So I didn't think this would be ready until tomorrow, but in light of recent events in the Series 5 Finale. I feel like I have to update this. *flails & shouts wildly* GUISE CAN YOU BELIEVE THE GEM OF A BAXLEY SCENE(s) WE GOT? I AM STILL EMOTIONAL ABOUT IT THO! Anyway, *clears throat & starts talking again in official author voice* updates are most likely going to take place on Sunday & Wednesday/Thursday's for future reference. Thanks again to everyone who has shown interest in some way. And as always, I'd love t hear your thoughts both good & bad. Enjoy lovelies! (:
The Molesley's stone cottage was settled in between a row of similar looking houses in Downton Village. The same beige and grey stonework that weathered many years of harsh winters and heavy rainfalls faded along with the rest of the homes. And the same stone had been built up in a series of three foot walls that sequestered off each yard and a matching one that also ran in a long line in front of the houses. Initially built as an aesthetically pleasing fixture to make the village appear more organized, the three foot wall also served as a safety precaution since the homes were built straight off one of the main roads.
But nearly each villager who lived on this street of town took it upon themselves to make additions to their homes. Some added wrought iron gates in between the gap the front wall allowed for coming and going. Others installed back porches for those warm summer nights where they might find some time to enjoy the quiet after a busy day.
Then there were the Molesley's who put in a small red roof just over the front door with two matching beams coming down on either side of the front stoop. It was just a slab of cement, but it was wide enough for two rocking chairs, and a small table to sit on either side of the door. The stoop was then connected by a brick walkway that the older Mr. Molesley and his son paved themselves a few summers prior. The small path they created with the red and brown bricks ended at a wooden gate that was settled in between the gap in the stone wall. It was painted in a burnt red color to match the support poles on the front stoop and the wooden outlines of the windows on the house.
But what really set the Molesley cottage apart from every other one in the village was probably the white lattice archway that was planted a few feet just behind the gate. At any given point of the year, one could stroll by and find it decorated with the best blooms featured in old, Bill Molesley's back garden. It was Mrs. Molesley's arranging eye with flowers that made the archway an exciting topic of conversation among the villagers.
The children of the village turned it into a game, trying to poke their heads over the stone walls just to catch a glimpse of what intricate arrangement Mrs. Molesley fashioned across the arch and through the lattice holes. The first to see and run home to tell their parents would be claimed a winner among the group. Of course, no formal prize was ever handed out, but the feeling of pride at being the first to know was something the group took rather seriously.
Even as the children grew and departed with this childhood game, Mrs. Molesley kept at it. It started as a hobby then ventured into a business opportunity. She sold arrangements to The Family for special occasions, donated them to the church, and even participated in the annual flower show, winning in several of the categories. It was with this reputation and gift with floral arrangements that enabled her to start a small business venture on the side.
It was a tiny shop, but prosperous enough. It enabled them to send their only son, Joe, off on a specialty course so that he might learn the skills required for a life in service. The rest they set aside for the other mishaps live through their way. And soon after, Joe left home, it appeared the mishaps were more frequently than ever before.
Mrs. Molesley was often ill and took to her bed. Doctor after doctor came into the house, trying to determine the cause of her enigmatic illness. Yet no one seemed to have the answers or could pose a reliable cure. Treatments were recommended and tried. Sometimes they worked, and she could carry on as usual. Other times they made her even more sickly.
Little by little, the savings they accumulated over the years, vanished. The shop could barely turn a profit. The flower arrangements weren't as beautiful as they once were. Mr. Molesley tried his hand at it. He was relatively good. But his wife had been the true floral artist. Somehow, they managed to scrape by.
It certainly helped when their son went to work for the Crawley family as valet to Mr. Crawley, the presumptive heir of Downton Abbey. That was a crowning achievement and both parents couldn't have been prouder.
Sadly, in the presence of such a significant upward swing, came a downward spiral. Mrs. Molesley's health deteriorated in spite of the additional funds her son had been supplementing for a highly expensive course of treatment. At long last, after many years of suffering and living with the uncertainty of when her sickness might strike her down for good, Mrs. Molesley finally found peace.
