#with: patrick

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.

WHERE: The dining hall after dinner WHEN: September 1926 WITH: @gilesryland

“He peddles marmalade now, if you believe it.” Edwin had to keep catching himself from bursting into laughter. “Not for profit, mind you. He’s simply convinced himself that his mandarins are the stuff of legend. Wellesley swears he found the same thing being sold out of packing crates at the dockside, but you must hear Whittington go on about it. You’d think he grows them himself and then jellies them in the kitchen of Arundel. Swears it’s the recipe his grandfather came up with to inoculate them from the Spanish flu—”

And this last ungentlemanly whopper was too much even for Edwin. Arched back in his chair, tears of mirth were rolling down his face. He wanted to say that Whittington asked about Patrick often but he could only conjure the red-faced pomposity of their old Oxford don. He ought to warn Patrick to stay out of certain parts of London, but his hand slapped down on Patrick’s knee, mute from laughing.

The same liveried boy had to make many trips to clear away the dishes after dinner. Unity had tried to catch Edwin’s eye as Oonagh swept her out of the room—Edwin might have said something but she seldom wanted his help anymore. It’s my business if we should have a nanny. Edwin, stop, he’s already had too much sugar. Now, darling? I’ve barely had any sleep. Instead, he’d lit up the cigars and passed one to Patrick, and now the fumes were in his head and the gaping yawn of Patrick’s collar was the only thing in his line of sight.

It was stiflingly clean in the attic, and just as quiet no less. The last people Freddie had stayed with—friends of his from before he became Lord Spencer—had an estate that treated the attic of the big house like a graveyard. Not so for the Ryland-Balfours, not the way they studied leisure like history.

Clean seemed to simply mean swept, not tidy, so Freddie looked curiously over Patrick’s shoulder at what seemed to be family debris by the gallon. Each ounce packed away in boxes and trunks and carpet rolls (by god, there were so many carpets).

Patrick looked up with a small grin. “You cause happiness? There’s a shocker…”

"Oh… Language, please…"

"Really? That's all you got?"