Chapter 10 – From the Ashes

A/N: So this is it, readers! Thank you so, so much for embracing this little Baxley tale of mine. It's great to hear from you all, and I appreciate each and every review and comment. I really enjoyed writing about this pair; I'll probably do so again (I feel that a "first kiss" fic will be in the works soon…). I hope you enjoy this last bit; I enjoyed writing it very much.

~CeeCee

Christmas Week, 1924

He knocked on his father's door, arms loaded down with pine branches, the Christmassy smell of them making him grin.

"Joseph! How are you, lad?" Mrs. Swift, the maid-of-all-work who came in several times a week for his father, opened the door for him. "Merry Christmas, then, you appear to have brought it in on your own. Your dad's been weaving away or some such the past few days, non-stop. First it 'twas all the neighbors along the road, then the Grantham Arms, then –"

She was interrupted by his father's appearance in the entryway; he'd not gotten past her short but stocky figure.

"Joe! How are you, m'boy? Beautiful, beautiful!" His father's face broke into a wide green when he saw all of the greenery he'd come bearing. His dad had started his holiday tradition of crafting door wreaths a few years back, mostly for his own satisfaction, until most of the village, most notably the church, requested them as holiday decorations. The elder Mr. Molesley refused any payment for them, but he reaped the benefits of his generosity all year long, in any case. A pint on the house at the Arms, freshly baked scones from the family up the road, and so on.

"Dad, I can't stay long. Too much going on at the big house, more guests arriving each day. But I wanted to be sure you got these," he spoke quickly, depositing the sharp-smelling boughs on the long work table already laden with beautiful wreaths.

"I understand, I understand," his father waved away his excuses. "You work hard, Joe, and I hope they appreciate that. I'll see you Boxing Day, latest, I suppose. Maybe, you'll bring that lovely friend of yours by again?"

Joseph felt himself flush, but his father didn't notice; he was turned away, rummaging around on the tall, narrow bookshelf across the room. "Aha!" He exclaimed, pulling a small volume down. He turned, passed it to his son.

"You were looking for this, weren't you? Asked about it, not long after you stopped by with Miss Baxter?" His father's eyes were alight with mischief.

"I was, thank you," he squeezed the book, tucked it into his coat pocket. He cleared his throat. "I…I thought she might be interested in it."

"I think she's interested, son," his father's face stayed warm, but grew serious. "You do things, in your time, Joe, but…but don't wait too long. Nothing's promised. I didn't intend to be a widower when I was a decade younger than you are, for example. But that's what happened."

"Maybe it already is too long, too late, Dad," he replied. "For anything to really be different."

"And maybe it isn't," his father said. "You won't know, until you know. I was a young man when your mother died, but we still had over twenty years together, we still had you. Look at you, and where you were, a few short years ago, Joe. A lot can happen, a lot can change, in less time than you think."

"You may be right, Dad," he sighed. "Things already feel different, that's the truth." He could hardly believe he was having this conversation. He was saying things he'd never meant to say out loud.

"Merry Christmas, my boy," his father pulled him down into a hug. "You're the best lad, Joe, don't forget it. I think you do, sometimes. That girl of yours, she knows better. She knows you're the best, too. Now, off with you, I'll see you end of the week."

He was halfway back to Downton, enjoying the still, cold late December air and not thinking of much, when he gasped. He pulled out the book his father had given him, paged through, until he found what he was looking for. Sighed, thinking. His face suddenly broke into a grin.

He had an idea.

oooOOOooo

He was in the silver room a few days later, meticulously organizing place settings for Christmas Eve, when Anna Bates found him.

"Mr. Molesley, there you are!" She greeted him with a warm smile. There was still no official word, though there were whispers upstairs and down, that his lordship had gotten in touch with Mr. Bates, somehow, about what he and Miss Baxter had discovered. He wondered when the valet would return.

Right now, the man's wife was grinning up at him. She proffered a small parcel, wrapped carefully in plain brown tissue.

"I found them, what you were looking for," she handed the package to him. It was light as air. He couldn't help it; he grinned, nearly laughed.

"Thank you, Mrs. Bates, very much. I knew you'd have a better idea of where to find them than I would," he reached for his billfold to pay her for the items.

"Don't even think of it, Mr. Molesley," she chastised him. "I – and Mr. Bates – owe you far, far more than what those cost."

"Well then, I thank you. I appreciate it was an unusual request," he felt himself grow warm. It was, and really, only one person would understand the meaning of what was nestled in that diminutive bundle. But she was the only person who needed to.

"It was, and I'm burning with curiosity," Anna's face lit up with playful teasing. "But I shan't pester you about it. Perhaps…perhaps someday, you repay the favor by telling me the story behind them."

"Mrs. Bates, if I can tell you the story, it means it all turned out the way it should."

"Well, good luck, Mr. Molesley," she reached out, squeezed his hand. "You deserve it."