Her passing was one of immense sadness, but also one of relief. She lived so much of her life in quiet pain and suffering because she was determined to press on. Because there was always a job to do. Always work that needed done.
It never turned her bitter either. She could have let it bring her down, change her. But it never did. She was still the generous spirit that prompted Bill to fall in love with her, and made Joe think the world of his Mum. Bill was convinced it was her will to live and still do good in the world that kept her alive for so long.
Mr. Molesley still tended to his gardens. But the shop closed down. He focused his efforts on arranging for funerals now. Gone were the days of sending flowers for birthdays, anniversaries, and the like from the Molesley garden. And now the white lattice archway remained bare, paint chipping, and wood slowly rotting.
It was still the topic of conversation. But not in the way it once was. Gone were the praising remarks, the excitement that surrounded it. Now all that it left was a painful reminder of something once beautiful that was now missing in the world.
Joesph Molesley felt it nearly every time he passed beneath the structure. Felt like he owed it to his mother to make it a lovely fixture in their lives again. Sometimes he glanced up to the sky, murmuring, I know Mum. I'll talk to him about it. But he could never quite find the words to tell his silently mourning father. So he let it go, silently making a promise he'd try again tomorrow.
There was still no desire to fix it up again on Mr. Molesley's part. Not even after the tragedy with Mr. Crawley, and the return of his son to the stone cottage. Everything else in the cottage was maintained, save for the once famed archway that deteriorated in the front yard.
But lately, Joe Molesley hadn't made any promises to his mother. Nor did he notice the archway as he milled in and out of the house each day. Because he generally kept his head down in the village, and barely glanced at his father these days.
His loss of dignity was met with pity. From one of the girls from his younger days who was now grown women whose groceries he delivered on days when the roads couldn't be mended. From Anna who'd seen him smoothing over the ground, pulling every muscle in his already aching back. To her husband, Mr. Bates, who invented a false debt he owed to him just so Molesley could pay off his already existent loans. But the worst of this, or so he believed to be the worst, was his father's pitiful eye.
He couldn't stand to see it in his dad. A man who'd once been proud to see his son rise to such a respectable position in the county. Now he had to contend with whispers. With people coming up to him, and asking how his son was getting on in the wake of Matthew Crawley's death. In the wake of his newly deflated status in Downton Village.
But Bill was nothing short of polite. He nodded his head, offered a sad smile, and agreed with how sad both he and his son were for the Crawley Family. He never once vocalized his disappointment in his son, even if it were felt.
Joe could feel it each time he returned home from one of the odd jobs he forced himself out of bed for. However as he trudged up the path leading to the Molesley cottage one afternoon, he noticed his father watering a small bucket full of flowers resting on the small table on the stoop.
When he heard his son approaching, Bill turned, his face alighting eagerly. "Joe! Joe, you've received something in the post..." He wiped his hands off on the front of his gardening apron, pushing open the heavy wooden door to the cottage.
His interest peaked at his father's urgency, and Joseph Molesley padded into the house behind him. He didn't so much as pass over the threshold, and his dad was already pressing the telegram in his hands.
Attn. J. Molesley.
Meeting requested at Abbey w. Carson. Arrive prior to gong at downstairs door. No reply needed, only your attendance.
"D'you suppose it means Mr. Carson has a job for you?" Bill asked anxiously.
Trying not to get his hopes up, Joe passed the telegram back to his father and shrugged. His words came out with an indifference that was to merely keep his excitement in check, "I dunno. S'pose I should be going up to see now. If he wants me there before the gong."
Joe hurried back the way he once came, not out of excitement, but out of not wanting to be late and miss what could be his last chance at something better.
Mr. Carson's proposition wasn't altogether surprising, really. Second footman to Jimmy once Alfred took off for a better opportunity cooking at The Ritz. Yet Molesley couldn't help but feel a bit deflated at the offer. He was to be second best when he was once on track to be first in a great household. The demotion wasn't one he could readily accept without at least mulling it over.
