Having re-watched all of the Baxley scenes in Downton again, I decided to take the plunge and finally write down an idea I had. Currently planning a chapter two, but nothing - as yet - beyond that (though I promise nothing). I hope you enjoy!

The shadows of the autumn sun were waving on the ground in front of them as the trees above softly whispered through the leaves, and the beauty of the moment almost stopped Joseph Molesley in his tracks. The dappled light warmed the stone walls of the village and the back of Phyllis Baxter's head in equal measure, and, pausing for a moment, he noted that that her particular shade of brown was the exact same as the conkers scattered across the ground. You would call it chestnut, he supposed. Or sable. That was a lovely word, sable. A member of the marten family, native to – Russia? Yes, Russia. He could remember the exact page of the encyclopaedia. Lovely animal, very sweet. Now, what else was on that page –

A small cough to his left brought him back to earth, and startled, he looked down to see a wry smile on Phyllis Baxter's face as she regarded him with no small degree of amusement.

"You looked to be in your own little world then Mr Molesley. Whatever are you thinking of?"

He felt his cheeks glow crimson and saw uncertainty flash across her face.

"I don't mean to be nosy," she added quickly, "please don't think I'm being rude. If it's something private you don't have to tell me."

"No, no, of course not!" he heard himself overcompensate, internally wincing at the high pitch of his panic. "I was just thinking how exactly alike the colour of your hair is to those conkers and – uh –".

She raised an eyebrow. "Conkers, Mr Molesley?"

"Yes, yes, conkers. They're the seed of the horse chestnut tree."

Repressing the urge to roll her eyes, Phyllis nodded serenely. "Yes Mr Molesley, I do know what conkers are. I just hadn't expected such reveries at the shade of my hair. I've always thought it a rather dull brown myself."

From the look on his face she wondered momentarily if she'd mortally wounded him.

"Oh no, you must never think that Miss Baxter! Brown is a lovely colour."

This time she felt her own cheeks reddening slightly, and looked at the ground – which was, indeed, littered with conkers – to hide them. Once she felt her face had sufficiently cooled, she risked a glance. He was looking into the distance again, a half smile on his face. She took pity this time and let him have his reverie. Her own thoughts were less peaceful.

It was her half day, and she had spent it on a much needed trip into York to buy supplies, but the trip had been considerably more lonely without her favourite companion. She understood that now Mr Molesley – Joseph, as she called him in her head – was a teacher, he had no afternoons off to come and traipse around the haberdasheries of York with her, but a small part of her resented the children for taking up so much of his time. It was very quickly stifled. He was a wonderful teacher, she had seen so herself – and heard glowing reports from Daisy – and she could see from his face that he was in the right place. No amount of silver polishing had ever lit up his eyes the way that telling children about the English civil war did. But still, though she knew it was selfish, she missed him. All day she had been looking forward to meeting him in the village after school and walking together. If she were truthful, she had been looking forward to meeting him in the village after school since she'd said goodbye to him after the last time, three days ago. Happy as she was for him, not seeing him every day was proving a cross to bear.

This time it was him who shook her out of a reverie.

"Do you want to get back, Miss Baxter?" he said, sadly.

"No, I've got plenty of time. Her Ladyship told me not to worry about hurrying back since it's just her and his Lordship home tonight so I can stay a while yet. Why – do you?"

"No, of course not, I look forward to our walks! It's just that you were looking so sad, I wondered if…" he trailed off, looking embarrassed, and she realised that her thoughts had been as visible as writing across her face. He had simply read them wrong.

"As do I, Mr Molesley." She reassured him. "In actual fact, I was just thinking that I wish we could meet more, and then I was chiding myself for being so selfish as to want to deprive the children of their teacher. I know how important education is to you and it gives you such joy. It just seems a shame…", and there she trailed off in turn.

The hangdog look had thoroughly disappeared as he led her over to a nearby bench on the edge of the village green and invited her to sit.

"I wish we could see each other more often as well." He said quietly. They smiled shyly at each other and for a second she could feel the space between them as if it were physical. It felt like a significant moment, a turning point. She looked down and waited with baited breath to see what would happen next.

"Miss Baxter – Phyllis – ", he began, but no sooner had she lifted her eyes to meet his then they were rudely interrupted.

"Hello Mr Molesley!" came a shout from the other side of the village green and they both looked up, startled, to see a child cycling along the road and frantically waving at them.

Phyllis snorted slightly as Joseph sighed and raised his hand to return the wave. "Hello Tom! Make sure you do your reading tonight!".

With that injunction the child – Tom – looked away and cycled faster, eliciting another chuckle from Phyllis.

"And what would that reading be?" she asked, hoping to distract herself from the disappointment of their lost moment.

"Oh, just a chapter on Elizabeth I. Tom missed the last few lessons because he's been helping his father, so I leant him a book to help him catch up. I know he may not read much of it – or any – but at least he can if he wants to. Might even be a nice change from the work."

