It was going to be a long night. He'd known it the minute the call had ended but quite how long only sunk in later.

He'd put down the receiver having assured Lady Mary he'd call if he heard anything and her likewise, and spent a few moments in a kind of frozen state. He felt himself frowning at the bunch of snowdrops sitting next to the telephone. The vase was the sort with a heavy base that tapered in and then out again, the resulting wide brim causing the weakened stems to splay haphazardly, leaving the display with no form at all. He'd instinctively picked them up with the intention of trimming them or refreshing the water, anything that might prolong them. But he'd replaced them just as quickly. The flowers were Elsie's domain and she'd not thank him for his interference. Instead he'd returned to the kitchen and set about wondering what to do about the half cooked dinner and neatly lain table.

By nine, he'd concluded it was foolish to stay up waiting, reasoning it was likely that Elsie had either chosen to remain with her sister or that the weather had delayed her. Making himself a mug of Horlicks he'd retired upstairs, switching off the lights downstairs bar the one in the hall, just in case she should yet appear. As each button on his shirt was undone he'd thought over the different scenarios once more, so much so that by the time he was ready to slip under the bedclothes, teeth brushed and face washed, he'd settled firmly on one particular notion. She was, when all said and done, a tough old bird and when she did eventually arrive back home she would, no doubt, admonish him for his worry.

But he was worried, there was no denying it. Blowing on his drink a little, it still too warm to enjoy comfortably, he'd felt the knot in his stomach tightening and forced himself to face reality more fully. She might very well be tucked up somewhere warm but equally, he'd said out loud to an empty, she might not.

The rest of the night passed at an agonising pace, sleep coming to him in fits and starts so that by the time the clock showed it to be not even midnight he felt he may as well give up. Lying in bed was making it all far worse. He needed a distraction.

Gladys peeked around the door and gave a contented look at the sight of Becky Hughes sleeping peacefully. It wasn't the fevered, disturbed slumber of recent weeks but that of someone on the mend. She'd need a lot more rest yet before she was back to her cheeky, mischievous ways but the prospect of that time was on the horizon now, of that she was certain. She stepped back from the room and quietly pulled the door to. Just one or two more residents to check on and she'd be able to retire herself. Fatigue was her bedfellow in this job but one she'd didn't much mind. Caring for others was her life's work and that came with a certain level of sacrifice. As she poked her head into the next room and was similarly reassured that all was well, she heard a noise from downstairs. It sounded like it could be a knock at the front door but given the hour that was unusual. She leaned over the bannister and heard it again, definitely someone wanting to be let in.

She made quick work of descending the stairs and crossed the modest hallway. She kept the key on a hook to one side, high enough away to keep it out of reach of at least one of her charges who had a determination to wander. As she reached for it, the knock came again, more urgently this time and it caused her to call out.

"I'm coming, give me a minute. Who is it?"

The answer was not one she was expecting and nor was the sight that greeted her when, having successfully wrestled with the stiff lock, she finally got it open.

"Darling, it was a hairbrained plan from the off," he argued gently as he shifted to plump up the pillow before resting his head down on it and finding himself quite unable to stop the tiny groan of relief to find himself finally warm and comfortable escaping his lips. "Even you must see that."

"What do you mean by 'even I'?" Mary retorted, her head whipping round at his intimation of blame.

Henry sighed. "You have a, what shall we call it, an impulsive streak," he explained, reaching over to kiss her cheek to reassure her of his love, "And having me dash halfway across the country in search of the housekeeper was certainly driven by something other than careful thought."

"I was worried for her," she pouted in reply.

"No, my dear," he smiled, "You were worried for Mr Carson and that's not quite the same thing." He paused to watch her fight her instinct to retaliate and was pleased when she relented.

"Two such things can be true at the same time," came her begrudging acceptance, her back turned to him as she reached over to switch off the bedside lamp.

"Indeed," Henry agreed solemnly into the dark. "The question now is what are you going to do about our missing Mrs Hughes."

"Doctor! What are you doing here at this hour?" Gladys exclaimed, hurriedly ushering him inside to avoid the escape of the houses' still warm air.

The doctor responded grateful, the drive back to Lytham St Annes had proven far more treacherous than he'd anticipated, great sheets of sleet falling across the road in front for at least the last twenty miles, not at all helped by the lack of a street light for most of it. He availed himself gratefully of the offer of a hot toddy in front of the kitchen fire, the embers of which Gladys had quickly stirred up into flames once more. It wasn't long before the amber liquid had warmed his throat and the blanket that had been laid over his knees were working their magic.

"Did she telephone? Mrs Carson, I mean," he asked. "We made it in good time but I could feel the snow in the air. She assured me she was fine but it worried me, a woman travelling on her own so I told her she must let you know when she'd arrived."

Gladys shook her head. "No, there's been no call. She frowned and crossed to the bureau and pulled out a slip of paper. "This arrived not long after you left. It seems that a Mr Talbot was going to meet her."

The doctor read the telegram and shook his head confusedly. "She should have made that connection easily enough, even without knowing the arrangements had changed."

"It's good of you to worry," Gladys offered, reaching out to place a friendly hand to his shoulder. "I'm sure she arrived safe and sound and her promise of calling was simply forgotten in her tiredness and longing for bed. She's not slept much whilst she's been here, you know."

"You're probably right" he said, agreeing with some reluctance at the logic of it.

He looked over to the woman who was offering him such welcome reassurance and smiled. He wasn't sure if men and women could truly be friends but if they could then Gladys was most certainly his. He thought for a moment before he spoke again.

"If we've not heard from her by the morning, then..." but he tailed off, unable to finish the sentence. After all, what could they do?

Charles pretended not to hear the chime of the clock as he continued with his task. It would do no good to focus on that just now; he just had to make it to morning without panicking himself into an early grave and then he could get up to the Abbey and make a plan. Between them all they'd be able to come up with something.

Settled into his chair, the fire roaring in the sitting room grate as Mr Maddox had promised it would, he sat with his lap covered in papers, an opened book balanced precariously on the arm. He'd realised, amongst the tossing and turning, that the idea for a compost heap was one thing but really that seemed quite pointless if there wasn't sufficient garden to warrant it. The current patch of grass, or more accurately weeds, was hardly something to be proud of but given the hours they kept there was barely time to dream of how it could be, let alone toil the earth. But he would have the time, he'd realised, and so all he know had to do was learn how to become a gardener.

But from the book he'd found on the shelf, abandoned by the cottage's former occupant and for some reason safeguarded by Elsie, it wasn't going to be straightforward. Gardens needed planning, it seemed. Beds of soil were needed for this and other beds for that, and not only that but you needed to know about which type you had; chalky, clay, sandy or peat. You needed to take note of where the sunny spots were and which patches were prone to damp-inducing shade. You had to decide what you wanted to grow, flowers or vegetables or fruits, or all three. Then there was the matter of tools, which ones and where to keep them. It would have been overwhelming if it hadn't been one thing, the wonderfully welcome realisation that he already possessed the key that was going to make it all possible, that he excelled in and had done all his life. The list. He was a master at lists, of keeping things straight in his head about what needed to be done and when and by whom. And yes, he'd have to learn about gardening, quite a bit in fact, but there was no challenge he'd faced in his life that hadn't been aided by the making of a humble list.

And so he sat, exhausted but focused on the task in front of him, scribbling on sheets of paper, attempting to cross-reference them as he went. He'd created a calendar too, dividing by season and then month, and had begun slotting in the items from the master list into it. He was determined, more determined that he'd been of anything of late, that by sunrise he may not have his wife back but he was jolly well going to have a garden. Or a plan for it at least.