"What do you mean, you'll think about it?" Mr. Carson echoed in disbelief, clearly expecting the opposite of how Molesley reacted.
"What did I say?" He wrung his hat in between his hands, shrugging, "I didn't mind helping you out when you were short staffed."
Mr. Carson scoffed, "Well, how good of you!"
"But to accept a permanent position as a footman...I...I'm a...trained valet, Mr. Cars...I'm a trained butler! To accept a...my...my fall by taking a...a permanent, inferior place." Molesley pleaded, trying to remain firm while not coming across as arrogant.
"You keep telling me its permanent. But from where I'm sitting, it's looking less permanent by the minute." Mr. Carson returned sternly, his annoyance at how Mr. Molesley insisted on making this difficult for him rather obvious.
It appeared Mr. Carson felt as though he had no right to deny the claim. Not whenever Mr. Molesley's degradation in the world was well known among the majority of the staff at Downton. He should be grateful for the opportunity to return to a life of service in such a respectable house. And Molesley was grateful to be considered.
But he simply couldn't just allow himself to be viewed as second rate. He'd let it go on for most of his life. And being valet to Mr. Crawley had changed things. Changed his idea of where he believed his life was headed. Made him feel that he could be destined for greater things than that of second footman.
He couldn't let go of that dream for something more than what was being presented to him. Not after he'd been forced to let go of so many other dreams in this lifetime for a multitude of reasons. He couldn't let Mr. Carson strip away the last shred of hope he held onto in regards to returning to a respectable post again. A position that enabled him to meet his father's eye and not worry of seeing the quiet disappointment he knew existed. He couldn't let go of that. Not yet, at least.
"I shall give it every consideration," Molesley nodded, feeling his response was nothing short of polite.
Mr. Carson inclined his head and remarked dryly, "Very generous I must say."
Molesley started towards the door, wondering if he was making a mistake. His hand rested on the knob for a few seconds, and he turned back to see if perhaps something had shifted in Mr. Carson's visage.
He couldn't say what it was he expected. Maybe some utterance of how he was valued beyond the standby footman. That he was better than just the man Carson called for when he was in a pinched. That he could take up Jimmy's role as first footman if he agreed to it on the spot. It might have changed his mind, made the job appear more favorable to him.
But when nothing was said, all Molesley could end their brief conversation with was, "I'll let ya know me answer when I have one."
"I shall wait with baited breath," Carson rejoined evenly.
Molesley exited the room abruptly, keeping his head down as he started back towards the door. He hoped he would return home with better news. His Dad had been so excited at the prospect of him working back at the abbey again. Perhaps he thought Mr. Bates was leaving. That Molesley would take care of his Lordship. Or Mr. Branson even. Now Joe would have to return home, and deliver the news that Mr. Carson didn't see him as anything more than just a second footman.
He barely took a few steps and he found his shoulder colliding with something rather solid. Just his luck, he winced and cried out in slight pain.
But he was met with another mild cry of, "Oh!"
That drew up his gaze from his shuffling feet. It was one of the maids, her arms full of several heavy looking dressing gowns. And in the process of their momentary bump, one familiar light green one adorned with silver sparkles slipped out from under her grasp. It pooled at her feet, and they both lowered their gazes towards the fallen dress in question.
"Sorry, can I help?" He instantly apologized and bent forward to retrieve the gown she nearly tread on. Had she done so, he would have felt responsible for causing her anymore trouble than he already had.
"Oh thanks so much," She returned with a kind smile. Despite his fault in the exchange, her warm eyes flooding with appreciation.
Molesley carefully draped the gown back over the mound she balanced in between both of her arms. It then occurred to him that the two of them had never met before. And that the gown in question, belonged to Lady Grantham.
She was about to scurry on her way whenever he called out, his voice halting along as he asked, "Are you...the new...ladies maid to Lady Grantham?"
She turned around to face him, the colored dresses in her arms swinging across her body. "I am, yes." She bobbed her head before offering, "Ms. Baxter."
