The fire in the grate was proving obstinate. If it had been a child it would have been banished to its room long ago in disgrace at its unwillingness to cooperate and fulfil its duty. As it was, it had been subjected to a torrent of frustrated expletives that were beneath him and should by rights have been beyond the hearing of the lady of the house. But it couldn't be helped, it seemed, as when each was uttered only to be met by the faint tut of her disapproval he resolved to do better, to not be so uncouth, and yet he was destined only to repeat the error again and again with increasing vigour.

He reached for the coal scuttle and heaped several more lumps onto the smouldering pile, bending down further to blow on it, hopeful that a blast of oxygen would tempt it into life. But after several attempts he had achieved nothing other than to render himself breathless and so he sat back on his heels coughing having inhaled more smoke than his lungs could handle.

"You're going to have to stop and start again," came a voice from across the room.

"Thank you," he replied tersely, "That much I had worked out," grabbing the iron shovel and beginning to scoop out not only the coal he'd just added but more besides.

"Would you like me to have a try?" came the voice again, its gentle lilt that was usually music to his ears irritating his nerves.

He turned to his head to glare at her but she didn't see. Her head was bent over her needlework, wicker sewing basket beside her on the sofa with several cotton reels balanced precariously on top. The grey streaks in her hair, that were more noticeable at the roots than the ends, caught in the lamp light, itself positioned on the small sideboard behind her. They were greater in number with each passing year, much like his own he acknowledged with reluctance, but he wouldn't dare comment, not after the last time. He recalled that he hadn't meant it harshly, more as a statement as to the time they'd known one another, of the years of companionship and support they'd enjoyed. But her rebuke had cut as deeply as his words had clearly been felt, and so instead of a lighthearted recollection of their past, it had only served as another lesson learnt in a very long line of them. He continued to watch for a minute, the sharp point of her needle working its way expertly in and out of the fabric that was spread across her knees. He couldn't exactly recall what it was she was working on, a tablecloth maybe or a skirt, either way it was a project and a half and had taken up the majority of her spare time over the last month.

Drawing his gaze away, he returned to the matter at hand and carefully began to rebuild the fire, taking more time than his previous attempt to ensure success. His frustration was high at failing at this most mundane of tasks but, he reasoned, it had been many years since it had formed a routine part of his day although deep down he knew that was a fool's excuse. Adding an extra load of kindling for security, he struck a match and, willing his hand to behave, gingerly held it to the crumpled newspaper that he'd snuck into the centre of the pile. It was a cheat but he thought his wife was sufficiently distracted not to notice and, even if she had, polite enough not to mention it. Within moments the flames flared and as he leant back once more he silently willed the thinner sticks to catch and, when at last they did, allowed himself a small smile of satisfaction. He kept watch over it for a while longer until he was sure that it would die a sudden death and then creakingly stood to shuffle back to his armchair to collapse into it.

"It's not you," she offered, her head not lifting itself from her work, "It's that grate, the air doesn't flow as it should. Perhaps we should ask Mr Maddox to take a look at it for us."

He nodded his agreement as he took up his book, "I'll talk to him in the morning. I'm sure Lady Mary won't mind me going to him directly."

She didn't respond but put down her needle instead, her eyes shifting over to where he sat, her thoughts turning to how completely at home he looked, the chair broad enough to take his frame easily and with an all too familiar glass of sherry within arm's reach. His face was impassive save for the movement of his eyes darting across the page. But he looked older than before, the shadows cast by the flames doing little to soften the lines and creases that spoke of the years gone by, those that they'd shared and those that they hadn't. But none quite as contented as the one just past. A year and month since he'd asked her the greatest of questions, the one that had brought momentous change to both their lives and led to this scene of domesticity that she'd barely dared to dream might find itself to her. She regarded him some more, his pose quite casual with his waistcoat unbuttoned and collar loose at his throat. If she squinted she thought she could make out the start of the hairs that she now knew peppered his chest, that were hers alone to run her fingers across in search of their shared pleasure. She preferred him this way, informal and off-guard instead of the precise, upstanding gentleman of a butler they all thought him to be. Him here, now, relaxed and at peace, that was her man.

"I feel you watching me," he said gruffly, turning the page pointedly and she could see his fight to resist any urge to look over.

"I was just thinking," she began, "It's our first winter in this house. There could be quite a few things that we want to have fixed or changed. Maybe we should make a list."

"Good idea," he concurred, his gaze darting over momentarily before returning, "For starters the back door could do with looking at. I was at the sink the other evening and the draft was bitter."

"Aye, and the side window in there is no better. The crack in the glass didn't bother me so much before but a hard frost and it'll worsen for sure."

She shivered at the thought. Long Scottish winters should have hardened her but she was always a softie when it came to the weather and Yorkshire was barely any warmer than the Highlands of her youth. Warm summer days were when she felt she came to life, toes dipped in the cooling waves of the loch, or even better the sea if she was very lucky, the sun on her face to awaken her freckles. If there was one thing in favour of her corsets it was that they kept out the chill.

She sighed as she turned back to her project. She'd been determined that this would be the last evening she'd spend on it but it was proving as troublesome as the fire which, she loathed to point out, was already lacking from its burst of life just a few minutes before. She'd wanted her handiwork to be perfect but the yellow rose motif did not look quite as she'd imagined it would. It seemed to disappear into the white of the sheet and was not the bold statement she'd hoped for. She doubted the recipient would notice and would simply be grateful and happy for a gift from her sister at all, but she fancied that really wasn't the point.

"Well, it's too late now," she muttered under her breath, deciding to call it a night. She could ask to borrow Miss Baxter's sewing machine tomorrow and finish off the seams and then that would be that. She tied off the loose thread and began to pack away the bits and bobs that had become strewn about the place, pins back into the pin cushion, needles to their case, and was halfway to standing when he spoke.

"Is it a tablecloth?"

She looked over at him, his book now in his lap with its bookmark nearly in place, the last dregs of his drink on their way to being drained.

"Is what a tablecloth?" she asked.

"That?" he gestured at the material in her hands.

She couldn't help but let her mouth drop open at the ridiculousness of the question but his face was all innocence and so she shut it quickly.

"No," she replied evenly, "It's a pillowcase. At least it will be."

He nodded his understanding, "I didn't know we needed any more bed linens. You should have said. I don't mind us buying anything we might need."

Elsie sighed as she stood. That he often failed to pay attention to what she said was only to be expected, at least if what other wives said about their spouses was to be believed, but it did make an already impossible man additionally annoying.

"It's for Becky," she explained, folding it with practised precision, "It's her birthday next week and I wanted her to have something nice, to remind her of me."

She gathered up her basket and shifted it to the sideboard, placing it inside along with her handiwork, after which she found herself subconsciously moving the items on the top that had somehow shifted their position. Going to turn to declare her intention to go to bed, she was startled to find him up close behind her and let out a little exclamation of surprise.

"The fire's gone out again," he offered glumly in explanation. "I was going to read a bit more but I think I'll just go up."

She couldn't help but chuckle and reached out to settle her hand in his and tugged it gently in the direction of the door.

"Ach, never mind, Charlie. I'm sure we can find another way to keep ourselves cosy and warm."