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“The contemporary authors inspired by the works of Charles Dickens are numerous in amount. The first of these is Thomas Hardy, who in 1895 said…”
The rest of the essay was similarly padded, but Mr. Molesley, in his second full year of teaching, had seen much worse. Besides, he knew that the student, a girl who worked part-time at the bakery, was fortunate to find the time to complete an assignment at all. He awarded it a 77 percent. On to the next, he thought with trepidation.
When the pile of essays had shrunk to a manageable five, he decided to take a break. He leaned back in his squeaky chair, stretching his arms over his head and allowing himself an indulgent yawn. So tired, he thought, but it was brain-tired, not the body-tired he was used to from service. He opened his eyes and realized with a start that the sun had set while he was marking papers. Outside was full dark, save for the streetlights, and he hadn’t even lit a candle. No wonder his eyes were smarting!
He retrieved three tapers from the cabinet and lit them, distributing them evenly across his desk. The Downton schoolhouse hadn’t quite the funds for electricity yet, he was sorry to say. The winter afternoons could get so dim. Before too long it would be Christmas again, a fact that astonished him. Weren’t the Easter holidays just a few weeks ago? Where does the time go, he thought, shaking his head, and sat down to finish his marking.
There was a knock at his classroom door. That’s odd. Sometimes a student or two would stop by after class with questions, but usually much earlier in the day. He hadn’t even known the door to the school was still unlocked. “Enter,” he called, brow furrowed in concern.
To his surprise, and great pleasure, his old co-worker Ms. Baxter poked her head in. “Mr. Molesley,” she greeted him, a slow smile spreading across her face. “I thought that was you. I was passing in the street and saw you through the windows. I thought I’d pop in and say hello.”
“Oh, well—that’s very kind of you,” he blustered. Oh, no, he could feel his ears turning red. Ridiculous! He might be expecting his 61st birthday in a few months, but around Ms. Baxter he felt just as young and silly and smitten as any of his pupils. “I was just finishing up some marking, and time quite got away from me. What’s the hour?”
Amused, her eyes flickered to the clock on the wall. “Half past seven, or thereabouts.”
So it was not so dreadfully late. His father wouldn’t be worrying yet. “Won’t you come in and sit down? I could use a break.” He’d been prepared to power on through, but any excuse to sit a spell with Ms. Baxter was worth a short delay.
She had the courtesy to look regretful. “I’m afraid I must be getting on to Downton or Mr. Barrow will lock the door on me. A friend and I were visiting, and, well, you’re not the only one who lost track of time.” Her already warm brown eyes softened further, acquiring a faraway look that set Molesley’s alarm bells ringing. Was her “friend” really just a friend, or some man she’d met in town or at one of the Crawley’s various events? The staff at Downton were still close friends, but it was so hard to keep track of all their comings and goings when he no longer lived in the house. She might’ve met anyone.
“Oh, I didn’t know you had any friends in the town.” Was that rude? He didn’t mean she wasn’t friendly, just that most people she associated with also lived at Downton! She wouldn’t take that the wrong way, would she? Sweat began to dot his brow.
“We’ve only just met. I was posting a letter and met her in the queue.” Her. That was all right, then. His pulse slowed. “We had planned to visit the pictures together. The Jazz Singer, you know… But we went for tea first and had such a nice time just talking that we missed the curtain!” She chuckled. “And then it was nearly time for dinner, so I decided I might as well stay in town. How about you, what are you still doing here? I hope you haven’t been at your desk all day?”
“I’m afraid so.” Suddenly he felt quite silly for not simply taking the papers home, where he could work in greater comfort; but then he wouldn’t have run into her. “End of term exams, you know,” he said, jerking his head at the stack of papers. “They accumulate at great speed if I don’t keep on top of them.” He tried out a joke. “Sometimes I think they breed when I’m not looking!” Why on earth did I mention breeding, he thought at once, chastising himself internally. Any woman was bound to get the wrong idea about that!
