The cottage was known throughout the village for its garden; that the house itself was of a decent size, with exterior paintwork that was painted with unwavering regularity and fresh nets always to be seen at the windows were all secondary to the sweet scent of English rose that filled the nostrils of anyone who passed. It was early in the season for any blooms of significance but, as Phyllis approached the front door, she spied the first buds just appearing in the sunniest spot, far to her right, just where the wall reached the road. Distracted for a moment, she stood and took in the sight, one she could vividly recall from a year before, almost twelve months to the day that they'd buried Mr Moseley Senior. Joseph had bemoaned the lack of roses with which to mark his passing and then, just as they'd journeyed down the path to meet the hearse, she'd spotted them and hurried to gather a few.

"They're not prizewinning just yet," she'd whispered to her husband as she'd taken his hand, their footsteps beginning to fall in time with the slow march of the procession, "But he'll know how to tend to them. To help them reach their full potential."

If she closed her eyes, Phyllis thought she could still feel the squeeze of his fingers in return, his cold and clinging, desperate with unspoken loss. She'd carried the modest bunch of green to the church and quietly placed them on the coffin, the gesture more significant than the inadequacy of its appearance let on. She hadn't imagined she'd spend a good part of the first year of her marriage supporting a man through a deep seated grief that he didn't seem able to shake himself free of, but she had. And it had been done willingly, for what was a wife's purpose it wasn't for that, she'd reasoned. But, as she pushed the door open to let herself in, she wouldn't deny that she was quite ready for them to share a little more of the happiness they'd had before.

"I saw Anna in the village this afternoon," Joseph commented as they pushed their empty plates aside. "And Mrs Hughes, and then later Mrs Patmore."

"Perhaps you could start a trend," Phyllis joked, "Like trainspotting, only it would be the ladies of the downstairs you'd be collecting instead of plate numbers. Just Daisy and your wife to go and you'll have the set."

"Ah, but I already had you," he smiled, a rare sight that gladdened her heart, "I saw you at breakfast."

"If not before," letting her eyes flirt with his, hoping he'd recall how they'd awoken, his arm wrapped tightly around her waist, pulling her back against him.

She settled for his reddened cheeks as a response and began to clear the table, stacking their plates before transferring them to the deep sink under the window. She'd been reluctant to alter anything within the house after they'd married, feeling very much a guest, however encouraging Mr Moseley Senior had been that it was her home now. But since his passing she had dared to make a few changes. It had been decades since a woman had made it her own and, although well cared for, it was a little faded in places. The most recent addition had been an armchair by the dining room fire. The kitchen led directly from there and she'd noticed Joseph lingering after dinner. She'd supposed he was wanting to remain close to her but with no real purpose he'd taken to sort of hanging about. She'd not announced its arrival, just simply arranged for it to be delivered on her half day and then smiled as wordlessly he'd considered it and from then taken to sitting in it each evening, the conversation light between them as she washed up the dinner things and he jotted down thoughts of possible scripts in his leather-bound notebook. This quiet intimacy had fast become her favourite moment of the day.

As the soap suds built, she kept half an eye on her husband. His mood seemed a little lighter of late but she'd daren't let herself believe they might finally be passing out from under the dark cloud. She longed for the lightness they'd enjoyed during their engagement, delicious kisses stolen as they'd strolled the woodland paths that criss-crossed the estate, their shared daydreams of what their lives together might be like, their respective lifelong loneliness finally set aside. She'd felt that familiar feeling return, creeping up on her unknowingly despite his ever-presence, but she'd not spoken of it. She knew grief and she'd not wish it on anyone.

"Did I say that we found it?" she called out, scrubbing at the first pan. "Lady Sybil's necklace?"

She didn't hear a reply but the shuffling of feet on the carpet rug instead, her lips curling into a smile as he entered the kitchen.

"Oh, I'm glad," Joseph said. "Her Ladyship must have an idea for it to put you to all that trouble."

"It was no trouble," she shrugged easily. "Besides, the loss of a child doesn't bear thinking of."

He nodded in reply, the spark she'd sensed earlier dimming. She quickly changed the subject and asked after his day before melancholy settled in for the night. It worked and as she continued the ritual of washing, rinsing and drying he told her of Nancy Jenkins and how her handwriting efforts were beginning to pay off, and about Jack Robertson who, despite his best efforts to play the fool, was proving himself to be quite the linguist. She laughed as he recounted a tale of the latest tricks his pupils were attempting to play on him and the new way he'd devised to catch them out.

"Not as green as I'm cabbage looking," he remarked in conclusion, "But it's no worse than what we got up to as kids, I suppose."

"I was too good at school," Phyllis remarked as she dried her hands on her apron before removing it entirely. "Too shy and quiet to get into any trouble." She sighed, "Made up for it later, I suppose."

He moved towards her and slipped his arms around her waist to draw her close, "Come on now, goodness doesn't go away," he consoled, "It gets corrupted sometimes, but it's always there, ready for a comeback."

"Well, come back it must have done," she said softly, "I wouldn't have you otherwise."

She leant into his embrace, felt the warmth of his breath against her cheek such was their proximity. She felt as her lips parted, the silent desperation for a kiss, the kind that had been absent for some time. She held her breath as he edged an inch towards her, a tiny distance left to cross. But he stopped, his head dipping as he drew back, the moment slipping away leaving only awkwardness in its place.

I've not attempted writing Mr Moseley before and I'm finding his tone is surprisingly hard to copy from our fair Julian. What do we think? I'm sorry that he's such a sad soul, for now at least. The next chapter is imminent, bear with me while it gets an edit...