask you here to do anything of the sort." He set her case in the back of the cart, and then turned to face her. Offering her his hand, he helped her up onto the front seat of the servant's cart, "It wouldn't be beneficial for _me_, for you to go back to prison."

The mention of the word itself sent a chill down her spine. But she kept a stony face while settling atop the cart. Even if it were beneficial for him to send her back to Holloway, she wouldn't do his bidding. She'd done all of that before for no real cause or purpose in the end.

She wouldn't sacrifice her freedom by making the same mistake twice. Even if he knew what made her weak, which pressure points to hit, she would never let him (or anyone for that matter) reduce her to nothing more than a common criminal ever again.

Thomas might be right about some things in regards to her character. He might yield some power over her. But if all went according to plan, she'd hold him to his word both written and spoken. He would help lift her back up in the world again. And he'd ensure that she wouldn't go back to prison. As long as she paid his asking price, she could stomach the measly deception and games he wanted her to play for his own amusement. She only hoped he wouldn't ask for too much.

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><p>When they arrived at Downton, Baxter was awestruck by the size of it all. It first appeared in the distance, on top of a hill that stretched across what she presumed to be nearly a thousand acres. A proper view of it was half obstructed by a variety of trees scattered along the many peaks and valleys in the landscape.<p>

But she could still sense it was a grand home even then. It's enormity felt a bit overwhelming the closer the cart carried them. And while Thomas guided the horses around back, Phyllis felt insignificant in comparison, being cast in the shadow of such an enormous giant.

He instructed her to leave her things in the back of the cart, save for her handbag. They didn't want to appear too eager should it all go horribly wrong.

"Remember what I told you?" Thomas reminded under his breath while the entered through the back door. "The part about why you left The Benson's?"

She nodded, "I remember."

"Good," He waited for her to enter the servants hall before shutting the door behind them both. "Wait here," Thomas instructed plainly, "I'll fetch Mrs. Hughes."

She did as she was told. Yet part of her couldn't help but take a tentative step forward and glance at her new surroundings.

Phyllis was immediately met with the sounds of harsh scolding followed by the clanging of what sounded like metal pots, and then the hammering of wood hitting wood. She watched as people dressed all in black milled in between three open archways, carrying various objects for their own reasons.

It all seemed rather efficient. And Baxter found her lips curling up at the corners as memories from what felt like another lifetime ago came rushing back.

She heard a jingling of keys matched with a steady gait, and soon made eye contact with the woman she presumed to be Mrs. Hughes, Thomas trailing behind her.

"You must be, Ms. Baxter," She greeted cordially enough, her words tinged with a stronger accent than she anticipated. She studied Phyllis closely, waiting for her reply.

"Yes," Phyllis replied with a half smile.

"I'm Mrs. Hughes, the housekeeper," She extended a hand for her to shake.

Placing her hand in Mrs. Hughes', Phyllis returned quietly, "It's a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Hughes."

She nodded in response, her face not aptly displaying any pleasantries or cruelties that Phyllis could pick up on.

"Why don't we have a seat in my sitting room?" She suggested, extending her hand towards the door that was half cracked open from just across the hall.

Baxter crossed the corridor, stepping inside. Mrs. Hughes followed, shutting the door behind her and leaving Thomas on the other side.

"I'd like to have a chat before you meet her Ladyship," She stated, gesturing for Baxter to sit down.

"Of course," Baxter complied.

"Would you like some tea?" She placed a hand on the floral teapot that rested on a tray between both chairs.

"If you're having some, then yes, please."

"Very good," Mrs. Hughes bobbed her head, and began pouring the tea in two tiny cups of a similar pattern to her pot. She paused, glancing up to ask, "Milk or sugar?"

"Milk please, no sugar."

She passed her the cup and saucer, and Baxter took a slow, careful sip of the warm drink. Mrs. Hughes then settled down in the chair opposite her, and did the same. After a few minutes of silence, she spoke up again.

"So you've known Mr. Barrow for quite some time?"

"We grew up together," Phyllis explained briefly.

"Oh," This peaked Mrs. Hughes' interest. A wry smile tugged at her mouth, "I bet you have some tales."

Baxter laughed quietly, lowering her gaze back into her teacup.

"He speaks very highly of your skills when you worked for a Mrs. Benton?" She wondered.

This forced Baxter to glance up at her again. She smiled and nodded, "I enjoyed working there very much. She was a good, kind woman, and the household was well respected."

There was a pause while Mrs. Hughes considered her words. Arching a brow, she probed curiously, "Then why leave?"

Baxter inhaled and then released a steady breath, "It was me mother. She fell ill and..." She glanced off to the side for dramatic effect, "...she needed looked after. My sister couldn't do it, so the task fell to me." Her eyes found Mrs. Hughes once more, and she could see the empathy etched in the other woman's visage.

"Oh, I am sorry to hear that."

The sincerity in her words, made Baxter feel a bit uneasy. She didn't like the dishonesty, even if it were only by omission as Thomas put it whenever they worked out the story. Her Mother did fall ill, and she was left to care for her, only she couldn't.

Thinking back on it all was too painful for her to face now. She didn't wish to come across as too familiar after only just meeting Mrs. Hughes. So Baxter blinked several times, and shook her head slightly as if to dust away the emotional cobwebs.

"That's how I ended up in the sewing house," She explained whenever the strength in her voice propelled her forward, "I had to work, still. And I couldn't stay on as a ladies maid, and care for my Mother."

"I see," Mrs. Hughes tilted her head to the side.

"But I...I didn't let it change me," Phyllis insisted proudly, not wanting Mrs. Hughes to get the wrong idea on the type of person she was. "I know those places are viewed as less than...well, respectable. But I...I never once did anything dishonorable while I worked..."

"You don't have to explain yourself, Ms. Baxter," She held up a hand, forcing Baxter to swallow her words. "The decision doesn't lie with me, but with Lady Grantham. She'll never know what you and I discussed. Unless of course, she asks you herself."

"Yes, of course," Baxter nodded, taking another sip of tea to steady herself. She didn't want to change Mrs. Hughes' mind about keeping their talk confidential, and risk anymore unnecessary words spilling out of her mouth.

"I just thought you should know that..." Mrs. Hughes began, pausing to consider what might be an appropriate method of finishing her thoughts, "...her Ladyship requires a dependable maid. One who can be trusted, and who is reliable. She's not been lucky enough to find one with either quality as of late. That's why you're here," She told her plainly.

"Under normal circumstances there would be a formal interview process," Mrs. Hughes continued with a heavy sigh, implying that this wasn't their usual way of doing things at Downton, and she didn't quite approve of this. "But as it is, her Ladyship trusts Mr. Barrow's judgment when it comes to members of this staff. So she's willing to give you a chance to prove yourself useful."

Baxter eyes widened out of surprise she wasn't quite sure she heard her correctly, "You mean...I...I have the job?"

"A trial period," Mrs. Hughes corrected. "That's all I can offer. The rest is up to you and her Ladyship."

Baxter inclined her head, and gushed excitedly, "Well I'm mighty grateful to at least have a chance to show my skills. It means a great deal to me, Mrs. Hughes."

"Well that's settled then," Mrs. Hughes placed her teacup down beside her, and then announced. "I'll go up, and see if her Ladyship's ready to meet you now."

"Thank you," She couldn't stop her mouth from curling into a pleased grin.

When Mrs. Hughes left her alone Ms. Baxter exhaled the lofty breath she'd been holding in, and leaned back more comfortably in the chair. For the first time in a long while, she felt at ease.


	2. Chapter 2

_**First of all, a HUGE thank you to everyone whose shown interest in this story thus far. I greatly appreciate it. I want to note that while I will be including some dialogue/scenes from canon, there will be some changes in chronology as well as which ones show up in full length and which ones are more briefly mentioned in the character's thoughts. Also, I will be including other characters in this, but only as they relate to Baxter & Molesley's storyline. Alrighty, here we go again folks, enjoy! :)**_

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><p>Baxter walked carefully up the stairs. The wide tray covered with all that Lady Grantham required for breakfast carefully balancing in between her arms. So far this week she managed to forget the marmalade for the toast once, and the sugar for the fruit bowl twice. This time she was convinced she made the tray just perfectly. Even with the additional glass of orange juice that Thomas convinced her to add.<p>

_Praise America, and don't forget about Lady Sybil,_ his words rang throughout her ears. You'll have her eating out of your hand. And as far as he knew, that was her intention.

No matter what he believed her motives to be, Baxter just hoped Lady Grantham would view the added glass as a desire for Baxter to show her appreciation thus far for her employers patience in adjusting to her presence. Also as a sign that she too, wanted the arrangement wanted to work.

She set the tray down on a table in the hall, knocked twice, and then waited for Lady Grantham to answer with her usually singsong response of: "Come in!"

Baxter twisted open the doorknob and poked her head inside, "I have your breakfast, Milady."

"Oh good," She folded up her copy of The Sketch, setting it to the other side of her bed, and sitting up straighter.

Baxter brought the tray into the room with her while she slowly crossed the room, and ceremoniously placed it down in front of Lady Grantham's lap.

"There we are, Milady. Now I...I think I've remembered everything, but I'll just stay here while you check," She took a step back, watching as her mistress studied her breakfast.

"Seems perfect but...what's this?" She placed a hand on the glass of orange juice, the additional item that wasn't apart of her request.

Baxter lifted an uncertain brow, pressing her hands together. "Well I know Americans often drink orange juice with breakfast so...I thought you might like it?" A sanguine lilt evident in her voice.

She met Lady Grantham's warm expression followed by an appreciative, "That is _so_ considerate, Baxter. Thank you."

Baxter smiled with relief before inclining her head, and then crossing the room to leave. Just as she reached the door, his Lordship strolled through.

"Good morning Milord," She lifted her gaze momentarily, waiting for him to step aside so that she could pass by.

"Good Morning," He returned just as pleasantly. "You look very jovial this morning." He remarked to his wife.

Baxter's hand found the outer doorknob, and she started to shut the door behind her.

"Just Baxter reminding me of times gone by," Lady Grantham let out a wistful sigh .

The door clicked shut, but Baxter heard his Lordship ask from the other side, "You're pleased with her?"

Part of her wanted to dart away before she could hear the response. But Baxter's curiosity got the better of her, and she stay rooted in place.

"I am thank heaven."

And she took this slight compliment to heart while making her way back downstairs.

She was grateful to hear that her Ladyship believed everything was running just as smoothly as she hoped. Nearly two weeks passed since she started at Downton, and while Lady Grantham was kind enough, there was still an awkward tension that existed. It was to be expected given the relationship between mistress and ladies maid was an intimate one, and just like Baxter was still growing accustomed to her mistress' preferences, Lady Grantham was similarly adjusting to a new woman's presence in her private life.

But Baxter felt they got on just fine at this stage. She hoped things would only get easier from this moment forward. Then she was reminded of the difficulties that lie ahead whenever she ran into Thomas, who waited patiently for her at the bottom of the stairs in the servants quarters.

"Well?" He lifted a question brow in her direction, demanding to know whether or not she was successful in her task.

Swallowing back her irritation, she answered simply, "It worked." She focused her gaze further down the corridor as she turned to around the corner, in the direction of the laundry wing.

"Is that all you have?" Thomas asked skeptically, his footsteps scraping against the floor behind her.

Baxter's head snapped up again, and she looked over her shoulder. "I mentioned America, and she was pleased," She offered before shaking her head, palms opening to the side. "Isn't that enough?"

"And Lady Sybil?" He reminded her, his mouth curling into a devious smirk.

"Tonight," Baxter insisted plainly, "I'll make mention of her tonight."

"See that you do," Thomas lifted a brow, and took a step back. "I'm only doing this for your own good, ye know."

_I seriously doubt that_, she thought. But Baxter continued about her business, keeping her head down, and her mind focused at the task ahead. As far as she knew, that was the only way she'd survive under this arrangement at Downton.

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><p>He found her working alone in the boot room one evening, insisting she uncover what was happening with the Bates' next. There was a notable change in their attitudes towards one another. It started before Baxter arrived, but nobody knew why or what prompted the change in the once happily married couple. She had no choice but to make it a priority, to discover every detail of that whole business.<p>

Even though Baxter couldn't understand _why_ Thomas had it in for the Bates'. But she could sense the disconnect between them. In fact, she noticed there was a disconnect between him, and the majority of the downstairs staff. It made his motives for making her collect secrets from everyone even more curious to her.

Still, she kept quiet. It was still early days, and she couldn't take any unnecessary risks that might land her on the streets of Yorkshire without any future prospects.

She finished her breakfast rather quickly the next morning. Only Mr. Carson, Alfred, Jimmy, and a few of the house boys and maids sat around the table with seats nearly between everyone. Baxter was grateful Thomas had gone out for the papers (and another smoke most likely), leaving her some peace.

Baxter decided to finish up before he could return. She did have quite a few tasks to complete for her Ladyship before taking up her breakfast anyway. Besides, it was far too early in the day for her to have gathered any adequate information for Thomas to badger her about.

But as she pushed back her chair and started back towards the main corridor, she soon learned she was wrong.

"To me that requires an explanation."

Baxter heard the low, terse words just as she stepped out of the dining hall, accidentally happening upon what appeared to be a private conversation between Mr. & Mrs. Bates. Her eyes instantly widened in slight horror at the intrusion. She felt her lips twitching up at the corners into a nervous half smile.

"Good Morning, Miss. Baxter," Mr. Bates greeted as genially as he could muster in the moment.

She inclined her head towards each of them while she returned a similarly, "Hello, Mr. Bates. Mrs. Bates."

"I wondered...if you might help me?" She started and then paused, hoping to fill the awkward silence with anything that would detract them from realizing she overheard a part of their discussion.

"We will if we can," Mr. Bates informed her helpfully.

"It's my sewing machine," She explained, gesturing to the device she left to sit just outside the dining hall since her arrival. "I've no sockets in my bedroom, and what with the sewing room being in the laundry wing, I wondered if Mrs. Hughes might let me use it in the servants hall."

Mr. Bates suggested, "I should ask her if I were you."

"Yes of course, I'll do that." Baxter finally answered, smiling as if she didn't suspect anything about the circumstances in which she found the Bates' this morning.

But her gaze flickered back to Anna's face, which appeared stony and cold. She also couldn't help, but notice the darkened mark surrounding Anna's eye. She could tell it was faded, like it marred her face for a coupe of weeks now. Or it was still fresh, and she just did a poor job at covering it up.

Anna found her staring, and looked away instantly. Baxter felt like she was intruding, like perhaps Anna picked up on the fact that Baxter could sense her shame of how the bruise came to be.

With this realization coming to light, Baxter bowed her head, and trudged onward in search of Mrs. Hughes.

She couldn't help but think of Anna though. She could deny it, and she probably would if Baxter were to question her. But Baxter recognized a hastily covered up bruise more so than most people. And Mr. Bates' voice had shifted dramatically in a matter of seconds. He sounded so demanding and frustrated towards his wife, and then he was nothing short of cordial towards Baxter. So eager to help her in any possible way he could. Perhaps so that she wouldn't notice anything amiss, and be on her merry way.

Everything was in the tone of voice. Or so, Baxter recalled from her own experiences in dealing with a dishonorable man. There was anger present, on the verge of mounting into something beyond harsh words.

Suddenly, the toast with jam and tea she had for breakfast didn't agree with her as the most likely scenario, the one that Baxter was all too familiar with, crossed her mind. The horrific image of a purplish mark lining her cheek, and the red handprints splayed across her pale throat entered Baxter's mind against her will. She flinched, bringing a hand to her cover her throat instinctively.

The physical marks were long gone. It had been years since she had to concern herself with wearing dresses with higher collars or layering on her face powder so strategically. Even with the absence of visible scars, she still bore the memories that she feared she'd never be rid of.

Baxter shook her head, willing herself to think of something else. Anything else. The task at hand. Using the servants hall to hem the bottom of Lady Grantham's numerous nightgowns. Gaining Mrs. Hughes permission. Polishing her Ladyship's shoes. Cleaning her jewels, and sprucing up the Countess' Coronet for the dinner that evening

Once she arrived at the door to Mrs. Hughes' sitting room, she simply couldn't forget as easily as she wished she could. She glanced back where the Bates' once stood.

Anna was gone, and all she saw was Mr. Bates alone. He leaned most of his weight on his cane, shoulders slumped forward in obvious defeat. She wondered if he might need any sort of assistance, but the moment soon passed. He inhaled sharply, and rolled back his shoulders determinedly before he disappeared back into the dining hall.

Maybe she was wrong about the Bates'. Maybe their disagreement was a result of something else entirely that didn't concern Anna's bruised eye. Maybe something less menacing happened than where Baxter's thoughts automatically led her. She certainly hoped so. For she'd hate for her assumption to be proven right.

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><p>She pressed her foot down on the petal, the whirring of the needle and thread rapidly stitching through the hem of Lady Grantham's favorite nightgown. Baxter dipped her head forward, concentrating on guiding the fabric through the machine in a straight line so as to make the bottom even once more. The noisy humming of the device filled the usually quiet that occupied the servants midday activities once the family went about their business for several hours.<p>

It didn't take long for some of the staff to filter in the dining hall, inquisitive about what foreign sound was in their midst. Baxter looked up, to adjust the placement of the fabric in the machine, only to discover she was beginning to gain an audience.

She smiled up uneasily at Mrs. Patmore's disapproving stare, then moved her attention onto Daisy, who looked simultaneously transfixed by it yet terrified all the same.

"What in heaven are you...?" Came Mrs. Patmore's intonation of horror.

"Mrs. Hughes said I could use the socket in here," Baxter assured her, but it didn't appear to settle the cook's discomfort.

Mrs. Patmore huffed, unconvinced before whirling around and departing from the room.

"Don't mind her," Daisy flipped a hand, offering Baxter an encouraging smile. "Ye should have seen what happened when we bought an electric mixer."

"Really now?" Baxter lifted a curious brow. She flipped a couple of switches, securing the fabric back in place.

"You'd think we were at a Sunday Service," Daisy continued jokingly, "with all the 'Oh Lord's' and 'Sweet Jesus'', you'd think we were all going to heaven."

Baxter laughed quietly at this. She could almost envision what Daisy described, given the way Mrs. Patmore balked at her sewing machine.

Glancing beneath the table for a split second, she found her petal and eased it down. The methodical humming filled the air, and in between stitching runs, Baxter heard more footsteps filtering into the servants hall.

They murmured among themselves about the presence of the sewing machine. Some thrilled at the prospect, others more alarmed. But Baxter continued working, trying not to allow the cluster of intrigued staff members, break her concentration. Once she finished going over the first row of stitches, she released the presser foot, turning the needle wheel and bringing it up.

"But if it's electric aren't ye worried it's going to run off on ya, and sew yer fingers to the table?" Daisy inquired after hearing Thomas' tall tale comment about such a thing being possible.

Baxter smiled at the girl's inquisitiveness laced with a sort of terror she was attempting to mask. She replied, lifting her brow, "I certainly hope not."

"How do you operate it?" Alfred asked, pressing both of his palms on top of the table and leaning forward as if to get a better look at it.

"With a petal, under me foot," Baxter answered, pressing down on it to demonstrate.

There was a slight in take of breath, and she noticed Daisy staring wide eyed at it, trying to work out in her mind how it all worked.

"Well I don't think it has any business in the servants hall," She could hear Mrs. Patmore airing her disapproval from nearby the doorway.

"But there's no socket in her room," Mrs. Hughes defended.

Still, Mrs. Patmore eyed the sewing machine as if it were some unsavory creature, "But she could take it over to the laundry. Or better still, chuck it out altogether!"

Mrs. Hughes blinked back at Mrs. Patmore's sudden outburst, but didn't waver in her stance. Even as Mrs. Patmore turned from the room again, she glanced back at Ms. Baxter and offered a sort of apologetic half smile.

"Mrs. Patmore is not what you would call a futurist." Thomas announced smoothly, his back pressed into one of the walls while he took another sip of tea.

"I think I got that already," Baxter murmured, shooting a knowing look in Daisy's direction, who grinned back at her understandingly.

She adjusted the position of Lady Grantham's skirts beneath the presser foot again. Her own foot hovered above the petal, but she glanced up again to see Daisy staring intently at the needle hanging in midair.

"Would you like to have a try?" She asked, lifting an enticing brow.

"Me?" Daisy echoed in disbelief.

Baxter bobbed her head encouragingly, which prompted Daisy to eagerly nod in reply.

Pushing back her chair, Baxter then motioned for the young woman to sit. "It's already aligned with the track here, you see?" She pointed to the ridge that ran along the bottom where the fabric was lined up with. "Put one hand on either side, like this," Baxter placed Daisy's hands in the appropriate places. "Now all you have to do, is _lightly_ press on the petal and guide the dress along as the needle goes."

"That's it?" Daisy peered up at her, unconvinced at how simple working such a complicated machine could be.

"That's it," Baxter assured.

Taking in a deep breath to steady her nerves, Daisy touched her toe to the petal as Ms. Baxter instructed. Nothing happened.

"It doesn't work," Daisy informed her anxiously.

"Press a little harder then," Baxter coached gently.

Everyone waited with baited breath for Daisy to try again. This time she pressed the petal nearly down the whole way, and the needle flickered up and down at a maddening rate, causing Daisy to jump and shriek a bit out of fear. The hum of unanimous laughter filled the room at her reaction.

"Steady now," Baxter softly cheered, trying to stifle her amusement that everyone else seemed to let go so easily. She placed a hand at her shoulder, promising, "It's not going to get you if you keep your hands where I showed you."

Daisy appeared doubtful, but she refocused her efforts again.

Baxter watched her try again, and smiled contentedly as Daisy grew accustomed to the whirring purr of the needle darting into the fabric. She saw the girl's hands carefully moving the fabric as each stitch passed through the hem of Lady Grantham's dressing gown. When she finished, Baxter moved the gown so that she might continue on sewing more of the hemline.

She kept a close eye on this, until she saw a flash of blonde appear in one of the doorways.

"Anna," She heard Mr. Bates greet happily.

But the look on his wife's face fell into that of a rather annoyed expression. Letting out a sigh she muttered halfheartedly, "I've forgotten something." And before another word could be exchanged among them, she went back the way she came.

Mrs. Hughes then faced Mr. Bates, a look of strained concern invading her visage. With the rattling of the sewing machine echoing through the hall while Daisy tried it out, Baxter couldn't make out the words that were exchanged. However, the remorseful smile, followed by Mrs. Hughes departure suggested perhaps she was somehow involved in whatever conflict put space between the Bates'.

Everything Baxter thought she once knew on the matter, suddenly shattered. It didn't look the same as what she personally experienced several years ago. The avoidance was certainly telling, but Anna's earlier trepidation had turned into a bitterness that made the circumstances even more muddled for an outsider like Baxter to decipher. And with Mrs. Hughes rapt interference just now, there was another piece to the riddle.

Maybe she wasn't meant to understand. Maybe it was more complicated and foreign to her than she initially thought.

"Ms. Baxter," Daisy's eager voice soon shook her out of her deep contemplation. "How did I do?"

Glancing down at the stitching, it was nearly straight with some minor imperfections. But for a first time try, Daisy had done mighty well. "Very nicely," She complimented with a warm smile, "I should be careful not to tell Lady Grantham, otherwise she might prefer your steady hand to mine."

"Oh I doubt that!" A light giggle escaped Daisy as she shook her head. Then she probed, "But do ye really think I have a steady hand for it?"

Baxter's smile deepened, and she settled back down in her chair, "Aye, I do." She watched the young girl rush out of the room, declaring she'd have to tell Mrs. Patmore the sewing machine was perfectly harmless.

There was a sweet enthusiasm she found to be agreeable in Daisy's character. A quality she once possessed herself at that age. Her thoughts briefly lingered on those happier times when the world seemed full of endless possibilities, and she felt like she could accomplish anything.

But she soon forgot whenever Thomas set down his tea, and pulled in a chair across from her. "Well done, Ms. Baxter," He complimented, a smug look crossing his face. "It appears you've made another friend."

Her eyes scanned the rest of the room, noticing they weren't alone. She began unthreading the machine while adding in a voice that attempted to come off as teasing, "Are you jealous, Mr. Barrow?"

He chuckled, feigning delight. "Not jealous, no. Just pleased you're settling in."

Baxter stowed the white thread back away in her button box, letting out a deep exhalation while she fished out some black. Adding it in place of the white, she whirled around in her seat to pick up another one of Lady Grantham's darker gowns that rested on one of the stools. She never felt more grateful for the distraction her work provided, even if Thomas was intent on hovering over her.

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><p>Later that afternoon, Mrs. Patmore came into the servants hall just as she was finishing up with her Ladyship's dresses, a rather frantic expression crossing her face.<p>

"Ms. Baxter!" She intoned desperately, holding up her apron between her hands. "Can ye help me with this?"

Baxter took the cloth from Mrs. Patmore's hands, examining the tear at the bottom corner.

"Normally I'd mend it meself, but her Ladyship's coming down this afternoon and I've no time," She explained meekly.

"Oh, it's an easy fix," Baxter decided softly, already pulling pins from her tin box, and fusing the tear in the apron together. She then slid it beneath the needle, and pressed down on the petal again.

"Whew! I can't get over the speed of it," Mrs. Patmore exclaimed, her tone more welcoming than from earlier before as she watched the machine in action, up close.

This prompted Baxter to smile. Perhaps Daisy's earlier go with the device had soothed her fears.

She still admitted with a peal of astonished laughter permeating her words, "I feel quite dizzy watching!"

Lifting up the plate again, Baxter pulled it out, and quickly plucked out the pins. She smoothed over the once torn corner of the apron across the tabletop, examining her handiwork. "I don't think it'll show," She informed Mrs. Patmore before passing back the apron.

"Show? That's better than it was before I bought it!" She exclaimed happily.

Baxter hummed, glad to be of use. Not to mention, she was glad to have the chance to prove her sewing machine useful, even to the most skeptical of people.

"Awwe..thanks very much!" Mrs. Patmore patted her on the shoulder, obviously grateful.

"Her Ladyship's on her way down," Came Thomas' cool voice from the doorway.

Mrs. Patmore scurried out of the room, throwing her apron back over her, and tying it on her way back to the kitchen as she barked out orders to her understaff to clear up the place.

There was a tense silence settling between them. Thomas pulled out a cigarette, balancing it between his lips while he asked, "Another one roped to chariot?"

Baxter's hands stilled atop her sewing machine. Squeezing her eyes shut for a second, she tried to gather her thoughts. Pulling the thread out from the top, she remarked as neutrally as possible, "I'm grateful for this job Thomas, and we both know _why_."

She looked up at him as he settled into a chair opposite her. His dark eyes bore into her, watching her closely. He was waiting for her to snap. He knew how to bend her until she reached a breaking point. Yet, she knew things would take a turn for the worse if she lost her nerve at this point.

Swallowing back any bitterness she wished she could throw his way, Baxter wondered. "But what's it all about?"

Thomas lit up the cigarette, slowly blowing out lazy tendrils of smoke before stating, "Well there's going to be changes at Downton. There's bound to be."

"I'm sure."

"So I want to know about any plans upstairs. Any detail, no matter how small," He was just as vague as the letter he sent her in London. Cocking his head to the side, he wondered with a condescending smirk, "D'you understand?"

"Did the other ladies maids keep you informed?" She countered, starting to put all of her things away.

"Miss. O'Brien, yes. But we fell out."

She wished she could fish more information about Miss. O'Brien out of him. But the infamous ladies maid who left Lady Grantham in the lurch for a tour of exotic India was an obvious sore spot to him. And Baxter had enough sense not to incite his ire by edging him on about how they too, might fall out similarly if he wasn't careful. She couldn't just yet.

"What about Mrs. Bates?" She tried instead. At least if Anna was in leagues with him, she could find an ally. Someone who'd be on her side. "Is she an enemy?" She continued, not wanting him to decipher her line of reasoning. "She knows what's going on."

"No, she's not an enemy." Thomas assured her plainly. His mouth twitched up at the corners as he added, "But she's incorruptible. So we have nothing in common."

_And I am corruptible?_ She thought irritably, resenting him for the insinuation. But she dared not vocalize this because he certainly did have a point. She allowed herself be corrupted by a sleazy footman once before. And even if she tried to convince herself this time was different, it was beginning to feel eerily similar.

"She's also silent," Baxter shut the lid to her button box more forcefully to show he was testing her patience far more than she appreciated. She argued mildly, "I couldn't get four words out of her since I arrived."

Thomas sighed, matching her annoyance with his. Taking another drag on his cigarette he finished with, "Just get them all to trust you. And tell you everything."

This time she didn't respond. Grabbing the box for her sewing machine she carefully slid the device back inside before gathering the rest of her things. She wasn't in the mood to discuss whatever he planned for her to do next. Especially if it included the few people who had shown her nothing but kindness since she arrived.

* * *

><p><em><strong>Stay tuned for the next chapter, which will feature a brief history on the Molesley family <strong>_(yay!-I am really excited about this *grins stupidly*)_** as well as Baxter & Molesley's first meeting at Downton.**_


	3. Chapter 3

**_So I didn't think this would be ready until tomorrow, but in light of recent events in the Series 5 Finale. I feel like I have to update this. *flails & shouts wildly* GUISE CAN YOU BELIEVE THE GEM OF A BAXLEY SCENE(s) WE GOT? I AM STILL EMOTIONAL ABOUT IT THO! Anyway, *clears throat & starts talking again in official author voice* updates are most likely going to take place on Sunday & Wednesday/Thursday's for future reference. Thanks again to everyone who has shown interest in some way. And as always, I'd love t hear your thoughts both good & bad. Enjoy lovelies! (:_**

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><p>The Molesley's stone cottage was settled in between a row of similar looking houses in Downton Village. The same beige and grey stonework that weathered many years of harsh winters and heavy rainfalls faded along with the rest of the homes. And the same stone had been built up in a series of three foot walls that sequestered off each yard and a matching one that also ran in a long line in front of the houses. Initially built as an aesthetically pleasing fixture to make the village appear more organized, the three foot wall also served as a safety precaution since the homes were built straight off one of the main roads.<p>

But nearly each villager who lived on this street of town took it upon themselves to make additions to their homes. Some added wrought iron gates in between the gap the front wall allowed for coming and going. Others installed back porches for those warm summer nights where they might find some time to enjoy the quiet after a busy day.

Then there were the Molesley's who put in a small red roof just over the front door with two matching beams coming down on either side of the front stoop. It was just a slab of cement, but it was wide enough for two rocking chairs, and a small table to sit on either side of the door. The stoop was then connected by a brick walkway that the older Mr. Molesley and his son paved themselves a few summers prior. The small path they created with the red and brown bricks ended at a wooden gate that was settled in between the gap in the stone wall. It was painted in a burnt red color to match the support poles on the front stoop and the wooden outlines of the windows on the house.

But what really set the Molesley cottage apart from every other one in the village was probably the white lattice archway that was planted a few feet just behind the gate. At any given point of the year, one could stroll by and find it decorated with the best blooms featured in old, Bill Molesley's back garden. It was Mrs. Molesley's arranging eye with flowers that made the archway an exciting topic of conversation among the villagers.

The children of the village turned it into a game, trying to poke their heads over the stone walls just to catch a glimpse of what intricate arrangement Mrs. Molesley fashioned across the arch and through the lattice holes. The first to see and run home to tell their parents would be claimed a winner among the group. Of course, no formal prize was ever handed out, but the feeling of pride at being the first to know was something the group took rather seriously.

Even as the children grew and departed with this childhood game, Mrs. Molesley kept at it. It started as a hobby then ventured into a business opportunity. She sold arrangements to The Family for special occasions, donated them to the church, and even participated in the annual flower show, winning in several of the categories. It was with this reputation and gift with floral arrangements that enabled her to start a small business venture on the side.

It was a tiny shop, but prosperous enough. It enabled them to send their only son, Joe, off on a specialty course so that he might learn the skills required for a life in service. The rest they set aside for the other mishaps live through their way. And soon after, Joe left home, it appeared the mishaps were more frequently than ever before.

Mrs. Molesley was often ill and took to her bed. Doctor after doctor came into the house, trying to determine the cause of her enigmatic illness. Yet no one seemed to have the answers or could pose a reliable cure. Treatments were recommended and tried. Sometimes they worked, and she could carry on as usual. Other times they made her even more sickly.

Little by little, the savings they accumulated over the years, vanished. The shop could barely turn a profit. The flower arrangements weren't as beautiful as they once were. Mr. Molesley tried his hand at it. He was relatively good. But his wife had been the true floral artist. Somehow, they managed to scrape by.

It certainly helped when their son went to work for the Crawley family as valet to Mr. Crawley, the presumptive heir of Downton Abbey. That was a crowning achievement and both parents couldn't have been prouder.

Sadly, in the presence of such a significant upward swing, came a downward spiral. Mrs. Molesley's health deteriorated in spite of the additional funds her son had been supplementing for a highly expensive course of treatment. At long last, after many years of suffering and living with the uncertainty of when her sickness might strike her down for good, Mrs. Molesley finally found peace.

Her passing was one of immense sadness, but also one of relief. She lived so much of her life in quiet pain and suffering because she was determined to press on. Because there was always a job to do. Always work that needed done.

It never turned her bitter either. She could have let it bring her down, change her. But it never did. She was still the generous spirit that prompted Bill to fall in love with her, and made Joe think the world of his Mum. Bill was convinced it was her will to live and still do good in the world that kept her alive for so long.

