The white cotton slipped smoothly between his fingers. As required, the gloves were pristine, without spill or split. They waved like a flag of surrender in his hands as he slowly drew them between his knuckles and stared at them, eyebrows knit in distaste and frustration, even while the corner of his mouth quirked wryly.
"I'm having me career backwards," he'd said once. But truly, his career wasn't moving backwards. It wasn't moving at all. It couldn't really be called a career. He was past fifty, serving as a footman under the leadership of two men, both of whom seemed to be in vigorous health and content to stay where they were.
Well, maybe Mr. Carson was entertaining thoughts of retirement. If the Granthams had been different sorts, more concerned with the image of things than the well being and happiness of loyal servants who had, over the years, become more than servants, the butler's determination to marry the housekeeper of many years would have resulted in two retirements. But he couldn't wish Mr. Carson gone for his own advancement…not when he considered who he'd likely be trading him for.
Now…that one. Mr. Barrow…
The underbutler was many years away from retirement. His scheming might get caught out eventually, but the years of near misses made Thomas Barrow appear to lead a charmed life. Bulletproof, in spite of the war injury he hid under his own glove.
Joseph Molesley grimaced as he gazed at the hated, white gloves that signified his status, and folded them with care, replacing them in his livery. It wouldn't do to get them stained; he'd have to look out another pair and listen to the blustering disapproval of Mr. Carson over his carelessness.
Service wasn't the only job in the world, but it seemed to be what he was made for. When he wasn't sulking over what might have been or smarting from a reprimand - and he seemed to get more than his fair share of those - he was skilled and efficient. He'd been a better valet than ever he was a footman. And he'd shown real promise as a butler. Maybe he wasn't destined to command a downstairs ship like Downton Abbey, but he'd had a future, reasonable ambitions.
Now he had only the blessed camaraderie of those who toiled beside him, steady but paltry pay, and tasks to fill his days. And if that had not been enough to keep him from actively seeking greener pastures, there was also Phyllis.
Miss Baxter, rather.
He shouldn't even call her by her Christian name in his head; there was too much of a chance that it might slip out through his lips. And he'd no right to be so familiar. They were friends and colleagues. Very good friends. But there was no…understanding between them. And he didn't know how to change that. Or if she'd even want to.
Footmen on the far side of fifty with no prospects shouldn't be thinking of understandings anyway. Not even when he'd look up and see those deep, brown eyes watching him with concern or friendliness or that…that something else he couldn't really identify, but when he saw it, it made him tend to drop things.
It was that something else that would show up in his dreams at night; the only time he could breathe her name without censure. Maybe it was just vain hopes, but there were times when he'd think maybe….maybe she might possibly feel the same way…
Not that there was anything he could do about it. He'd nothing to offer. It would have to be enough to sit next to her, smile back and laugh together, and surreptitiously glance at her lovely, busy hands, her slender neck, the cool lift of her eyebrow when she was amused, and her profile as she smiled and chatted while she worked…
He cleared his throat with a rough bark that caught the attention of a young maid sitting at the other end of the table. At her curious glance, he smiled weakly and stood, wondering if there was silver polishing to be caught up on, or some other monotonous chore that he could do with only half a mind while the other half daydreamed.
Daydreaming was all he could ever seem to manage.
He sighed and wandered from the servant's hall, unaware that the object of his thoughts had entered with an armful of cloth and watched his departure with disappointed eyes.
After all, it wouldn't do for Miss Baxter to call out to him and ask him to stay when they should both be focusing on their tasks. Never mind that it made the tedious time spent mending pass that much quicker when they could have a chat and she could see his face light up in excitement as he spoke.
She smoothed her skirt as she dropped into the chair in front of her sewing machine. The plain, black dress, traditional for her role in the household, may have looked and felt like armor, but it wrinkled terribly if she wasn't careful. The simple severity served the purpose of insuring that at no time did the servant outshine the mistress she tended to. And there was never any regret in her for the role she had accepted so gratefully. It had given her a second chance at a life out from under shame and disgrace, and was truly the best she could ever expect.
But there were times when she hoped in the secret places of her heart that she barely acknowledged for something more. She knew she was respected by most of her colleagues, and the ones that reserved their regard had good reason to. She was even liked; apparently she was a breath of fresh air compared to Her Ladyship's previous maids. Thomas - Mr. Barrow, rather - had urged her in the beginning to be cooperative and helpful in order to allay suspicion and build bridges that he had been burning for years. But she would have done so anyway. Even now, she didn't hold hard feelings against the manipulative underbutler. It wasn't in her to be deliberately unkind.