"I wish I had had a teacher like you when I was younger." She mused absentmindedly.

He tilted his head at her questioningly and she hastened to explain.

"School was never something I felt particularly good at. I wasn't expected to continue and no teacher of mine ever expected I would, so I left when I was eleven and started in service. If had enjoyed it, I would have tried to stay on and do something more for myself, or maybe just kept up reading. I see how much joy it brings you and I wish I felt the same way. If I'd had a teacher like you – someone who didn't need me to get the best marks or be top of the class, but just wanted me to enjoy learning and get a good education – I think I'd feel a bit less backwards."

Impulsively, he reached out for her hand and held it between his.

"You are not backwards Phyllis, in any way. You are one of the smartest people I have ever met."

She blushed, and squeezed his hand in return. It did not escape her notice that he'd used her first name and she longed to hear him say it again. Apparently he had also belatedly noticed his slip, and as he frowned and opened his mouth to apologise, she interjected with the first thought that came into her head.

"I don't suppose with all your reading that you know anything about the name Phyllis? I've always wondered where it comes from. My mum just said she liked the sound of it whenever I asked her."

He laughed softly to himself and looked down. "Actually, I do. I was reading a copy of the Heroides the other day – some ancient poems written by a Roman called Ovid – and I came across the original Phyllis." He decided against telling her that he had specifically sought out a translation of the poems from the library in York to find out more about that mythical Phyllis. That particular detail might come across as more intense than thoughtful.

"The original Phyllis! So it's a Roman name?"

He shook his head. "Greek originally. Ovid wrote a whole series of poems from the perspective of ancient mythical women and Phyllis was Greek."

Greek, she thought. Almost exotic. "Do you remember her story? I'd like to hear it."

Every word, he thought. "Of course – give me a second and I'll put my teacher hat on."

Smiling at him, she settled down on the bench.

Clearing his throat and feeling slightly self conscious, he began. "Phyllis was a young woman, daughter of the King of Thrace. She led a charmed life until, one day, a young man named Demophon arrived in the country. Seeing him, she fell instantly in love and they soon married. He was duty bound to return home to Greece though, and so the day after their wedding he set sail to return home, promising to return and collect her. She gave him a casket containing a sacrament from Rhea – the mother of the Gods – and told him not to open it unless he had lost all hope of returning. He left and, over time, forgot about her. She returned to the sea shore every day hoping to see him, but he never came back."

Breaking off for a second, he looked at her. She was engrossed in his story, frowning slightly. "Then what happened to her?" she prompted.

"Well, the story splits in two after that. As one side goes, she was so sad she either died from grief or hanged herself. Demophon opened the box one day out of curiosity and was so horrified by what he saw that he went wild and fell onto his own sword."

Realising belatedly the inappropriateness of his subject matter, he regretted beginning the story. She was still sitting next to him – and holding his hand – so he continued in the hope he would not do too much damage.

"As the other story goes, he did remember and eventually return, but by then Phyllis had died from grief and turned into an almond tree. When he arrived and saw the tree, it started to blossom and grew almonds."

If only she had had a happy ending, he reflected. He should have lied and told her that Demophon returned and they lived happily ever after. A wiser man would have lied rather than making her sad. She wasn't one to choose the lie though, he knew that. They were both of the mind to face the truth, no matter how unpalatable.

"I suppose it really is a fitting name then." She muttered, so quietly he had to lean down to hear her.

"How so?" he asked, now truly worried about the effect of his story.

"Well, she died for the love of a man who did not love her back. Demo – phon, was it? – did not deserve her love but she was too naïve to realise. That strikes a little too close to home for me, Mr Molesley."

Of course, he realised. Coyle. That man's shadow was always following her, although since the aborted trial she had lost some of the darkness. How thoughtless of him to bring it back for her. Stumbling, he sought to reassure her.

"But you did not die, did you Miss Baxter? You blossomed – so to speak – even after the darkness you had seen. You have come through that, Phyllis, and you are stronger for it. It didn't destroy you like it destroyed her, or like it has destroyed so many others. Look at the trees around us! Phyllis literally means leafy bough – perhaps I should have lead with that – and see how beautiful they are. That's you." He finished, realising he had said slightly more than intended.

Whatever he had meant to say, his words had the desired effect. She was smiling again, with a certain glint in her eye.

"Thank you Mr – Joseph. That means a great deal to me."

They sat in companionable silence for a moment or two before another thought came into her head.

"If Phyllis means 'leafy bower', are there any significant meanings for Joseph?"

"Nothing quite so poetic, I'm afraid. Joseph comes from Hebrew, and it means 'to add or increase'. Hard to find anything significant in that."

Phyllis nodded slowly, looking up at the sky. "Well that makes you luckier still. You get to create your own meaning. Joseph Molesley, your own man."

He liked the sound of that. Especially from her.