Mr. Molesley still tended to his gardens. But the shop closed down. He focused his efforts on arranging for funerals now. Gone were the days of sending flowers for birthdays, anniversaries, and the like from the Molesley garden. And now the white lattice archway remained bare, paint chipping, and wood slowly rotting.

It was still the topic of conversation. But not in the way it once was. Gone were the praising remarks, the excitement that surrounded it. Now all that it left was a painful reminder of something once beautiful that was now missing in the world.

Joesph Molesley felt it nearly every time he passed beneath the structure. Felt like he owed it to his mother to make it a lovely fixture in their lives again. Sometimes he glanced up to the sky, murmuring, _I know Mum. I'll talk to him about it._ But he could never quite find the words to tell his silently mourning father. So he let it go, silently making a promise he'd try again tomorrow.

There was still no desire to fix it up again on Mr. Molesley's part. Not even after the tragedy with Mr. Crawley, and the return of his son to the stone cottage. Everything else in the cottage was maintained, save for the once famed archway that deteriorated in the front yard.

But lately, Joe Molesley hadn't made any promises to his mother. Nor did he notice the archway as he milled in and out of the house each day. Because he generally kept his head down in the village, and barely glanced at his father these days.

His loss of dignity was met with pity. From one of the girls from his younger days who was now grown women whose groceries he delivered on days when the roads couldn't be mended. From Anna who'd seen him smoothing over the ground, pulling every muscle in his already aching back. To her husband, Mr. Bates, who invented a false debt he owed to him just so Molesley could pay off his already existent loans. But the worst of this, or so he believed to be the worst, was his father's pitiful eye.

He couldn't stand to see it in his dad. A man who'd once been proud to see his son rise to such a respectable position in the county. Now he had to contend with whispers. With people coming up to him, and asking how his son was getting on in the wake of Matthew Crawley's death. In the wake of his newly deflated status in Downton Village.

But Bill was nothing short of polite. He nodded his head, offered a sad smile, and agreed with how sad both he and his son were for the Crawley Family. He never once vocalized his disappointment in his son, even if it were felt.

Joe could feel it each time he returned home from one of the odd jobs he forced himself out of bed for. However as he trudged up the path leading to the Molesley cottage one afternoon, he noticed his father watering a small bucket full of flowers resting on the small table on the stoop.

When he heard his son approaching, Bill turned, his face alighting eagerly. "Joe! Joe, you've received something in the post..." He wiped his hands off on the front of his gardening apron, pushing open the heavy wooden door to the cottage.

His interest peaked at his father's urgency, and Joseph Molesley padded into the house behind him. He didn't so much as pass over the threshold, and his dad was already pressing the telegram in his hands.

_Attn. J. Molesley._

_Meeting requested at Abbey w. Carson. Arrive prior to gong at downstairs door. No reply needed, only your attendance._

"D'you suppose it means Mr. Carson has a job for you?" Bill asked anxiously.

Trying not to get his hopes up, Joe passed the telegram back to his father and shrugged. His words came out with an indifference that was to merely keep his excitement in check, "I dunno. S'pose I should be going up to see now. If he wants me there before the gong."

Joe hurried back the way he once came, not out of excitement, but out of not wanting to be late and miss what could be his last chance at something better.

* * *

><p>Mr. Carson's proposition wasn't altogether surprising, really. Second footman to Jimmy once Alfred took off for a better opportunity cooking at The Ritz. Yet Molesley couldn't help but feel a bit deflated at the offer. He was to be second best when he was once on track to be first in a great household. The demotion wasn't one he could readily accept without at least mulling it over.<p>

"What do you mean, _you'll think about it_?" Mr. Carson echoed in disbelief, clearly expecting the opposite of how Molesley reacted.

"What did I say?" He wrung his hat in between his hands, shrugging, "I didn't mind helping you out when you were short staffed."

Mr. Carson scoffed, "Well, how good of you!"

"But to accept a permanent position as a footman...I...I'm a...trained valet, Mr. Cars...I'm a trained butler! To accept a...my...my fall by taking a...a _permanent_, _inferior_ place." Molesley pleaded, trying to remain firm while not coming across as arrogant.

"You keep telling me its permanent. But from where I'm sitting, it's looking _less_ permanent by the minute." Mr. Carson returned sternly, his annoyance at how Mr. Molesley insisted on making this difficult for him rather obvious.

It appeared Mr. Carson felt as though he had no right to deny the claim. Not whenever Mr. Molesley's degradation in the world was well known among the majority of the staff at Downton. He should be grateful for the opportunity to return to a life of service in such a respectable house. And Molesley was grateful to be considered.

But he simply couldn't just allow himself to be viewed as second rate. He'd let it go on for most of his life. And being valet to Mr. Crawley had changed things. Changed his idea of where he believed his life was headed. Made him feel that he could be destined for greater things than that of second footman.

He couldn't let go of that dream for something more than what was being presented to him. Not after he'd been forced to let go of so many other dreams in this lifetime for a multitude of reasons. He couldn't let Mr. Carson strip away the last shred of hope he held onto in regards to returning to a respectable post again. A position that enabled him to meet his father's eye and not worry of seeing the quiet disappointment he knew existed. He couldn't let go of that. Not yet, at least.

"I shall give it every consideration," Molesley nodded, feeling his response was nothing short of polite.

Mr. Carson inclined his head and remarked dryly, "Very generous I must say."

Molesley started towards the door, wondering if he was making a mistake. His hand rested on the knob for a few seconds, and he turned back to see if perhaps something had shifted in Mr. Carson's visage.

He couldn't say what it was he expected. Maybe some utterance of how he was valued beyond the standby footman. That he was better than just the man Carson called for when he was in a pinched. That he could take up Jimmy's role as first footman if he agreed to it on the spot. It might have changed his mind, made the job appear more favorable to him.

But when nothing was said, all Molesley could end their brief conversation with was, "I'll let ya know me answer when I have one."

"I shall wait with baited breath," Carson rejoined evenly.

Molesley exited the room abruptly, keeping his head down as he started back towards the door. He hoped he would return home with better news. His Dad had been so excited at the prospect of him working back at the abbey again. Perhaps he thought Mr. Bates was leaving. That Molesley would take care of his Lordship. Or Mr. Branson even. Now Joe would have to return home, and deliver the news that Mr. Carson didn't see him as anything more than just a second footman.

He barely took a few steps and he found his shoulder colliding with something rather solid. Just his luck, he winced and cried out in slight pain.

But he was met with another mild cry of, "Oh!"

That drew up his gaze from his shuffling feet. It was one of the maids, her arms full of several heavy looking dressing gowns. And in the process of their momentary bump, one familiar light green one adorned with silver sparkles slipped out from under her grasp. It pooled at her feet, and they both lowered their gazes towards the fallen dress in question.

"Sorry, can I help?" He instantly apologized and bent forward to retrieve the gown she nearly tread on. Had she done so, he would have felt responsible for causing her anymore trouble than he already had.

"Oh thanks so much," She returned with a kind smile. Despite his fault in the exchange, her warm eyes flooding with appreciation.

Molesley carefully draped the gown back over the mound she balanced in between both of her arms. It then occurred to him that the two of them had never met before. And that the gown in question, belonged to Lady Grantham.

She was about to scurry on her way whenever he called out, his voice halting along as he asked, "Are you...the new...ladies maid to Lady Grantham?"

She turned around to face him, the colored dresses in her arms swinging across her body. "I am, yes." She bobbed her head before offering, "Ms. Baxter."

"Joe Molesley," He introduced himself, automatically extending his hand for her to shake.

Ms. Baxter peered down at the dresses in her arms, and then up at him again. Her lips curled into a sheepish grin, and she tried to lift her arms laden down with several of Lady Grantham's things. "I'd shake your hand but..."

"Oh, oh, right of course. Sorry." He blustered, dropping his hand back to his side. Inclining his head towards the outfits he mused, "Wouldn't want you to lose another one because of me."

She laughed softly at this, and he felt himself relaxing considerably.

"How long have you been here at Downton, Ms. Baxter?" He asked curiously, trying to get a read on The Countess' new ladies maid.

"Uh...nearly a month now," She told him plainly.

"How do you like it here?"

"Well enough." She answered again, lifting a brow in his direction.

He supposed it wasn't unusual for her to be skeptical of him. She didn't know of his ties to the Crawley Family so her succinct, diplomatic responses weren't unusual. He expected her to offer another polite remark, and just continue on her way to wherever it was she was headed. The laundry, he thought, if he had to venture a guess given the amount of clothes she was carrying.

Yet Ms. Baxter surprised him. Nodding in the direction of Mr. Carson's office, she asked, "Were you meeting with Mr. Carson?"

It didn't sound leading. Not at all the way Ms. O'Brien would have asked him. No, she appeared to be genuinely curious. And why shouldn't she be? She was still relatively new to Downton, new to the way things ran, and uncertain of who was who, and how everything was all connected. If she was asking him, where was the harm in giving her an answer? He wouldn't give everything away.

"I was," Molesley inclined his head before blurting out, "he might have a job for me."

He wasn't entirely sure why he said it. Why he volunteered more information than what he intended. But he had.

She commented genially, "Well how nice."

"I suppose," Molesley shrugged, placing his hat back atop his head. When he was met with her puzzled gaze, he explained half-heartedly, "The position's a...a bit of a...step down for me."

Ms. Baxter considered his words and then countered knowingly, "Well a step down isn't always a bad thing. Especially when the jobs in service aren't as plentiful as they used to be."

There was truth in her statement. Yet he couldn't help but bristle at the way she said it. How she felt she could say it, and think it would him some sort of comfort. The words came out of his mouth before he could swallow them down, "Well it's easy for you to say, given where you're at."

Her smile disappeared, taking the warmth from her face with it. Clearing her throat, she tilted back her head and rejoined, "If you_ must_ know, I wasn't _always_ a ladies maid."

"Oh no," He instantly felt his mind whirring at the way he just came across. Taking a step forward, he took off his hat, twisting it between his hands again. "I...I didn't mean...to...to offend you, Ms. Baxter." He stammered out an apology.

The last thing he needed was her going to Mr. Carson and saying anything that might completely diminish his chances of returning to Downton. Besides he wasn't a rude person, and he didn't want her to think it if he later decided to accept Mr. Carson's employment offer.

She must have sensed his concern because she glanced down at her feet and shrugged, "It's alright. I suppose I did come off a bit preachy just now."

He was about to insist her apology was unnecessary whenever she looked up at him again, her expression friendlier.

"But...no matter what you decide, it was nice meeting you all the same."

"And you, Ms. Baxter," Molesley agreed with a pleasant smile.

She held his gaze for a couple more seconds before the weight of the dresses forced her to readjust her stance again. She informed him anxiously, "I really should take these to laundry."

"Yes, of course. I don't want to keep you any longer than I have already," He gestured for her to continue on her way while he trailed slightly behind her on his way to the back door.

"Well, enjoy your afternoon," Baxter stopped at the doorway that separated their shared path. Inclining her head she added softly, "Mr. Molesley."

His mouth curved up at the corners upon hearing her remember his name. Even though it hadn't been the sort of afternoon he expected with results he hoped for, Joseph Molesley knew he would at the very least, _try_ to enjoy the rest of his afternoon.

When he stepped back out into the sunlight, he kept his gaze steady on the horizon. He suddenly had reason to look up again.


	4. Chapter 4

Bill Molesley waited anxiously for his son to return with news from the main house. He hoped for Joe's sake, it was an offer for work. He hated seeing his son despondent with his work when he once lived to serve Mr. Matthew. Now Bill knew the unskilled labor weighed Joe down in more than just the physical sense.

All he ever wanted was for his son's happiness. He didn't think it was too much to wish for. Even if mending roads ended up being work that Joe felt proud of, Bill wouldn't mind. But he knew the work was taxing, and it only seemed to make Joe more withdrawn from the rest of the world.

He tried to appear busy in the backyard garden, gathering up radishes and potatoes that would be taken to market during the next sales day. The Molesley vegetable garden didn't produce much, but it was generally enough for them to set something off to the side for their leisurely spending. However, with Mrs. Molesley gone, and Bill getting on in years, he planned on giving whatever they could make from the market to his son.

His debts were mostly paid off, but it would continue to help some. And given all that Joe did towards the end of his mother's life, Bill figured it was the least he could do for him.

So he took to gathering the roots up in a wide wicket basket, trying not to fixate on when Joe's possible return might be. He didn't want to appear overly anxious. Didn't want to cause his son anymore distress if the news wasn't quite what they both desired.

After he finished the second row of radishes, Bill felt his back muscles pulling rather painfully, and his breathing grew more labored. The task of gathering up all the goods in one fell swoop seemed more daunting than he anticipated. While there was a slight autumn chill in the air, Bill found his brow lined with sweat. He stood up straighter, feeling his back creak in the process. Reaching into his gardening apron, he pulled out a handkerchief and dabbed at his brow with it, letting out a lengthy breath.

He hadn't even heard the front gate creak open, nor did he notice any other door in the house make mention of his son's arrival. It wasn't until the back porch door squealed open, that Bill looked up and noticed Joe's sudden presence.

"Dad," He bounded across the garden, his voice flooding with concern, "ye shouldn't be doing this while I'm out."

"Aw I'm not that far gone," Bill argued gruffly.

"Still," Joe insisted with a heavy sigh. "I've got enough to worry about, I don't need to add you hurting yourself in the garden to me list."

"What's the matter lad?" Bill frowned, not fully understanding his son's sudden display of concern for his physical health. It shouldn't have been the first thing they discussed upon his return from the Abbey. Not if the news was good anyway. He asked, "Did Mr. Carson not give ye the news you were hoping to hear?"

Joe glanced away, and then knelt down to where Bill left off in the row of radishes. He paid no mind to the dirt that would now stain his trousers, and Bill didn't think to point this out to him.

"Not quite," He told him in a regrettable tone. And then Joe began pulling the vegetables from the ground with more fervor than he normally would before tossing them carelessly into his dad's basket.

"Hey now, easy there," Bill scolded at his son's severe treatment of the radishes. "You'll bruise 'em if ye aren't careful, and we're to take these to market next week."

Joe paused with his head bent forward. Bill carefully knelt down in the row across from him, groaning as his bones crackled with the shift in position again.

"You know there's not much I can't stand more than a job not done well," Bill reminded his son pointedly.

Joe leaned back on his haunches, looking back over at his father with a pained look on his face momentarily. Jerking his thumb in the direction of the house, he persisted. "Ye should go inside, Dad. I can finish this for ye."

"Oh I don't mind," Bill assured him, reaching for his tiny trowel, he used to dig up the carrots.

"Dad," Joe intoned wearily, prompting Bill to find his eye again. "Please, I...I need to do something worthwhile."

His heart tugged at the defeatism he could read in his son's expression, and the disappointment that rang throughout his words. Even though he wasn't privy to the exchange between Mr. Carson and his son, Bill suspected Joe was merely being too hard on himself.

"Did Mr. Carson not have anything for ye?" He decided to ask, staying rooted in place while he took up his tiny trowel, and began scraping away at the dirt.

"No its not that," Joe sighed. "It's just...he can only offer me a job as a footman. Second footman nonetheless."

"And what's wrong with that?" Bill echoed in disbelief that his son would balk at the offer. "It'd get you back into service, in a more than respectable home. And isn't _that_ what you want?"

"Oh I don't know Dad its just..." He trailed off, placing a few more radishes in the basket set between them. Brushing the dirt off his hands, he stood and shrugged, "...its just lately I can't seem to see where I'm going."

Bill watched his son head off to the tiny shed, fishing out an apron and some gloves after all. It sounded as though Joe expected to find equitable work than what he'd grown accustomed to. And Bill didn't blame his son for wanting something better than making his return to Downton as a second footman. But even so, he thought Joe would jump at the opportunity to work in a house as opposed to on the roads again.

When he returned, this time equipped with proper gardening attire, Bill tried to comfort his son.

"Well you've had a shock. And it's no wonder. You should have been working for Mr. Matthew until you were old. Maybe been butler at the Abbey before you were gone. Now all that's gone. And yer wages with it."

"You're a nice chap, Dad." Joe murmured halfheartedly, nodding his head. "You know of the difference between us, you were always polite...always kind."

He was grateful for the compliment. "Well I'm glad to hear it."

"But it's raised my standards, do you see?" His son continued on, his voice flecked with a gloominess that even gardening couldn't take away. "I mean, my return to Downton should've been different. Not that of some sad, pitiful tale of a fellow who crawled back into a post well beneath his skills."

"Now wait just a minute," Bill asserted, "in your game if you want to be the best, you've got to be the best, and work at it. Get yourself back into service at a good post, in a well respected house. And you'll soon find your way where you'd like to be. And as it stands, I don't see another finer family to work for in this county than The Crawley's."

Joe stared back at him, considering his words. Then he shook his head and shrugged, grumbling something beneath his breath that Bill couldn't hear.

Yet he tried to drive his point home, hoping his son would change his mind about the job offer at Downton.

"You've got no room for pride son, not ever since you lost it all. And I don't blame ye for it, it's not your fault. But I'm just saying."

He wasn't saying it to be cruel. It was a statement of fact. Beggars couldn't be choosy. And while Joe wasn't in the position of begging for a job just yet, Bill knew he couldn't afford to be particular either. He only hoped for the sake of his son's happiness he would see it.

"Yeah I know, Dad," He exhaled. Pulling a couple of more radishes up from out of the ground, he bobbed his head. "I'll go see Mr. Carson about the position tomorrow morning."

"That's the spirit!" Bill offered up encouragingly. He found his knees digging painfully into the hard ground, and soon stood back up on his feet again. "Now," He crossed over two rows of crops, depositing the trowel by his son.

"I'll get your trousers pressed for the morning. You see about pulling up the rest of the garden, eh?" He clapped him on the shoulder in passing, knowing the work in the garden would allow Joe to focus his energies into something productive. And in turn, it'd make him feel good about himself in some small way.

* * *

><p>His nerves bounced around in his stomach at having to face Mr. Carson again. Yet he tried to keep his step lighter, head held high to showcase his eagerness to accept Mr. Carson's offer from yesterday. When he arrived downstairs, he found the backdoor unlocked, and could hear the lows sounds of conversation drifting from the servants dining hall and into the corridor.<p>

He took off his hat, and then slowly padded towards the sound of noise. His footsteps echoed off the near silent halls. He looked into the kitchens briefly, noticing Mrs. Patmore and the cooks sitting down for their breakfast as well. She smiled and waved at him, to which he replied mutely with an inclination of his head and a pleasant smile.

He could see Mr. Carson, seated at the head of the table, enjoying his breakfast. This revelation only intensified his nerves as the thought of disturbing Mr. Carson suddenly filled him with dread. He didn't want to be an inconvenience, but feared he might come across as such even if it wasn't his intent.

Rapping lightly on the doorframe, he instantly caught Mrs. Hughes attention. Mr. Molesley swallowed back his nerves and wondered meekly, "Might I have a word, Mr. Carson?"

"Certainly," Carson appeared to be eager to speak with him as he pushed back his chair and met Mr. Molesley in the hall.

"I've given it a lot of thought," Molesley started confidently.

"Have you indeed?"

He hadn't picked up on the condescending lilt in Carson's tone for he was trying to recall the precise words he practiced over and over again in his mind on the way there.

"First I needed to deal with my father's disappointment when he learned of my downward path. But I weighed it, against the power to do good that all employment brings."

"Did you now? And you thought all that?"

"I feel I could...contain my skills and guide them into a more modest channel without loss of dignity," Molesley continued smoothly.

"Just fancy."

"So, all in all, after mature deliberation. You'll be pleased to hear that I can accept your offer."

"What offer?"

His stomach dropped a bit, and he could feel his face growing hot. Had he not been clear in his intent? Furrowing his brow, Molesley clarified uncertainly, "To replace Alfred as footman?"

"Oh my dear Mr. Molesley. I'm afraid that Alfred's not leaving now."

His throat ran dry, and he felt his heart sink at the news.

Mr. Carson continued on in his usually professional manner, "It's a pity you didn't accept the job when we last talked then I'd be _stuck_ with you. As it is, you've missed your chance."

He nodded, the buoyancy in his tone deflating considerably, "As I generally do."

Molesley started shuffling back down the corridor, hoping to leave unnoticed by any of the other staff. It was embarrassing enough to initially be considered for the role of footman. But to be rejected for the position because of something as uncontrollable as changing circumstances in Alfred's fortune, was another entirely.

However, fate had other plans, and he heard the soft familiarity of a woman's voice reach his ears.

"Have you come back with your answer for Mr. Carson, Mr. Molesley?"

He paused, pivoting slowly and finding Ms. Baxter exiting one of the sewing rooms at about the same time he was passing by.

"I have," Molesley told her, unable to conceal his disappointing frown from her. "Only to learn that Alfred's staying on, and I won't be needed." He shrugged and shook his head, hoping to avoid anymore pity being shot in his direction.

"Oh I am sorry," She remarked sympathetically.

And from what he could tell, she truthfully meant it.

"But from what it sounds like, he was a near miss." Ms. Baxter informed him with a promising beat of hope pervading her words, "Perhaps...someone'll drop out or...he'll find another course that takes him? Then Mr. Carson will have a place for ye again."

_Or perhaps not_, he thought bitterly. The negativity swirling in his mind manifested in his response.

"I doubt it. I'm sure Mr. Carson thinks me too proud for the position now. Not that I blame him. I should've just taken the offer then and there."

He slowly watched her soft expression dissipate, and not wanting to appear ungrateful yet again he added sincerely.

"But...thank you for your kind words anyway, Ms. Baxter. G'day."

Molesley donned his hat, and left Downton wholly unsatisfied yet again. Only he couldn't blame anyone but himself for his lapse in judgment.

* * *

><p>A few days passed before Mr. Molesley crossed Baxter's mind again. She was busy trying to give Mr. Barrow bits of gossip she didn't actually believe would harm anyone in any significant way. There was one rumor in particular that Lady Rose was planning a particular surprise for His Lordship's birthday, which Thomas somehow spun into meaning there might be significant layoffs. She couldn't be sure how his mind arrived at such a venture. Even after she disclosed this to him, he expected her to find out more.<p>

In the meantime, Baxter was still trying to work through the whole business with Mr. & Mrs. Bates, but she kept this to herself. No real new developments presented themselves that would be of any interest to Thomas anyway.

She did notice, changes in Anna's overall demeanor. When she could once barely meet her gaze, Anna now appeared to be more lively though than in the days when Baxter first started working at Downton. They spoke more genially about things if they found themselves in the laundry wing or the boot room working together. And she could see her warming back up to her husband again, albeit slowly, but there was still a notable change between them. The brought on Baxter's dismissal of any prior suspicions she may have had in regards to any physical abuse transpiring between them.

They never discussed their private lives. Only the daily happenings of the family, the weather, the latest styles in hair or fashion, or upcoming events in the family's social calendar that they'd be part of.

But even with the frivolity that surrounded their conversation, Baxter came to understand precisely just what Thomas meant about Anna being incorruptible. She was a sweet spirit, who'd been wronged in some manner. Which was a shame, but not altogether surprising to Baxter. She knew all too well about how the world could mistreat the kindest souls without any fair explanation.

It was with this thought and the exciting news of Alfred's departure that Mr. Molesley invaded her thoughts. He seemed to be someone who experienced a great many injustices in his life, but someone who remained good in spite of it all the same. She felt a certain fondness for these types of people, having experienced the world in a similar fashion herself.

Which is why when Mrs. Hughes made mention of Mr. Molesley one evening at dinner, Ms. Baxter's ears perked up.

"Will you...send a message to Mr. Molesley in the morning?"

"Why should I?" Mr. Carson countered, clearly perplexed by Mrs. Hughes' proposition.

"Because Alfred's going," She explained.

"So?"

Ms. Baxter found herself speaking up unexpectedly, "Won't you need him now?"

"I'll need a new footman, yes..." He cast his gaze upon her visage before explaining evenly, "but...Mr. Molesley has, as the saying goes, had his chance and missed it."

_What a shame_, Ms. Baxter thought, biting on the bottom lip.

She noticed Mrs. Hughes face warm considerably in her direction, as if she could read Baxter's thoughts written across her face. "You don't mean that," She insisted gently to Mr. Carson, "Not when he agreed to come last time."

Mr. Carson nodded dutifully at her, "Yes, he agreed. Much as Kaiser Bill agreed to abdicate with the greatest possible reluctance."

"But surely..." She piped up urgently, only to be interrupted by Mr. Carson's steady and certain voice.

"I'm sorry, Mrs. Hughes. But Young Alfred, here, gave thanks tonight for the courtesy and kindness that he has received here, both from the family and from me. And that, is what I like to see, gratitude. I don't want someone who has to be _dragged_ into the house by his heels."

Ms. Baxter glanced down at her plate, she heard Mrs. Patmore's voice coming from behind her shoulder.

"Yes, but Mr. Molesley has had a lot to..."

"...a lot to put up with." Carson finished her thought. "We've all had a lot to put up with, Mrs. Patmore. And it is not made easier by working with people who don't want to be here." He stood up from his seat, and everyone else in the hall followed suit.

Once he left, and they all settled back down in their chairs again, Ms. Baxter couldn't help but look across the table at Mrs. Hughes.

"I think he sorely regrets not taking Mr. Carson up on his offer sooner," Baxter told her, taking a bite of her potatoes.

"Oh?" Mrs. Hughes lifted an intrigued brow, "And have you spoken with Mr. Molesley, yourself Ms. Baxter?"

She chewed and swallowed thoughtful before countering, "As it so happens, I have."

It was then she realized her tone sounded argumentative, even though that wasn't her intent at all. So Baxter quickly supplemented, "We met in the corridor after he met with Mr. Carson. The first time, I think. He seemed rather disappointed in the whole arrangement. Start to finish. But...more so with the end result than anything else."

"Well..." Mrs. Hughes inhaled and then cast a knowing look over Baxter's shoulder at whom she assumed would be Mrs. Patmore, "...I suppose I can try to work on getting Mr. Carson to agree." She refocused her gaze on Baxter again, a momentarily smile twitching at her mouth.

Baxter opened her mouth to express her gratitude only to be met with Mrs. Hughes realistic amendment to her statement, "But I can't promise anything."

It was Thomas' cool, calculating voice that floated down from the other end of the table, "Why are you so keen to get Mr. Molesley back on, Ms. Baxter? You've known him what, a few minutes? For all you know he could be unworthy of the post like Mr. Carson seems to think."

Baxter lifted her eyes up from beneath heavy lids, finding Mrs. Hughes studying her curiously. She knew people were beginning to wonder precisely how it was the two of them knew one another. If they were childhood friends, why did Mr. Barrow come across as so cold to Ms. Baxter? This did nothing to help her nerves in the matter of keeping her reason for employment at Downton a secret.

But Baxter rolled her eyes at him, displaying her softest smile as she answered his question with one of her own, "I thought you believed in giving people a second chance to prove their worth, Mr. Barrow?"

She noticed his smug smirk dissipate once she arched her brow defiantly at him. Things were changing at Downton, indeed. Baxter felt a surge of hopefulness rise within her that they just might change in her favor.

* * *

><p><strong>Any thoughts? Hopefully it's still going as strong as CH 1. :)<strong>

_Coming up next: Mr. Molesley returns to Downton yet again for the footman job (yes, I'm giving him whiplash w/all the running back & forth, I know, but this is all in canon). Ms. Baxter warms up to her Ladyship even more, and struggles to determine where her loyalties truly lie._


	5. Chapter 5

Joe Molesley felt a continual sense of déjà vu, showing up at Downton once again to inquire about a job with Mr. Carson. But this time was different than the last. There was certainty in every step he took. A purpose.

Alfred _was_ leaving for his cookery course at The Ritz after all. This meant there would be a need for an additional footman at Downton. And now was Mr. Molesley's chance. He wouldn't miss it like he did the last time.

So he knocked on the door to Mr. Carson's office, gently nudging it open before snaking his head around. Offering a complacent smile, he tentatively stepped forward.

"Ahh Mr. Molseley, what can I do for you?" Came Carson's genial greeting while he sat behind his desk, setting aside some papers.

"I was at the station this morning," He began, his hands gesturing while he explained himself, "We're...we're redoing the gravel out front. And uh, I ran into young Alfred, he's off on his way to London."

"Yes?" Carson prompted with a lifted brow.

"So as he is going on after all, I thought...I'll look in...to confirm my willingness to return to Downton," He exhaled the breath he'd been holding in the entire time, grinning confidently that Mr. Carson couldn't refuse him now.

"Mr. Molesley," Carson folded his hands together on top of his desk, and shifted forward in his seat. Tilting his face up towards Molesley's, he studied him solemnly, "I'm glad you are, as you put it, _willing_. But I cannot feel the word expresses the kind of enthusiasm I'm looking for in a new footman."

Molesley visibly flinched at the unexpected nature of the words. They struck him just as swiftly as if Mr. Carson had reached forward, and smacked him with his hand.

"What?" He echoed, unable to process the response.

Mr. Carson took in a deep breath, and then explained very matter-of-factly, "When we last discussed it, you made it quite clear that you didn't wish to plunge down the ladder of preferment."

"But...yeah...well...I was willing to..." Molesley stammered, feeling as though the opportunity was slipping away from him again.

Carson interjected, "Assss you keep saying you are, but I don't want to humiliate you. You feel you're meant for better things, and I won't contradict you. Unfortunately, we have no higher place to offer in this house."

"B-but I know...I said..." His eyes widened in shock, only to be met with Mr. Carson's finality.

"And you have your pride, and I respect you for it."

He stood there, paralyzed. Barely hearing Mr. Carson's, _G'day Mr. Molesley_, he mutely shuffled out of the office truly at a loss on what to do next.

* * *

><p>Baxter was mending a pair of gloves in the servants hall whenever the bell to Lady Grantham's room dinged unceremoniously. It was unusual for her to hear from Her Ladyship at this hour. Generally, she was either catching up on correspondences, taking a walk with Lord Grantham, or busying herself with leisurely activities in the library.<p>

So Baxter took it to mean the call was urgent, and quickly hurried up the stairs. She scurried up the red staircase, pausing just outside her Ladyship's dressing room to catch her breath before she made her presence known.

"Is everything alright, your Ladyship?" Baxter intoned in a singular breath, her heart still rapidly beating inside of her chest.

Her mind raced for a split second at the possibility of her entire world unraveling at Downton with a single conversation before she forced it to stop. _She couldn't know._

Perched on the edge of her window seat, book spread across her lap, she placed a finger on the page to mark her place before looking up to meet Baxter's eye. "Baxter, I have to take the late afternoon train to London," She informed her calmly.

Why she hadn't mentioned this early whenever she was dressing her for the day, Baxter wasn't sure. Perhaps it was a last minute decision? Or it simply slipped her Ladyship's mind? She did seem a bit preoccupied these days, what with planning a celebration for his Lordship's birthday.

The mention of London made Baxter feel a bit uneasy, but she knew traveling was part of her duties and she would never vocalize her unrest. Tilting her head to the side, she wondered, "Should I pack a trunk for overnight then, Milady?"

"Oh no," Lady Grantham flipped a hand at this, "it's just a committee meeting and then we're going out to dinner in some _frightful_ hotel." Her eyes widened as she emphasized the word.

Baxter chuckled softly to show that she picked up on Her Ladyship's intent.

"I should leave at six, but I'll be back later this evening."

Folding her hands at her waist in front of her, Baxter inquired, "What would you like to wear, Milady?"

Lady Grantham let out a sigh, pursed her lips together and then lifted her gaze up and off to the side. "Well...I suppose I should look as though I tried. But I also don't wish to offend them," She refocused her attention on Baxter.

"Elegant, yet simple," Baxter deciphered her mistress' wishes. "I know," She added, already mentally running through a list of dresses that might fit the bill.

Lady Grantham studied her expression with a warm smile, "I'll let you choose."

"Very good, Milady," Baxter bowed her way out of the room.

The dress she had in mind for Her Ladyship's evening out was in the laundry wing downstairs. There was an entire closet that might as well have been the size of Baxter's dressing room full of clothes that weren't commonly worn by the ladies of the household. There was a bar that ran along the perimeter of the room, holding up several hundreds of formal evening gowns, traveling clothes, coats, and other attire that belonged to Lady Grantham and her two daughters.

Above this was a shelf full of various hats, gloves, shawls, and shoes, all arranged for easy accessibility. And of course, in the center of the room were an assortment of items that didn't fit anywhere else in the house. Traveling cases, handbags, and additional shoes were tossed in a variety of baskets laid out in the center of the room. As were several racks of clothing that belonged to Lady Rose.

When Baxter first laid eyes on the room she was shocked to learn anyone could own so many clothes. But then she reminded herself that there were four ladies of the house at Downton whereas at Overton Square, Mrs. Benton was the sole women upstairs.

It was overwhelming at first, trying to precisely exact which clothes and accessories belonged to each lady. But Anna and Madge were helpful in explaining where O'Brien and then Braithwaite kept Lady Grantham's things. They lined the wall to the immediate left. Lady Mary's was to the immediate right, and Lady Edith's to the wall adjacent to her sister's. The back wall that was more bare than the others once belonged to Lady Sybil.

Baxter heard talk of how Lord Grantham wished to be rid of everything that reminded him of his youngest daughter when she dissented by marrying Mr. Branson. He was successful to a point, but rumor had it Lady Grantham forbid him to touch all of their late daughter's things.

Even now the clothes stayed. Untouched and collecting dust, Baxter, Anna, and Madge cautiously placed the overflow of their mistress' wardrobe on the spaces on either side of Lady Sybil's small collection.

