WHERE: Patrick’s sitting room WHEN: 25 June 1923 WITH: @gilesryland
The ridiculous little accountant had been by to see Uncle Marchy again. Edwin had pretended to stop on the stairs to lace a shoe while the accountant took his prolonged goodbye of Lord Grantham, the two of them twittering on about absolutely everything except something worth eavesdropping on.
The knowledge that he had a child on the way, and therefore less than nine months to get his affairs in order, was making him antsy. It was why he’d written a prim, cramped little note on his own letterhead (GILES. WE NEED TO TALK.) before he ripped it up and threw away the pieces.
A note would have taken far too long to answer.
Edwin cut to the quick himself by bodily tossing out the maid who’d come to change Patrick’s towels and fluff up the pillows. None of that, he assured her, slamming the door in her face. Let her go to running to the housekeeper, who might put in a discreet word out for Patrick. Whatever trajectory took Patrick from the great misty evening to the dark solitude of his quarters, it wasn’t happening fast enough. Edwin had nearly worn tracks into the carpet from his pacing when the door finally opened.
“There you are!” he called out, his voice buoyant with relief. “I thought you’d drowned in a swamp or something.”