Ms. Baxter was far too kind to call attention to his folly. In fact, the flickering candlelight almost made it look like she was hiding a laugh. “Keep them in separate drawers,” she suggested. Is that a joke? He settled for a faint ha-ha noise. “Well, I have delayed long enough, I should be going. Thank you for letting me stop by and get warm.”
Now she mentioned it, there were specks of damp dotting her shoulders and arms. “Has it gotten colder out?”
“It’s starting to snow,” she said with a wry smile. “The first of the season. It was fairly warm when I left Downton at midday, I didn’t even bring my coat, but the weather likes to play tricks this time of year…”
“But you must take my coat,” he blurted out. He shot out of his chair like a cork from a bottle. “We can’t have you catching cold. What would Lady Crawley think, with you sneezing all over her tomorrow morning?”
She took a step back, hand on the doorknob. “Well, I think you might credit me with a bit more dignity than that.”
Once, at the church bazaar, he had been enticed to test his strength at one of the carnival games. He pounded the pivot board with a mallet and sent the indicator rocketing up the side of the game at top speed. It felt rather like his stomach was doing that just now. Ms. Baxter wasn’t smiling and clapping this time, though. “I only meant, you have a much longer walk than I. Please, take it. I only have to go a few blocks before I’m at my own front door.”
“Well…” She fiddled with the doorknob, considering. “It would make the walk back to Downton much more comfortable. Are you sure you don’t mind?”
“Not at all.” A bit of shivering wouldn’t kill him. “You can just drop it off next time you’re in the town, or I’ll pick it up at Downton. They’re bound to throw a grand fête at some point during the holidays, I should think. Let me just get it.”
Perhaps the snow and the candlelight lent the scene a cozy, informal feel, or maybe she was just really cold. Whatever the reason, Ms. Baxter allowed him to drape his coat gently over her shoulders. When she smiled up at him after, that secret, sweet smile, Molesley felt his heart pounding out of his chest. “Thank you, Mr. Molesley,” she murmured. “You are always the old-fashioned gentleman.”
An absurd grin tugged at his mouth. “Oh, not so old-fashioned,” he chided. Then, on a sudden surge of inspiration, “Do you still want to see The Jazz Singer?”
A slight, puzzled frown. “I suppose so. I don’t know if I’d waste the money on it, though, just to go by myself.”
“Well, I was only thinking. Next week is the end of term, and if you don’t have anything planned for your half day, of course…” A note of hysteria was creeping into his voice. Molesley heard it, acknowledged it, and did absolutely nothing about it. “Maybe we could, you know. Go… together? I’ve been meaning to see it for ages, that May McAvoy is really something, and the children like to talk about the films, of course… Good to keep up.” He felt rather like one of his students then, hands clasped tight behind his back, rocking backwards and forwards on the balls of his feet. An excited puppy had more dignity than he. “As friends, of course,” he blurted when she did not respond at once. “That’s the done thing these days, isn’t it?” It wasn’t untrue. Mrs. Patmore sometimes went out and about with Mr. Mason, which Ms. Baxter had to know all about. Maybe she wouldn’t read anything more into it.
Ms. Baxter seemed to shrink down inside his coat. “As friends?” she repeated, no doubt stalling until she could think of a way to politely refuse.
“But of course. How else?” Underneath the rigid smile plastered to his face, his stomach was sinking. Oh no no no, why did I do this, I’m so foolish, of course a lady like her wouldn’t be seen in public with the likes of me, or so his internal narration went. His father had always said that every proper British man had a little nugget of courage buried within him, but Molesley’s only seemed to surface at the most inconvenient times. Asking a lady on a date at sixty, really! Why couldn’t he have found such nerve ten, twenty, thirty years ago, when he still had most of his hair?
“Oh,” she said softly, and pulled the coat closed. “That’s a disappointment.” Her neat, clean nails flashed in the candlelight as she buttoned up the front. “I haven’t stepped out with a man in so long… Perhaps the novelty excited me.” A laugh that tried for carefree. “But of course, we’re a bit old for all that, aren’t we? Yes, I’d love to see a movie with you as friends—we can set a time when I return your coat. Now I really must be getting on, or Mr. Barrow will think that I’m carrying on with some man in the town. Good night.” And she stepped gracefully into the hall and disappeared from his line of sight, the tap-tap of her footsteps soon fading away.