She wondered what would happen if they ran out of room to hang the new clothes. Would she have to inform her Ladyship? She wouldn't feel right suggesting that Lady Grantham get rid of Lady Sybil's things. Especially if His Lordship had been met with resistance on the matter. She doubted anything she said would matter if Lady Grantham disregarded her husband's suggestions on the issue.

Perhaps Anna could make mention of it to Lady Mary, and she bring it to her mother's attention? Baxter tried not to think about it. It wasn't a problem that needed to be immediately addressed.

What did need addressing was the matter of what to fit Lady Grantham with that evening. Baxter began shuffling through the selections on the rack. _Black is always__ elegant_, she thought, moving further down the rack where the darker hued items rested.

She looked through several options, discrediting a sleeveless one with fringe that might appear too kitschy for such an event. There was a black high collared dress that looked more appropriate for mourning, Baxter pushed that one off to the side. Next she came across a heavier velvet fabric with a wider neckline, and string of buttons that ran down the sleeves. _Was it too simple?_ Baxter wondered, chewing on the inside of her cheek while she attempted to envision Lady Grantham in it. _Perhaps with the right jewelry..._

"Ms. Baxter?"

She pivoted on the spot at the soft enunciation of her name, watching Anna approach her. Gesturing to the gloves Baxter left in the servants hall, she explained. "Mrs. Patmore wanted to lay for tea. I wasn't sure where you wanted these."

"Oh, I'll take them, thank you." Baxter smiled appreciatively.

Anna nodded and was about to exit whenever Baxter called out to her.

"Uhm, Mrs. Bates, I could use your opinion on something." She pulled the dress off of the rack, and then showed it to her, "Do you think this would be suitable for Her Ladyship? She's dining out at The Cumberland following her lady's committee meeting." She glanced up, watching Anna assess the dress splayed out in her arms.

"I think it'd be a bit plain for Lady Grantham," Anna commented lightly.

"I agree, but she wants it to be simple yet elegant. I was thinking with the right jewelry...she has this diamond necklace with a low dangling pendant..."

Anna's face lit up with recognition, "The one with the black diamond in the center?"

"And interspersed around the collar as well," Baxter finished, touching various points along her neck to paint a clearer picture. "With matching earrings," She tugged lightly on her earlobe while explaining hesitantly.

"I think that would be _more than_ suitable for the occasion, Ms. Baxter." Anna assured her kindly.

She smiled, reverting her attention back to the dress. "Thank you, Mrs. Bates."

It was always nice to hear a second opinion, particularly Anna's since she had a keen eye for fashion. She suddenly felt a burst of excitement while she sought to prepare the outfit for the evening. It was the first time Lady Grantham had given her free reign of such a task, and Baxter hoped she would approve of her choice for the evening.

* * *

><p>His father took him to the Grantham Arms for a drink and a sandwich that afternoon. It was a distraction from him having to face the reality of going back to roadwork. But after another rousing talk, Molesley decided he was going to give it another chance. Only this time, he'd work another avenue to get his way back into Mr. Carson's good graces.<p>

He checked his pocket watch as he entered through the backyard again. The family would be up at dinner by now, which meant he wouldn't have to face Mr. Carson directly. With any luck, Molesley would be able to achieve his desired goal without him ever finding out.

After meeting with Madge in the servants yard, she let him back into the house. He mentioned wanting to speak with Mrs. Hughes, and Madge helpfully pointed in the direction of the housekeeper's sitting room.

He rapped his knuckles lightly against the door, and then peered into the room.

"Mr. Molesley," Mrs. Hughes greeted with a pleasant smile, "how can we help ye?"

He cleared his throat, "I was...wondering...if by any chance...Mr. Carson had changed his mind?"

Mrs. Hughes pleasant expression melted into one of regret. She shook her head, and muttered down into her teacup. "I'm afraid not."

Mr. Molesley glanced between Mrs. Hughes and Mrs. Patmore, his weight shifting beneath him. "I...I would've thought he'd value my...caution in wanting to weigh up the pros and cons before rushing in."

Neither one of the women made a comment in favor or against him. His stomach fluttered uneasily. Despite his best efforts to remain stoic and calm, he felt himself unraveling as he spoke next, "So is this it then? Do I just go back to mending the roads?"

His throat closed with emotions he never anticipated bubbling to the surface. Turning his back to them, he brought a hand up to cover his forehead and conceal his feelings.

"Oh, don't give up so easily," He heard Mrs. Hughes' soothing tone, followed by the sound of her setting her teacup back down on the table. When he looked up again, she had the teapot in her hands, and gestured for him to sit down in one of the nearby chairs.

"Now...let me get some more hot water," She suggested.

He sunk down in an empty chair, resting his face in his hands and letting out a heavy sigh. If this didn't work, Molesley wasn't sure what else he would do.

* * *

><p>The choice of evening wear yielded a favorable response from Lady Grantham. She aired her gratitude for Baxter's styling her without reservation this time. It felt like they were making great progress in their acceptance of one another, which made Baxter feel both grateful and uneasy.<p>

She was glad that their rapport was growing strong. It would only strengthen the bonds of trust between them. But the looming secret of her past that Thomas held over her also had the power to shatter any trust they might build in the meantime.

Yet Baxter was still determined to try and get along with her mistress. To make a lasting impression that would showcase her desire to please her and remain in her post. Even if she were to learn of Baxter's past, she could never deny Baxter's dedication and quality of work as anything less than superb.

While her Ladyship was out for the evening, Baxter decided to sit with Daisy in the kitchen. She was airing her grievances about Ivy, who'd gone out for the evening with Jimmy. Baxter listened with rapt attention. She empathized with young Daisy, having been placed in this very position many times before throughout her life.

She was about to offer some sage advice, only to be interrupted by the jangling of keys and clicking of heels. Looking over her shoulder, Baxter met Mrs. Hughes eye.

"Oh good, Ms. Baxter, you're here," She breathed while continuing on her way towards the sink.

Ms. Baxter wondered, "Did you need something, Mrs. Hughes?"

"I thought I'd tell ye, Mr. Molesley dropped in," She informed her over the sounds of running water. "He wanted to see if Mr. Carson had changed his mind."

Baxter guessed sadly, "But ye haven't been successful on that front?"

An audible sigh escaped Mrs. Hughes, her shoulders slumping a bit. "No, I'm sad to say. He still stands firm on the matter."

She shut off the sink, and then placed the pot back on the hot stove.

"I wonder..." Ms. Baxter trailed off for a moment, pausing to work through it all before sharing with Mrs. Hughes, "...perhaps, if Mr. Molesley could show his usefulness and his desire to be so in..._another_ way. It might make a difference? In Mr. Carson's eyes?"

Folding her arms in front of her Mrs. Hughes admitted just as puzzled as she appeared to be, "I just...don't know _how_ we could go about bringing him on. Even if we do temporarily. Mr. Carson is the one to have the final say."

"Aye, and I don't mean to disrupt that, Mrs. Hughes. I hope you don't think me causing you anymore trouble than I have in the matter."

"Oh no, Mr. Molesley is a good man, and a hard worker. He deserves our help." She remarked with a sincere air full of pity for the man. A sort of pity that Ms. Baxter also felt for him, her reasons difficult to fully explain.

When the kettle began to whistle, Mrs. Hughes picked it up off the stove, and moved back the way she came. She proposed evenly, "I'll talk it over with Mrs. Patmore & him just now. See if we can come up something."

* * *

><p>Lady Mary arrived about the same time Baxter at Lady Grantham's door that evening. "Should I come back, Milady?" Baxter eyed warily, still uncertain of what opinion (if any) the eldest Crawley daughter held of her.<p>

"Oh no," Lady Mary flipped an indifferent hand. "You mustn't keep Mama waiting, I'm sure she's exhausted." She paused, waiting for Baxter to step into the room before her.

"I've only come in to see how you got off," Lady Mary announced herself to her mother, whom was sitting in front of her dressing table and disposing of her jewelry.

Baxter wordlessly crossed the room to closet, pulling out a fresh nightgown and housecoat. She began splaying both items across the bed, only picking up on bits and pieces of the conversation between Lady Grantham and her daughter.

"It was nice of you to give them a lift."

"I was glad to. But...I may be mistaken but I'm afraid things have gone wrong between those two."

"That's sad to hear," Lady Mary groaned with a hint of sympathy.

Baxter moved towards the foot of her Ladyship's bed, picking up the gloves that were already deposited there. She placed them atop of the outer coat already sprawled across the bed.

"It's not just a case of a marriage gone sour. Anna's been hurt somehow and Bates feels as though he should have protected her."

There was a shift from the sweetness in her tone as she ordered more firmly, "I don't want any of that to leave this room, Baxter."

Feeling the hair on the back of her neck stand on end for being addressed suddenly. She lifted her head, and offered a reassuring, "Of course not, Milady."

She wanted to pretend like she hadn't heard. If she were to come across Thomas that night, Baxter wasn't sure if she'd be able to disguise this new piece of knowledge that came to fruition. He read her more easily than anyone else ever could.

He knew the troubles of her childhood that only continued through adolescence. And he knew the darkest chapter of her life on top of all that. How deeply she regretted it all. How the memories of her former life still weighed her down with immense guilt that she feared she'd never be rid of. He would know she learned more in regards to the situation with the Bates'. And he wouldn't rest until she told him.

Her heart hammered loudly beneath her ribs, footsteps scraping back down the steps at a maddening rate. All she had to do was deposit the dress in the laundry, the shoes in the boot room, and the jewelry in the family safe. Then she could discretely disappear back to the safety of her bedroom, mull over the words Lady Grantham had spoken, and put on a braver face in the morning.

Baxter dropped off the shoes in the boot room, flashing a brief smile up at Mr. Bates before muttering a polite, _g'night_. Then she resolved to walk further down the hall to the laundry wing, handing off the dress to one of the girls there. Next was the jewelry safe behind the locked room in between Mrs. Hughes sitting room, and Mr. Carson's office.

She jiggled the doorknob, relieved whenever it was already unlocked. The velvet box that housed the necklace in question remained on the table in the center of the room. She placed it back inside, along with the earrings.

When the clasp snapped shut, Baxter was about to hurry out of the room whenever Mr. Barrow stepped in front of the doorway. His greedy smile played at his lips, and felt her heart sink. She'd have no choice but to tell him as he blocked her only exit to her sanctuary.

Letting out a disheartened breath, Baxter hung her head in shame as she disclosed, "Her Ladyship notices something's off with them as well."

He took a few steps deeper into the room and asked lowly, "What did she say?"

"Only that," Baxter peered up at him, watching his eyes study her, "Mrs. Bates has been hurt in some way. And Mr. Bates feels he should have stopped it."

He hesitated, and she took her chance at an opening. "That's all I heard," Baxter insisted, trying to step around him.

But Thomas blocked her path, his height towering over her. He inquired unrelenting, "But how was she hurt? What happened to her?"

"I'm just telling you what Her Ladyship told Lady Mary. I don't know anything else." She moved towards the other side of him, but he anticipated her action and move in front of her again.

"Then keep your ears open," He instructed.

Baxter felt her anger flaring up again. She did his bidding, and she'd carry the guilt of betraying her promise to her kind hearted mistress for the rest of her time here at Downton. She'd carry it all because of him and his unwavering desire to meddle in other people's affairs.

Setting her jaw, Baxter returned through clenched teeth, "I _always_ do."

Thomas must have sensed this because he arched a brow and adjusted his tone to a more conversational level, "What's the matter?"

"I don't really like telling tales," She grumbled.

He narrowed his gaze at her, "You _knew_ the conditions when you came here."

"I did." There was no point in denying it.

"So what's changed?"

"She's polite...she's considerate. I don't feel she's deserved it." It was the truth. Lady Grantham was trusting and kind towards her. Just like Mrs. Benton had once been.

"Now listen," Thomas leaned into her more menacingly, "what you have to decide is where your first loyalties are. With her, or with me."

"Alright," Baxter cocked her head to the side and retorted, "have it your own way."

"Oh I intend to." With a swift turn of his heel, Thomas stormed out of the room.

She was certain he wouldn't do anything. Not just yet. If he wanted more information from Lady Grantham he still needed her. And if her experiences at Overton Square taught her anything, it was how to make herself indispensable.

* * *

><p>It was settled. He would come the next day to serve the servants tea. A task generally reserved for a member of the kitchen staff. He would appear contented to do so per Mrs. Hughes instruction.<p>

Although Mr. Molesley didn't have to force such an appearance. He was content to be apart of the downstairs staff again, no matter how small a role.

Mrs. Patmore told him to wait close by as she hurried back into the kitchens to fish out an additional apron for him to don.

Madge noticed him hovering over the precipice of where the main corridor met the servants dining hall. She greeted him cheerily, "Hello, Mr. Molesley. There's a chair here." She patted the empty seat to her right.

"No, thank you," He slowly appeared into the room, his voice contrite. "I'm not here to eat."

"Why have you come then?"

He heard the question come from near the head of the table, and his eye met Ms. Baxter's inquisitiveness.

"Mrs. Hughes sent for me. She said that you had a big party tonight, and it would be useful to Mrs. Patmore if I served the servants tea."

Just then, Mrs. Patmore arrived with an apron and tea kettle with a cooling rag.

"What?" Mr. Carson inhaled sharply, casting a look towards Mrs. Hughes.

She explained with a shrug, "Mrs. Patmore has a lot to do. Mr. Molesley said he would help."

Mr. Carson squinted at her, as though he couldn't quite grasp the concept. "To serve the servants tea?"

Molesley finished tying on his apron, and then took the kettle from Mrs. Patmore. He started pouring a cup for Madge as Mrs. Hughes went on.

"He's not proud, Mr. Carson. He wants to be useful where he can be."

Nobody said anything for several moments while Mr. Molesley worked his way down the table. Only the sound of the water pouring into each cup and the scraping of cutlery against the plates could be heard.

The closer and closer he drew to Mr. Carson's end, the more tense the air grew. Molesley knew he was watching him closely, brooding over the fact that Mrs. Hughes took it upon herself to intervene on Molesley's behalf. It was whenever Molesley finally arrived at Ms. Baxter's place that Mr. Carson's broke through the silence.

"Oh, oh alright! I give in." He grumbled, shaking his head, "I cannot fight a war on every front."

"Mr. Carson?" Molesley looked up, blinking at him perplexed.

"Look out at livery. You can start tonight, move in tomorrow." Carson barked out his orders, effectively offering him the job.

"Thank you, Mr. Carson, very much." Molesley carefully set down the kettle in front of him, bowing his head and exiting the room.

"And...don't forget the gloves." Carson reminded him sharply.

Shooting an appreciative smile at both him and then Mrs. Hughes, Molesley swore he caught of glimpse of what appeared her looking similarly to Ms. Baxter. He couldn't read the other woman's face, but he wondered if Mrs. Hughes and Mrs. Patmore weren't the only ones who had something to do with his return to Downton.

* * *

><p><em>Hope you enjoyed this latest Chapter! Molesley is finally good &amp; settled back in his post at Downton (yay! poor bloke won't be running around from the village up to Downton anymore hehe). Next Chapter will feature the departure of his Lordship to America as well some more shared moments between Baxter &amp; Molesley circa 4x07. Look for the update on Sunday if you want to stick with it! :)<em>


	6. Chapter 6

The downstairs buzzed as the news of Lord Grantham's departure for America filled the air. Baxter was called up before she could even have a bite of her toast to tend to her Ladyship. She informed her maid that she wouldn't be eating breakfast in bed this morning.

Baxter hastily pulled together an outfit that would be suitable for the days events. The goldenrod blouse and chestnut pinstriped skirt that rest just above her calf was both practical and flattering to her coloring.

In the hectic rush of her morning duties, it suddenly occurred to Baxter just as she was putting the final touches on Her Ladyship's hair that they hadn't discussed what his Lordship's departure meant for her Ladyship.

So she inquired, "Will you be going with his Lordship too, Milady?"

"No," Lady Grantham peeked up at her reflection in the mirror, "I'm afraid one of us must stay and watch over Downton what with Mr. Blake and Mr. Napier being here, and then there's the church bazaar coming up."

She turned to face he maid, bending forward enough so that Baxter could lay a strand of red and brown colored beads round her neck. As she stood up straighter again, Baxter smiled reassuringly, "Well, if anyone is strong enough to brave through it all, it's you."

"Thank you Baxter," Lady Grantham hummed appreciatively. Her smiled appeared more anxious than usual, but she tried to maintain her lighthearted tone, "But I'm afraid it'll be his Lordship whose strength will be tested while navigating a foreign land."

Baxter sensed the forced sound of humor lifting up her Ladyship's words, and she realized she'd have to carefully navigate the conversation so as to not unnecessarily upset her. Handing over a pair of earrings, she watched as Lady Grantham carefully stuck one in each ear.

She asked, "Has he never been to America before, Milady?"

"Once. Right before we were married," She admitted before shooting her a telling look, "But he had _me_ to guide him through all the madness." Pausing to regard her reflection in the mirror, Lady Grantham patted at her hair, neatly styled despite the hurriedness of it all.

Baxter could sense her studying it more closely than usual, and she had half a mind to remind her that she'd be happy to reaffix her hair once Lord Grantham left.

But Lady Grantham appeared to be thinking of his first and only visit to America, her nerves of how he'd find it now clearly weighing on her as she continued critically, "Of course I'm sure things have changed since then, and I'd probably just be lost as he'll end up being."

"I know the feeling," Baxter returned with a reaffirming nod. She started back towards Lady Grantham's armchair, picking up her housecoat, and slinging it over her arm.

"Really?" Her mistress arched a brow, clearly interested in her remark.

Baxter continued plainly, "I visited me sister before I started working here. I hadn't been home in years. Everything looked...different."

She couldn't help but feel a certain pang of sadness at this thought. It wasn't just the village that changed in her absence. Everything was different now. Some of it because of the changing world, other pieces because of her careless actions. Baxter was careful to end her statement there, looking away from Lady Grantham's probing gaze.

She turned again, gathering up her Ladyship's nightgown in her arms as well.

"Well..." Lady Grantham exhaled, trying to offer up some ounce of encouragement, "they say home is more of a state of mind than a physical place anyway."

Baxter smiled at this. She was grateful to hear the understanding in her mistress' voice. To be employed by such a kind woman. She murmured in a barely audible voice, "They certainly do."

There was a definite pause, but Baxter looked up again once Lady Grantham cleared her throat and started talking more conversationally.

"I must say, Baxter. I am surprised with this coloring. I wasn't quite sure of it at first but...I think it's rather suitable." She turned from side to side while admiring it on herself in the full length mirror. Fingering the beaded necklace, Baxter watched her inspect it while offering her approval.

"More than suitable, Milady," Baxter agreed, a satisfied grin tugging at her lips. "And if you don't mind me saying so, I think it will leave a lasting impression on his Lordship while he's away."

Lady Grantham chuckled softly at this, her cheeks flushing a rosy hue. "Well just between you and I," She whirled around and admitted wryly, "that's what I was hoping for."

Baxter bit on her lower lip, stifling the soft peal of laughter that threatened to escape her throat. While the pair of them had built up a good rapport, she didn't want Lady Grantham to think her growing too familiar with her.

"Goodness knows how long this whole business will last," Her Ladyship's tone changed, and her irritation about the whole affair took up her attention again. She smoothed over the front of her skirts and then moved to sit in front of her dressing table. She spritzed some of her jasmine perfume at her neck before remarking dryly, "With my brother one can never be sure."

"Is he...a younger brother, Milady?" Baxter wondered softly, hoping she wasn't probing too deep.

"Oh yes. _Years_ younger," Lady Grantham rolled her eyes at this, as if it were a point of contention. She droned on while applying some powder to her face, "Although now, Mother's on him about settling down and starting a family. She's on about wanting more grandchildren before she dies."

"Is he not the marrying type?"

"Golly, no!" She laughed at this, "Harold's a free spirit. He'd be a bachelor for the rest of his life if Mother would allow it."

"Funny," Baxter kept her tone neutral, "how ye can be so different than your own flesh and blood."

"Is it that way for you too?" Lady Grantham wondered, applying a smidge of plum coloring to her lips.

Thinking it over for a moment, Baxter replied cordially without giving away too much. "I suppose it is. Me sister's the one who settled down with a family."

"And you never wanted that for yourself?" Lady Grantham's reflection peered up at Baxter.

Shrugging, she looked down at her feet and remarked, "I don't know. I suppose I never met anyone who made me _want_ to consider it."

She glanced back up at her mistress, who appeared to be watching her closely. She wondered if she could detect a hint of pity in her visage. It wasn't something Baxter wished to see. The truth of the matter was, she never had the option to consider any other life than this one. And that was well and good enough for her.

Clearing her throat, she asked in order to deflect the attention anywhere but on herself, "Will there be anything else, Milady?"

"No," Lady Grantham assured her. "Thank you Baxter. You've been a great help. But now I must see to his Lordship before he heads down."

"Of course, Milady," Baxter inclined her head, and dutifully stepped out of her bedroom.

* * *

><p>Molesley took the last bits of luggage that Jimmy set beside him, and began strapping them onto the back of the motorcar. He felt everyone watching and waiting for his Lordship to make his grand departure. They murmured things among themselves, but Molesley didn't pay much attention to it all. He had no reason to.<p>

That is, until he heard Thomas' slippery voice speaking lowly to Ms. Baxter.

"Goodbye Miss. Baxter, I look forward to a full report when I get back."

_Full report? What did he mean by that?_ The questions flooded Molesley's mind, the exchange gaining his rapt attention.

Then came the question that appeared to be the talk of the entire downstairs, "Why am I going instead of Mr. Bates?"

She inhaled, responding to him rather sharply, "I don't know."

Molesley looked up, seeing the tension written across her face. A smirk splaying across Thomas' face as he responded with, "No, but that's what _you're_ going to find out."

There wasn't anytime for more words to be spoken as his Lordship strode out, hand in hand with her Ladyship by his side. Thomas brushed passed Molesley, nodding goodbye to Jimmy, who waited with the back door to the car open for His Lordship.

Figuring he had no more business to attend to, Molesley stepped back into the empty place Thomas left beside Ms. Baxter. He noticed her stony expression that was clouded by conflicted emotions as she stared onward. It appeared there was some discomfort hovering over her with the brief exchange between her and Mr. Barrow.

He knew it wasn't his business, but he'd hate to see her upset. Especially when she'd been nothing but kind to him in the short span of time they'd gotten to know one another. Molesley focused his attention back to the car, but murmured out of the corner of his mouth.

"Everything alright, Miss. Baxter?"

There was a slight pause before he heard a quiet yet hollow response of, "Just fine, thank you."

She didn't sound fine, but he figured it best not to press the matter. Not now at least. So they stood side by side, faces forward as his Lordship settled into the car and it began to pull away from the house. They all waited until the family felt it necessary to go inside again, and then followed Mr. Carson and Mrs. Hughes lead towards the downstairs steps.

Molesley turned to see Ms. Baxter filing behind him, keeping her gaze downward. He felt a sort of familiarity in her despondency, could sense there was something more to her alleged friendship with Mr. Barrow. He wouldn't inquire abou it too deeply, especially since it appeared to be something that she wished to keep to herself. But he couldn't allow her to be bullied, not whenever she seemed like such a kind and decent person.

Besides, there was something he wondered about ever since his return to Downton. A matter only she could shed some light on.

"Ms. Baxter," He spoke up, capturing her attention, "I feel I should thank you."

Tilting back her face, she furrowed her brow. "What for, Mr. Molesley?"

"Well...I can't help but think you may have had a hand in me returning to Downton."

Recognition flashed across her face, but she glanced forward again as they approached the backstairs to the house. Shaking her head slowly, she replied modestly, "Not much of a hand. It was Mrs. Hughes and Mrs. Patmore you should be thanking."

Her response caught him off guard, but he tried to keep her engaged even after he let her squeeze into the doorway before him. "Still, I...I know you kept me spirits up," Molesley told her. "And I thank you."

She pursed her lips together and shot him an unconvinced look, "Well your welcome. I suppose. Although for what, I cannot exactly say." Inclining her head, she remarked cordially, "Excuse me Mr. Molesley, I must get on."

He watched her head off in the direction of stairs. Her change in demeanor was certainly curious. Before he returned she seemed so hopeful. Full of positivity that he'd inherit a sprig of good fortune. And here he fulfilled her prophecy, but she appeared to have lost that good natured spirit.

Molesley tried to work it out. Even though he couldn't say for sure, he had a sneaking suspicion that it somehow involved what Mr. Barrow said to her just before departing for America. It didn't make sense to him at first. And then he remembered how things were the last time he worked at Downton.

There was a never ending struggle for Thomas to gain control of knowing the comings and goings both upstairs and downstairs. And the Bates' disrupted his cause. Ms. O'Brien was his ally, but now she was gone. He supposed Thomas hoped to start a similar partnership with Ms. Baxter. Except, unlike Ms. O'Brien, Ms. Baxter didn't appear as willing to comply.

* * *

><p>Breakfast was generally a less formal affair than dinner in the downstairs servants hall. There wasn't a set seating arrangement as everyone had various sorts of business to attend to prior the family waking. And it was for this reason precisely that Baxter found herself seated beside Mr. Molesley.<p>

He smiled pleasantly, offering her a kind, g_ood morning_, that she returned just as genially. She continued spreading jam across her toast, picking up on bits and conversation here and there as they discussed the excitement that Thomas would no doubt experience in traveling to America.

Baxter didn't say much as she munched on her toast, trying to work through the issue of why Thomas had gone with Lord Grantham as opposed to Mr. Bates. She was glad of it, but also dissatisfied. With Mr. Bates here, Thomas would expect more information than if he'd gone and Thomas stayed. Even so, it would be a nice rest for her nerves in Thomas' absence. The worry of whether or not she'd make it through the day without him cornering her, now dissipated.

She was free, at least for a time. Thinking about this made her smile. That is, until she felt Mr. Molesley lean in closer to her, lowering his voice with a question she'd rather not confront.

"What did Mr. Barrow mean when he said he'd be _expecting a full report_?"

Leaning back in her seat, Baxter's eyes widened incredulously.

_Had he heard their tense exchange out on the drive the other morning? Is that why he asked if everything was alright with her?_ It certainly explained that peculiar moment they shared, but it also brought up another question of, _had anyone else heard what Mr. Barrow said to her?_

Her shoulders tensed, and the bit of toast scraped the back of her throat when she swallowed it. Baxter's eyes carefully flickered around the table, but nobody had properly heard his question. She could relax a bit, but not entirely as Mr. Molesley studied her with astute interest.

"Something and nothing," She responded stiffly, refocusing her attentions back to her plate. Maybe now he'd understand she didn't wish to talk about Mr. Barrow.

"Sorry," He apologized blatantly, sitting back in his chair, and probing his breakfast with a fork.

She felt bad for coming across as cold to him. He didn't deserve her coolness, not when he'd been so kind to her. He'd been so polite, and for no reason in particular that she could think of. He simply was a kind soul.

But she quickly reminded herself that she was only keeping him at a distance for his own good. That he shouldn't feel comfortable around the likes of her. No one who spoke or confided anything to her was safe from Thomas' gossip hungry ears.

Baxter shot him a sideways glance, studying his visage. He went on animatedly with Anna, and then Jimmy who joined in on their conversation. They chatted and teased and laughed with one another easily. She felt a familiar pang of loneliness once she realized in Thomas' absence she had no one.

Yet Mr. Molesley was barely here for two days, and already he was reforming friendships with great ease. It was almost like he never left. Like he was apart of this familial unit that connected the downstairs staff.

A part of her was slightly jealous. She'd been there longer than him, and didn't feel an ounce of what he appeared to share with the others.

She wondered if his question was meant to welcome her in. If she reproached him too harshly before even giving him a real chance. She worried it might only hurt him in the end, him trusting her.

Maybe it was selfish of her to wait for the break in his conversation with Jimmy to interject softly, "You'll have to forgive me, Mr. Molesley."

"Whatever for?" He countered, meeting her with a confused expression.

"I didn't mean to sound harsh to you just now," Baxter confessed genially. "It's only just...well...I'm still trying to work out who's who, here at Downton."

He nodded at her, mouth curling up at the corners. "I get it. Whatever it is you and Mr. Barrow have is none of my business. I'd just...hate to think of him...bullying you because your new and don't know anyone else."

The sincerity in his words gave her cause to beam up at him. She thought of telling him just how it was she was connected to Thomas for a split second, but decided it would be better to leave him in the dark at this point.

Instead she assured him with just the right amount of information, "You needn't worry, Mr. Molesley. Mr. Barrow and I have known one another most of our lives. I'm accustomed to his _teasing_."

He considered her response for a moment, "Well...so long as it's _only_ teasing."

"I'm sure that's all it is," She insisted, taking another sip of her tea, then turned her head as the tingling of the bells sounded overhead. Her Ladyship was calling. That was her cue to leave.

Selfish or not, Baxter found his presence agreeable. And she thought, perhaps she may have found a kindred spirit at Downton at last.

* * *

><p>With it just being Lady Grantham and Lady Mary for afternoon tea, Molesley found several moments of leisure time in the servants hall for luncheon. He was nearly finished with his plate and a second cup of tea when he noticed Ms. Baxter pull up the chair to the left of the table head, leaving a seat in between them. It was the place she seemed to occupy out of habit now when it was empty.<p>

She appeared to be glad for a moment's reprieve, eagerly scanning the table for the teapot the moment she sat down in her chair. Molesley glanced to the kettle in front of him before lifting it up in between them.

Ms. Baxter caught his eye, and picked up her cup, nodding out of thanks as he poured her a cup. "Thank you, Mr. Molesley."

"Lady Grantham keeping you busy, Ms. Baxter?" He asked.

She brought the cup back down onto her saucer, and replied in her usual soft voice. "She's got a lot on her mind is all." She started to reach for the plate of sandwiches in front of her, placing one on her plate. "I suppose it isn't easy with Lord Grantham being halfway around the world."

He nodded at this, not thinking of what else to say. It was just as well. She took a bite out of her sandwich before sipping at her tea. He ventured she wanted to eat in peace before Lady Grantham set out her next list of tasks for the day.

There was an odd pacing of footsteps, prompting Molesley to turn and see Lord Gillingham's valet, enter with his usual crooked smile.

"Well if it isn't Mr. Gillingham," Molesley couldn't help but boom cheerfully. He quite liked the man's enthusiasm, and thought he brought a good energy to Downton. Patting on the back of his chair he suggested, "Welcome back, pull up a chair, and sit down."

Jimmy piped up from across the table, "I suppose you've come to shake us up again."

"Will there be anymore racing demon this time, Mr. Gillingham?" Molesley wondered hopefully, already resolving to pour the man some tea.

"Depends if you're up to it, Mr. Molesley," He teased, glancing around to his other side where sat, "But I expect you've all got things to do."

There was a pause, Molesley noticed him study Baxter for a prolonged second. "I don't believe we've met last time I was here."

"No," Ms. Baxter replied meekly. "I'm Ms. Baxter."

"Ms. Baxter's the new ladies maid to Lady Grantham, Mr. Gillingham." Molesley found himself explaining, leaning forward in his chair to catch her eye.

"Ah, how do you Ms. Baxter?" Mr. Greene extended a hand for her to shake. I'm Lord Gillingham's valet, Mr. Greene."

Molesley watched her slip his hand in with Mr. Gillingham's and murmur a generally polite reply. Her gaze flickered beyond Mr. Gilligham's to his, and she flashed a thankful smile. For what he couldn't know for sure.

* * *

><p>She'd been working on her feet all morning. Showing new dress samples to Lady Grantham since the ad came in the post that morning, running her order down into the appropriate stores in the village, but not before Anna and Madge stopped her to add on their own requests from Lady Mary, Edith, &amp; Rose, respectively.<p>

The luncheon was Baxter's first real chance to sit, and have a moment to herself. She enjoyed the brief exchange with Mr. Molesley. It was nice to know that someone noticed her when they didn't necessarily need anything from her. And he appeared to sense her desire to just sit quietly and have her lunch, which she was grateful for.

Then this Mr. Gillingham waltzed into the room rather suavely, pulling her from her near silent reverie. He apparently made quite the impression on the downstairs staff, given Mr. Molesley's animated greeting and slight teasing that soon followed.

Even when her hand slipped into his out of conventional politeness, she couldn't deny their was a friendliness to him that made her wonder if he should be another one to befriend. Mr. Molesley appeared to be a good judge of character. If he enjoyed Mr. Gillingham's company, perhaps there was a reason for it.

Yet his brown eyes were flecked with mischief, his smile notably crooked. But there was something about his hand that was soft. A sensation that dispelled any level of familiarity Baxter may have felt upon first reading his expression.

Baxter released his hand, and took another sip of tea as the sound of raised heels clipping across the floor filled the air. It was followed by Anna's breathless intonation of, "Ms. Baxter, I wondered if you could..."

Her voice broke off suddenly, prompting Baxter to turn around and regard her.

It was then Baxter realized something was wrong with the man sitting beside her. Anna's eyes widened in what she determined to be shock. But not the sort of shock that's met with surprise of seeing an old friend. This shocked look could only be characterized as one of horror in seeing someone one may have never hoped to see again.

Trying not to draw anymore attention to this, Baxter lifted a brow and urged, "If I could, what?"

Anna's gaze realigned with hers and she explained quickly, "If you could let me have some white thread after supper. I seem to have run out."

Baxter nodded, smiling up at her reassuringly, "Of course."