Her foot taped lightly on the treadle and she guided the hem of a skirt with consummate skill under the clacking needle. No one watching her bent industriously over her machine would suspect that she was counting her blessings. And they would most certainly attribute the bite of her lip to concentration rather than consternation at the fact that so many of the blessings seemed to evolve around Joseph.
Mr. Molesley, rather.
It wouldn't be out of place for her to refer to a footman by his given name, as she did with Andy. But since Joseph's hiring as a footman, an odd turn of patronage and force of habit granted him the more formal address. Frankly, no one, downstairs or up, would ever call Mr. Molesely Joseph. He was Mr. Molesley to everyone, and so had to be Mr. Molesley to her as well.
But that didn't stop her from thinking of him as Joseph. And hoping that, one day, she might be able to say his name - not as an accidental slip that would embarrass them both, but as a natural way of greeting him that would roll off of her tongue and cause him to smile.
She liked his smile. And she treasured every time she had made him forget himself enough to grin broadly or laugh, even when others were around. It made her think, just for a moment, that there might someday be an understanding between them.
But if he was thinking along the same lines, he was careful not to reveal it - not in any definitive way. Sometimes, their eyes would meet in the middle of a conversation, and there would be this brief silence, just waiting to be filled with something. But nothing ever filled it. And they'd both turn their eyes away awkwardly.
Odd, that she felt she could tell him anything except what was most important. One day, one of them would fill that silence. Maybe he'd stutter like he did when he was flustered. Or maybe she'd hold his gaze and find herself speaking in that low voice she used when foiling the multitude of eavesdroppers that tended to grow in the fertile ground of downstairs.
Miss Baxter didn't know. And she wasn't aware that she was smiling to herself as she sewed, or that the object of her thoughts was standing in the corridor, his search for clean polishing cloths brought to an abrupt halt as the sight of her smile gave him new fodder for his daydreams and made his heart stutter as badly as ever his words did.
And neither knew that the other was wishing just as fervently for something…anything…that might bring them to an understanding.
Mr. Carson tried to maintain a neutral expression, but was unable to hide his exasperation at the requirements he was laying out for the staff at their dinner that evening to meet the needs of the soon to be expected guests. Circumstances had changed very much, and even house parties weren't actual house parties.
"Blimey," Mr. Barrow drawled, enjoying the sight of Mr. Carson's agitation, "It's like they're running a training scheme for the nobility."
"It's to Downton's credit that others wishing their estates to run as well and as profitably are seeking out the advice and instruction of His Lordship," Mr. Carson proclaimed irritably, unconsciously sticking out his chest.
Mrs. Hughes rolled her eyes discretely. "I suspect it's Lady Mary's expertise they've come to seek, Mr. Carson, as she's taken on so much of the Estate Manager's roll. They'll likely shadow her around for a few days and go back to their own estates none the wiser."
Mr. Carson's response was an uncomfortable huff. Mr. Molesley met Miss Baxter's eyes and they hid their grins.
"As it is unlikely that either Lord Edwards or Sir Gregory are traveling with a valet, you will see to them if required, Mr. Barrow."
"I'm afraid I might not be available, Mr. Carson," Mr. Barrow replied with a smirk. "Or have you forgotten that I'm to be at the London house all next week to deal with the tradesmen doing the repairs to the ballroom floor?"
"That's next week?" Mr. Carson demanded, turing to stare at Mrs. Hughes.
"It is," she replied, taking an unconcerned sip of her tea. "It was moved up two weeks, as the new flooring arrived earlier than expected and Mr. Woodbury is anxious to get started on it." She looked down the table with a little smile tugging the corner of her lips. "But I'm certain that Mr. Molesley could step up to the task, if a valet is needed."
Mr. Molesley met Mr. Carson's stare with a startled look. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Miss Baxter beaming happily at him. Without thinking, he sat up straighter in his seat and nodded confidently to Mr. Carson.
The wordless conversation that ensued between Mr. Carson and Mrs. Hughes was decisively ended by the latter's raised eyebrow and stern look over the rim of her cup.
"Well, that's settled, then. Mr. Molesley will stand in as valet if needed." The chairs scraped the floor as everyone stood in response to Mr. Carson's rise and departure. The staff sat down and resumed eating while conversation about the expected guests flew up and down the table.
"That's wonderful…Mr. Molesley," Miss Baxter said excitedly, catching herself before she could call him Joseph.
"Well, I hope I haven't lost me touch," he replied modestly. "It'll be good to take up valeting again, even just for a little while."
"I'm sure there isn't anyone better for the job," she replied firmly, relishing the smile that he gave at her praise.
Their eyes locked, but only for a moment. Then the silence was filled with the sound of scraping chairs and chatter of servants finishing up their day.