"Joe Molesley," He introduced himself, automatically extending his hand for her to shake.
Ms. Baxter peered down at the dresses in her arms, and then up at him again. Her lips curled into a sheepish grin, and she tried to lift her arms laden down with several of Lady Grantham's things. "I'd shake your hand but..."
"Oh, oh, right of course. Sorry." He blustered, dropping his hand back to his side. Inclining his head towards the outfits he mused, "Wouldn't want you to lose another one because of me."
She laughed softly at this, and he felt himself relaxing considerably.
"How long have you been here at Downton, Ms. Baxter?" He asked curiously, trying to get a read on The Countess' new ladies maid.
"Uh...nearly a month now," She told him plainly.
"How do you like it here?"
"Well enough." She answered again, lifting a brow in his direction.
He supposed it wasn't unusual for her to be skeptical of him. She didn't know of his ties to the Crawley Family so her succinct, diplomatic responses weren't unusual. He expected her to offer another polite remark, and just continue on her way to wherever it was she was headed. The laundry, he thought, if he had to venture a guess given the amount of clothes she was carrying.
Yet Ms. Baxter surprised him. Nodding in the direction of Mr. Carson's office, she asked, "Were you meeting with Mr. Carson?"
It didn't sound leading. Not at all the way Ms. O'Brien would have asked him. No, she appeared to be genuinely curious. And why shouldn't she be? She was still relatively new to Downton, new to the way things ran, and uncertain of who was who, and how everything was all connected. If she was asking him, where was the harm in giving her an answer? He wouldn't give everything away.
"I was," Molesley inclined his head before blurting out, "he might have a job for me."
He wasn't entirely sure why he said it. Why he volunteered more information than what he intended. But he had.
She commented genially, "Well how nice."
"I suppose," Molesley shrugged, placing his hat back atop his head. When he was met with her puzzled gaze, he explained half-heartedly, "The position's a...a bit of a...step down for me."
Ms. Baxter considered his words and then countered knowingly, "Well a step down isn't always a bad thing. Especially when the jobs in service aren't as plentiful as they used to be."
There was truth in her statement. Yet he couldn't help but bristle at the way she said it. How she felt she could say it, and think it would him some sort of comfort. The words came out of his mouth before he could swallow them down, "Well it's easy for you to say, given where you're at."
Her smile disappeared, taking the warmth from her face with it. Clearing her throat, she tilted back her head and rejoined, "If you must know, I wasn't always a ladies maid."
"Oh no," He instantly felt his mind whirring at the way he just came across. Taking a step forward, he took off his hat, twisting it between his hands again. "I...I didn't mean...to...to offend you, Ms. Baxter." He stammered out an apology.
The last thing he needed was her going to Mr. Carson and saying anything that might completely diminish his chances of returning to Downton. Besides he wasn't a rude person, and he didn't want her to think it if he later decided to accept Mr. Carson's employment offer.
She must have sensed his concern because she glanced down at her feet and shrugged, "It's alright. I suppose I did come off a bit preachy just now."
He was about to insist her apology was unnecessary whenever she looked up at him again, her expression friendlier.
"But...no matter what you decide, it was nice meeting you all the same."
"And you, Ms. Baxter," Molesley agreed with a pleasant smile.
She held his gaze for a couple more seconds before the weight of the dresses forced her to readjust her stance again. She informed him anxiously, "I really should take these to laundry."
"Yes, of course. I don't want to keep you any longer than I have already," He gestured for her to continue on her way while he trailed slightly behind her on his way to the back door.
"Well, enjoy your afternoon," Baxter stopped at the doorway that separated their shared path. Inclining her head she added softly, "Mr. Molesley."
His mouth curved up at the corners upon hearing her remember his name. Even though it hadn't been the sort of afternoon he expected with results he hoped for, Joseph Molesley knew he would at the very least, try to enjoy the rest of his afternoon.
When he stepped back out into the sunlight, he kept his gaze steady on the horizon. He suddenly had reason to look up again.