Anna flashed a smile full of gratitude before turning swiftly on her heel and exiting without so much as a glance over her shoulder.

"Well Mr. Gillingham," Molesley continued cheerfully, "what have you been up to since we all saw you last? Having too much fun and games at someone else's expense?"

Mr. Gillingham laughed at this, as did mostly everyone else around the table. But as Baxter turned back around she could see Mrs. Hughes glowering in Mr. Gillingham's direction. Mr. Bates, who sat beside her, not doing much to mask his obvious dislike of the man either.

"I better not tell you too much. I wouldn't want to shock the ladies."

This earned him a few other good natured quips from various points around the room.

Baxter felt compelled to ease the tension radiating from her end of the table by remarking with interest, "It appears you've made quite the impression on the staff last time you were here."

"Oh I wouldn't say that," He shrugged flippantly in one instant, and then was ribbing Mr. Molesley the next, "But we did have a mighty good time. Didn't we, Mr. Molesley?"

"We certainly did. Dame Nellie Melby was here, Ms. Baxter," Molesley leaned back in his chair, and she glanced back at him from behind Mr. Gillingham's back.

"Pity I wasn't working here then," Baxter decided a bit despondantly, thinking of how she quite enjoyed operatic music. Not that she could ever afford to go to one like a proper lady. She supposed it was a rare treat for the servants to have such a well respected singer perform a private concert at Downton.

"Oh? Why's that?" Molesley inquired interestedly.

Baxter looked back over Mr. Gillingham's shoulder to inform him, "I admire her a great deal. I'dda love to hear her sing."

"You must be joking?"

It was the new guests abrupt remark that put Baxter out.

"Why?" Daisy appeared between them suddenly, reaching for the kettle. "I thought she had a beautiful voice," She praised sweetly.

"Beautiful?" Gillingham seemed perturbed by this assessment. He bemoaned, "Screaming and screeching as if her finger were caught in the door. I swear I couldn't take it one more moment."

There were some who laughed at his comments. Others like, Mrs. Hughes or Mr. Bates didn't let go of their blank expressions.

Frowning at the peculiarity of the luncheon, Baxter then shot Mr. Gillinghim a wary glance as she asked, "So what did you do?"

"Well I came down here for a bit of peace and quiet, that's what," He informed her plainly, as if it were the only obvious solution.

She rolled her eyes away from his at this remark. She wasn't particularly interested in continuing a conversation with him. But before she settled her focus back onto her plate, Baxter witnessed the contempt that now spread across Mr. Bates' face just as Mrs. Hughes pushed back her chair with finality and exited the room as though she had had quite enough of her lunch.

It was then Baxter suspected the missing piece of the puzzle that Thomas wanted her to solve might be sitting directly beside her. Lowering her gaze so as to not capture anyone's attention, Baxter discretely shifted her chair a fraction more to the right, closer to Mr. Carson's empty seat.

* * *

><p><em>Well another update as promised! This chapter turned out to be more massive than I anticipated hah. (Approx 1k words longer than what I'm aiming for to be precise...whoops!) Anyway, I am trying rather hard to split the POV's between Molesley &amp; Baxter without it becoming too confusing. I feel both character deserve to have equal depth, so hopefully I've been successful thus far! <em>_As always, if you have a spare moment I love to hear your thoughts either good or bad. Because let's face it, there are prob more errors in this than what I normally write due to the fact that I'm aiming for speed and not accuracy here. Anyway, hope you enjoyed it! _

__Coming up next, we'll have some more Baxter/Molesley moments as they relate to themselves as well as the church bazaar.__


	7. Chapter 7

Molesley hadn't had much of a chance to visit his dad ever since he started back at Downton. And while he knew his father would understand that his duty more heavily concerned the Crawley Family than anything else, Molesley wanted to ensure he wasn't being neglectful.

So he took his chance one afternoon to compose a short letter to his father, hoping it might find him well. He inquired about the floral display the Molesley's often set up for the annual church bazaar, asking if he found someone to help him with it. Of course, the house staff would assist in decorating it as well as the installation once Mr. Molesley brought it up to the grassy expanse. But this didn't help him with the transporting of goods up from his garden to the main house. Joe hoped his Dad wouldn't miss out on one of the most exciting events in the village simply because he was back at the Big House, and couldn't be there to aid in this.

Molesley then gave a brief account of the comings and goings of the family. How Lord Grantham left for America to help cover up some scandal Lady Grantham's brother found himself stuck in. How Lady Edith appeared to be spending more of her time in London these days ever since the disappearance of Mr. Gregson. And how Lady Mary seemed torn between two suitors, but lately Mr. Blake appeared to be the front runner due to his prolonged stay at The Abbey.

He finished the letter by mentioning how welcoming the downstairs staff had been during the course of his return. How he felt glad to be of use, even if it wasn't in the way he imagined. Molesley was certain his father would be pleased to hear about all of it. The man didn't have much else in this world aside from his son and his gardening. Yet he didn't appear to want for anything else.

Molesley dropped the letter in the box Mr. Carson reserved for sending outgoing messages in his office, and he was about to head back upstairs to his room for a bit of afternoon reading when a peculiar purring sound captured his attention.

He paused just before passing the dining hall, poking his head through the doorway. He witnessed Ms. Baxter sitting with her back to him in front of her sewing machine.

She appeared wholly focused on the task at hand, and he didn't want to disturb her. Still, it was fascinating to watch her work. He never saw a machine up close like this before. Indulging in his own curiosity, Molesley casually strolled into the room.

"I admire that," He interjected in between the rhythmic humming of the needle.

Ms. Baxter shot him a quick glance before reverting her attention back to her work.

"That's a real skill," He finished his compliment of her speedy craftsmanship, gesturing towards the machine.

She adjusted one of the wheels that lifted the needle. Peering up again, she arched an inquisitive brow in his direction and asked, "Mr. Molesley, is it true that you were valet to the late Mr. Crawley?"

Placing his hands on the back of the chair sitting beside her, he nodded. "And butler to his mother before that," He informed her, watching as she pulled out some pins from the fabric, tossing them in a tiny tin box.

His fingers drummed along the fine wood of the chair, watching her move the fabric in synchronization with that of the whirring needle. It must have made things so much easier for her as she completed each row of stitches in a timely fashion.

In that moment, he was slightly envious of her. To have a device that would increase productivity while lessening the burden of an already heavy workload. He wished there was something similar that would allow him to polish all the silver in twice the amount of time it normally did.

Molesley let out an exhalation of slight disappointment. Thinking back to one of their earlier exchanges, he couldn't help but reiterate, "I've come down in the world."

Her hands froze at the machine, but she didn't look away from her work. "You can climb up again," She counseled.

It was almost like Ms. Baxter had some exclusive knowledge of the way these things worked. Information that he wasn't privy to.

"Maybe," He lamented, shrugging his shoulders, shuffling his feet despondently. "But life kicks the stuffing out of you sometimes, doesn't it?"

He would leave it at that. She didn't want to hear about his troubles. But just as soon as his hands lifted from the back of the chair and he started to exit the room, did Ms. Baxter's soft response surprised him.

"Oh. I've had me stuffing kicked out more than once. I've often wondered if there's any point to it."

He turned to meet her gaze. She was smiling proudly as she went on,

"Yet here I am, ladies maid to a Countess. So..." Tipping her head at him, she told him more confidently, "...it can happen. For anyone of us."

His mouth split into an intrigued half smile and he took a step back towards her. "Now you've made me curious," Molesley admitted.

It was the first instance she volunteered any information in regards to herself. And he found himself wanting to learn more about her.

Clearing her throat, she began tentatively, "I'm curious about something and _you_ could...help me."

"Oh? What's that?"

Molesley watched her brow furrow, angling back her face to regard his face more fully, "Do you know if, Mr. & Mrs. Bates, have had a falling out?"

"Mr. & Mrs. Bates?" He frowned, no doubt mirroring her muddled expression. "Doesn't sound very likely. Why d'you want to know?"

Shaking her head slowly, Baxter went back to readjusting the fabric in her sewing machine, "No reason."

Her question was a rather odd one, given the way their conversation started. But Molesley's thoughts circled back to the interaction he overhead between Ms. Baxter and Mr. Barrow. Maybe his assumptions about her working with him were correct. Maybe she was just another Ms. O'Brien, trying to learn all that she could in order to further her own agenda.

However, her tone resonated with genuine curious about who was who among the downstairs staff at Downton. And she didn't press the topic further beyond her initial question, or try to find another way in. Which was the exact opposite of what Ms. O'Brien might do. Still, he was curious to know more.

Opening his mouth to ask her why she was so interested in the Bates', Mrs. Patmore stepped in before he had a chance.

"Can I ask you to put that machine away? We'll be laying for tea soon."

Her eye met his, and he swore Mrs. Patmore glanced between them with an air of intrigue. And although there was nothing improper about their friendly conversation, Molesley found himself taking a few steps back from Ms. Baxter. He realized any further conversation would have to wait until later that evening.

* * *

><p>The downstairs was generally quiet. There was still the intermittent pitter patter of footsteps as people came and went about their business that evening. Every now and again, Baxter heard the shrill demands of Mrs. Patmore cutting through the silence while the kitchen staff still worked to put everything away.<p>

Dinner was already served and cleared for the family as well as the staff. The Dowager and Mrs. Crawley departed for the evening, and His Lord and Ladyship already went to bed. Lady Mary was on her way up now, leaving Baxter and Mr. Bates to be the only two sitting in the dining hall.

She sat in one of the rocking chairs near the fire, the lacy fabric of Lady Grantham's nightgown cascading down her lap like a feather light blanket. She squinted in the low light, working to thread a rosy hued ribbon through the collar. It wasn't too difficult a task to complete by hand this time of day. Unlike working on intricate embroidery or stringing patterns of beads across evening gowns, Baxter could work this piece of material without straining her eyes too harshly beneath the dim light.

Mr. Bates sat further down the length of the table, pretending to read one of the newspapers His Lordship tossed aside. He drummed his fingers against the wood every few seconds while he waited for his wife to finish putting Lady Mary to bed. She imagined it was difficult for him. To sit idle mostof the day, knowing Thomas was halfway around the world, tending to his master.

Every now and again, he looked up and remarked about this or that to Baxter, giving her reason to look up from her work and respond politely. But both of them were typically guarded individuals who didn't like speaking much about themselves. The silence was welcoming to the pair of them.

Still, in one of instances where she craved conversation, Baxter mentioned lightly, "Must make the days feel longer with His Lordship being away."

"Ah yes," He nodded. "Less work to be done, that's for sure." After a moments pause, Bates inclined his head towards her work resting in her lap and supplied jokingly, "I could help with that, but I doubt you'd want me to."

Baxter chuckled and shook her head, "Not quite the same as replacing buttons on His Lordship's coat?"

"Not quite the same," He echoed in agreement. "My Mother always used to say, _Men should learn to mend two things: socks and the buttons on their coats. Leave the rest of the finer work to the ladies. _And I tend to agree with her," He offered, "I doubt I could manage something so delicate with such precision."

She took his complimentary words in stride, continuing about her work. Returning the pleasantry, Baxter noted, "Well she sounds like a smart woman to have instilled that skill in ye."

"She was," He intoned wistfully, "a very smart woman indeed."

There was another slight break in their conversation before Ms. Baxter spoke again. "Anna says she left you two a house in London?"

"That's right," Bates bobbed his head.

"Do you...visit it often?" She asked.

"Not as often as we'd like to."

Baxter nodded as she continued threading the ribbon through the open holes in the lace collar. "Perhaps, yeoushould go visit it now? I'm sure you have time now with His Lordship being away." She suggested lightly.

"I did buy a ticket but..." He admitted conversationally before his voice dropped off abruptly.

She looked up at him, to see his gaze narrowing in her direction. And she felt a chill course through her whenever he wondered suspiciously, "Why are you so interested in it all, Ms. Baxter?"

Feeling the color wash from her face, Baxter's eyes widened in shock at his change of tone. "I...I'm not. Not really. I was only just..." Lowering her gaze she finished her meek apology, still feeling his steady gaze upon her.

"Just checking up on my whereabouts for Mr. Barrow?" He finished defensively.

"No," Baxter countered swiftly, shifting forward in her seat. She frowned at him, feeling her own ire rise at his accusation that held some true. "No, I was only just...trying to be polite. But if you don't wish me to..."

"Forgive me," Mr. Bates interjected, holding up a hand as an appeasing gesture.

She sunk back in the rocking chair, relaxing considerably.

"It's just...we're all curious...as to what it is you see in Mr. Barrow," He went on explaining as assuredly. "And I'm not asking to know. But I'd ask you not tell him what we just discussed."

Keeping her focus downward she nodded, "I won't."

She certainly didn't mean to pry, but apparently he took it as such. Aligning herself with Thomas only made doing his bidding harder on her. Hardly anyone trusted her. Even in the few months she'd been at Downton, Baxter showed nothing but her capacity to work hard and extended every common courtesy to the majority of the people living there. Still this didn't amount to friendship that she assumed might come to fruition, especially with Mr. Bates, her counterpart in the grand scheme of the household.

Based on how quickly his defensiveness sprang up, her assumptions couldn't be further off base. After a few seconds of tense silence, she lifted her gaze just a fraction of an inch. He was staring off into space, as though he'd forgotten the whole incident.

Baxter was about halfway finished with adorning the neckline with ribbon whenever Anna returned into the room. Mr. Bates pushed back his chair, and stood to take his leave. Both of them managed brief farewells to Ms. Baxter that she politely returned before they took their leave for the evening.

She was still uncertain of what to make of them. Of the tension that still existed between them, and appeared to only feel more palpable somehow with the appearance of Mr. Greene. But Anna moved back into the cottage they shared. If what she learned about them thus far from Lady Grantham and their hurried exchanges indicated a setback, she supposed this was progress.

Still, she found it rather difficult to form an adequate opinion of Mr. Bates. Their latest interaction did nothing to clear anything up that she wondered from the moment she arrived at Downton. Not that it mattered. He had yet to give her cause for any real concern. She she'd remain quiet on that matter. There was no need to stir up trouble where none could be found.

Her silent speculation was soon interrupted by the appearance of Mr. Molesley.

"I thought I might make some coffee," He intoned suddenly, causing her body to tense.

Baxter hadn't heard him approaching. Her mind was clearly miles away while she worked.

"Would you like a cup?" He wondered softly.

"No," Baxter pulled the ribbon through one of the holes, adding as an afterthought, "thank you."

"It's just coffee," He went on, a teasing quality permeating his words, "You won't have to surrender uh...any of your uh...independence."

She exhaled, the corners of her mouth flickering upwards at his keen insistence, "Uh, you win." Baxter casually tossed a glance over her shoulder, notifying him of her preferences. "Milk with no sugar."

There was a pause. The floorboards creaked beneath Molesley's feet, and she wondered if he'd taken his leave just as stealthily as he arrived. But she heard his footsteps approaching her once more as he spoke reassuringly.

"Miss. Baxter, I do know what it's like...to feel fragile."

Her brow creased at this. She wasn't sure she understood where he was going with this turn in the conversation. Stealing a momentary glance from him, she watched Mr. Molesley admit with a rather downcast expression, "I've felt fragile my whole life."

Baxter lowered her eyes. She sensed his apprehension, the discomfort brewing in the edges of his tone with this unexpected confession. It made her feel as though she was intruding on a private aspect of his life. It seemed like something he didn't easily disclose to many people. Yet here he was, confiding it to her.

Molesley cleared his throat, shifting gears in their conversation. "You'd have realized by now that down here, we don't much care for Mr. Barrow."

Baxter inclined her head in mute agreement. She didn't need anyone to disclose this to her for her to see it was true. Thomas had a reputation for being nasty. For lashing out at people without prior provocation. And for having poorly connected ties to the Bates' that she only just fully learned the extent of.

He was quick to supplement, "Which...may offend you."

"I'm not..." She started off defensively, not wanting him to think she wontedly associated with Mr. Barrow like Mr. Bates did. Her eyes flittered up to find his for the briefest of seconds before she murmured more lightly, "...offended."

There wasn't any harshness in his visage. Quite the contrary actually. He looked at her with mild concern, which gave her an odd sense of comfort.

"But I wish..." Molesley persisted, "...I wish you'd give us credit for making up our own minds about you."

Baxter noticed him disappear from the edges of her vision, the sounds of his feet pacing back out of the room, leaving her to her to consider his words. She turned her face in the opposite direction, eyes fixating on the tiny flames that lazily danced through the wooden logs.

Was she being narrow minded as he tried to discretely imply? Was she discrediting him and all the others? Putting them an arm's length away from her, because of what it might do to her relationship with Thomas? Or was she just retreating into the safe corners of her mind due to her earlier conversation with Mr. Bates, and imposing this experience on the one she currently shared with Mr. Molesley?

So far, he proved to be nothing but kind. He wasn't troubled. And she doubted striking up a friendship with Mr. Molesley could mean trouble for her. She needed a bit of goodness in her life. Mr. Molesley could be just the thing for her.

After several moments, he returned with a small tray, setting it down on the long table.

She looked up at him, a smile instantly tugging at her lips as he carefully brought a cup over in her direction. Baxter lifted the nightgown off her lap, draping it over one of the smaller stools near her feet.

"I brought in some more milk," He told her, gingerly placing the cup and saucer in her outstretched hands. Shrugging, he added, "In case its not to your liking."

Baxter blew on the steaming drink, took a slow sip, and nodded. "It's perfectly fine, thank you."

He flashed a relieved smile, picking up his own cup along with the newspaper Mr. Bates left behind. Gestured towards the empty chair resting across from hers by the fireplace, he asked hesitantly, "Mind if I...?"

Shaking her head slowly, "Not at all."

He settled in the seat across from her. Their eyes connected for several moments while they thoughtfully drank their coffee.

She wanted to say something, even opened her mouth to formulate a response. But whatever words she intended wiped clean from her mind, and she cast her gaze downward before bringing the cup to her mouth again. Her face flushed with heat, and she racked her brain for something meaningful to add to their uncomfortable stillness.

Surprisingly, it was Molesley who found his voice first. "Does _that_ need done tonight?" He jerked his head in the direction of the nightgown she abandoned atop the stool.

Her eyes realigned with his, and everything felt easier again. "No, not really," She shrugged, explaining plainly, "but I like to stay on top of things. Otherwise the work piles up rather fast."

"Ahh yes," He nodded understandingly before commenting, "especially with the church bazaar fast approaching. It'll be here before we know it."

Baxter took another sip of her coffee, placing the cup back against the saucer. "Yes, Lady Grantham mentioned that she was going to be running around frantic for weeks organizing all of that with his Lordship being away."

Molesley gushed enthusiastically, "I should think, it's one of the biggest events in the village."

She lifted her brow at him, entranced by his eagerness. "Really now?"

"Oh yes," He nodded animatedly, his eyes alighting with excitement.

"I take it, you rather enjoy the bazaar then, Mr. Molesley?" A hint of laughter spreading through her question.

"What's not to enjoy?" He went on wistfully, looking up and off to the side as though many memories played through his head. "Games, cakes, music, good food & drink."

She watched him with great interest, unable to stop herself from smiling at the picture he stared painting for her with the words.

He looked back at her, and she felt an unexpected jolt deep within her heart. "And the villagers they all have a chance to present their very best trades or crafts." He continued explaining, wholly unaware of the effect his excitement had on her.

"And your family, Mr. Molesley?" She probed, not even certain if he had any ties to the community or not. Tilting her head to the side, Baxter finished her thought. "Do they...contribute?"

"Me Dad does, yes," He bobbed his head in response. "He gardens," He provided without anymore prompting from her. "Quite well actually." There was a sort of unmasked pride that resonated in his voice, "He...he's won the Grantham Cup for his roses nearly every year. Of course..."

She wasn't entirely sure what he meant by this, but judging by the way he said it, the Grantham Cup must've been a prestigious award of sorts. Her confusion must have translated across her face because he felt the need to explain.

"It's an award. Given at the annual flower show. It goes to the best kept bloom in the village."

"Well..." Her grin deepened, and she found herself going on without any restraint, "...you'll hafta show me if we get a moment."

It didn't even occur to her that they might not be in bloom this time of year. And if they weren't, Molesley didn't think to correct her.

* * *

><p>The days leading up to the bazaar were just as Molesley predicted. In addition to catering to the family's daily needs, he had other things that forced him to rise hours earlier than he usually would. Finding time for himself was nearly impossible.<p>

Even so, he managed to learn that his father would be bringing up things to create a full of floral display after all. The neighbor, Mr. Mullens and his wife, were to help him bring it all up to the house. They owned a wagon that made hauling these things easier than anything Bill Molesley could use on his own.

Molesley looked forward to it, really. While he knew what his father grew in the garden to sell during market days, the floral arrangements were another matter altogether.

He could only see the flowers blossom slowly. The vibrant reds, oranges, yellows, violets, pinks, and whites all popping up at their own pace. Segregated on individual bushes or vines all lined up neatly in rows that promoted sustainability for each passing year. No matter how much they appeared to thrive, it was impossible to tell what the arrangements would look like until Bill Molesley clipped and put them all together inside each pot, vase, or basket.

_That_, was what lifted Molesley's spirits. The prospect of bearing witness to what his father created. To see that it gave him just as much enjoyment now, without his mother, just as it once did before her death. He liked whenever good things could still be reborn from the ashes of something bad.

On the morning they were ordered to decorate the stalls, Molesley caught a glimpse of his father on the far end of the lawn, building his three tiered table with the Mullens' assistance. A slight smile curled his mouth out of the kind gesture. It warmed his heart to see, no matter how briefly while he was instructed to hurriedly deposit another tray full of beer and sandwiches before rushing back down the stairs to take more from the kitchens.

Jimmy trailed closely behind him, and they were soon picking up more refreshments for the workers at Mrs. Patmore's sharply delivered requests. It was at this particular moment, he nearly ran into Ms. Baxter on his way back up out the back again.

"You've been busy, Mr. Molesley," She observed, her voice borderline teasing in a way that prompted him to smile.

"Oh I like the bazaar, I always enjoy it." He reminded her of their exchange a couple of night's earlier. "I hope you will too," Molesley supposed daringly.

He watched her face crease into a similar expression as she fell into step beside him, deliberately keeping an appropriate amount of space between them.

"Can you help her to, Mr. Molesley?" Jimmy jabbed impishly, passing through both of them.

Molesley's eyes widened, and he slowed his gait. Keeping his gaze fixed forward, he was determined to press on as though Jimmy's remark hadn't bothered him. He was clearly mortified by the implication. In that moment, he didn't dare meet Ms. Baxter's eye. He didn't want to see the effect Jimmy's cajoling might have on her. But he realized he didn't have to worry about her being offended when the sound of breathy laughter came from beside him.

He turned to face Ms. Baxter again, noticing her cheeks appeared rosier than he recalled. But she was smiling earnestly. And no mark of shock or horror could be found in her expression. If anything, Molesley could have sworn she appeared delighted by what Jimmy said.

This gave him the confidence to match his pace with hers. He didn't need to run off so suddenly now. His mouth twisted into a half smile as he inquired, "Will you come, Ms. Baxter? Give you a chance to meet a few people from the village."

The blush in her cheeks dissipated, and she answered his question with another one, "Is it not just the estate workers helping out?"

"Oh no," He shook his head emphatically describing, "no the whole area gets behind the church bazaar!"

Another giggle escaped her, and Ms. Baxter looked downward once more. "You're very lucky, ye know?" She squinted up at him, tilting her head off to the side.

"Haha, nobody's ever called me that...least of all myself." He laughed at this, hardly believing he heard her correctly.

If she was trying to make her own assumptions of him, and how he might relate to the rest of the Downton Village, she couldn't be further from the truth. He would never describe himself as lucky, no matter what minute fortunes might strike him.

It was all random as far as he was concerned. And the randomness never appeared to serve him well for some unknown reason. Some larger force was at work, and this entity did not smile favorably at him.

She continued on, so certain of her assumptions, "To grow up in a village where people know and like you. Where your family's respected. There's plenty who'd give an eye for that."

It sounded as though Ms. Baxter had a different view of the world. Like she wasn't accustomed to living in a place that was built upon the principles of community togetherness. That she didn't have experiences of a village where people pitched in to help for these sorts of events. And because of this, she had a different opinion of him based off of what she'd grown to know about him in such a short span of time.

His mood lightened at this, and he acknowledged his feelings out loud, "I'm not used to feeling lucky."

"Well," Ms. Baxter told him behind a tightly drawn smirk, "you should be."

"Come now, Ms. Molesley!" Mr. Patmore shrieked when she happened upon them standing motionless in the corridor while everyone else appeared to be hustling around them, helping with the preparations for the bazaar. "If yer quite done trying to charm, Ms. Baxter, would you mind taking up lunch for the workers?"

He met her gaze for the briefest of seconds before they both bowed their heads and hurried away in opposite directions. Molesley felt his cheeks flush with an embarrassed heat as he took Mrs. Patmore's words to heart.

* * *

><p><em>Well I know some of you were expecting to see a particular scene of BaxterMolesley at the bazaar in this chapter. But I kind of got carried away with other things, and this chapter ended up being far too large to post in one setting. So, it'll be featured in the next update (I promise). Also, I've been slacking on updating because only 9 more days of Nano & I still have a little of 9k words to win. However, updates will appear more regularly once I finish with that & can relax a bit/have more time for editing/etc. Anyway, a HUGE thank you to all of you out there reading. It means the world to me to know there are others out there who are just as enamored with this ship as I am. Coming up next, the other half of the humungous bazaar chapter. Until then, hopefully this will hold you over!_


	8. Chapter 8

If the days leading up to the church bazaar were full of highly charged energy, the day itself passed by in a whirlwind. Baxter and Anna were tasked with ensuring that enough complementary refreshments from the house were set out for the villagers.

After setting down a tray of tea, Baxter thought to remark to Anna while a group of young women from the village came by to pick up some finger sandwiches.

"I never realized just many people lived in the area."

"It's a good many," Anna answered mildly. "Although there used to be more," She added with a deflated shrug. "Or at least. It feels that way."

"Well I wouldn't be surprised," Baxter inclined her head, working to arrange the cups of tea in a visually appealing manner that might entice the guests to come back for more.

"Do you come from a small village, Ms. Baxter?" Anna sounded intrigued.

"It was small then," Baxter informed her as she worked. "But it's grown now. Most of the farms have turned into factories now. And with all the work moving there, so have more people."

She thought for a moment about her childhood home. About the buildings that were nearly encroaching on the few acres of land her sister Myrtle and her husband still owned and farmed. Baxter wasn't sure how much longer they'd be able to keep it before it was bought out by the city. She saw the notices piled up, yet cast aside, on top of a rollaway desk whenever she visited last.

A pang of sadness spread through her chest unexpectedly as something occurred to her. That might have been the last time Baxter saw the house she grew up in as she knew it. She'd been so concerned about how Myrtle and her family would react to her presence, she wasn't able to enjoy being home properly. And if it had been the last time, she didn't have a chance to do all the things that would have made the final goodbye easier to face.

She remembered all the times Myrtle and her took turns pushing one another on the wooden swing that hung off of one of the sturdy oaks in the backyard. How she would have liked to watch her nieces do so. Or help them gather up wildflowers that sprouted up in the high grass, along the fenced in perimeter. She'd show them how to make flower crowns like her and Myrtle did as children. Or climb up into the barn loft with them, sharing ghost stories that would prompt them to cling tightly to her, like their Mother and Aunt did many years ago.

But to pass along the memories to her sister's children would only be a lost cause. They didn't see her as the doting, maiden aunt. No, she was their lowly, spinster aunt who'd spent time in prison. Their mother had told them:_You can't choose your family. But you must love them all the same._ It was because of this, they didn't admire her. If anything, they were frightened of her.

At the very least, Myrtle did grant her some of the things Phyllis was promised upon her return. Some family photographs, a few of her books, and of course, the sewing machine Mother planned on giving to Phyllis as a congratulatory gift for her promotion to ladies maid.

Even if no good, lasting memories were to be formed during her last stay, even if was to be her last visit to the house she grew up in and regarded as her home, Phyllis could take away her most prized possessions with her as she headed towards a new life.

"I heard you worked in London before coming to Downton," Anna's voice brought her mind back to the present again.

"It's true," Baxter picked up her empty tray, pressing it flat to the front of her chest.

"Did you enjoyed it?" Anna asked, tilting her head to the side.

"I did at first but...it wasn't for me," Was all she felt the need to say on the matter. Lifting her shoulders, she explained more easily, "I've always enjoyed more of a quiet life to all that business you find in a large city."

Anna ribbed sweetly, "Well...I don't know how much of _that_ you'll get here."

"Oh, it doesn't seem _so_ bad to me," Baxter decided, casting her eyes across the grassy expanse.

There were vendors replenishing their stores, children cheering as they rushed through the various field games that lay about while their parents milled from tent to tent, chattering animatedly with old friends. So much activity unfolded before her eyes, yet somehow her eyes were drawn to Mr. Molesley.

He lounged in one of the lawn chairs set behind the floral display. His head tilted backbasking in the rays of sunlight, eyes shut and his hands folded together across his chest.

She sucked in her lips to stifle a soft peal of laughter that threatened to escape once she realized he was fast asleep. But the urge soon passed when everyone's attention shifted to the unidentified car that slowly drove along the back drive before halting in a restricted area.

Cries of, _His Lordship is back, his Lordship is back from America,_ soon filled the air.

And everyone bustled about to ensure everything appeared tidy. Baxter quickly stowed her tray beneath the nearest covered table, Anna following suit. The man servants were hurrying anxiously to the approaching car, the ladies clearing away all of the emptied dishes left abandoned on tables, and bussing them to the servants tent.

"Oh my goodness! What a mess it all is, and with His Lordship back! While...he'll have a heart attack if he sees..." Mrs. Patmore exclaimed, arms flapping about in the tent where dirty dishes steadily piled up. It was as though His Lordship could burst through the flaps at any given moment, and critique it all for cleanliness.

"What a surprise it must be for the family," Madge muttered hurriedly, stacking up as many teacups as she could in between Mrs. Patmore's sharp orders.

"They all did look as though they were in for a mighty shock as he pulled up," Anna agreed, placing the dessert plates in a tub full of warm, soapy water. "Did Her Ladyship mention anything to you, Ms. Baxter?"

"No," She took a towel and began drying one of the plates Anna placed just outside of the tub of water. "I don't think she heard from His Lordship for a few days. Which I suppose makes sense, if he was sailing back." She deposited the plate on an empty space near the adjacent table.

"And you never heard anything from Mr. Barrow?" Madge supposed curiously, leaning forward to catch Baxter's eye from further down the line.

With the mention of his name, Baxter nearly dropped the plate Anna blindly passed to her. The hairs on the back of her neck stood up at Madge's mention of him. Thomas hadn't crossed her mind for days, how pleasant that had been. And now with his arrival, she had to contend with putting up with his constant inquiry yet again.

"Ms. Baxter?" Anna studied her suspiciously, glancing down briefly at the plate in her hand.

"Sorry," She muttered quickly, taking the dish and then running over it with a towel. "No," She looked up at Madge as an afterthought, "no I didn't hear from him while he was away."

Baxter finished drying the plate in her hands, setting it on top of the other one. When she turned back expectantly to where Anna's next dish would be waiting, she noticed Anna peering back at her, brown eyes tinged with concern. Baxter shone a warm smile in her direction before taking the plate and continuing on with her work as though this changed nothing.

* * *

><p>Once it appeared the guests were sated with food and drink, Molesley casually strolled over to his father's floral stand, eager to see what he'd done with the arrangements.<p>

Baskets full of tightly settled pale blue harebells interspersed with flecks of babies breath, and golden hued daisies to emphasize vibrant beauty. Then there were pails full of miniature calla lilies, a rare specimen and rather difficult to tend to this time of year. Yet his father appeared to keep them thriving under the circumstances. Molesley then noticed a basket full of already blooming roses in varying shades of pinks and reds. But it was the forget-me-not's with their fussy green stems and electric blue petals with their yellow star shaped centers, and traces of white lining the petals edges that really captured Molesley's attention.

A slight smile spread at his mouth, and he instinctively reached forward to run his fingers along the soft stems like he'd done many times. As a child, he marveled at how different these stems felt in comparison to the waxiness or brittleness of others his family grew. While he was often fearful of tending to the roses because of pricking his fingers on the thorns, his parents could find him eagerly trimming and plucking up the forget-me-not's when they needed help in the garden.

Their origin was something of a mystery to the Molesley family. Typically categorized as a wildflower, the forget-me-nots popped up on spring without any real forewarning. Somehow they thrived in a small corner of the garden, near Mr. Molesley's rose bushes. He was half tempted to tear them out, for fear that they might impede upon his most prized flowers. However, when he saw Joe, no more than six years old at the time, take a liking to them, he relinquished such fears and they remained a fixture in the Molesley's decorative garden from that moment onward.

He couldn't say what it was that drew him to the forget-me-not's, but they were without a doubt, Joe Molesley's favorite if he had to claim one.

A buzzing of low mutterings stole Molesley's attention, and he turned his head only to notice a clump of small children who couldn't be older than five or six standing on the other end of the display. Their eyes widened in astonishment while Bill Molesley produced his usual magic trick on the children by pulling a live orchid from his sleeve.

The fragile petals fluttering about through the air like tiny snowflakes. One of the smallest girls at the front of the group giggled so loudly that she quickly covered her mouth with both hands to stifle the sound.

