Chapter Text
Spring in the Yorkshire Dales is all meadowland greens and sunshine yellows. Rain-speckled pastures, green by sweet grasses, dotted with the fluff-white of newborn lambs, teeming with coltsfoot, daffodils and dandelions.
The vibrant spring colors overwhelm the palette for a time, allowing the villagers and yeoman of Darrowby to forget all about the blowing drifts of snow that make their lives so miserable during the long, cold months of the northern winter.
But it isn’t winter now, indeed. And Siegfried Farnon is out on his rounds in his flashy green Rover, as the blue skies and clear roads had been too tempting this morning to leave it behind.
He’s speeding down the curving roadways, pipe in his mouth and the hint of a smile gracing his enigmatic face. He’s in a jaunty mood, which is just as likely to continue in the same manner as it is to darken dramatically, as is his habit.
Congenial and breezy one moment, moody and sullen the next.
“As changeable as the weather, you are,” Mrs. Hall has mused these words to him many a time, with that keen look on her pretty face that says she knows him too well.
He’d resent the implication that he’s so temperamental, but he’s never known that woman to be mistaken about…well, anything at all really. And it’s too pleasant a day to argue with her, even in his head.
So, he’ll see her changeable and raise her a, “Fine, Mrs. Hall. So long as we agree that you’re as predictable as the sunrise.”
She’d smirk at the comparison as soon as the words left his tongue, before turning back to whatever she had boiling on the stove, not displeased in the least. He should think not. Her favorite color is yellow, after all. And didn’t she have him with a step ladder and paintbrush for days on end, fixing her kitchen to match?
He wouldn’t tell her this, of course, but he couldn’t imagine the kitchen at Skeldale House being any other color now. In fact, he’s forgotten what color was there before. He’s forgotten what the kitchen was like before she came.
Gloomy, he concedes, cast in shadows, ever missing Evelyn, naturally. But not even this thought might dampen his mood today.
His mind’s eye is too set on spring colors. Gold in the fields, blue bonnets in the sky, the sunshine of his housekeeper’s smile, set off by the sparkle in her merry eyes.
Coming up the lane towards town, he takes his foot off the accelerator for a moment and applies the brake, which is unusual for him. But he’s had a sudden idea rush into his head, brought about by the sheer abundance of yellow and a sudden desire to bring yet another smile to Audrey Hall’s comely lips.
He pulls off to the roadside, grinning to himself, bemused by the genius of his own notion, as he gets out of the Rover and marches straight into a farmer’s field, bursting with dandelions in full bloom.
Audrey is folding laundry when he gets back.
Her wicker basket is perched on the kitchen table, filled with clean linens and fresh-smelling bedsheets. She manages to wrangle the larger linens into submission by keeping one corner tucked under her chin, while smoothing out the fabric and then dropping the sheet over her arm on the first, ungainly fold.
Still, it would be far easier with a second pair of hands.
“Would you help me with this?” she asks Siegfried immediately, as soon as he’s come through the blue door. He’s not unpracticed in folding laundry, or reaching higher shelves, or stirring plum pudding, or any number of household goings on that he might come upon when returning from rounds.
She gives his entrance only a cursory glance, knowing it’s him from the mere sound of his familiar footfall. But even on quick gander, she belatedly notes he’s got one hand held casually behind his back, hiding something from her sight.
This is curious enough that it garners a second look, her eyes snapping, brow furrowing, the misbehaving sheet slipping from under her chin in her distraction, as yet unfolded.
With his free hand, Siegfried reaches out and helps her catch the edge of that sheet before it touches the kitchen floor. Not that it would soil if it did, as Audrey keeps these floors spotless. But he’s soon taking the sheet from her arm, gently sliding it away from her grasp, and depositing it back in the wicker basket. He tells her, “Yes, I’ll help you in a moment. But first…”
Her head tilts slightly, wondering what he’s playing at. His grin has gone a little soft, a little mischievous, which likely means he’s up to something. She’s suspicious of this good humor, as it’s lasted all day, apparently. He was nearly bouncing as he left the house this morning. It infected her mood as well, pleasantly. She’s caught herself singing at her chores twice today.
But it’s no wonder. The scent of spring is in the air. The gardens are growing, the trees are leafy in the yard. New buds bloom, borne of the snow melt and damp with April rain showers. And who can resist the season of hope made manifest?
Not even Siegfried Farnon would dare.
Audrey’s mouth twitches on a grin, even as her eyes narrow in mild wariness, still unsure of what that man is hiding.
Siegfried must see the reservation in her eyes and assures her, “No, I haven’t taken leave of my senses, I promise. But I saw these—”
He delays no longer, revealing his prize with a widening grin. He promptly hands a small bouquet of dandelions over to her care. The blooms are a glorious yellow spray in her hands, like drops of pure sunshine pooled together. She looks at the flowers, she looks at him, her eyes dancing.
Her heart gives a little leap too, though that’s little to do with the bouquet.
A brief brush of his fingers over hers too often has that effect. She has yet to realize this. Or if she has, she hasn’t yet acknowledged it. Not even to herself.
“The fields are full of them,” he mentions, a bit of pride coloring his tone now. She looks up from the flowers again, to see a grand smile stealing his features, as he’s read the approval in her expression already and is reveling in the simple triumph of pleasing her speechless.
She could give him the satisfaction of confirming it outright, but that’s just not their way.
She regards the flowers in her hands for another long moment, letting her thumb brush across bright, sunshine petals with wonder. When she looks up at again, she teases, “You know these are weeds, don’t you?”
“It doesn’t make them any less beautiful,” he answers smartly, his smile not diminishing by a single degree. His mood is not to be doused today.
She finds herself unable to form another reply, as their gaze is currently locked in place. Perhaps it’s just a coincidence of timing, but he takes a step closer to her on the word “beautiful”, slowly, surely, leaning close enough that his wrist brushes her forearm and, with that poignant tone in his voice and with those flowers in her hands, well, for one heady moment she thinks he might just—
But the cheeky man, he’s reached into her laundry basket and pulled the same sheet out once more. His grin turns sly again, tease stealing away the more sincere notes. He encourages her, “I’d put them in water before they wilt, Mrs. Hall, if I were you. And come, we have bedsheets to fold.”
She resists the urge to roll her eyes at him, even if the gesture would be laced by affection. And she bites at her bottom lip to hold back a smile that would dare to go too wide. Their eyes are playing at mirth too much as it is. She shakes her head on his impatient, whirlwind manner, as always, but moves to get the vase, nonetheless.
She soon sets the dandelions on the kitchen table, turning the squat mug towards the rays of sun drifting in by sheer, white valances. As she straightens up, she meets his gaze once more, as it’s waiting for her, always. Her Yorkshire accent deepens just a little as she says, with much sincerity, “Thank you.”
“Of course,” Siegfried replies, as if she need not mention it.
She takes up the opposite end of the bedsheet, stepping away so they can stretch it flat. They fold it lengthwise, once, twice, before taking two steps forward, their hands meeting in the middle.