It's past midnight when Molesley finishes the last of the shoes, flexes his aching fingers, and inspects the polishing cloth. He's rubbed a hole right through the middle of it to go with the thin spots and frayed edges that were already there, and that, he thinks, is the end of this particular cloth's useful life. He'll take it out to the yard and put it in the box for the rag and bone man, and then it's off to bed with old Joe Molesley, for whom the six o'clock wake-up call seems to come earlier every morning.
Cloth in hand, he makes his way along the dark corridor—quietly, as there's still a line of light under the door of Mr Carson's pantry and he has no wish to find himself in the butler's bad books—through the deserted kitchen and out into the yard, where it's bitter cold and as still as if the whole world is holding its breath. He drops the cloth into the box, dusts off his palms, and then to his right he notices a slight, familiar figure in black, without a coat or hat, head tipped back and face turned up to the night sky.
He takes a step closer.
"Miss Baxter?"
Miss Baxter starts a little and then looks over at him with a faint, wry smile that he can just make out in the glow from the house's upper windows. Not for the first time, he thinks how much she reminds him of the wild deer that live in the woods and meadows around Downton, all long neck and thin limbs and huge brown eyes, wary and ready to bolt at the first sign of danger.
"I'm afraid you've caught me woolgathering, Mr Molesley," she says.
"It's perishing out here. You'll freeze solid." Molesley glances around, as if he thinks he might discover a spare parka he can bundle her in, but sees only the yard's usual collection of crates and barrels. "Don't you think you ought to come inside?"
"I'm all right," Miss Baxter says, but now that he's pointed out the cold, she seems to feel it more. She folds her arms across her black-clad front, tucking her hands into the crooks of her elbows for warmth, and turns her attention back to the bright array of stars that hang high above.
Molesley frowns. As a boy, he was a great lover of astronomy and once went on a school outing to look through the famous telescope at York Observatory, and because of this he knows that the stars are enormous, burning hot spheres of flame. But at the moment they only seem far away and cold, much like Miss Baxter herself. It is an unusual state for her to be in, and it makes him nervous. He shuffles his feet a bit, partly to keep the blood flowing and partly because he feels like an unwanted intruder, and begins to wonder if perhaps he should leave her to her reverie. He has almost made up his mind to do it when she speaks.
"I'm sorry, Mr Molesley. I don't mean to be poor company. I slip out here every night for a few minutes if I can, you see. It's often very late because I've waited up for her Ladyship to be ready for bed, and so I'm not used to other people being around." She notices him edging sheepishly away and holds up a hand to stop him. "No, no, I didn't mean you had to go. I don't mind if it's you."
"Oh," Molesley says, flattered and embarrassed at the same time, and moves closer to her again. "I suppose I'll stop here a while, then."
"That would be nice," Miss Baxter says, and they stand together in silence for a few minutes. Molesley can make out some of the winter constellations—Orion and Perseus and Cassiopeia—and he starts to point them out to her, but refrains. He knows he has a tendency to show off when it comes to such things, and sometimes he actually remembers that fact in time not to do it. But he does want to say something, and in a moment he thinks of a possible topic of conversation:
"If you don't mind me asking—why do you come out every night, even when it's cold?"
Miss Baxter has turned away from him a bit, so the pale lines of neck and cheek stand out between her dark hair and dress. Now she looks down, bites her lip and seems to consider her answer carefully.
"Well," she says, "when I was—away, you know, we were never let outside except for an hour in the afternoon, and that time was meant to be spent walking, for exercise. We weren't encouraged to look up, and if we had there wouldn't have been anything to look at but high walls and a patch of smoky old London sky. For three years I never saw the stars, and so now I come out here to enjoy them every chance I get, and I mean to keep doing it until I die. I'm sure that sounds like rubbish and nonsense."
"Not at all," says Molesley. He knows she has been in prison, of course, but he hasn't dwelt upon the details. Now he really considers what it would mean to be locked away from the world for years and years, unable to do something as simple as stepping outside for a breath of air or a look at the night sky, and it horrifies him.
"I understand," he adds, hoping that might help.
"Do you?" She glances up at him quickly, and once again he thinks of the deer in the wood, bending to drink at the stream in the dappled sunlight, lifting their graceful heads and watching to see if he's a harmless passerby or a threat to run from.
"Well, I—" Molesley fumbles for the right words and decides honesty is his best bet. "I don't know if I ever really can. But I'm trying to."
"That's more than most would do, Mr Molesley, and it means a great deal to me."
In the near dark, he sees a liquid shimmer in her eyes and feels a moment of pure terror that he may have made her cry, but the expression on her face tells a different story, full of soft affection that he hardly dares to hope is for him.
"Really?"
"Really," she assures him. "A very great deal indeed."
There's more he wants to say to her, but they're both shaking now, teeth beginning to chatter with the cold, and she turns over her wrist and peers at the face of her watch, glowing faintly green with radium.
"Oh my Lord, the time," she says. "We had better get in before Mr Carson locks the kitchen door, or we really will freeze to death out here."
"I wouldn't let you freeze," he says, blurting it out before he has a chance to get tongue-tied, and she laughs a little, half self-conscious and half pleased.
"I know you wouldn't, but let's not put it to the test. Come on, Mr Molesley, double quick."
Together they hurry across the yard and through the door, where thankfully Carson is not waiting to greet them with a disapproving glare, back down the corridor and then up to the attic. At the bottom of the staircase that leads to the female servants' quarters, she bids Molesley good night in a whisper, and he's left to make his way to his own room alone.
He hopes he'll be able to see the stars from his window.