Joe watched with keen amusement like the other adults did, as his dad skillfully wrapped the rogue and white colored flower among a group of harebells, violets, and some Queen Anne's lace, tying it together with a red ribbon. When her mother came to collect her, she politely declined the arrangement under the guise of being unable to pay. But Bill merely handed it over to the young woman, insisting that no payment was needed as far as he was concerned.

It just went to show the sort of man he was. Even though they never had much, they had enough. And anything more they didn't need always went to someone else in need. Whether it was money, some food from their gardens, or a gift of flowers to be given to a loved one, the Molesley's did what they could to make themselves useful in the village.

Which only made Molesley think back to Ms. Baxter's earlier observation. He did have reason to be lucky. Being rich in material wasn't always better than being rich in spirit. He supposed he was luckier than most in regards to the things that truly mattered.

"Well son," Mr. Molesley greeted jovially, gesturing to the tiered tables full of his floral displays, "not half bad, eh?"

"You've outdone yourself, Dad." Joe complimented with an approving smile. "I won't be surprised if the ladies of village start a petition to bring back the shop."

Bill flipped a diffident hand and chortled at this statement, "Oh I doubt that. I'm just glad to be doing some good again."

He leaned forward and remarked, nodding to the group of children passing around the tiny bouquet he fashioned, "_That's_ why yer Mother really loved the garden. Seeing the joy it brought others."

"Well she'd be glad to see you doing it again," He clapped a hand on his dad's shoulder.

The mention of his mother stirred up thoughts in regards to the latticed archway. He'd been meaning to mention it to his father. Now seemed like good a moment as any to tell him they should think about either investing in it for repairs or tear it down altogether.

"Dad, uh...there's something we need to discuss..." Joe rubbed at the back of his neck, peering up to meet his dad's encouraging gaze. Clearing his throat, he continued stammering, "It's about the...the archway out front...ye see..."

"Oi! Mr. Molesley!"

The cry that came from the other side of the tables, prompted both men to turn. It was Roy Beachum's son, eagerly waving a purse full of coins to signal he was in need of the older Mr. Molesley's assistance.

"Ahh...I'm sorry son," Bill offered a sheepish grin. "Can we talk about this later? I uh..hafta handle..." He jerked a thumb in the direction of the young lad, looking to buy from the stalls.

Molesley nodded without a beat of hesitation, "Of course. Yeah. We can." He watched his father walk away earnestly, and he already knew there'd be a lecture on how the boy needed to learn some patience and respect when it came to addressing his elder's.

Shaking his head, the corners of his mouth curled with a smile as he heard his father attempt to educate the boy on some manners that weren't unfamiliar to Joe. He noticed a vacant lawn chair situated just behind the stall. Glancing momentarily to ensure Mr. Carson wasn't nearby, Molesley took the opportunity to plop down in the seat, and enjoy a moment to himself.

He closed his eyes and took in the many sounds of the bazaar. He could pick up on the giggles of young children, his father's informative tone on how to effectively woo a young girl, and then the whacking noise of a shuttlecock hitting a mesh racket as a game of badminton took place nearby.

He went on identifying the many sounds as he heard them. The clinking of silver spoons in teacups. A light applause infused with cheers and whistles as another competition called for a winner. The faint dinging of a bell in the distance as someone successful managed the strongman game. The he slurping of punch being spooned into a cup.

The sun was warm on his face, the general buzz of many conversations taking place at once, and the ease he felt in his tired feet all led him into a light slumber. It was there he dreamed of being in his father's garden.

He saw himself as a man, only he was more handsome, younger than fifty. He was trimming the rose hedges, and he could hear his mother humming a familiar tune from his youth. He glanced around, excitement bubbling up inside of him at the thought of seeing her again. He tried calling out to her, but the cry caught in the back of his throat.

Then there was a rustling from the other side of one of the bush. He peeked through the gaps in between the tiny stalks that separated the blossoms and took in a woman's face smiling back at him.

Her sable colored hair was swept back in a low bun, her kind eyes crinkling at the corners from the intensity of her smile. He felt himself blush to think of her in such a way, and the hard beating within his chest only intensified whenever she spoke his name in the most angelic of tones.

"Mr. Molesley."

He sighed in response, liking the way she made it sound.

"Mister. Molesley."

There was a hard, authoritative edge to her tone now, but she maintained her radiant expression. Still, it shook him back to the present, and he opened his eyes.

"Mr. Molesley!"

The scene dissipated before him, and he was sitting on a lawn chair behind the main house. Even in his disorientation from the dream, Molesley identified the voice as belonging to Mr. Carson. He sat up more fully in his seat now, ready to get back to work.

"Mr. Molesley, tell those people where they're supposed to park."

Molesley's eyes traveled to the direction where Mr. Carson's finger pointed, and he rose from his seat. Brushing his hands across the front of his trousers, he straightened his vest, wanting to look properly outfitted in spite of his nap.

"Wait a minute," It was then that recognition flooded Mr. Carson's tone. "That's his Lordship. His Lordship's back. Tell the others!" He started ordering everyone to look lively, and the staff that stood nearby were instructed to inform the others of Lord Grantham's return to Downton.

Molesley and Jimmy took off towards where the car parked on the drive, trying to arrive in a timely fashion without appearing too unhinged by the unexpectedness of Lord Grantham's arrival. When they reached the motorcars first, they found Mr. Barrow already unhitching some of the luggage from the back.

"How was it?" Molesley inquired with a broad smile. Even if he wasn't fond of Mr. Barrow, he'd at least want to hear his firsthand account of what his time in America entailed.

"Interesting," Thomas responded genially enough, looking between both Mr. Molesley and Jimmy. "Very modern. And very interesting."

He set down a couple of trunks before wondering himself, "How's it been here?"

Jimmy replied dully, "Not very interesting, and not very modern."

"Huh," Thomas frowned, a bit disappointment by Jimmy's response. He bent his head forward, and picked up the luggage to take inside.

"Let's get a move on, Jimmy," Molesley nudged him in the shoulder eagerly, "the sooner we finish, the sooner we can return to the bazaar."

"Aye," Jimmy returned in agreement while he followed Mr. Molesley back towards the other car with luggage strapped to the roof. "Maybe then Mr. Carson will allow us a bit of fun," He mumbled in a begrudging tone only Molesley could hear.

"Jimmy," Molesley supposed hesitantly, taking down the trunks from the top of the car. "I wonder if you might...help me with...something?"

He felt a bit odd asking the young man for advice, but he seemed to have the upper hand in one area Molesley never considered himself even moderately experienced.

Jimmy must have felt the oddity of Molesley's request for he responded with a reluctant, "Depends on what the _something_ is."

He picked up two cases, waiting for Jimmy to do the same and fall in step beside him while they made their way back into the house. Taking in a deep breath, he attempted to gather his thoughts, but it all came out fragmented. "If you and Ivy were still...keen on another...what would you take her to see...at the bazaar?"

"You're keen on Ivy?" Jimmy echoed in disbelief, raucous laughter soon filling the air.

"No!" Molesley scoffed at how ridiculous the idea was. "Oh no!" He was laughing about it now alongside Jimmy, "No, no, not Ivy."

They crossed the floor in the main hall, starting up the stairs.

"Ohh I see now," Jimmy taunted.

Molesley furrowed his brow, his tone anxious, "Wh-wh-what is it you see?"

"You may not be keen on Ivy. But you're keen on someone. And if I had to put money down on it, I'd say ye'd be keen on Ms. Baxter," He smirked knowingly.

Feeling his face flush at Jimmy's assumption, Molesley piped up defensively, "I _am_ not."

"No?" Jimmy lifted a brow, "Then, why ye asking what yer asking?"

"Well I was only..." His voice stalled, and he caught Jimmy's mocking gaze, "...just...can ye answer me question or not?" He sighed out of exasperation.

This was more embarrassing of an exchange than Molesley cared to admit.

Jimmy rolled his eyes and exhaled heavily, "I dunno...take her to the games." He shrugged before getting one last jest in, "That'll keep her interested. If not in _you_...than in _something_."

* * *

><p>"Ms. Baxter," Came Mrs. Hughes' breathless tone as she rushed over to meet her. "Might you take the coffee round there, and see if any of those ladies wants more?" She lifted the tray between them, and Baxter was quick to take it off of Mrs. Hughes person.<p>

"Of course," She muttered in response, happy to help.

"Then I think ye can take some time and enjoy what's left of the bazaar," She assured graciously.

"Thank you, Mrs. Hughes," Baxter smiled appreciatively before she moved back towards the cluster of ladies Mrs. Hughes referred to.

Making her way across the lawn, a gust of wind passed by them. And with the influx of air she could hear snippets of a conversation carried to her ears.

"You mean he fell into the road, and he was...hit? Yesterday?"

She slowed her gait, turned her face a fraction of an inch to see Anna and Lady Mary speaking in low tones.

She listened to Lady Mary urge Anna soothingly, "The pavement was crowded. Lots of people saw it."

"Well that's a relief." There was a deep felt exhalation on Anna's behalf, accompanied by Lady Mary's puzzling question.

"What do you mean?"

"Nothing I..." Baxter noticed Anna visibly shake her head, her lips forming the words, "I don't mean anything."

Not wanting to be discovered eavesdropping, Baxter adjusted her gaze forward and strolled towards the group of women. "Coffee, ladies?" She offered demurely, smiling as each of them offered their individual thanks, picking up a cup off the tray.

It didn't take long until she found herself with an empty tray yet again. She started back towards the beverage tent, when she heard she name being called from across the lawn.

"Ms. Baxter!"

She stopped, rotating on the spot to see Mr. Molesley hurrying towards her. Her mouth instantly curved into a pleasant smile once she noticed his zealous energy pulsing through his face.

"Are you...are you busy...Ms. Baxter?" He managed in between deep breaths from his short jog.

"No," She answered, "not anymore."

"Jimmy & I..." Molesley jerked his head behind him to where Jimmy stood, explaining, "...were going to check...on some of the games. We haven't had a chance...to properly...see them yet."

"Oh," She tilted her head to the side with interest, her gaze flickering momentarily to Jimmy's before settling back onto Mr. Molesley's. "Well, that sounds like a nice time," She commented cheerfully.

She watched Molesley open his mouth, and she waited for him to elaborate. She thought she knew what it was he'd suggest next, based on the hint of shyness that resonated through his crooked smile. Yet he made a sort of coughing sound, closed his mouth, and cast his gaze to the ground.

It was then that Jimmy chimed in smoothly, "He means to ask you, if you'd like to come along with us."

Molesley's smile faltered a bit as he instinctively elbowed Jimmy in the side, shooting him a pointed look. "Jimmy," He murmured a quiet reproach through clenched teeth.

"What? You said you wanted..."

Baxter shifted her gaze elsewhere, fusing her lips together to disguise her amusement while Molesley tried to discretely stop Jimmy from talking so freely.

"Well, Ms. Baxter?" Molesley's hopeful tone stole her attention once more. "Would ye...be interested?"

"Why not?" She agreed easily. "Let me just set this down somewhere," She looked to the empty tray in between both of her hands, "and I'll meet ye...erm...where we're ye thinking you'll be headed first?"

He blinked at her, his eyes widening and lips parting open.

Baxter arched an inquisitive brow when he didn't respond.

"Uh...the _strongman_ game," Jimmy piped up again.

"Alright. I'll meet ye both there," She looked to Mr. Molesley one last time, who still stood there silently. Her smile deepened before she spun back around, heading in the direction of the tea tent.

Before she could go too far, Baxter heard an audible cry of, "Ow!" from Jimmy, followed by Mr. Molesley's "Must ye be so obvious?"

* * *

><p>The words had been right there, on the tip of his tongue. Yet he couldn't seem to articulate them. Once he saw he had her full attention,saw her raise an expectant brow in his direction and tilt her head forward, he lost his nerve.<p>

Nobody ever noticed him. Not completely, anyway. He was used to people only half listening to him. Used to having his thoughts finished for him based off of what others thought they knew what he intended to say. Sometimes they got it right, other times they were wrong. Either way, he was never given the opportunity to be truly heard before.

Then Ms. Baxter unknowingly gave him such the chance to be seen, to be heard. And he ruined it.

He strolled alongside Jimmy, dragging his feet along the grass, kicking up tiny bits of debris every now and again. His brow creased and he grumbled, "Did ye hafta...ask her...I mean she probably thinks...now she probably thinks I...?"

"Oh will ye settle down?" Jimmy groaned, shooting him an annoyed look. "She's agreed to come," He marveled, "what's it matter_how_ ye asked her?"

_Only_ I _didn't__ ask her_, Molesley thought glumly. His shoe came into contact with a tiny rock that shot up from beneath the tendrils of green grass, skittering further down towards the high striker game.

Jimmy and him weren't particularly close. And given what Molesley gathered from the lad's relationship with Thomas, he'd most likely poke fun at him if he admitted to the concerns weighing heavily on his mind.

In spite of this, he spoke out anyway, "Well I...I don't want her to think I can't...can't handle things."

"Why do you think we're meeting her _here_? At the _strong__man_ game?" Jimmy prompted, smirking at him as if it should be obvious.

Molesley scoffed at the insinuation, "What? So I can make a fool of myself? You know I can't do _that_." He pointed to the stand skeptically.

"And who says ye can't?" Jimmy shoved him in the shoulder good naturedly. Taking a step closer, he explained in low tones only they could hear, "The games fixed anyway. One look at you and they'll let ye win, just to attract more attention."

Molesley wasn't sure whether to be offended by his statement or not, but he didn't have much time to decide.

"My, this is quite a gathering," The temperate curiosity that often filled Ms. Baxter's voice sounded from behind them.

She entered his peripheral, prompting Molesley to glance to his right. He found her there, glancing up at him with a genial expression.

_How long had she been standing there? Had she heard everything? _Molesley felt his face flood with a self-conscious heat. He forced a smile, swallowing the nerves bouncing around in his stomach.

"Has anybody won it yet?" She queried, her welcoming brown eyes searching him specifically for an answer.

He opened his mouth, looking back to the few participants gathered around the game. An incoherent stammering came from him, "W-w-we-well..."

"No one, yet," Jimmy's suave tone came from the other side of him. "I'm up next though." He puffed his chest out, ambling off towards the game.

"Best of luck, Jimmy." Ms. Baxter encouraged with a slight bob of her head.

Jimmy strode confidently up to the stand, slapped down a few coins down to pay for his turn. Unbuttoning his long coat, he rolled back his shoulders and swung his arms back and forth in preparation. The game organizer handed him the mallet, and Jimmy took it in both hands.

He took the final steps up towards the metal plate, taking a noticeable deep breath. Then in a single motion he brought the mallet high above his head, letting it fall onto the metal plate with a notable thud. They watched the puck shoot about halfway up the pole, falling a few notches short of ringing the bell before continuing its downward path.

"That isn't fair," Jimmy grunted at the vendor. He tossed the mallet at the man's feet before moving back to join Baxter and him. Throwing his hand in the air out of frustration, he informed them bitterly, "It's weighted."

"Suppose it's all about luck," Molesley supplemented with a slight shrug.

"Go on, you have a go, Mr. Molesley," Baxter urged, leaning close enough into him that their shoulder's touched.

"Hahaha!" He chuckled, shaking his head, "No, no. I won't manage it if Jimmy can't."

"Try," She insisted gently, "I want to see it."

He let his laughter ride out, half expecting her to join in. It seemed ridiculous that she thought he,might win in a game that Jimmy, who was practically half his age and still retained a youthful vigor that Molesley lost many years prior, couldn't.

It wasn't that he was weak. No, he was stronger than most people gave him credit for. A footman had to be for holding up trays full of food for long periods of time, and handling cases of jam packed luggage. But he doubted he was much of a match for a game that proved to be futile for a man like Jimmy. Even if what he said earlier about it being rigged was true, Molesley wasn't certain he wanted to find out.

But her expression didn't change. She continued to regard him with nothing but all the sincerity in the world. She meant what she said. And this was just the right amount of reassurance Molesley needed to take her words seriously.

His jeering smile dissolved, and he cleared his throat. Straightening the front of his jacket, Molesley trudged forward to the gaming platform. Even if he wasn't certain he could win it along with Ms. Baxter's favor, he'd at least try. That's all she asked him to do anyway.

He traded his fare for the mallet. His eyes shifted between the metal plate and the mallet, and he inhaled deeply before letting out a steady breath. It gave him enough balance to lift the hammer above his head, and strike the plate.

_Ding, ding!_

The ringing bell prompted Molesley to look up, watching the puck slide the entire way back down the tower. _Had he really won? How on earth...? _

"Well done!" He heard Ms. Baxter's exclamation come from behind him.

He stared back at the game before looking up at the vendor. Pivoting slowly, he took in Ms. Baxter's unrestrained excitement. Her hands clasped together beneath her chin, her smile so wide he saw the whites of her teeth.

"That was cheating," Jimmy griped lowly, narrowing his gaze at the game organizer.

"Well it...it's in the arms," Molesley mused lightly, feeling his confidence restored. "In the swing, and the arms," He flexed his arms dramatically, and Jimmy snorted at this before stomping off in the other direction.

Molesley set down the mallet, collected his meager winnings from the vendor, and then noticed Mr. Barrow hovering beside Ms. Baxter.

The color drained from her face, hands wrung together anxiously. He watched her jaw clench while Thomas talked with her in lowly tones only they were privy to.

Even as Molesley walked in their direction, he managed to hear Thomas probe, "So Ms. Baxter, anything to tell me about life since I've been away?"

Tossing back her head, she asserted with a blank expression, "No, nothing's happened."

"I'll find out if it has, you know," He finished menacingly, causing her to visibly flinch and lower her eyes.

That was enough. He didn't care what their shared history entailed. She couldn't convince him any longer that what unfolded between her and Mr. Barrow was nothing but teasing among old acquaintances. He recognized the familiarity of it all. He identified with it more than she knew.

Molesley strode up confidently to where they stood, his chin jutting out. "Leave her alone, Mr. Barrow," He remarked stiffly, rolling back his shoulders. "We don't want any bullying brought from overseas, do we Miss. Baxter?" He looked to her for affirmation, watching the softness return to the contours of her face. A smile of pleasant surprise reflected up at him, giving him the feedback he needed to know what he should do next.

"Now, are there any stalls you'd like to see?" Molesley lifted his arm in Ms. Baxter's direction, finally finding the nerve to extend her a proper invitation.

He could feel Mr. Barrow glowering at him while he smoked his cigarette. But it didn't matter to either of them.

She didn't need to deliberate for more than half a second. Her arm linked easily around his, regarding him with a mixture of immense gratitude. Her acceptance of his gesture was enough to lift his spirits, and make him feel more than just a winner in a game.

"So...what shall we see, Ms. Baxter?" He asked again while they casually strolled across the lawn.

Their gazes met, and she looked back over her shoulder while relaying, "You mentioned...the other day...your Dad has a stall?" Staring up at him once more, she tilted her head to the side suggestively.

"Ahh yes," Molesley nodded, "he does."

"Might I see it?"

"Alright. This way," He pointed to just the left of where they walked, guiding her towards the middle of the bazaar.

He felt her adjust her grip on his arm as she spoke next, "I should thank you, Mr. Molesley."

"Oh you don't have to," Molesley assured with a shrug of his shoulders. "It was nothing."

"It wasn't _nothing_," Baxter insisted, slowing her gait, which prompted him to do the same.

He blinked back at her, not understanding why she felt the need to offer him any praise.

"Ye see," She went on to explain, "nobody's ever stood up for me like that before. I'm used to having to face people like Mr. Barrow all on me own."

He felt as though he didn't do anything meaningful. He was merely doing the right thing. Yet she regarded him as if his actions were somehow gallant. It made him feel special, although he wasn't quite sure he deserved such recognition.

He focused his eyes in front of them again, endeavoring for them to continue on their way to his Dad's stall. "Well...I told ye before," He stated plainly, "I can't just let ye be bullied because you're new to Downton. Everyone need's a...a friend."

"Well, I'm glad to see you've kept your word. Just as I'm glad to be your friend," She returned softly.

He bent his face forward momentarily to conceal the slight smile that desired to work its way across his face. She remembered. She was glad. Because of him.

They passed by the cake vendor, the hook-a-duck game where Mr. Branson and young Lady Sybbie were playing with Anna, and the long table with a giant crystal punch bowl along with other assorted drinks before they happened upon the floral stand. Molesley saw his Dad, deep in conversation with a young couple near a pail full of chrysanthemums and Queen Anne's lace.

"Here we are," He announced mildly.

He relinquished his arm so she could step forward and regard them more closely. A breath of astonishment filled the air while Ms. Baxter tentatively leaned forward to sniff a basket over flowering with a variety of blossoms. She reached out a hand to run her fingers across the silk petals.

"My goodness," She exhaled, standing up straight again to glance over at him. "Are all these home grown?" She asked, opening her palms in reference to everything placed on the table.

"Sure are," Molesley bobbed his head, "Dad's outdone himself with the garden this year." He slowly followed her down the length of the table, watching her peruse the variety of arrangements, her brown eyes alive with rapt interest.

"They're so lovely," She complimented, bending over again to regard a basket resting on the lowest tier. "Are these the roses you were telling me about?" Baxter pointed to the pink and red blooms, looking to him for an answer.

He nodded his response, and was about to step in closer to tell her about what went into trimming them so they gave off a nearly symmetrical appearance whenever they were discovered.

"Aye, back again I see," Bill intoned attentively, his eye resting on Ms. Baxter. "And this time you brought a pretty lady with ye."

Baxter hummed out of amusement, bowing her head forward and exposing the blush creeping along the back of her neck.

"Dad, this is Ms. Baxter. She works up at the house," He explained evenly, hoping the steadiness to his words would dispel his father's blatant curiosity as to the how they were acquainted.

"Oh, I'm always glad to meet a _friend_of Joe's," Bill winked over at him before extending a hand for her to shake.

He let out an exasperated exhalation, squeezing his eyes shut and shaking his head at his father's bold insinuation.

But Ms. Baxter didn't appear phased by the side look the men briefly shared. Without missing a beat, she extended her hand and offered politely, "It's a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Molesley. Your son's spoke nothing but praises of your work in the garden." Sweeping her gaze down to the flowers for emphasis, "And I can see he tells nothing but the truth on the matter."

"Oh, you're too kind, Ms. Baxter." He covered their joined hands with his other one, patting it. "Tell ye what, if ye see anything you like, I'll make ye a complimentary bundle."

She tilted her head from side to side, "Oh I couldn't just take..."

"It's a special we're running," Bill interjected plainly.

"Special?" Molesley frowned, blinking back out of his confusion, "What special? Ye never said anything about..."

"That's because it's just started," Bill affirmed, lifting a discerning brow in his direction.

He should have known this would have happened. That his Dad would grow overzealous at him bringing a woman over, regardless of the extent of their relationship.

Moving his attention back to Baxter, he released her hand, throwing his arms around excitedly, "Look around, Ms. Baxter. Pick out anything you like, anything at all, and it's yours."

"My that's very generous of you, Mr. Molesley," She breathed, clearly flattered by this welcoming gesture.

Folding her hands together, Baxter slowly paced down the length of the table, pausing here and there to inquire about particulars of certain flowers. Bill answered all of her inquiries about species, compatibility with other blooms, as well as how to care for them.

Molesley watched his Dad pull out one of the bluish harebells, a national flower of the region, a luscious fern leaf taken from the growth near the creek, a golden hued daisy, and a few sprigs of babies breath as an added touch of something special. He was about to tie the hand held bouquet together with one of silver ribbons when something else caught Ms. Baxter's eye.

"Oh these are exceptional here," She blurted out from further down the table, prompting both men to turn and see what she referred to.

"Ahh...the forget-me-not's," Mr. Molesley informed her with a proud nod. "Did Joe tell ye those were his favorite?"

"No, I..." She found his gaze once more, a curious half grin tugging her mouth up at the corners. "...I had no idea."

"Ah well, when he was a boy..."

"Dad, please." Molesley interrupted, "She doesn't want to hear about any of that." He shook his head dismissively, trying to end this charade his father found to be amusing.

He didn't want him to cause Ms. Baxter anymore embarrassment that he suspected Bill already had. But he quickly learned, he didn't have to worry when she countered this thought.

"Don't be ridiculous," She cocked her head to the side, her alluring gaze catching him off guard whenever she confirmed softly, "of course I do."

* * *

><p><em>First and foremost, a HUGE round of thank you's to all of you who've readreviewed/followed/favorited this. I genuinely appreciate it. I'm hopeful to get in one more update before Nano officially ends. (Don't fret, this story has A LONG way to go. I'm nearly at 50k words & I'm fairly certain I'll have a good 20-30k following that to wrap things up. ;)) _In regards to this chapter I feel it was something of a marathon to write hah. Hopefully it wasn't as laborious for you to read, and kept your interest most of the way.__

__Coming up, we'll see some events from the Series 4 CS. __


	9. Chapter 9

The first rays of sunlight peeked through the tiny window in her room, dancing across her face. Baxter stirred from her deep slumber, inwardly groaning before she rolled over in bed, bringing the sheets up over the lower half of her face. The idea of an extra hour of sleep was a welcoming notion.

Shutting her eyes for a split second, she nearly gave into the drifting feeling. Nearly allowed her mind to go completely dark and weightless. The comforting sensation of falling back to sleep and waking up of her own accord nearly consumed her. But she forced her eyes open in spite of how difficult the task felt at present.

She knew if she gave into the sensation, waking up later would be even harder. So rubbing the residual effects of sleep from her eyes, Baxter yawned and slowly sat up.

She cast the bed coverings aside, swung her feet to the floor, feeling the cool wood beneath them as she paced towards the washing basin. Checking her pitcher, Baxter was grateful to learn, Helen, the newest scullery maid, already came round with the hot water. She poured the steaming liquid into the white basin, cautiously dipping the coarse sponge inside.

Her hands burned instantly from the contact, and she recoiled for a split second. Deciding to let it sit for a moment to cool, Baxter paced to her tall dresser standing beside it, gazing into the tiny mirror that hung on the wall above it. She unwound the band that kept her hair braided into a single pleat, unraveling it before shaking out her dark brown waves.

It was odd to see herself this way, hair tumbling wildly past her shoulders as opposed to the slicked back low bun she'd grown accustomed to fashioning during her many years of working in service. She looked younger; as though forty-six years hadn't touched her, and the three years she spent locked away in Holloway, hadn't weathered her. With her long hair framing her face, she didn't notice the sagging skin around her mouth or the deep creases that etched across her forehead when she lifted her eyebrow.

She liked the look. It made her feel desirable, dare she think it. Not that anyone else could possibly desire her in such a way. Not that anyone else would ever think to when she kept it tucked neatly away day in and day out.

Baxter let out a sigh, running her fingers through her thick tresses before gathering it at the nape of her neck. She glanced from side to side, determining if she wanted to leave any texture to it this morning. Settling on her decision, Baxter picked up her hairbrush and sought to work it through her unruly tangles. It caught on a few knots here and there, but eventually she smoothed out most of the kinks.

She managed her part to the right, sweeping more of her hair across the left side of her face. It waved loosely, despite her efforts to smooth it, but she let it be as she twisted the remaining hair until it curled into a low hanging bun. She added several pins in strategic places that would hold it upright. The process took no more than a few minutes, and by the time she finished, the water to wash her hands and face with would be cooled sufficiently for her.

She splashed it across her face, rubbing soft soap in between both hands to create suds. Lathering it against her face, Baxter then wiped it away with a small towel she kept on the washstand. Moving towards the adjacent dresser, she pulled out a brazier and undershorts from the stop draw, tossing them onto her bed behind her. She then paced to the front of the fireplace, carefully picking off her black stockings from the metal grate that covered the opening.

As she stood up straighter, Baxter's gaze caught on the thin vase resting atop the fireplace mantle. Inside it were the blue and yellow flowers Mr. Molesley gave her at the bazaar several days ago. They were a splash of color against the white walls, brown furniture, and black uniforms that occupied her room. Brighter and more vibrant than anything else, even in the days following the bazaar, they still managed to bring her comfort and a small smile to her lips.

Baxter pivoted in place, tossed her stockings onto the bed, and then walked over to where her black dress hung in the closet. Pulling it down from the hanger, it soon joined all the other elements that comprised her outfit for the day. She stole a brief glance of herself in the mirror, the one hanging on the back of her dressing room door, and then purposefully strode to the other side of her bed.

Her back facing the reflective glass, she slipped her lightweight nightgown overhead and let it fall to the floor. She quickly slipped her brazier up over her shoulders, securing it into place a single motion. Next came her drawers, followed by the stockings that she slid over her bony knees while placing one foot on the bed at a time. It was an art form how quickly she could get the long sleeved, black dress on after all of this and still refrain from catching sight of herself in the mirror.

She wasn't always so self-conscious of the way she looked without her clothes. Having shared rooms with other girls in the houses she worked in, Baxter was generally accustomed to bearing it all in front of other people. But things were different now. She was marked from the ghosts of her past, and even a single glance of herself in the mirror was enough to bring back memories of the unpleasantness she suffered.

When she zipped the side of her dress up, Baxter slowly turned, daring to look at herself again. _This will do_, she thought, nodding her head approvingly. Hurrying back across the room towards her dresser, she picked up her wristwatch, tying it around her right wrist.

She then noticed her shoes sitting out beside the tall dresser. Baxter carefully slipped her feet into her shoes, strapping the buckles in place. Once she finished, she read the face of her watch.

_6:15. Not bad,_ she thought. She'd have time for breakfast with the rest of the early risers, and then might have a chance to start gathering more clothes for the family's trip to London before Lady Grantham woke for the day with more instructions on what she'd like done.

Shooting one final glance into the mirror, Baxter patted underside of her bun, smoothing over some of the loosen tendrils at the base of it. She dug a few pins of the pins more tightly into her head, grimacing a bit from the pain. It was worth it, saving herself from needing to restyle it later, and focus more on preparations for the London trip.

Baxter too in a deep, steadying breath, and exhaled. Stepping forward, she placed her hand on the doorknob and turned it in a single motion.

She was ready for whatever came her way that day.

* * *

><p>Molesley sat in one of the empty chairs by the fireplace, one of the used newspaper's from upstairs unfolded before him. He tried to read anything he could get his hands on, and didn't mind that the majority of the stories he was currently reading, he'd already heard snippets of. Still, it was interesting to see how different his opinions changed after reading the paper versus when one of the downstairs staff paraphrased them during a conversation. The information was relatively the same, but it was the tone that differed. The tone of the writer versus that of the speaker that could change the entire meaning of a story or column. That's what really intrigued him.<p>

He was skimming a gossip column, detailing one of the Prince of Wales' latest exploitation with a Mrs. Freda Dudley Ward. Molesley balked at the article, unable to believe they were allowed to print it without having to face any real consequences. He shook his head slowly in disbelief, set aside the paper, and then lifted the cup of coffee from the nearby table to take a sip.

It was at this moment, he noticed Ms. Baxter enter the servant's hall. Their eyes met, and they smiled in quiet greeting. Mr. Molesley watched her help herself a cup of coffee before she walked towards him. Wordlessly, she settled down in the chair opposite of his, welcoming him in a chipper tone.

"Morning Mr. Molesley."

"Ms. Baxter," He replied similarly. "How are you this morning?"

"Quite well," She sipped her coffee, placed it on the small table next to her, and nodded to newspaper he disposed of on the stool near his feet. "Would you mind if I...?"

"Not at all," Molesley retrieved it for her, leaning forward in his seat while she reached for the paper.

"Anything good I should be aware of?" She asked him with a wry grin.

He shrugged, thinking on it for a moment. He would never advocate for her to read the article printing scandalous details concerning the Prince of Wales. But an idea suddenly sprung to mind and he spoke up while she casually flipped through the pages.

"Oh! There's a good political column. Analyzing the chances the labor government has of being elected next year."

Baxter looked back up at him, wondering with mild interest, "And what are the chances, d'you think?"

"Pretty good," He nodded affirmatively before hesitating for a moment. "Or so the journalist believes it to be so."

She asked, cocking her head to the side, "And what about you? Do you believe it to be so?"

"Well I certainly wouldn't mind it," He admitted earnestly.

It would be a welcomed change for the members of their class. More opportunities than they could have ever dreamed of might arise. He could be back on his way to rising to the top in a respectable house. Especially if some of the more secondary roles were done away with.

His thoughts of what a change in the political climate might mean for them were soon disrupted by Ms. Baxter clucking her tongue in disapproval.

"What a shame this is," She muttered disappointedly, looking up from the paper to catch his eye once more. "How can they write such drivel and get away with it? About the Royal Family, no less."

"I know." Molesley responded out of melancholic agreement, "I couldn't read on once I came across that one."

"Well I won't either," Ms. Baxter noted, turning past it, her eyes quickly scanning the fine print. "Hang on," She furrowed her brow, turning the paper around so he could read the headline in bold lettering. "Did you see this?" She inquired, clearly shocked by what she saw.

Molesley shifted forward in his chair to read:

**Valet of the Great Viscount Gillingham's Dies in Mysterious Lorry Crash Near Piccadilly Square **

His stomach lurched. He couldn't conceal the shock as it worked its way across his visage. Mouth dropping open, he gasped, "Mr. Greene's...?"

"...dead." She finished neutrally, saying the almighty word that caught in his throat for whatever reason. "How sad," Baxter leaned back in her seat, remarking regretfully, "he seemed a nice enough man."