"Thank you, Mrs. Bates," he nearly whispered. He actually believed her. She left, and he got back to work sorting salad forks and soup spoons. Smiled over at what Anna had brought him. Began humming a carol. It was nearly Christmas, after all.

oooOOOooo

She was standing towards the back of the Great Hall, listening to Lady Mary's lovely voice wafting over the crowd, standing next to Joseph Molesley. Their hands nearly brushing together, close enough for her to feel the heat coming off of his palm.

When she noticed Elsie Hughes making her way pointedly through the crowd, aimed directly at her.

"Miss Baxter, Mr. Molesley," the housekeeper began. Phyllis noticed she looked flustered, happy…and dreamy. Which was certainly not a word she would have ever used to describe her superior until this very moment. "Come with me a moment."

They followed her to a quieter spot, along the side of the grand room.

"Mr. Bates has returned," she stated simply, and a short burst of laughter escaped her lips.

"Tonight? Now?" Joseph burst out, then clapped a hand over his mouth.

"Yes, Mr. Molesley, not a half an hour ago," Elsie Hughes' face was amused. "Thanks primarily to the pair of you, I would say, so I am sorry to have to have to continue by saying we – Mr. Carson and I – have sent the Bates home for the evening. Even Mr. Carson wasn't of the mind to play Scrooge this evening." A softness appeared on the older woman's face, there and gone, at the mention of Downton's butler. It was a moment, only, but Phyllis noticed.

"You'll need me to take care of Ladies Mary and Edith tonight, then, Mrs. Hughes?"

"Exactly right, Miss Baxter, though I'll be right there with you," Elsie Hughes laughed a little. "Mr. Carson is telling his lordship and ladyship about Mr. Bates' arrival as we speak, but, as I needed your assistance in any case Miss Baxter, and it was down to the two of you that the man could return at all, I came to find you first."

"We appreciate that, Mrs. Hughes," Joseph replied. "We – Miss Baxter and I – had hoped Mr. Bates would be home by Christmas, and, well, here he is."

"Indeed, Mr. Molesley," she replied. "This evening has been full of miracles. Now, go find Mr. Carson, and make yourself useful. Miss Baxter, come with me."

Phyllis followed the housekeeper, but turned back to follow Joseph Molesley's progress across the large room. He was still turned towards them. He grinned at her, winked, raised his hands in the air like a prize fighter. She stifled laughter, and hurried after the tidy figure of Elsie Hughes.

It was going to be a long night.

oooOOOooo

She headed downstairs at half past eleven. Mrs. Hughes was still with Lady Mary, and had shooed Phyllis to bed once the Countess and Lady Edith had retired. It was more logical to head directly to bed after such a long day, but she couldn't ignore the persistent, gentle tug at her heart that she may see Mr. Molesley before the evening was over.

However, though several of the staff members were happily chatting in the servants' hall, fueled by platters of treats from the kitchen, she didn't see him. She shook off her disappointment. She would see him tomorrow morning.

She walked down the hallway, past the kitchen, where several figures still moved about.

"Miss Baxter!"

She spun, as Daisy hurried towards her. The young woman was smiling, pulling something out of her apron. It was a small brown bag, folded over a flat rectangular item.

"Mr. Molesley, he wanted me to give this to you," the cook handed it over to her, and she took it, squeezing it in her fingertips. "He went up to bed, but he waited for a bit, before everyone else came down."

"Thank you Daisy," her heart was racing, her voice was calm. "Merry Christmas."

"Merry Christmas, Miss Baxter."

She made her way to her room, shut the door gently. Set the package on her nightstand, and slowly got ready for bed. She wanted nothing more than to tear into it, desperate to see what was inside. But she made herself wait. She donned her simple nightgown, brushed her hair carefully, all the while staring at the plain bag, with its delicious secret.

Once her hair was tidily plaited, she reached her shaking hands out and picked it up. Sat on the edge of her bed, sighed. Squeezed it again. Steeled herself, and finally pulled the object from its paper wrapper.

It was a book: A Handbook of Greek Mythology & Philosophy.

A sound escaped her, something greater than a sigh, smaller than a cry. She ran her hands over the worn cloth cover of the volume, opened it carefully. In the upper right corner, in schoolboy script: Joseph Molesley, 1886.

She carefully paged through the sheets that told stories of gods and creatures, good and evil. Until she reached a bookmark of sorts. Brown tissue, folded carefully into a long rectangle around…something.

She unfolded the paper once, twice, three times. Until she revealed them: two feathers, one gold, one red, bound together. She lifted them up, smiled at them. They were ostrich, probably, from some haberdashery or other, quite fashionable for the bejeweled headbands ladies wore around their short bobs.

She laughed out loud, and realized tears were rolling down her face. She left them. She didn't want to damage the delicate feathers.

The phoenix, she thought, and looked down at the book in her lap. There was a drawing of the mythical bird, staring boldly up at her, surrounded by flames. He didn't look afraid, not at all.

From the ashes, she thought again, as the feathers gently caressed her palm.