“Carrying on with some man in the town?” Was that… did she mean… not ME?? Molesley mopped his brow, which had grown feverish despite the chill. Mr. Barrow did like to make such insinuations, the man had a dirty mind, but he never for a second believed that Ms. Baxter paid him any heed. Her grace, tact, and kindness were in natural opposition to that kind of base vulgarity. Almost since she first came to Downton, he and Ms. Baxter had shared a special friendship, a rapport; more important to him than perhaps any other in his life, but still just that, a friendship. If he sometimes liked to dream of something more when he was alone, that was his business. But for her to joke that the two of them were “carrying on” together…
Before he knew it his feet were carrying him down the hall of the schoolhouse and out into the wind-whipped town square. The new, blowing snow stung his eyes, and he squinted. Under the soft streetlights, everyone looked like Ms. Baxter to him; a lady with her quick, businesslike gait turned out to be the butcher’s wife, scurrying home through the snow, and another woman with her raven-dark hair was revealed to be a girl of far fewer years when she came closer to him. How did she disappear so quickly? Shivers wracked his body. A rowdy group of men hailed him from outside the pub, but he walked on, hugging his elbows. Somehow he knew that if he did not clarify his intentions tonight, he would never find the courage to bring it up again.
“Mr. Molesley?” When he heard her voice, it felt like someone had let the air out of him. Tension melted out of his body. “I thought you had more papers to grade, what are you doing?” Her hand appeared at his elbow.
“Looking for you.” He turned to face her, there in front of the pub. Flakes of snow clung to her lashes. She’s so pretty. “I don’t want to go to the movie as friends,” he blurted out, teeth chattering. “I wanted to say, before you go back to Downton… I think I’d like to ‘step out’ with you. If you still want to, of course.” A deep breath. “Of course, if you don’t, I’ll feel a right fool.”
Even for a man as consumed with self-doubt as Molesley, there was no mistaking that smile. A pink flush came over her smooth forehead, the two perfect apples of her cheeks. “I thought you’d never ask,” she confessed, and clasped his hand. “I’d love to.”
As the huddle of men outside the pub hooted with glee, she leaned in and placed a single kiss on his quaking cheek. There was no mistaking that, either.
The next day, there was quite a stir in the schoolhouse. Mr. Molesley, known for his rigorous grading, had awarded everyone full marks on their end-of-term paper! Those students who had struggled with composition did not look any further into the reason for their unexpected boon, pleased as they were to show good marks to their parents right before Christmas. Others wondered what was behind Mr. Molesley’s sudden and unexpected generosity. Murmurs of “He’s cracking up,” and “He’s not dying, is he?” could be heard in the classroom for the rest of the week. School let out for the holidays with the students still none the wiser. Before long everyone had forgotten the incident, their minds captivated by the Christmas revels, and their old teacher seemed to have reverted to his normal self by the start of the new year.
So it shocked everyone when, in the middle of April, Mr. Molesley announced he would be taking a few days off in May for his honeymoon! “But sir,” the students protested, “That’s right before exams! Who will help us revise?”
“I have confidence that all of you can pass if you simply continue to study hard,” he said over the din. “But if you’re worried, I’ll be back before your exams begin. The future Mrs. Molesley—” He paused to allow a slow smile to spread across his face. “Mrs. Molesley will not be troubled if I stay late a few days a week to guide you through. There will be plenty of time. We’ll pick up with the Battle of Waterloo tomorrow,” he called as the bell rang.
Soon Mr. Molesley was alone in his classroom again. Wistful, he lifted one of the three burnt-down tapers on the corner of his desk, which had sat there ever since the fateful night in December that Ms. Baxter had paid his classroom a visit. “Oh yes,” he said softly. “We’ll have all the time in the world.”