Molesley nodded mutely, staring off to the side. He caught sight of the table where they once gathered round at Mr. Greene's insistence to play cards. The room buzzed with excitement, the staff finally finding someone to be happy about ever since the death of Lady Sybil and Mr. Crawley.

"He was," He added in a faraway voice. "I hate to see someone like that go out in such a horrific way. I wonder how Lord Gillingham's taking the news."

"What's this?" Thomas' crisp question grabbed his rapt attention once more.

Molesley's gaze briefly swept over Ms. Baxter's countenance, and he noticed her shoulder's tensing at the unexpected nature of Mr. Barrow's presence.

"Mr. Greene's met a rather tragic end," Molesley explained swiftly.

"Let me see," He held out a hand, silently demanding the newspaper from Ms. Baxter.

She wordlessly handed it over to him, not bothering to make eye contact.

Mr. Molesley leaned forward in his chair, urging her to meet his eye again. He wanted to assure her that she wouldn't have to incur Mr. Barrow's wrath. Not as long as he was around. But Ms. Baxter kept her eyes trained to the floor, the muscles in her jaw clenching uncomfortably while Mr. Barrow hovered nearby with the paper in his hands.

"What a pity," He remarked lightly whenever he was finished reading. "Don't ye think, Ms. Baxter?"

"Yes," She replied quietly, still keeping her face downward, "it is a pity."

"Seems as though this happened just as I was returning from America," Thomas pointed out, his tone cold. Gesturing towards the newspaper he explained suspiciously, "This here, says the accident occurred the day before that even..."

"What's your point, Mr. Barrow?" She retorted sharply, tilting back her face and narrowing her gaze up at him.

"Well it's just curious how you didn't know a thing about this before when I asked..."

"And how could she have known, Mr. Barrow?" Mr. Molesley rejoined, standing up from his chair impulsively. He didn't like the implied accusations that were being tossed about. "The paper was only printed three days ago."

Molesley stepped forward, placing a finger on the publication date like this should be proof enough of Ms. Baxter's innocence. Although he didn't know why she needed to proof her ignorance on the matter to him.

Thomas' lips curled into a devilish half smile as he stared back at Molesley. "I don't know, Mr. Molesley," His words grating on Molesley's nerves as he insinuated, "But I didn't think there were things here, Ms. Baxter didn't already know about."

"Apparently there are," Molesley countered defensively, placing hand on the newspaper in Thomas hands and crunching it beneath his hand that dissolved into a fist. "Now, if you don't mind, I think Ms. Baxter would like to finish the rest of her coffee without being subjected to an interrogation."

He watched Thomas cast a sideways glance in Baxter's direction, and he could hear the irriations in her words as she requested.

"I would, thank you."

Letting out a gravelly breath, Thomas released his hold on the papers that Molesley crumbled further up in his tightly formed fist. He then focused on Ms. Baxter before gesturing to the papers in his hand, trying to smooth them out again. Shrugging sheepishly, he remarked, "I uh...I hope you were finished with this."

Her mouth twisted into a weak half smile, and she nodded before staring blankly into the fireplace.

* * *

><p>Baxter flitted from compartment to compartment, poking her head inside to see if there was any empty space for her to sit. So far, the majority of the compartments in third class were already full or three-fourth's of the way to becoming occupied while the last fourth was claimed to be reserved for someone who'd yet to arrive.<p>

She knew the train to London would be crowded this time of year with all the respectable families in the county and their households traveling in for the start of the social season. And while she knew she couldn't be picky, Baxter still held onto a sliver of hope that she'd find a familiar face to share a seat with for a few hours.

A flash of blonde soon darted out from one of the compartments to her left, and she instantly recognized Madge's distinct profile and her dark, plum dress.

"Madge!" Baxter intoned, catching hold of her forearm.

Lady Edith's maid whirled around, flashing a look of bewilderment from the suddenness of their meeting.

"Please, tell me ye have an extra seat in there," She begged urgently, only to feel her hope shatter whenever Madge offered her a deflated smile.

"I'm sorry Miss. Baxter," She inclined her head. "We're all full in there."

Baxter peeked through the glass window of the sliding door, smiling as she noticed Mr. & Mrs. Bates sitting side by side and a strange woman occupying the window seat beside an empty place that could only belong to Madge.

Nodding her head, Baxter let out a disappointed sigh, releasing Madge's sleeve. She was resolved to press on whenever Madge added helpfully.

"But...I think Jimmy & Ivy still have some space in theirs. Just a couple down on the right, I think they are."

It wasn't ideal. Things were rather unstable as far as Jimmy & Ivy were concerned. But beggars couldn't be choosers at this point, she told herself.

"Thank you," She offered her thanks to Madge, and then followed the vague instructions that might lead to a potential seat and lift another burden from her.

When she peered into the window, she saw Ivy & Jimmy sitting to one side of the carriage and Mr. Molesley all alone on the other side. None of them appeared to notice her hovering there at first, until she slid back the door and looked between the three of them.

"Madge said you might have room for one more?" Her lips strained into a desperate grin.

"Certainly," Mr. Molesley chimed in eagerly, gesturing to the empty window seat beside him, "of course we do!"

"Yes, of course," Jimmy mocked, "we have room for another chaperone, ye mean?"

"What's this?" Baxter inquired, closing the door behind her, and plopping down next to Molesley.

Molesley let out a hefty sigh, gesturing to the others sitting across from them. "Jimmy & Ivy were..." He coughed a bit, reaching up a hand to scratch the back of his neck.

"Alright," Jimmy interjected firmly, "we don't need to relive it all again."

Whatever it was that Mr. Molesley witnessed, the event was clearly embarrassing. But it became clearer to Baxter whenever she heard Ivy mutter coquettishly, leaning into Jimmy enough for her hand to cover his.

"I'd sure like to relive it. Preferably without an audience."

Jimmy grinned at this before confidently sliding his arm round both of her shoulders, "Well I'm sure we could find some time for a reenactment."

"Oh my," Baxter's eyes widened out of discomfort. Sitting back in her seat, she cast a perturbed look at Mr. Molesley, and wondered quietly, "How long is a train ride from Yorkshire to London again?"

When his gaze met hers it was pretty clear from his expression that he was just as bothered as she felt. He mumbled back for only her to hear, "Hour and a half, if we're lucky. Two hours, if we're not."

There was a hint of mirth in his words. She chuckled lightly, somewhat amused by the circumstances and relieved to hear she wasn't the only one who found it all to be horribly awkward.

"That's what I was afraid of," Baxter sighed heavily. A moment of silence encompassed them while Jimmy and Ivy continued making doe eyes at one another, a string of giggles breaking through the quiet ever now and again.

She bent her face towards Molesley's ear, lowering her voice she teased, "How long do you think we got til they start mauling one another like wild animals?"

"Hey," Jimmy spoke up defensively, "we're sitting right here y'know?"

Baxter countered with a similar air of annoyance, "So are _we_. And as long as that stands, why don't we _all_ try to..._restrain_ ourselves for the duration of the trip?" She eyed the both of them pointedly, inclining her head towards the arm slung around Ivy's shoulders.

"Fine," Jimmy retracted his arm from around Ivy's shoulders, shifting in his seat to place a respectable amount of space between them.

A somewhat peaceful silence descended upon them. Ms. Baxter pulled out her yarn and crochet needles, Jimmy dealt out a hand of cards for Ivy and him to play a game, and Mr. Molesley was deeply engrossed in his book.

The train whistled while it slowly rolled out of the station, the _chug chug chug_ rhythm of the engine turning the wheels slowly yet determinedly building while it started to pick up a noticeable speed.

Ms. Baxter inhaled sharply, shoulders tensing and her head pressing flat into the cushioned back of her seat while her stomach lurched uncomfortably. Her grip on her crochet needle tightened, and the bundle of woven yarn rested in her lap.

Aside from reaching forward to hold down their cards, Ivy and Jimmy appeared nonplussed by the increased speed. When she shifted her eyes to the side, she saw Mr. Molesley staring back at her with mild concern.

She flashed a somewhat reassuring smile, realigning her eyes to wall across from her prior to squeezing them shut again. The anxiety would pass. It always did.

* * *

><p>He wondered if he should reach over to place comforting hand over hers. But that would involve him overstepping the line of restraint they both asked Jimmy &amp; Ivy not to cross. So he refrained, only watching her from his peripheral as he continued reading on about the reign of Queen Anne.<p>

After turning a few pages, he heard an alleviated exhalation from his left, prompting him to look up again.

"You a nervous traveler, Ms. Baxter?" He wondered lightly.

"The speed..." She explained abruptly, "...makes me stomach turn. At least at the start."

"Ahh I see...well ye alright now?" His brow lifted out of mild concern.

Her smile creased gratefully and she bobbed her head, "Yes, I'm fine, thank you."

They were about to settle back into their solitary activities whenever Jimmy asserted boldly. "Think I'm gonna stretch me legs for a bit." He cast a telling grin in Ivy's direction, "I could use some company."

She blushed and giggled a bit, "Alright then. Lead the way."

Molesley shook his head at this, hearing Ms. Baxter scoff while Jimmy and Ivy slipped back through the compartment door.

"At least they've gone elsewhere to do...whatever it is they're going to..." His voice cut out, not trying to disclose his disapproval regarding the whole thing.

"I thought Ivy wasn't sweet on Jimmy anymore," Baxter vocalized her puzzlement. "I mean, according to Daisy that is," She looped another bit of yarn around the needle, pulling it through the chain.

"Ahh well...who knows?" Molesley echoed identical confusion. He half turned his face in her direction, watching her hands deftly work. "First they were both sweet on Alfred. Then Alfred was sweet on Ivy while Ivy was sweet on Jimmy. All the while Daisy was sweet on Alfred. Then Ivy couldn't stand Jimmy and was keen on Alfred again, and Jimmy made a pass at Daisy. But Daisy still stayed true to Alfred. And now I suppose that Alfred is gone, Ivy's gone back to fancying Jimmy again," He explained, sounding rather pleased with himself for figuring that whole puzzle out.

Her eyes widened at this, and she glanced up at him. She mused, "How does yer head not spin round trying to explain all of that?"

"Oh it does," Molesley concurred, smiling when he could hear her laughing softly. "As Mrs. Patmore once told them, _the trouble with yer lot is you're all in love with the wrong people_."

She tilted her head from side to side, and sighed empathetically, "Well...sadly that's how it happens sometimes."

There was some note of familiarity in her voice, deep understanding spreading through her expression. It was almost as though she could relate to their plight. And this only fanned the flames of his curiosity in his mind.

He couldn't help but comment, clearly intrigued, "You sound as though you speak from experience Ms. Baxter."

She stopped wrapping the yarn around her crochet needle. Her gaze lifted to stare at the opposite wall for a split second. After a few seconds, she looked over at him. Her eyes flooded with a glint of sadness.

"Hasn't everyone felt the bitter sting of unrequited love at one point or another?" Ms. Baxter supposed plainly.

"Know I have," Molesley inclined his head in agreement.

"Then I suppose it's more or less a general feeling that we've _all_ experienced," She remarked neutrally, focusing on the work in her lap.

And he found himself understanding everything a little bit better than before.

* * *

><p><em>Well I've successfully finished Nano (yay!). Which means I'll have more time now to simply edit all 50k + words of this thing &amp; should be able to update it more quickly now. :) I know I said I was going to include elements from Series 4 CS in this update, but once again, my muse got carried away &amp; this was more or less a preamble to that. Hopefully this is ok. Also, I haven't had adequate time to research certain things I normally would like to, so sorry if there are glaring inconsistencies. Anywho, thank you to everyone who has expressed interest in this story thus far, your words of encouragement surely mean a great deal to me! :) And only 25ish more days until the S5 CS (I am not getting emotional about this. Not at all. Nope. ;)) <em>


	10. Chapter 10

When they arrived at Grantham House everything was already in disarray. Mrs. Butte had taken ill, and Mr. Carson was desperately trying to keep everything running smoothly. There was a frantic energy to his orders and not a moment's pause for anyone to do anything but the jobs he requested of them. It was evident that Mrs. Hughes presence was missed.

So whenever Baxter crossed back into the servants dining room, and saw her standing there with Daisy by her side, she was a welcomed sight. However, judging by the lines of uneasiness creasing across her face, there was another crises in need of addressing. She met Baxter's eye, and a wave of relief washed over her expression.

"Do I hear the sound of salvation?" Mrs. Patmore marched into the room, just as grateful to see Mrs. Hughes like the rest of them.

"Salvation or chaos. I've just left Mrs. Levinson on the steps," Mrs. Hughes huffed. She glanced about the room informing everyone present with a noticeable tension invading her tone, "She's here without a maid."

"What happened to the last one?" Anna questioned out of concern.

A man with sandy blonde hair stepped further into the room and piped up unexpectedly, "She had her head bitten off one time too many."

Several sets of curious eyes flickered up to discover his eager expression. Judging from his brash accent, and his foreign presence in the servants hall, Baxter assumed he was a member of the Levinson staff. Nobody either took a moment to accept or refute this fact. There just wasn't time for any of it.

"Ms. Baxter," Mrs. Hughes requested, "could you go up and settle Mrs. Levinson in?"

Baxter assured her plainly, "I don't mind looking after her. But she and her Ladyship will have to make allowances."

"I don't think making allowances is what Mrs. Levinson is famous for," Came a knowing yet unasked for response from the man who appeared to be the sole member of the Levinson staff.

She inverted a questioning brow, fusing her lips together in a tightly drawn line. Already exhausted from running up and down on her feet for nearly twelve hours, his apt description of Mrs. Levinson already filled her with a sense of dread.

There was already so much to do in ensuring Lady Grantham was properly outfitted for Lady Rose's presentation, the at home, and then the ball at Grantham house. To multiple the tasks of styling hair, applying makeup, cleaning jewels, altering dresses, polishing shoes, added up. It didn't seem like a lot of work, but completing each errand in a timely as well as stellar fashion for both women, certainly wouldn't be easy.

Still, Baxter made her way down the main corridor that led upstairs when Daisy came across her.

"Thomas asked me to give you a message," She explained briefly, sending a chill down Baxter's spine.

"Alright, let's hear it." Baxter replied cautiously.

"He said, he's looking forward to hearing the stories you're going to tell him."

Frowning she wondered quietly, "What stories?" There couldn't be possibly anymore for her to tell him.

"I don't know," Daisy shrugged lightly. "That's just what he said."

There was a heaviness in her chest at the sheer thought of having to give him an account of whatever it is he believed she knew. She stared blankly ahead while continuing on her way upstairs, barely noticing the look of concern Mr. Molesley gave her.

Even with all of these added stresses weighing heavily on her, Baxter hurried upstairs. When she reached the main saloon on the first floor, she happened upon Mr. Carson, Molesley, and Jimmy, along with an unfamiliar man and woman, she assumed to be Lady Grantham's mother and brother.

"Ahh very good. Ms. Baxter's here," Mr. Carson rushed to her side, gesturing for her to step forward.

The woman she presumed to be Mrs. Levinson pivoted on the spot, her dark eyes trained sharply on Baxter. She was dressed in an elegant, melon colored jacket infused with an oriental print. Her short auburn curls peeked out from beneath her coffee colored sun hat, an array of orange and brown feathers and flowers adorning it, tying her entire look together.

She was much shorter and more stout than Baxter would have guessed, considering how tall and sleek her daughter's figure was. Even so, Baxter could tell simply by her way of dress that Mrs. Levinson was definitely a modern woman like her daughter.

"Mrs. Levinson, Ms. Baxter, here, will help take care of you during your stay at Grantham House," Mr. Carson inclined his head in direction of both women.

"It'll be my pleasure, Mr. Carson." Ms. Baxter resounded as politely as the nerves filling her stomach would allow. She looked back to Mrs. Levinson whose eyes were still sweeping from across her body, studying her critically.

"Mr. Molesley, Jimmy, will you see to the luggage?" She heard Mr. Carson instruct, "I believe Mrs. Hughes has arranged for Mr. Levinson to stay in the Welby Room while Mrs. Levinson is to occupy the Comtesse Suite."

Both Molesley and Jimmy nodded at the instructions, and began gathering the trunks to take upstairs. Baxter waited for both of the men to begin upstairs before stepping forward to meet Mrs. Levinson.

Folding her hands together Baxter smiled warmly at Mrs. Levinson, "It's good to finally meet you Mrs. Levinson. Now if you'll follow me, I'll show you to your room, and you can tell me just how it is you like things done."

For an instant, she wondered if she was being too forward. Mrs. Levinson's steady gaze still fixed on her, wholly unreadable. But then her mouth curled into a half smile, her eyes crinkling at the corners. Patting Baxter on the arm, she remarked dryly, "Well, why don't we see if my late husband's money is being put to good use as my daughter seems to suggest. Goodness knows we've already wasted enough funds on insufficient ladies maids."

Baxter suddenly felt her face flush unexpectedly, the hair on the back of her neck standing on end. She wasn't quite sure how to respond. Not that she had any right to do so. Even though Mrs. Levinson wasn't technically her employer, she was still charged with caring for her.

Despite the tension building in her mouth and jaw, Baxter kept her expression as pleasant as possible. She let the slight roll off her shoulders, and started ascending the staircase with Mrs. Levinson in tow.

The walk from the main room downstairs up to the Comtesse Suite felt endless. And just from this alone, Baxter could already tell she was in for a long summer spent at Grantham House.

* * *

><p>He could tell her time was being spread rather thin between Lady Grantham and Mrs. Levinson. When she wasn't dutifully rushing back and forth between upstairs and down, her head was bent low focusing on altering half a dozen dresses, or she was in the boot room meticulously shining shoes, or cleaning their many jewels. He tried to make conversation with her, to steal a few moments with her every now and then, but he was often met with an apologetic smile before she was forced to rush off to complete her next job.<p>

Even during the less chaotic times of day, her focus was elsewhere. He wished there was something he could do to ease her burden. To make her time in London more enjoyable somehow. Such an opportunity presented itself when he found her half slumped over the breakfast table early one morning before everyone except for the kitchen staff were awake for the day.

Cocking his head to the side, Molesley edged closer to the table. He leaned in just enough to catch her fast asleep. Her eyelids fluttering erratically, cheek squashed against her palm, he couldn't help but smile slightly when he realized light snores were escaping her parted lips.

Had she been there all night? He recalled her working well into early morning, even after his eyes grew tired from hours of reading and he was forced to bid her goodnight. Deciding it was best to wake her, instead of her being discovered by Mrs. Hughes or Mrs. Patmore, Molesley carefully placed a hand on her shoulder, nudging her ever so slightly from her slumber.

At first there was no response. But then he muttered her name softly while shaking her arm yet again, only to be met with the shrill inhalation and a widened expression full of terror from being startled.

He jumped from the unexpectedness of her reaction, his coffee nearly splashing over him or the floor.

Baxter placed a hand over her heart, her breath racing as she tried to catch it. His meek apologies attempting to assuage her momentary shock.

Molesley held up his hands in surrender while insisting, "Sorry, so sorry it's just...you were sleeping."

Baxter glanced around at her surroundings, then down at her tiny wristwatch. "Oh no, no, no," She muttered in a worrisome tone. She peered up at him and asked desperately, "Is it morning already? Please tell me it isn't."

"Erm...well it is," He confessed, frowning at her with deep concern.

"Damn," She exhaled, beginning to frantically gather up the emerald gown with thousands of beads that rustled with every move she made. She stood suddenly, the chair skittering back across the floor.

"It's alright. It's still early." He counseled, following her while she scampered down the main corridor to the wadrobe room.

"That doesn't rightly matter," Baxter grumbled in response, plopping down at the table where her sewing machine lay abandoned. "I still should've had this finished all of this last night." She began searching for the right colored thread, weaving it shakily back through the machine. "Now I'll have to do with the machine, and it probably won't be done to Mrs. Levinson's liking."

Molesley added hopefully, "But...surely you still have time?"

"No, no I really don't!" She snapped, her hands coming down hard against the table with enough force to make him jump again. Baxter looked up at him, dark clouds residing beneath her eyes, both of which glowed with irritation while she ranted vehemently.

"In addition to the four dresses Mrs. Levinson requires alterations for because she simply cannot decide which one she wishes to wear to the presentation tomorrow, there are four sets of shoes that need to be polished, and dozens of jewelry pieces that need cleaned. Then there's the Lady Grantham's hair piece, which I haven't even started. And the dressmakers supposed to be bringing along her final gown this afternoon, so of course I'll have to attend to that so she looks well fitted to be in front of the King and Queen and..." She halted, her mouth dropping open, brow arching as if something just occurred to her.

Her hands that were wildly gesturing about, froze in midair, landing against her cheeks before she murmured, "Oh no...I am...so, so sorry, Mr. Molesley." She let out a tired sigh, burying her face in her hands as her elbows pressed into the table. After taking in a few deep breaths, she regarded him again remorsefully, "I didn't mean to go off on you just now."

"It's alright," He shrugged, adding understandingly, "you've quite a bit on your plate."

She bobbed her head, a grateful half smile tugging at her lips.

"Here," He set down his cup and saucer on the sewing table, "have some coffee."

"But it's yours?" She countered softly, "I couldn't take..."

"You need it more than I do," He interrupted kindly, pushing it to her side of the table. It was the least he could do for her.

Lowering her eyes she picked it up and muttered her thanks before taking a slow sip.

He thought back to how he might be of use to her, given the additional tasks she'd been charged with. If he offered his services with the sewing, she'd probably laugh at him. Besides, he didn't know much about women's clothing. And if Mrs. Levinson was as particular and demanding as Ms. Baxter suggested, he surely wouldn't be the best candidate to lend her a hand.

So he suggested further, "Perhaps Anna or Madge can help ye with the additional work Mrs. Levinson requires?"

In between sips of coffee she offered him a timid shake of her head, "I've never been very good at asking for help."

"Well...maybe you could try." He urged, hoping he wasn't overstepping, so he was sure to add. "At least just this once."

She rolled in her lips, chewing on them for a moment before squinting back up at him. She admitted, "I wouldn't want them to think me incapable."

"I doubt they'd think that. But ye can't stretch yourself too thin either. You'll make yourself ill. And I...I wouldn't want to see that." The last part came out less confidently than the former, making him feel his heartbeat quicken beneath her contemplative gaze.

"I suppose you're right," She decided.

"There's no shame in admitting ye need some help from time to time. You're only human, after all. Try as you might to be more than that."

She chuckled softly at this, and he joined in. It made him happy to see her calmer now. Happy to know he could still be of use to her.

Her dark eyes shone more brightly as she acknowledged this, "You're far too good for me, Mr. Molesley. I'm afraid I don't quite deserve your kindness." She lowered her eye back to the cup of coffee he gave her.

"Oh I think ye do," He breathed in a barely audible tone. However, when her gaze flickered back up to meet his, it became quite obvious she heard. And all he could do was flash another smile of reassurance and turn from the room before he felt his face burning from his boldness.

* * *

><p>Baxter did as he suggested, and imposed upon Anna to help her ensure that all of the potential gowns for the presentation were properly ready for Mrs. Levinson, should she decide to wear any one of them.<p>

"I really do appreciate your help," She told Anna for what felt like the third or fourth time in the wardrobe room.

Anna flipped a hand and assured lightly from her seat, "Don't mention it. Lady Mary hardly has anything that requires mending, so I don't mind at all." She worked to restring a line of beads on the rust colored gown, Mrs. Levinson charged Baxter with.

"Well even so, it means a lot that you'd take up some of your time to help out," Baxter stated, carefully taking a candle to the edges of the satin veil for Lady Grantham. Madge asked her to do the same to Lady Rose's when she finished.

"We're a team down here, Ms. Baxter," Anna reminded her kindly, "we work together and pitch in when we can."

Baxter nodded, grateful she could accept Anna's help without any strings attached. In her experience, people just didn't do things out of the goodness of their hearts. There was always a stipulation, a trade off that would similarly benefit them. But Anna didn't operate in this fashion. As soon as Baxter explained to her just how much work she had left to do for both Lady Grantham and Mrs. Levinson in a span of less than a day, Anna instantly picked up her sewing materials and asked Baxter where she could start.

"Which reminds me," Anna spoke up again, "Mrs. Hughes is collecting donations to take up to the Scottish church. I believe they're collecting used clothes for the Russian refugees. So if you have anything you could spare..." Her voice trailed off, and she shrugged uncertainly.

Baxter mentally ran through her wardrobe list. She could think of a sweater and a skirt in particular that hung more frequently in her closet than on her body.

Nodding, she replied, "Well I do have a sweater that's a bit frayed along the bottom. And a skirt with a couple of stains on it. Ye think they'd still take them?"

"Oh I'm sure they'd be grateful for it," Anna encouraged with a smile before explaining, "Mr. Bates has a grey overcoat with a few holes in the collar. I plan on giving it up. Perhaps then I can persuade him to go shopping for a new one while we're here. He hates it so much though."

Baxter laughed at this, "Well I'm sure he'll change his mind once he realizes the alternative is to freeze this coming winter."

Anna snickered in amusement, draping the gown she was working on over her arm. She announced, "Speaking of, I should hand over the coat now, while it's fresh in me mind.

"And I think Mr. Bates is busy in the boot room," Baxter added.

"Exactly. He probably wouldn't even miss it if he doesn't see me take it," Anna chided with an understanding smile. She lifted the dress over her arm and promised, "I'll have this for ye and the rest of the jewels done by this afternoon like ye asked."

"Thank you," Baxter told her again just before she left the room.

She continued running the flame over the edge of the long piece of material that was draped over a dress form when Mr. Molesley poked his head into the room, "I just ran into Anna. See you've finally found your reinforcement?"

Baxter kept her focus on singeing the edges of the fabric, but replied politely, "Yes, she's been nothing short of gracious about it all."

"See? I told ye she'd be," He told her proudly, stepping further into the room.

"You did," She inclined her head forward.

He entered her peripheral and Baxter could feel him watching her curiously. She glanced up when he gestured to the candle and the veil and asked, "Why d'ye...do that? Aren't ye afraid it'll catch fire?"

"Not really," She answered confidently before going on to explain. "Ye don't let it touch the fabric long enough for it to catch fire. Ye just...singe the edges so they don't fray. And then I have to add a lace trim to go over it so that ye don't see...this." She pulled the candle away, and flattened out a piece against her palm. Holding it up closer for him to see the crusted edges that resulted from the heat, she questioned, "Right here, see?"

"Ahh..." He made a sound to show he comprehended before confessing lightly, "I wouldn't have even noticed had ye not pointed it out to me."

She smiled and explained while she continued working at it, "Normally I'd leave it be. But this is for the presentation tomorrow. Nothing can be short of perfect."

He paused to consider her words, and then she heard him state, "Women's work is...much harder it seems. All I ever had to worry about with Mr. Crawley were buttons and cufflinks."

Baxter snickered a bit, "That sounds about right." Pulling the flame away from the fabric, her eyes studied her momentarily before she blew it out. Setting the candle back in a holder on the table, she looked up at him, "All finished now. If you'll excuse me, Mr. Molesley, I must see about the lace."

"Right, of course, I should be off too." He remarked with his usual air of urgency.

They both departed from the room, heading in different directions. Ms. Baxter was in search of Madge. She claimed to have some leftover pieces from one of Lady Edith's gowns that would add a finishing touch to Lady Grantham's head piece for the ceremony.

Baxter was about to check in the servants dining room, when Mrs. Hughes stepped out suddenly from her sitting room.

Slowing her gait to avoid a collision, she noticed Mrs. Hughes glance down both ends of the corridor, searching for something or someone. Her brow was creased in confusion, and there was a hint of trouble dancing through her narrowed gaze.

"May I help, Mrs. Hughes?" Baxter offered, a cooperative edge in her voice.

She shook her head and explained, "I was just looking for Anna, but uh, it doesn't matter." Turning on the spot, she disappeared back into her sitting room.

It was then Baxter happened to notice the grey overcoat slung over one arm, and a slip of paper she held in another. She hovered for an instance longer, watching Mrs. Hughes standing there, studying whatever it was she discovered in the coat. Baxter felt her brow knit together out of confusion as she came to realize it was Mr. Bates coat that Ana was referring to just a few moments ago. And the slip of paper that Mrs. Hughes now held in her hand looked awfully a lot like a train ticket. She couldn't say for certain precisely what it all meant, but there was something curious about it all. Before she could read too far into it, Baxter continued on her way in search of Madge.

* * *

><p>He was ushered into the servants hall just like everyone at Mr. Carson's insistence. His voice boomed over the genial chatter while he asked Mrs. Patmore, "Do we have any ice we can send up to the drawing room?"<p>

"Why d'you need ice?" She retorted in confusion.

"Mr. Levinson appears to want it in everything he drinks," Mr. Carson informed her, slightly irritated by the extra work the man's preferences was causing everyone.

"Glad you're all here," He clapped his hands together, moving towards the head of the table. His tone whirled with as much excitement as he'd allow himself to show in front of the staff. "I have something that I want to tell you. Her Ladyship wants to give us all a day out while we're in the South."

There was a murmur of excitement that buzzed agreeably throughout the hall. Molesley found himself, like many others, staring at Mr. Carson with anticipation.

"I've been thinking a visit to the Science Museum," He offered cheerily, hoping to receive a similar response to the previous one. When he was met with stunned silence, he suggested again with an enthusiastic air, "Or perhaps a trip to see where they've put the Crystal Palace?"

Molesley glanced around warily, and saw others doing the same.

"Then there's The Royal Institution," Mr. Carson continued on, his voice losing its bubbly edge. "Or The Natural History Museum."

Still, the tension kept brewing. It was then that Mr. Carson tried out, now sounding more desperate than ever, "Of course, Westminster Abbey is always a good day out."

Molesley found his eye, his gaze shortly after drifting back down towards the table. He didn't want to be singled out to give an opinion that might result in Mr. Carson's final decision and give everyone reason to blame him for a dull outing.

Letting out a heavy breath he went on, "Well...I'm sure we'll come up with something." Mr. Carson cleared his throat, "Ehh...could I have that ice?"

Molesley heard Mrs. Patmore respond before the both of them were shuffling back out into the hallway. He focused his attention back to the London magazine, someone had left at the space in front of his seat. He started flipping through it casually, reading various advertisements for beauty products that couldn't be found anywhere in Yorkshire.

Suddenly, Mrs. Hughes questioning tone prompted him to look up from the work.

"Can I help you, Ms. Baxter?"

His eyes traveled to Ms. Baxter who sat on the opposite end and side of the table as him. He saw her smile at both Ana and Mrs. Hughes, who were staring back at her curiously, before shaking her head and muttering something he couldn't hear.

He'd look away again and read on in the magazine if it wasn't for Thomas, who slid onto the seat beside her. She shifted away from him in her seat, keeping her gaze fixed on the table space in front of her. Thomas pulled out a cigarette, placing it between his lips. "...get my message?" He muttered in a tone, Molesley could barely make out, causing him to lean forward so he could hear the exchange more properly.

"She did, yes." Baxter responded shortly, not lifting her gaze in his direction.

He assumed it was in reference to the earlier exchange between Daisy and Baxter that he'd unintentionally overheard.

"So what's going on?" Thomas flicked open his lighter, bringing it to the cigarette and inhaling. Whenever he took his next breath he added caustically, "I know you, there's something." He leaned closer to Baxter, and she cringed in discomfort.

"Are you free...Ms. Baxter?" Mr. Molesley suddenly heard himself calling from across the room. He stood confidently whenever she looked up in relief. "I've a...book I've been meaning to show you." He jerked his thumb in the direction of the corridor that led to the servants hall, slowly edging towards the doorway.

"Thank you, Mr. Molesley." Baxter exhaled, gratefully. And without a second thought, she stood, making her way out of the room.

Once they were both in the corridor, Molesley leaned into her, muttering lowly. "What's he on about now? Aside from the American Invasion and Lady Rose's coming out, there's not a whole lot going on."

"Your guess is as good as mine, really," She replied agreeably, halting her gait. She glanced up and he saw another soft smile that reached the depths of her brown eyes, warming her expression. "Thank you. Truly, Mr. Molesley. I don't know what I'd do without your kindness."

"Ah y'know it's nothing really," He bobbed his head, before trailing after her urgently. "I uh..." He stuttered, stealing her attention and changing her path. "I really do have a book. If you'd like to see it."

She cocked her head to the side, asking with mild interest, "Is it the one ye had on the train?"

"It's all about the life and times of Queen Anne," He informed her.

"Alright then, let's have a look," She concurred, gesturing for him to lead the way.

He blinked back in utter surprise at her. He never expected she'd share in his interest of history. Most of the women he met over the years certainly didn't understand his passions for it. But as he was slowly beginning to realize, Ms. Baxter wasn't like most women; not in his eyes anyway.

* * *

><p><em>Thanks for reading so far! It means a lot to me. Truly, (as Ms. Baxter said in this chapter, teehee), I don't know what I'd do without your kindness. Anyway, more to come around Sunday-ish! :)<em>


	11. Chapter 11

Somewhere in between completing the outfits for Lady Grantham and Mrs. Levinson, Baxter found a moment to herself. The family was eating dinner, and Ivy already set the table in the hall for the servant's meal. She settled in a chair by the fire, Mr. Molesley's book resting in her lap. Opening it up to the place where she left off, Baxter continued reading on about the early life of Queen Anne.

It was mostly a factual rendering that commented on the socioeconomic and political tensions at the time. However, Baxter was also intrigued by the bits of private history that were included in this biographical retelling. She was engrossed on a passage of letters and diary scrapings that were reprinted to reflect Anne's innermost thoughts and feelings following the death of her grandmother, aunt, and mother in quick succession. Baxter couldn't imagine having to face all of that in such a short span of time, and she felt her heart grow heavy at the lamentations as she read them.

