The morning after, they are languid and bundled, loathe to leave their bed. She does though, brash and giggling, her naked skin puckers againer cold morning air.
Not so cold - he has lit a fire.
She pulls the most recent stack from her drawer; letters she will not need to hand over to their employer.
"Did His Lordship get you the others?"
"He did," her husband says quietly, closing his eyes. "You can't know the comfort they brought me."
"Not more worry? I was in quite a state writing the first half dozen." She settles back under blankets, pulls his arm around her. Tilts her head to accept a kiss. "I used your old inkwell. They are mostly just silly things: Mrs. Patmore's lamb stew, or the mud I cleaned from Lady Mary's riding breeches."
"Those are my favorite parts; they tell me you are safe and warm, fed and looked after."