She was about to turn the page whenever Thomas' oily tone broke through the quiet, prompting her to jump out of slight surprise. "You're very thoughtful, Ms. Baxter."

"Am I?" Her jaw clenched and she swiftly turned the page.

She wouldn't give him the satisfaction of knowing his presence unnerved her. Instead, she insisted on keeping her focus on the book, eyes scanning across each line as if the words were actually sinking in.

"Must be some book Mr. Molesley gave ye," He taunted, the floorboards creaking beneath his shifting feet as he stepped beside her chair.

"It's very good, yes," She attempted to keep her tone indifferent, her gaze trained on the bit about Queen Anne's budding, adolescent friendship with Sarah Jennings.

He reached forward, closing the book in her lap. She had no choice but to catch his eye.

She could see them glittering darkly back at her, his crooked smile looking more wicked in the low lighting of the room. "It's no use ganging up with Mr. Molesley. He can't protect you like I can. He doesn't know what I know, does he?"

His derision only incited her irritation. And even though he was partially correct in his assumption, Baxter refused to let on that it bothered her.

"He knows how to be kind, Mr. Barrow." She countered, feeling her heart hammer fiercely inside of her chest at the unexpected confidence ringing through her words. "He has the advantage of you there."

His grin faltered, and he took back his hand, standing up straight again. When he regained his composure he retorted plainly, "No amount of kindness can save you from the truth, Ms. Baxter. We both know that. Facts are stone cold and hard. Just like iron bars, no?"

Her mouth ran dry at his choice words, but she forced herself to stand. She remarked through clenched teeth, narrowing her gaze at him, "If you've come here to threaten me..."

"Threaten you?" He interrupted, tilting his head to the side. Clucking his tongue as though her insinuation was unsavory and uncharacteristic of him, he continued on lightly, "Goodness no. I merely want to know what you've discovered about the Bates' since you arrived."

Her mind flashed back only for a split second to her early run-in with Mrs. Hughes. But she shook it out of her head when she asserted, "I'm afraid you'll only be disappointed to know I learned nothing so far, Mr. Barrow."

Baxter tried to shuffle passed him without mentioning another word of it, but his hand caught her elbow. Whirling her head around to look up at him, she read the skepticism creasing his brow.

"What was all that business between Anna and Mrs. Hughes, and about his coat? That seemed very interesting to you," He noted, his fingers digging painfully into the crook of her arm as she tried to wrench it free.

"If you're so curious, why don't _you_ ask Mrs. Hughes all about it yourself?" She challenged.

There was the pitter-patter of footsteps approaching, and Baxter's arm fell into her side as Thomas released it. She turned to see Anna standing there, studying the pair of them curiously.

Baxter took this as her chance to depart the servant's hall, hugging Mr. Molesley's book to her chest, and keeping her head bent forward so as to avoid Anna's probing gaze. She aimed to ignore the pulsating ache in her arm from his harsh grip. She knew there'd be a bruise forming there in the next day or so. But no one would notice it except her. She'd make sure of it.

* * *

><p>With the family's departure to Buckingham Palace looming in the near future, the kitchen staff were working double time to ensure things were all settled later that evening for the at home. Mrs. Patmore was alternating between barking orders and singing Daisy's praises when Mr. Molesley strode into the kitchen. Keeping close to the edges of the room so as to not interrupt, he helped himself to a cup of coffee.<p>

While he set the kettle back on the warm burner, he felt someone appear behind him. Glancing over his shoulder, he was pleasantly surprised to see Ms. Baxter standing there with an empty mug in between her hands. Without prompting, Molesley picked up the kettle again and carefully poured some for her.

"They're off already?" He asked.

"They're off," She confirmed before reaching across him for the milk jug.

Molesley leaned back slightly, placing the kettle down again whenever she retrieved the milk. "How did her Ladyship look?" He wondered.

Baxter stirred the in the contents of her cup and went on conversationally, "Well I don't mean to brag but…I think she looked rather elegant." A proud grin crept across her face, and he was glad to hear of her success.

"You _should_ be able to brag, that's all you're doing," He spooned two lumps of sugar into his cup, stirring them into the drink.

"I can't take all the credit," She shook her head slowly before adding; "the color choice was all hers."

"Well I'm sure you had some influence on what she chose," He insisted.

Baxter shrugged, remarking casually, "Lavender suits her complexion well." She set the spoon down on the saucer, moving to the opposite wall of the room to be out of the way of the kitchen staff.

He could tell she wasn't going to be persuaded to accept full credit, even though he was sure it was much deserved on her part. In the months he'd gotten to know her, he learned that above all, she was modest when it came to her work. And even though it was exemplary, extending her various compliments seemed to embarrass her. So he left it at that.

He strode over to the towering desk with overheard cupboards. Leaning up against the piece of furniture that stood beside her, he probed curiously, "How did Mrs. Levinson's wardrobe fair?"

He figured this was one subject that there'd be lots to comment on.

"Alright I think," She answered warily, leaning forward and glancing about the room.

Tilting his head to the side, Molesley prompted, "Not too good then?"

"Well…" She started, chewing on her bottom lip and then looking up at him through widened eyes. Nodding to something that was on the other side of the desk, she shot him another meaningful glance before lowering her gaze into her teacup and continuing her thought, "…she seemed pleased enough."

He craned his neck around and saw Ethan Slade, Mr. Levinson's valet, standing about a foot away from them. He looked around the room, intrigued by all the chaos that was unfolding around him. Molesley suddenly understood the restraint in her answer, and nodded politely in Mr. Slade's direction when their gazes met.

For a moment, it looked as though he was going to approach them. But luckily, Mr. Carson stepped in front of him, his booming voice filling the entire kitchen. "Mr. Levinson, I wonder, would you mind playing the footman on occasion while you're here?"

"I beg your pardon?" Molesley heard the American valet's confusion ringing through his words.

"I know it may be beneath your dignity, but I'd appreciate an extra set of hands. It'll just be when we're entertaining, like tonight or for Lady Rose's Ball."

"We don't entertain much back in New York so…why not?"

"I appreciate your cooperation."

"And Mr. Carson, my employer's name is Levinson. Not mine."

Molesley dared to look up at Mr. Carson, noticing the momentary gratitude being replaced with irritation. He wasn't used to be spoken to so frankly in the open like this. His nostrils flaring, and eyes glittering darkly, he countered with a definitive nod.

"In this house, both of you are."

He left a rather unsettled Ethan Slade rooted on the spot, and Molesley leaned back behind the cupboards again. He didn't want the lad to think he was intentionally eavesdropping. He saw Ms. Baxter's sympathetic half smile shot in Mr. Slade's direction before settling back on him. She pushed off the wall, and stood across from him now, closer to the middle of the room.

"Poor lad," Molesley exhaled quietly in a voice only she could hear. "He must feel like a fish outta water."

She nodded, casting a fleeting glance over to where Mr. Slade stood. "He must've assumed Mr. Carson would take his opinions into consideration like Mr. Levinson does," Baxter told him in hushed tones.

"Does he have strong influence over the Levinson's?" Mr. Molesley questioned.

"Well…" Baxter looked over her shoulder again before turning back to him and whispering, "it appears that way. Else, they've put him up to some kind of scheme."

"What do ye mean by that?"

"Not here. Come with me," Baxter jerked her head in the direction of the doorway, and he obediently followed.

She led him towards the back staircase that opened up in a courtyard beneath the outside steps of Grantham House. He squinted in the sunlight, his eyes not used to the brightness after spending so much time in the dimly lit downstairs rooms. But he felt his gaze relax whenever Baxter continued beneath the upper walkway that led into the front of Gratham House.

There where stacks of crates full of food and other necessities that had yet to be taken inside as well as a bench that resided in the shade. She quickly looked around, and he instinctively mimicked this gesture to ensure they were alone as well.

"If I tell you…" She began solemnly, "…you have to swear you won't breathe a word of it to anyone."

"I swear," He promised, sinking down on the empty bench.

She nodded and sat beside him. Leaning forward she told him, "He was…asking me some questions."

"What sort of questions?" Molesley asked, taking a sip of coffee while he waited patiently for her to answer.

She took in a deep breath and then exhaled, "Like if I'd ever been to America, or if I ever wanted to go there. And then…" Baxter paused, narrowing her gaze at him.

"Then?" He arched a brow.

"He…he asked about me wages."

Molesley balked at her admission, "He didn't?!"

"He did," She confirmed, fusing her lips together, and looking away as though flustered by the sheer thought of it.

"Well, what did you say?"

She answered plainly, "I told him that sort of talk might be appropriate in America, but it certainly isn't here."

"I'll say," Molesley resounded encouragingly.

"Anyway," Baxter sighed, taking a thoughtful sip of coffee. "I don't rightly know what to make of it all," She looked up at him as if seeking his opinion on the matter.

He took a moment to work through it all. Thinking carefully over the questions Mr. Slade was positing, there seemed to be one possibility that was more likely than any other. A possibility he hoped wouldn't actually become a reality.

"Well…to me it sounds like…" He started uncertainly, willing his tone to remain indifferent. "…it sounds like he's trying to steal you away from Lady Grantham for Mrs. Levinson's benefit."

Once he said the words out loud, he couldn't mask his agitation. His jaw clenched and he felt his heart beginning to race.

Her dark eyes studied him with mild concern before she responded softly, "He did mention Mrs. Levinson was in need of a new ladies maid when he arrived."

"You're not…I mean you aren't considering it are ye?" He exclaimed in a high pitched tone.

She blinked back at him temporarily stunned by his sudden reaction to this. Baxter reminded him, "They haven't given me anything to consider." Her mouth turned down and she arched a curious brow.

"But if they ask ye…" He intoned frantically, "you wouldn't…_actually_ go to America…would ye?"

Ms. Baxter shifted in her seat until she faced forward. He watched her silently deliberate this point. Chewing on the inside of her cheek, she stared beyond the crates stacked up on the other side of the courtyard. There was a wistful sparkle in her eyes, as if she was trying to envision what life in America might be like. "Maybe…" She trailed off softly.

Her hesitation made his heart sink, and he stared down at this feet. He heard her take another drink before the clink of her cup came into contact with the saucer, and she formulated her conclusive response.

"Maybe if I was younger and if Mrs. Levinson was as easy to please as Lady Grantham. But I don't think at this stage I'd want to go to America."

He couldn't mask the relief that washed through him, the edges of his lips curling into a pleasant smile as he confessed, "Well that's good to hear. We'd miss ye here, Ms. Baxter."

She looked down to her lap, smiling demurely as she acknowledged this, "That's kind of ye to say."

"Well it's the truth," He assured, lifting his cup and finishing off the rest of his coffee.

* * *

><p>The chaos downstairs only intensified the closer they got to Lady Rose's ball. All the preparations passed by in a blur for Baxter. Mrs. Levinson made it easy for her, now trusting Baxter enough to select her outfit, and style her hair as she saw fit with minimal interruptions. Given the questions Mr. Slade had been peppering her with since his arrival, she was fully prepared to politely decline Mrs. Levinson's offer to take her across the raging seas.<p>

_"But are you sure, dear? You know there's more to life than the English countryside. And whatever it is my daughter is paying you, I assure you, I can double it."_

It was an enticing offer. Twice the sum she was currently earning. A new life in a modern country where the societal ideas were more progressive. Perhaps they'd be more forgiving of her past if it were to come out? She'd be free, truly free, of Thomas' debt once and for all. That is, if she managed to escape to America before he broadcasted her past for all to hear.

But she couldn't sneak off into the dead of night, not like Lady Grantham's previous ladies maid. Not after she had every indication that her work was deeply appreciated by her mistress. Not after the trust had been so carefully built between them, and she found the post to be to her liking. It would undoubtedly create more tension between mother and daughter, and Baxter refused to be the cause of any familial drama or incite any distress in Lady Grantham's life. She was kind and she deserved a reliable and trustworthy employee.

Not to mention, there was a chance that Mrs. Levinson might not want her after she learned the truth of her past. And there wasn't any doubt in her mind, Lady Grantham would feel similarly. It would be back to the workhouse again. She shuddered to think of going back there. She couldn't do it now that she had a respectable post with generous earnings and a comfortable place to live.

So Baxter smiled gratefully and declined Mrs. Levinson's offer, _"Your offer is very generous, Mrs. Levinson. And I am rather flattered by it. But you see, at this point in my life, I'm not interested in leaving the only place I've considered to be home."_

Mrs. Levinson accepted her response, and Baxter let out the breath she'd been holding in the entire time. She left the room and went on to dress Lady Grantham until she glimmered from head to toe with heavy diamonds. Baxter suspected the sum of them would pay out her wages for the rest of her life. However, she didn't dare speak this thought out loud to anyone. Instead, she sung praises of Lady Grantham's elegance, pleasing her mistress immensely.

When she returned downstairs, she discovered a lull descended over the place in her absence. Yet the air still buzzed with anticipation as the footman waited by the bottom of the staircase, silently staring upward while they waited for Mr. Carson's signal. Ivy and Helen, the scullery maid were among them, ready to inform Mrs. Patmore, who was unusually quiet in the kitchens, that the hors d'oeuvres should go up with them.

The sea of black parted for Ms. Baxter as she kept her head down, and moved out of the way. She poked her head in the servant's hall, and saw that Mr. Bates had already returned and was reading by the fire. Ana's quickened footsteps soon shuffled down the stairs, signaling that Lady Mary was ready for the ball as well.

"How's Madge making out with Lady Rose & Lady Edith?" Baxter met her gaze and wondered in hushed tones, not wanting to disturb the silence that engulfed the rest of the staff.

"I took care of Lady Edith," Ana assured with a smile.

She hadn't thought about offering to help. Of course, the other ladies maid's knew she had enough on her plate with Mrs. Levinson and Lady Grantham.

"Madge insisted that Lady Rose be her special project," She explained, lifting the weight of guilt off of Baxter's shoulders.

"Good for her," Baxter returned with a nod.

Ana was about to open her mouth and comment further when Mr. Carson's deep voice carried throughout the downstairs from halfway on the steps.

"The Dowager and Mrs. Crawley have already arrived," And with these words, everyone jumped to begin gathering what they'd need for the first round of guests. "But before everyone gets too excited…" He interjected, causing everyone to halt their motions and fix their eyes on him, "…I would like to announce that decision on our outing has been made."

The mood tensed a bit. Mr. Carson's earlier suggestions hadn't sparked great interest among any of them. Everyone cast wary glances to those standing nearby, bracing themselves for whatever Mr. Carson deemed to be a _fun_ outing for them.

"We're to go to Victoria Pier the day after tomorrow." Many sighs and exhalations of relief followed by a hum of approval filled the air. But Mr. Carson continued on, "With that being said, I don't want any lollygagging while we're entertaining tonight. Everything must continue on just as we initially planned. No slacking else you may find yourself packing away the silver and fine china while the rest of us enjoy the sunshine. Are we understood?"

Murmurs of, "Yes Mr. Carson," could be heard to varying degrees of enthusiasm. Nobody would willingly sacrifice a day at the beach to complete such a tedious task.

"Good," He clapped his hands together. "Everyone take their starting places, and remember this is a marathon not a sprint. We must encourage them to engage in the merriment for as long as possible." With that he turned on his heel, disappearing back upstairs.

"Why'd we want to do that?" Baxter asked Ana curiously.

She replied knowingly, "The longer they stay awake, the greater recovery they'll need. Which means more time away for us."

Baxter nodded, understanding it better now. She was about to cross the corridor to look in the kitchen and see if she could be of any use to Mrs. Patmore when Madge returned, letting out a lengthy sigh.

"Whew!" She glanced between Baxter and Ana, a look of satisfaction crossing her face. "Sure glad that's all finished with."

"How'd she look?" Ana asked excitedly.

"Beautiful, if I may say so," Madge wiggled her shoulders and smirked, clearly pleased by her work. "Hopefully she dances the night away with a full card of potential suitors."

"If your fine work at the presentation was any indication, I'm sure she will." Baxter complimented warmly.

"Thank you Ms. Baxter," Madge beamed back, he hazel eyes glittering with pride.

"Ladies, is this a social holiday I'm unaware of?" Mrs. Hughes interrupted their brief interlude, causing each of them to tense at being discovered. "Madge, Ms. Baxter, can you see if Mrs. Patmore needs help in the kitchen? Ana, I need your help in getting some additional crystal and linens ready." She paused to add in a lowered voice, "Apparently the Prince of Wales has graced us with his presence."

"What?" Ana and Madge sounded their shock in unison while Baxter questioned.

"The Prince of Wales?"

"Yes," Mrs. Hughes nodded at all three of them before insisting solemnly, "which is why we must all look lively. Now come on."

"Can you believe it? The Prince of Wales is here?" Madge intoned, her words tinged with an edge of girlish giggles at the prospect while they walked towards the bustling atmosphere of the kitchen.

"It _is _an honor for the family," Baxter agreed, angling her face towards the young girl she remarked plainly. "But...he wasn't invited was he?"

"Who cares?" Madge nudged her in the side with her elbow, "This is the Prince of Wales we're talking about. He doesn't need an invitation, now does he?"

"I suppose not."

"You know what we should do?" Madge insisted emphatically, clinging onto Baxter's arm and forcing her eye again. "We should watch him from the bottom of the stairs when he leaves. See if it's true what they write about his handsome good looks in the papers."

Baxter rolled her eyes and chuckled softly at Madge's silliness. It was exciting, to claim that they once served royalty, albeit temporarily. Baxter wouldn't deny that much, but she didn't share in the intense gaiety that seemed to seize hold of all the other women. He was just a man born into a position of immense privilege as far as she was concerned.

"Madge!" Mrs. Patmore barked from inside the kitchen, stealing their attention, "Would ye mind putting a hold on yer daydreaming & help Daisy here gather another tray that needs taken up."

"Yes, Mrs. Patmore," Madge inclined her head and scurried away from Baxter's side.

Baxter took a step closer to the kitchens whenever a familiar voice stole her attention from over her shoulder. "Oh Ms. Baxter, did ye hear the news?" Mr. Molesley wondered curiously, prompting her to turn and see the broad grin tugging at his mouth.

"Are you enjoying yourself?" She arched a brow, finding his enthusiasm similar to Madge's and just as entertaining.

He bobbed his head, "Oh it's exciting to see the Prince of Wales close up."

"We're gonna watch him from the basement steps when he leaves," Baxter blurted out, her smile deepening. She could feel her embarrassment reaching new levels, and decided to turn and head into the kitchen.

But she felt his hand descend upon her arm, causing her to jump and shoot him a widened expression from the suddenness of the gesture. Mr. Molesley instantly retracted his hand, looking startled from her reaction.

He drew her further out into the corridor, concern flooding his tone while he lifted his brow seriously, "I don't know what Mr. Barrow's got over you. And I don't want to know. But he mustn't let you do things that aren't right. And you can't let him bully you."

She appreciated his comforting words, but still he hadn't the slightest clue about her relationship with Thomas. Letting out an uneasy breath, she replied quietly, "That's easy to say."

"I know," He agreed, forcing her gaze to shoot up and find his. Tilting his head to the other side, he consider an alternate point, "But if he draws you into his schemes that's not going to be easy for you either. Sometimes it's better to...to take a risk than go down the wrong path. That's all."

He wasn't trying to lecture her, but he wanted to help. She appreciated it, and wanted him to know it.

But when she opened her mouth to vocalize her feelings about what he was suggesting, Mrs. Patmore interrupted, "Are you taking this up or should I carry it up to the ballroom myself?" She inclined her head to the tray in her hands before peering up at Mr. Molesley expectantly.

He jumped to attention and took it from the cook's hands, quick to pivot and hurry back upstairs.

Baxter felt Mrs. Patmore's look of disapproval upon her, and she turned immediately to go off in the opposite direction. She wasn't exactly where she was headed; Baxter just knew she couldn't quite face Mrs. Patmore now given what she _thought_ she might have witnessed.

* * *

><p>They huddled together near the top of the stairs, trying not to draw attention to themselves as they heard the Prince of Wales was leaving for the night. Baxter was among them, but her mind was fixated on a brief exchange that occurred less than an hour ago. Her distraction must have been noticeable for Ana nudged her in the arm, and inquired, "You alright, Ms. Baxter?"<p>

"Oh yes, I'm fine." She nodded, brandishing a weak half smile.

"You look a bit…worried." Ana observed with a furrowing brow.

"No, I'm not worried." Baxter shook his head, rolling back her shoulders. "Just excited that's all. It's not every day you boast you can see royalty up close."

Ana hummed in amusement. Then there was a crowd exiting the saloon, a man with chestnut brown hair, dressed in a royal uniform made his appearance. The younger maids, who were kneeling in the front row of their huddle, squealed in delight. Ana and Ms. Baxter shared a knowing look and merely shook their heads and chuckled at their dramatic reactions.

"Is that him?" Ana asked, trying to balance on the balls of her feet to catch a proper glimpse of him. Casting a look at Ms. Baxter, she posed another question, "Who do you suppose he's with?"

"Erm..." Baxter squinted, and then decided plainly, "...I think that's Mrs. Dudley Ward."

Ana's mouth dropped open in surprise by Baxter's confident response, "How'd you know that?"

"She was mentioned in a newspaper Mr. Molesley and I read a while ago," Baxter explained, still trying to catch a glimpse of the Prince's retreating figure.

He certainly was handsome, and she was certain it had something to do with the way he carried himself or the uniform he donned. Either way, Baxter knew Madge would be disappointed that she missed catching a sight of him.

She turned on the steps, and started back down again with Ana on her left side. Only the sound of their boots clipping against the wood resonated through the stairwell for a few moments.

Then Ana piped up interestedly, "You and Mr. Molesley like to read together quite a bit, don't ye?"

Baxter's mouth ran dry, the color draining from her face. As her heart fluttered unexplainably in her chest, she carefully replied, "I think we just like to read when we get the chance." She glanced over at Ana, who was studying her skeptically. "There's nothing improper about that," Baxter argued, her tone rising defensively.

"I didn't mean to make it sound as though it were," Ana insisted, lifting her hands in the air out of surrender. "But…there's something you should know about Mr. Molesley." She continued tentatively, "I'm sure you've been able to gather that he's a good man who's been through hard times. Be careful that you don't lead him on. He's been disappointed by enough people in his life."

"I don't think I've given him any impression that our relationship extends beyond friendship," Baxter asserted calmly. "And I daresay he'd say the same about me, if ye asked." A peal of nervous laughter invaded her words.

"I wouldn't be so sure of that," Ana cautioned an air of hopefulness about her.

"Why?"

"Well…he's given you a book, hasn't he?" Ana informed her with a knowing half smile, "His books are his most prized possessions. He doesn't just share them with anyone, ye know."

Baxter tilted her head to the side, inquiring with keen interest, "And how do you know this?"

A look of discomfort flickered across Ana's visage and she exhaled, "Because…there was a time…before Mr. Bates & I were married that he…he shared a book with me."

She couldn't explain why, but Baxter suddenly felt as though the wind was knocked out of her stomach. "Oh…oh I see," Is all she could manage to stammer out, without giving away her true feelings.

"Nothing ever happened between us," Ana quickly assured her. "It couldn't. Even then, I knew that I'd never be able to love anyone as much as I love Mr. Bates."

Baxter asked evenly, "And it broke his heart to learn this?"

"Oh I doubt that," Ana scoffed, rolling her eyes modestly at this thought. "But I think he was sad for a while. Although he doesn't seem sad anymore. Not since you arrived." She smiled up at her encouragingly, as though this meant something.

Baxter shook her head, "I've just shown him the same kindness he has me. There's nothing more to it than that."

"I didn't mean to pry," Ana entreated apologetically. "I know it's none of my business what you do and whom you spend your free time with. And I don't think you'd intentionally do anything to cause anyone any distress. I just thought you ought to know the whole story."

"Well I…I appreciate your honesty," Baxter returned smoothly. "If you'll excuse me…I should…be getting on."

She swiftly pivoted on her heel and started up the back stairs. Ana's revelation didn't bother her in the way she probably believed it to. Baxter didn't feel the sharp sting of jealousy; rather she felt a sort of sadness for him.

Even if it happened years ago, even if he'd long forgotten and ceased to see Ana in such a light, she felt a desire to be careful with him now. All the flirting that once seemed harmless, might amount more to him than it did for her. She'd have to be mindful. She cared for him, and would hate to be the cause of any injury he might experience. And above any heartache, she'd hate to lose her dearest friend.

* * *

><p><em>I know this is <em>**long **_overdue, and I promised a couple of individuals on tumblr that this would updated sooner than I managed to. I hope this was worth the wait (And I KNOW. I cut the beach scene & moved it to the next update. Go on. Yell at me. But this Chapter was so lengthy, I felt like I had to save something for next time.). Some canon scenes with fanon infused in between (remember I added shit because this was for Nano). Anyway, it would be great to hear your thoughts if you have any because I semi-love/hate this chapter for various reasons. Thanks again to everyone who has shown an interest in this story so far! Your words of encouragement, follows, favorites, etc., mean a lot to me! Ok, enough of the rant. Thanks for reading, you're all quality humans! :)_


	12. Chapter 12

_I hope you all had a wonderful holiday and were able to enjoy the CS! (And what a wonderful Christmas present that special was! ;)) Anyway, I think those of you, who have been eagerly awaiting the next update in this story, will be pleased to hear that after this coming weekend I will be able to commence with weekly updates again. Things just get so chaotic with the holidays. Anyway, the plan is to get all caught up in canon during the DA off season, and then go from there. We'll see if I'm successful. :) So here is the long awaited beach scene from S4 + a couple of scenes from 5.01 to tide you over in the meantime. Enjoy, & as always your thoughts (both positive & constructive), are much appreciated if you find the time. Thanks to everyone for their interest thus far!_

_~Lynn_

* * *

><p>His feet dribbled the ball with astonishing control for having to contend with the uneven terrain. He moved left, right, left, passing to Jimmy, and then running to keep up pace with him as they made their way to the makeshift goal Thomas was guarding. Jimmy swung back his leg like he might kick it in near the right corner, Thomas rushing to that side to block the ball. But he deferred it to Molesley, who jumped out of surprise, and clumsily knocked it behind the goal before Thomas could rush over to the opposite side of the post and deflect it.<p>

Cheers of, "Yay! Mr. Molesley!" shot through the air, and Jimmy clapped his teammate on the back encouragingly. Molesley returned the embrace, feeling as though the whole act was more of a team effort than anything. Still, he couldn't hide his grin from spreading ear to ear at having scored the victory shot. He never experienced this sort of comradery before in his entire life.

As a child, he wasn't what the neighbor kids considered to be athletic. He got winded easily due to his underdeveloped lungs at birth, and they took several years to finally catch up. By the time he'd grown up with those his ages, they were too old for games. Those who already left school were too busy earning in order to support their families. The youthfulness that Master George and Miss. Sybbie would long know until they were well into the teens was foreign to him.

Those in the working class were forced to abandon all childish notions and dreams in lieu of surviving. And while Molesley had no regrets then, he was beginning to rethink certain things. Particularly matters that involved his life outside of service.

He'd come so close to losing everything he worked tirelessly for. And the larger question of _what would he leave behind, _coursed through his mind more and more these days. He missed out on so many of the things he envisioned for himself. Marrying a nice girl, having a family, and then sharing his golden years retired, and surrounded by grandchildren. Now he most likely missed his chance on having any of these things he'd put on hold for the sake of making a name for himself in his line of work.

Pulling out a handkerchief, Molesley dabbed at his forehead, beads of perspiration forming. Even though he long ago shed his jacket, the sun beamed down warmly upon the beaches near Victoria Pier. Most of his teammates had already scattered, forming smaller groups to either boldly dip their toes into the water, go for a penny lick, or sit atop the sandy dunes and take a few moments respite.

As he glanced around, searching for something to occupy his time with next, he noticed Thomas sitting nearby Ms. Baxter. Contrary to the majority of times he noticed the pair of them together, she didn't look nearly as uncomfortable in his presence as she did before. Still, aside from the few words they exchanged as they boarded the trolley, Molesley hadn't spent any time with her. And each time his attention caught hers, she appeared to be alone.

Daisy was busy focusing her attentions on Mr. Slade, the pair of them being chaperoned by Mrs. Patmore. Mr. Carson and Mrs. Hughes were off on their own while they tried supervising the staff's activities for any evidence of indecent behavior. And Anna and Mr. Bates were busy having a stroll across the length of the beach, arm in arm. Aside from Thomas, he didn't know of anyone else's company she typically sought out.

Feeling a bit worn out from his round of football, Molesley trudged up the sandy hillside.

"You must do as you think best, Mr. Barrow. Just as I must."

Ms. Baxter's words carried on the wings of the cool sea breeze that ran along his warm face. He felt in the momentary refreshment he derived from this. Not wanting Ms. Baxter, or Thomas, to think he'd intentionally been eavesdropping, he let out a cry of relief from the breeze, pretending as though he hadn't heard her words. Keeping his head bowed forward, Molesley plopped down on an empty patch of sand that left about a foot and a half between Ms. Baxter and him. Thomas stood to take his leave, and Molesley watched him retreat towards the group where Jimmy stood.

He figured his arrival would go unnoticed, as most people tended to gloss over his presence as nothing more than a lonely soul searching for conversation with whom ever was willing. Yet, he found himself twitching in surprise yet again.

"I have to thank you, Mr. Molesley," Mr. Baxter informed him softly, prompting him to turn over his shoulder to glance up at her.

He saw her broad smile from beneath the wide brim of her ivory sun hat, and he found himself asking, "Oh, why's that?"

Her brow lifted while her voice wore on, "There are things in my past that have made me afraid but...I'm not afraid anymore." Her smile deepened, and he sensed a lighter quality in her demeanor.

Was it relief? Gratitude? He couldn't pinpoint it exactly, but he listened to her continue, an air of confidence resonating in her tone. It was a note he hadn't heard from her in a long while.

"I'm not sure what will happen, but whatever it is, it's better than being afraid. You've made me strong, Mr. Molesley. Your strength has made me strong."

He snorted at this, not certain he heard her correctly. "My what?" He echoed, the corners of his mouth curling up into a half grin.

Strong wasn't a word he'd use to describe himself. But a part of him was thankful for her encouragement all the same.

Her light ring of laughter reached his ears, and he met her eye once more, seeing a familiar warmth in her dark brown eyes. His smile stretched from ear to ear, and he watched her cast her gaze towards the shoreline. A sense of calm overcame him, and a part of him wondered if it had something to do with her. With their newly forged friendship.

But Molesley didn't have long to wonder for Baxter was soon nodding at something, and reaching for him to take notice as well.

His skin buzzed as her hand lightly rested on her forearm, and he glanced down at where they now joined, albeit only for a few seconds.

"Would ye look at that?" Baxter exhaled softly in disbelief.

Molesley followed her line of vision, and took in the unexpected sight. Mr. Carson and Mrs. Hughes walked hand in hand into the ocean, the cool water lapping at their ankles.

"Huh," Mr. Molesley mused, cocking his head to the side, an amused smile donning his lips once more. "Who would've thought?"

"You want to hear something funny?" She asked, shifting on her left hip, both legs bent modestly at an angle behind her.

He walked his feet in her direction, spinning on his bottom until they sat face to face. "Alright," He waited, intrigued by what words hung unspoken in between them.

"When I first came to Downton, I thought Mr. Carson & Mrs. Hughes were married," Her mouth broke into a bashful grin at this admission.

Tossing back his head, he felt his stomach rumble slightly from regaling in this revelation. "Haha! What?"

"It's true!" She bit on her bottom lip, trying holding back her high pitched giggles.

Still curious by her sudden confession, he tilted his head to the side and exclaimed, "Where'd ya get an idea like that?!"

"I don't know," Baxter shrugged, glancing off into the distance to where they were wading deeper into the sea. "Just in the way they talk to one another, I s'pose. And they look rather smart together, don't they?" She looked to him for some sort of confirmation, although he never gave either point much consideration.

He bobbed his head, thinking it through. His eyes flickered back towards the couple in question, and there was something in the way they moved together he never noticed before. There was a comfortable ease that seized them, a level of understanding that only they were privy to.

"Well I'll give ye that. There certainly is something particular about them that ye don't see in every house," He turned his attention back to Baxter, seeing her corroborate his thoughts with an inclination of her head. "Tell me ye didn't tell anybody else about this," Molesley chuckled once more, figuring she had, but knowing it might not wise for such rumors to fly about the downstairs.

"Just Daisy," Baxter commented nonchalantly. "She got a rise out of the whole thing."

"Well let's just hope she doesn't tell Mrs. Patmore," Molesley remarked cautiously. There weren't many secrets those two kept apart from one another, and he wondered if Ms. Baxter had taken this into consideration.

"Oh she wouldn't say anything," She flipped her hand assuredly. "Not to Mr. Carson and Mrs. Hughes anyway."

"How can you be so sure?" He inquired, finding her confidence surprising.

"Because Mrs. Patmore agrees with me," Baxter responded playfully, arching her brow.

He snickered at this, shaking his head. "You women with your gossip..." His voice trailed off and he dug a small hole in the sand with the toe of his shoe. Peering up at her, his next words caught her attention, and she turned to look at him, "...I'd hate to think what it is ye say about me when I'm not around."

"Only good things," She leaned forward on her palm, lowering her voice as she made a promise of, "At least…from me."

He felt a warmth spread through him as he read the softness in her expression. His mouth parted open, words he couldn't be sure of perched on the edge of his lips. He stared back at her, hardly believing she ever spoke of him to anyone, but hoping all the same.

Just then, David, one of the outside staff, called out to him, "Oi! Mr. Molesley! Care to join us in another match?!" He instantly turned, his hand coming up at his brow to shield his eyes from the brilliant sunshine. He watched the men from the previous round start lining up again.

Molesley shot a questioning look back at Baxter, a sort of sheepishness overtaking him at the possibility of leaving her to her own devices.

Without missing a beat she nodded towards the men who were assembling further down the beach, urging him along, "Well off ye go now!"

"What'll you do though?" He asked, not wanting her to feel as though he abandoned her. Even though, he doubted she needed him, he still cared what she thought of him.

She shrugged, supposing pleasantly, "Maybe I'll take a leaf outta Mr. Carson and Mrs. Hughes' book and go put me feet in the water."

"Ms. Baxter," He taunted wryly, wriggling his brow, "you're far more daring than you've led me to believe!"

Her shoulders lifted as she laughed at him before adding with a coy smirk, "Every woman has to have _some_ air of mystery about her."

And judging by her expression, he didn't doubt it.

* * *

><p>"Are you glad to be back at Downton, Milady?" Baxter inquired politely while she readied her mistress for bed on their first evening back.<p>

"Undoubtedly," She exhaled as soon as she collapsed on the settee at the foot of her bed. Extending her leg so that Baxter could unbuckle her shoe, she added, "I much rather enjoy the season when I don't have a debutante ball to host."

Baxter complimented, "Well...Lady Rose seemed to do well."

"As to be expected," Lady Grantham remarked cryptically, switching legs in midair. She leaned back on the bed, watching Baxter place her shoes beside her seat. "Baxter?"

She glanced up at her Ladyship, presuming there would be another request attached to her latest inquiry.

Lady Grantham sat up, fiddling around with her skirts to unhook her stockings and pull them down off her legs. She peered up curiously at Baxter halfway through this process, and probed, "Have you heard anything about Lady Mary from downstairs?"

It was the sort of question she had yet to face in this household, and for that reason, she knew she'd have to tread carefully. Her first employer, the Honorable Miss. Tabitha Milford, was a real gossip. She relished in any information the downstairs staff could provide her, so that she might work it to her advantage. However, her successor, Mrs. Grove, found such behavior contestable, and didn't take to small talk outside of what services she required from her maids. And then there was Mrs. Benton, a kind and trustworthy woman who felt that such talk was appropriate in certain situations. But she didn't relish in the misfortune of others as Miss. Milford did.

Baxter had yet to determine where Lady Grantham stood on this matter. She knew, she didn't mind hearing about Lady Sybil's high praise the downstairs staff still gave her, or at least, as Baxter made her to believe it. And Thomas mentioned Ms. O'Brien often gave her Ladyship vital information about the staff that her Ladyship seemed almost appreciative of. Still, Baxter felt she wasn't quite cut from the same cloth as Ms. O'Brien, which is why she lowered her eyes to the nude colored nylons in her mistress' extended hand and paused.

"Erm..." She cleared her throat, taking the stockings from her Ladyship and laying them out along the side of her bed, "...I'm not sure I know what you mean, Milady."

Lady Grantham let out another sigh, standing up now so that Baxter might help her out of her evening gown. "It's just..." She hesitated, staring back at Baxter's uneasy reflection in her full length mirror.

It was apparent they both held the same reservations on what would be an appropriate manner to address this topic. And this soothed Baxter's nerves to know she wasn't alone in feeling this.

Once Baxter unhooked the top clasp of her dress and unzipped it to the base of her spine, Lady Grantham confessed solemnly, "I never really know what she's thinking these days. Ever since Matthew died...I suppose I'd just like to know if she's decided to move forward or not."

She shrugged out of the top of the gown, and turned to shoot Baxter, her expression creased with concern. Baxter guided the fabric down the length of her figure, capturing it closer to the floor so that Lady Grantham could easily step out of it.

"You mean with Lord Gillingham or Mr. Blake?" Baxter wondered, pretending as though she didn't understand the full meaning behind her mistress' words.

"That's precisely what I mean," She confirmed Baxter's supposition.

As she made her way back to the side of the bed, Baxter shrugged uncertainly while she stretched out the evening gown, "I couldn't say, Milady." On her way back to helping Lady Grantham back into her nightgown, she added with a weakened half smile in an attempt to convince her, "I'm not one to really gossip."

"Of course not," Her Ladyship began apologetically. "And I hope you don't think me rude for asking," She smiled half-heartedly, "I only wondered if you may have overheard something."

It soon became obvious that Lady Grantham's concern was for her daughter's happiness and nothing more. Baxter felt relieved to know she wouldn't be asked to play the part of spy for someone else in the house.

"No, not lately," Baxter informed her plainly. And even though there may be some speculation that Lord Gillingham had won the contest, Baxter wouldn't dare offer up any information that was sheer gossip that the rest of the staff tossed around for entertainment purposes. "Should I tell you if I do?" She pressed on curiously, wanting to be helpful.

Straightening the front of her nightgown, Lady Grantham extended both arms behind her so that Baxter might drape he housecoat over her shoulders. She shrugged into the robe and answered lightly yet dismissively, "I suppose, it doesn't matter. His Lordship will keep me informed."

At that moment, the door leading from her dressing room to Lord Grantham's swung open ceremoniously, and his Lordship strode inside. "Thank you Baxter," Lady Grantham smiled gratefully, nodding that she was dismissed for the evening.

"Goodnight, Milady. Milord," She nodded politely at both of them, gathering up the clothes in need of washing, and taking her leave.

On her way back downstairs, Baxter overheard what appeared to be the end of an exchange coming from Mr. Carson's office. "I suppose since it's just the family tomorrow night, I'll only have need for Mr. Barrow and Jimmy."

It was Mr. Molesley who replied with, "Thank you, Mr. Carson," as he hovered in between the doorway and the corridor. He moved back into the hall, a pleasant smile crossing his face as he fell in step with Baxter.

She asked kindly, "Everything alright?"

"Oh yes, everything's fine," Molesley assured her before explaining. "I was just asking Mr. Carson if I could take tomorrow off. I uh...have to pick something up...in York..."

"What's that?" She inquired swiftly.

He hadn't expected such a direct question, and she noticed his cheeks flushing a rosy hue as he stammered out an answer, "Oh...uh...well ye know...just..."

"Sorry," Baxter interrupted, shaking her head. "I didn't mean to pry. I let me curiosity get the better of me." She didn't intend to embarrass him, and she felt a bit guilty that she may have.

"Oh no..." He assured with a shrug, "it's just...something...for...me Dad."

"Ahh I see," She tilted her head from side to side before offering encouragingly, "Well that's good of ye to get it for him."

"Yeah well...he wouldn't like to admit it, but he doesn't quite get around like he used to." His mouth twitched uncomfortably at the thought.

She pretended not to notice this, and just kept strolling alongside him down the corridor.

"Anyway, suppose I'll be having dinner with him after," Molesley told her.

"How nice," She commented with smile at this.

After meeting Mr. Molesley at the bazaar last spring, she could see just how close father and son were. She suspected they probably didn't often have the chance to share in one another's company as much as they'd like to. "I bet he'll be glad to spend some time with ye," Baxter remarked, shooting him a sideways glance.

"Yeah, it's certainly been a while," He agreed, meeting her eye.

She was about to turn down into the laundry wing whenever he took a step forward and captured her attention with an urgency behind his words, "You uh...you could come too ye know?"

Her heart fluttered at the unexpected invitation, and Baxter's expression widened into one of complete shock.

"He likes ye," Mr. Molesley added encouragingly, only deepening her smile.

Blinking back at him, she tried to get out a polite response, "That's...very kind for ye to ask. But I...I have a lot..."

"Yes, yes, of course...it was only an idea." He interjected, his hands nervously playing with the buttons on his vest as he nonchalantly shrugged off her turning him down.

"Not that I wouldn't want to," Baxter insisted. Cocking her head to the side she suggested, "Perhaps another time?"

"Really?" He sounded just as dumbfounded as she did moments ago. And when she nodded mutely in reply, he answered with similar enthusiasm, "Alright! Yeah! We-we-we'd be happy to uh...have ye!"

A round of lighthearted giggles tickled the back of her throat and she glanced down at the clothes in her arms, "Brilliant." Willing herself not to appear to eager, she jerked her head in the direction of the laundry room, gesturing to the bundle in her arms, "Well I uh...have to go. Lady Grantham's having a clothing drive for one of her charities and..."

"Of course," Mr. Molesley replied understandingly. He pointed to the opposite direction where the men's staircase was, "I should be on my way too. Goodnight, Ms. Baxter."

She watched him hurry away, her mouth contorting into several variations of satisfaction whenever she murmured as an afterthought, "Goodnight. Mr. Molesley."

* * *

><p>"So does that mean, Lord Gillingham wins and Mr. Blake can go whistle?"<p>

Baxter felt every nerve in her body tense upon hearing the remark from Mr. Bates. Her eyes fluttered momentarily over to where he stood near the fireplace with Mrs. Bates, but she then looked towards the book occupying the back table in the servant's hall.

"I'm glad for them." Anna replied sweetly, "Viscountess Gillingham, sounds quite smart. I think they'll be happy. And it'll be good for Master George."

Had it been settled then? Was Lady Mary truthfully interested in Lord Gillingham as they seemed to believe? Baxter supposed it was still all up for debate. Yet Anna seemed to hold the trump card as far as this matter was concerned. Still, Baxter wouldn't pass the information along to Lady Grantham at this stage, it was still too soon to tell.

Once she determined where she'd be seated that evening at supper, Baxter glanced up just as Mr. Bates was offering his opinions on the matter.

"It's a big thing, to take on the task of raising another man's son."

Anna shrugged, "There's nothing to worry about there, and his Lordship's a kind man."

Baxter edged closer to her place near the head of the table, her eyes shifting to the side so she might still hear their conversation without anyone realizing.

Even if the Bates' didn't notice, Baxter was soon reminded that someone was always bound to.

"I wish you'd tell me what you know about those two," Thomas' gravelly tone came from her left shoulder. His sudden appearance blocked her view from the Bates', diminishing her ability to hear any more of their conversation.

She tensed and remarked defensively under her breath, "I don't know anything."

"Then what you suspect then," Thomas corrected.

Baxter looked up at him, her mouth open in defiance as a retort started to form. But before she could utter a single syllable, Thomas effectively silenced her with his counter.

"And don't deny it because I've seen ye. You can't keep your eyes off them when you think no one's looking."

She shifted her gaze to the opposite wall again. She refused to give him the satisfaction of knowing that he found a way to strike a nerve deep within her with his sharp observational gaze. Just then, a second wave of people began filtering into the servants hall, Mr. Molesley among them.

"Can I join in?" He appeared on Thomas' other side, and Baxter glanced over at him with relief upon seeing him beaming in her direction.

"Do you have to?" Thomas grumbled, rolling his eyes at Mr. Molesley's sudden appearance before backing away from them altogether.

Baxter took a step closer to Mr. Molesley, still careful to leave a chair's distance between them. She hadn't seen him all day, and was shocked he was back already considering he planned to be off. "How was it in York? Did you find what you were looking for?"

"I did," He answered proudly, "It took a bit of a search but uh, I think I'm suited. I mean...Dad...he's suited."

Jimmy called out from across the table, "What's happening?"

Molesley appeared a bit startled by this interruption. Shrugging and shaking his head he offered lamely, "Oh just...something."

Baxter smiled encouragingly at this, but then furrowed her brow as she asked, "Did you…I mean, weren't you having dinner with your Dad tonight?"

"Oh I did already," He told her with a nod of his head. "He says, 'Hello,' and that he'd be delighted for ye to join us when you have some time off next."

"Well next time you speak to him tell him that I'm grateful for the invitation," She decided with a broad grin.

"I will," Molesley assured her.

And with that, Mr. Carson and Mrs. Hughes entered the dining hall. Even as Mr. Bates and Anna slid in between them and they took their, Baxter couldn't help but steal a glance from Mr. Molesley and offer him another gratified half smile. He gave her more comfort than she could ever tell him.


	13. Chapter 13

_Well here I am again with another update! (Don't get used to the 2 in 1 week deal, it's a limited time only..tee hee...) Also, another grand THANK YOU to those of you who sent me along your thoughts. Your words of encouragement, questions, and shared headcanons are much welcomed & appreciated. Anyway, since I bored you all with my long winded author's note last night, I'll simply say: happy new year & enjoy!_

_xoxo,_

_Lynn _

* * *

><p>"Ms. Baxter."<p>

She paused on her way upstairs, arms full of a new evening gown that Lady Grantham wished to wear that evening. Glancing over her shoulder, she saw Ana standing below on the other side of the main staircase.

"I wonder if you might take this up for Lady Edith?" She smiled hopefully, extending what appeared to be a gold chain with some pink beads above her head. Her lips twitched while she explained, "I forgot it on my way up earlier."

"Certainly," Baxter nodded before leaning over the railing to take hold of the piece of jewelry.

She draped the necklace around her wrist, careful to not let it snag along the intricate silver beading that lined Lady Grantham's gown. Pressing forward with her gaze fixated on the steps, she let out a slight gasp of surprise when she rounded the corner and nearly collided with Thomas Barrow.

He stood on the step above, his expression darker as it usually was around her these days.

"Mr. Barrow," She remarked formally, inclining her head and attempting to pass him on the staircase.

However, he slid in front of her, blocking her intended route.

Baxter's head shot up, her eyes narrowing as if to question the motives behind his actions.

"I'm tired of waiting, Ms. Baxter," He intoned lowly, not bothering to disguise his irritation.

She took an uneasy step up, angling back her face and muttering through gritted teeth, "And I'm tired of being bullied."

Thomas leaned forward, prompting her to move down from the step, unless she wanted him to tread on her foot. "I got you this job, and you knew what I wanted in return. So don't complain about it now." He growled menacingly, and she felt a few flecks of sip hit her in the face as he made his frustrations known.

The hair on the back of her neck stood at attention, and she felt a chill course through her entire body. He soon left her, knowing there wasn't anything else he needed to say in order to force her to submit to his will.

He was right. He spoke in truths that made her feel uncomfortable. But she couldn't blame him. As much as she wanted to blame him for causing her so much grief, she had no one to blame but herself. She was the one who committed the crime, not him. She was the one who paid the price. And she hadn't even been forced to pay it in full, but they could take that away from her at any moment if she let one toe step out of line.

Even the thought of returning to the stone walls of Holloway, prompted a dull ache to spread across her back. Her legs tightened as ghosts of the past rushed back, and she shuddered to think of what would become of her if she'd be forced to return to that place. Forced back into her dingy cell, under the constant watch of the guards starved faces.

Baxter shook her head, dispelling any thoughts that might transport her back to the past. There was no sense in allowing herself to completely despair. Not when she still had a real chance for a future here at Downton.

And with this thought, she found solace in the memories she made thus far. She thought back to Mrs. Hughes acceptance of her and fair judgment in entrusting her with additional duties. Daisy's enthusiasm in learning how to work her sewing machine. Lady Grantham's praise and gratitude for a job well done. Anna's kindness and willingness to lend a hand when she needed it most. And not the furthest from her mind was Mr. Molesley. His encouragement and protection over the last several months gave her reason to smile. The memories from their time at the beach swirled to the forefront of her mind, and Baxter somehow felt lighter now as she ascended the stairs.

* * *

><p>The decision was impulsive and unlike anything he'd ever done in his life. Molesley often aired on the side of caution. He gave every decision he was faced with deep contemplation and consideration. But now he felt that approach was no longer beneficial to him.<p>

Now he had to act, lest he miss out on another chance that could change his life. And while it was still hypothetical, while things hadn't been concretely established or identified yet, he still held onto the hope that _she_ might take notice. That this action might somehow change the way she saw him.

He could only wish for it while he locked the washroom door behind him, seeking to complete the whole process while everyone was still tucked away in bed.

Taking two vials out of the box; one labeled celeste water, the other yellow cyanide. He thought for a moment back to what the precise ratio for mixing the two was. He had been more concerned at being discovered purchasing the product than listening to what the woman who sold it to him was saying.

So Molesley did the best he could, pouring copious amounts of both into one of the bowls he procured from an unknowing Mrs. Patmore. Taking the comb he intended to use for spreading the stuff around, he started mixing until the yellow and black liquid swirled into a thicker, tar-like substance.

His eyes watered, and he coughed a bit once the pungent chemicals hit his lungs. The stuff was strong, and this obviously wasn't a task for the faint of heart. It was a bold move that much he knew. But as Molesley caught sight of himself in the mirror, any anxieties or precautions that gave him pause evaporated.

He was fifty-one last week, and what did he have to show for it? His forehead creased as he regarded the few remaining flecks of hair at the front of his head. It would be tricky not to get any on his balding scalp, but he had steady hands enough to get the job done.

As he draped a towel over both shoulders and started brushing the dark gunk through his thinning hair, he held his breath and did the only thing he could; hope this would achieve something meaningful for him.

* * *

><p>With every call of "Mr. Molesley," he jumped excitedly only to feel put out when it was merely Mr. Carson or Thomas requesting him to help with something. He woke up several hours earlier only for nobody to take notice to the change in him. And he was beginning to lose hope in the power of the chemicals he purchased.<p>

But he caught Mr. Carson regarding him curiously, and he even dared to peer into one of the nearby mirrors to see that this new version of himself had turned out right. As far as he could tell, his hair was black as coal. He was pleased with it, but he wanted someone else to take notice and confirm his believes; for he should hate to appear ridiculous.

Still, the day was only half over. There was still time. Some people he had yet to catch a glimpse of, what with news of Lord Gillingham making his arrival in the coming days, there was more work for Molesley than usual.

He strode into the servant's hall when he caught some time for a break in the middle of the afternoon. His shoulders rolled back and head held high, hoping someone might look up and take notice of his new look. Mr. and Mrs. Bates sat at the table with their backs to him. Ms. Baxter sat across the table, his book splayed open across the table. All three of them appeared to be engrossed in their activities, not looking up to take notice of his sudden presence.

Letting out a deflated sigh, he settled down in one of the chairs near the fireplace just as Mr. Bates was wondering quietly to his wife.

"I hope you're right about Lord Gillingham. What would I have felt if I inherited a family with you?"

Molesley flipped open the paper just as Anna responded, "You'd have loved them I hope."

"I would. But I can't deny that I'd prefer one of my own," He heard Mr. Bates remark before asking. "You feel the same?"

"Well they do say a mother's love is the strongest love there is. But...that's all in god's hands."

Suddenly a slight breeze fluttered over Mr. Molesley's shoulder, and he glanced up at the prospect of someone perhaps taking notice of him. His disappointment was only accentuated when he came to realize it was Thomas Barrow.

And it was no surprise at all to witness Thomas make way for Ms. Baxter without so much as a glance over his shoulder. She appeared to be looking up behind half closed lids, her attention directed towards the Bates'.

Molesley shifted forward in his seat, watching them curiously from a distance. Thomas leaned in close, prompting her to sit back, trying to deflect his blatant advances. He folded back up the paper he initially intended to read, the contents hardly seeming important to him anymore.

"I'll have it out of you," He growled lowly.

Standing abruptly, Molesley stepped in their direction, placing his hand on the table in front of Ms. Baxter. Her eyes shot up to meet him as he suggested with a reassuring smile, "Fancy a breath of air before the gong?"

"Thank you, Mr. Molesley," She pushed back her chair, and rushed past Thomas Barrow with her face bent low.

He regarded Thomas stiffly, waiting for her to exit the room first before turning abruptly on his heel to follow her. She started up the stairs, and he followed her determinedly.

"Ms. Baxter," He called after her, watching her pivot slowly on the stairs to face him. "I meant what I said if you wanted to…" He trailed off, glancing over his shoulder where her main focus was.

Thomas Barrow was staring back at them from the doorway of the servants hall, lighting up another cigarette.

He took a step in his direction, only to feel something tug on his arm. His focus shifted back to Ms. Baxter, who urged quietly, "Come with me."

Molesley obliged, allowing her to guide him up the steps until they reached the first landing. His hand curled around her forearm, their hands eventually slipping together while they hurried to find a quieter place to talk.

His heartbeat quickened in his chest as he felt the warmth of her palm radiating against his. The frantic energy of their motions prompted his stomach to bubble with excitement. Her desire to steal him away like this was a pleasant surprise. He had to bite on the inside of his cheek to stop from grinning so broadly.

Once they arrived at the first landing, she pulled him off to the side, her hand falling away from his. Molesley leaned forward, watching her try take in a unsteady breath before turning around to face him.

"So what's he on about?" Molesley probed quietly.

She swallowed, running her fingers along the railing of the landing while formulating her response, "He thinks I know something about Mr. Bates."

"And do you?" He asked, angling his face in her direction.

"Maybe," She chewed on her bottom lip, flashing her gaze up in his direction. Letting out a breath, she admitted weakly, "Mr. Bates may have done something he wouldn't want known."

"Something?" His brow furrowed in response and he asked further, "What do you mean? A crime?"

She shrugged, her dark eyes widened with uncertainty, "I'm not sure. I know he took a journey which he might deny."

Molesley blinked back at her, stunned to learn that she knew more about the Bates' than he initially believed. "Look, I don't want to know anymore," He held up his hands, not wanting her to confess something that might get her into more trouble than it appeared she was in already.

Nodding his head, he continued to explain evenly, "But pounds to a penny, Mr. Barrow thinks he can use it against Mr. Bates. Report him to her Ladyship. She'd soon put a stop to it."

"I can't," Baxter bemoaned dejectedly, lowering her gaze and shaking her head. "It's complicated, but I can't."

He tilted his head forward, trying to read her expression as if there was more of an explanation to be found in her gaze.

When she glanced up once more, she cocked her head to the side, asking, "What is it?"

"What's what?" Molesley's head instantly snapped up.

Knitting her brow together she elaborated, "You're doing something funny with your head. Sort of tilting it." She mimicked the gesture, her lips edging into a slightly amused smile.

He noticed her studying the top of his head now, and he instantly feeling warmer at this realization. _Had she noticed? Would she comment on it?_ He tried to maintain his calm, shaking his head, and laughing nervously, "I'm not, am I? How do you think I look?"

"Why?" She blinked perplexed, her eyes traveling down toward his neck, "Have you got a rash?"

"I've not got a rash," He asserted plainly.

_Did he?_ His hand flew to back of his neck, and he tried to feel the skin around his collar for any dry, uneven patches of skin.

She appeared gladdened by his response, smiling reassuringly. "Then it's alright then."

But that's not what he hoped she would notice. So, releasing his neck he cocked his head to the other side and wondered hesitantly, "No, what I mean is, how old...do you say I am?"

"I don't know," She shrugged, glancing around as if the answer was floating about in midair.

He watched her survey him closely, fusing her lips together while she tried to determine an appropriate number. Lifting her shoulders again she grimaced uncomfortably before supposing, "Maybe...fifty-two?"

Her guess was closer to the truth than he would have hoped for. "Oh," Was all he could think to come back with, trying not to seem too disappointed that the smelly substance he combed throughout his hair made no lick of difference to his appearance.

"Why?" She asked suddenly, "How old are you?"

"I'm fifty-one," He answered sullenly.

"Oh," Ms. Baxter looked downward, clearly sharing in his embarrassment from having guessed it. "Sorry," She shot him an apologetic half smile.

"Ehh…" He shrugged it off grimly, "…you we're close enough, anyway."

"Well if it makes a difference...I think...you look…good...for fifty-one," She admitted softly, causing his eyes to train on hers.

The tentative quality in her voice paired with her meek smile sent his heart into frenzy again. She was sweet for saying so, and he was never more grateful to know someone so warm and encouraging.

After several seconds of their prolonged gaze, she looked off to the side, sighing anxiously. "Not that my opinion counts for much," She remarked self-effacingly.

"Oh I-I think it does," He found himself reaching for her hand that grazed the top of the railing, his bold words propelling him forward.

She tensed beneath his touch, her mouth parting and eyes alighting with surprise. He suddenly feared he'd gone too far, pulling his hand away from hers.

"I-I should be off. The gong," She explained lamely as her hand fell back against her side. Ms. Baxter nodded her thanks to him before whirling around and disappearing back downstairs.

He stood there motionless, trying to determine if he somehow offended her, for he certainly hadn't heard the gong.

* * *

><p>The next day, the whole downstairs was awaiting the arrival of Lord Gillingham. Most anxious out of them all was probably Mr. Molesley, who wasn't so sure that the Viscount had found a replacement valet for himself, following the untimely demise of Mr. Greene. This time he'd be ready and willing to offer up his services without any hesitation. He drummed his fingers at the tabletop, unable to have another sip of his tea or bite of his toast as his mind whirled with anticipation.<p>

"What's the matter with you?" Jimmy asked, nodding in the direction of his hand. A note of annoyance could be heard as he frowned in Mr. Molesley's direction.

"Oh, it's nothing," Molesley picked up on the insinuation, taking hold of his teacup to still the anxious motion of his hand.

It wasn't just the matter of additional duties that had him alert. But the anticipated arrival of Ms. Baxter also made Molesley more vigilant as to who was where and what they were doing in the hall.

He hadn't seen her since their private conversation yesterday; since he took it upon himself to cross into unfamiliar and perhaps inappropriate territory with their relationship. And from that moment onward, his mind couldn't focus on much else for too long.

Still, he tried to keep calm. _Nothing happened_, he convinced himself over and over again. Yet something _had_ happened. And if he were called before a judge, Molesley wasn't so sure he could claim that the gesture was entirely one of a platonic nature.

He was soon put out of his misery whenever he heard the groaning of the chair to his right as it was pulled out from beneath the table. Jumping ever so slightly, Molesley cast his gaze upward and saw Ms. Baxter smiling pleasantly back at him.

"Morning, Mr. Molesley," She greeted, already offering her teacup to Jimmy, who silently picked up the tea kettle from across the table to serve her.

"Good morning, Ms. Baxter," He returned automatically, trying to read her demeanor for any inconsistencies that might signal something was amiss between them.

As she stirred some milk into her tea, and picked up a biscuit from the platter, he couldn't sense anything out of place. And when she stared up at him, arching a questioning brow, it was clear he had spent the last day and a half worrying about nothing.

"You alright?" She asked, tilting her head to the side. "You look a bit…peaky."

"Do I?" He retorted, surprised by her observation.

"Well…" Her mouth curved into a bashful half smile, shrugging, "…just a bit."

"God," Jimmy scoffed from across the table.

Molesley shot a puzzled look to the opposite side of the table inquiring, "Something the matter, Jimmy?"

"Nothing, really." He sneered, "Except the stairwell isn't occupied if you'd rather conduct your business there so the rest of us can eat."

Molesley's mouth dropped open at Jimmy's bold assertion. His eyes shifted about, but nobody else appeared to be paying attention. That is, until Mr. Carson's booming voice resonated from behind his right shoulder.

"What's this James? Sounds as though you've suddenly forgot you aren't in a boys club in London any longer, but back in the servants hall at Downton." Mr. Carson scolded as Jimmy lowered his head out of embarrassment from talking inappropriately. "What on Earth would prompt you to say such a thing? And to Ms. Baxter, of all people in the house?"

"He was only teasing, Mr. Carson," Ms. Baxter assured him that she wasn't offended by the remark.

Molesley felt someone kick him from beneath the table, turning his face in Ms. Baxter's direction to find out it was her urging him to agree with her, else the situation could turn out worse. Clearing his throat, he then added confidently, "Yeah, I'm sure Jimmy didn't mean anything by it. Not really."

But Mr. Carson seemed unconvinced that the comment was altogether meaningless. He instructed plainly, his sharp eye resting on Molesley's, "See that he _didn't_, Mr. Molesley."

Before anyone else in the room could take notice in what this interesting exchange was really about, Mr. Carson continued on addressing the whole room. "As I'm sure you're all aware, Lord Gillingham is coming to join us this evening. And I'm afraid he'll be traveling alone."

"Shame about Mr. Greene, isn't it?" Thomas interjected, sounding almost bored from the corner he leaned in.

"Indeed it is, Mr. Barrow," Mr. Carson agreed neutrally, ignoring his callous tone. "So as it stands, Lord Gillingham will be in need of a valet." He paused, allowing his words to sink in.

There it was. A chance to use put his skills to good use again.

Molesley sat up straighter in his chair, craning back his neck to regard Mr. Carson more fully from his seated position. "Yes, Mr. Carson," He bobbed his head eagerly, "I'd be happy to help."

"Not you, Mr. Molesey," Carson shook his head as though it wasn't a good idea. "Mr. Bates…" He called out, from across the room, catching the other man's attention.

Molesley turned back around in his seat, sipping the rest of his tea sullenly. He caught Jimmy's sly grin from across the table as if the earlier bristle had altered Mr. Carson's good opinion of Mr. Molesley. It wasn't that Jimmy was a bad fellow. But he was certainly quick to jealousy, as was evident by the whole Ivy-Daisy-Alfred conundrum.

Not wanting to allow him to stir up another situation, Molesley decided he was finished with breakfast. Besides, there was work to be done. But he refused to let Jimmy think his retreat was one of surrender. So he leaned forward in his chair and muttering stiffly so that only Jimmy could hear, "Thanks for that."

Jimmy rolled his eyes and retorted quietly. "Perhaps if you weren't too busy flirting with Ms. Baxter here," He jerked his head towards her, drawing her into the exchange, "you wouldn't have missed yer chance."

Baxter set down her teacup with a noticeable _clink_. Standing to take her leave, she hovered over the table long enough just to whisper her smart remark, "Just because _you_ aren't capable of having a _real _female friend, doesn't mean everyone else is incapable."

And with that, she took her leave.

"Good work," Molesley complimented sarcastically before following after her. "Ms. Baxter," He hissed, trying to catch her attention without anyone noticing.

She shot a look over her shoulder and slowed her gait for him to catch up with her.

He began with a downcast expression, "I am sorry if you were…"

"Why are _you _sorry?" She questioned, frowning before starting back down the corridor.

Molesley matched her pace, explaining, "If you were…_offended_. By what Jimmy said."

"Oh please," She rolled her shoulders back, and shot him a good-natured look. "He's just a boy who hasn't quite learned to think before he speaks."

"I suppose you're right," Molesley agreed, following her into the boot room.

"I am sorry if it hurt your chances of being valet to Lord Gillingham though," She told him weakly, picking up a pair of Lady Grantham's black shoes and moving to set them atop the center table.

"No need to be. I'm sure it did, but…" He trailed off, feigning indifference. He didn't want her to think _she_ was the cause of him not being awarded the task.

He resolved to look for a pair of Mr. Branson's shoes that Mr. Bates asked him to work on the other day. Now seemed like a good time to catch up on them. Setting them on the table beside her pair, Molesley slid onto the nearest emptied chair.

They started working in silence and then Molesley remarked curiously, "I mean, why else couldn't I manage Lord Gillingham? There's no need to burden Mr. Bates with him. I think Mr. Carson forgets that I'm a valet too."

"I know, and it seems a bit ironic for Mr. Bates to dress him." She concurred, not looking up from dusting off the dirt from the bottom of Her Ladyship's shoes.

Her comment didn't align with their train of thought. Molesley's head shot up and he wondered, "Why's it ironic?"

Baxter's hands froze, and it dawned upon what she just said. Shaking her head as if to gloss over the remark, she let out a nervous breath of air, "I don't know why I said that."

"Why _did_ you say it, Ms. Baxter?" Thomas sharp tone interrupted from the doorway, causing her to jump.

"It was rubbish nonsense," She decided flatly, setting down the shoe brush. Lowering her head, she rushed out of the room, murmuring under her breath, "Now if you'll excuse me, I'm late."

"But you just got here," Thomas' drawled after her. If she heard him, Ms. Baxter didn't indicate it.

"Something I can help you with, Mr. Barrow?" Mr. Molesley snapped, quite annoyed with Mr. Barrow interfering with matters that didn't concern him.

Slowly pivoting in place, Thomas' mouth curled into a devious smirk as he retorted, "Oh, I doubt very much you'd help me, Mr. Molesley."

"In terms of bullying Ms. Baxter, no," He spoke plainly, not bothering to hide his feelings of displeasure on the matter. Standing purposefully, he squared off with Thomas Barrow, challenging, "I'll not help you on that score. And I'm sure if only Mr. Carson or Mrs. Hughes knew what it was you were doing to her…" He trailed off suggestively, figuring Thomas would understand the meaning behind his words, and stand down.

But he didn't. Instead, his smile deepened along with the hint of trouble that glimmered in his lifeless eyes, "Why are you _so_ interested in her? When you barely know a thing about her."

Molesley felt his stomach tighten. There was some truth in Thomas' words. And there would be no use pretending that he was better informed about who Ms. Baxter really was in front of Thomas. Even so, he'd come to learn some things about her.

And he could say with absolute certainty now, "I know she's _too good_ to be hitched to the _likes_ of _you_."

Thomas smug expression faltered for a moment. He took a step back, bowing mockingly towards Mr. Molesley. "But she _is_ hitched to me, Mr. Molesley, and there's a reason for that." His response was veiled with a slyness that unsettled Molesley as he was left with nothing more than a sinister, "You'd best remember that part."

All he could do was stare dumbfounded at the abandoned shoes that lay on the table and mull over the obvious question that plagued him now. _What had Ms. Baxter done?_


End file.

Downton Abbey, Drama, Romance