He took in the news passively yet curiously, as one does when tragedy strikes those with whom one holds only a passing acquaintance. "TITANIC SINKS," screamed the front page of the London Herald, "Great loss of life." It really was a pity, thought Philip, as he sipped his tea. There were bound to be important members of the peerage aboard the ship upon her maiden voyage, and Lord only knew what sorts of headaches that would cause for anyone unlucky enough to have an heir or two left clinging to the side of an iceberg. Not to mention the poor sods below deck; although, Philip supposed—

The click of the library door opening interrupted his thoughts. "Thank you, Bradford," said Mother as she barely gave the aged butler a second glance, "Mr. Asquith will be joining us for dinner this evening. See to it that Mrs. Fitzgerald has an appropriate menu prepared."

"Very good, your grace," replied Bradford, bowing deeply as he backed out of the room. "I shall see to it at once, your grace."

Philip couldn't help smirking at the butler's subservience. It was certainly quite the contrast from—

"Wipe that foolish grin off of your face at once," snapped Mother. She was pacing the room, a small slip of paper clutched so tightly in her hand that her knuckles were turning white. "You told me that you were going to end this nonsense. You swore to me that you were going to put your family, your duty first," she seethed as she brandished the paper like a weapon, "And yet, here I see that you never had any intention to end your depravity."

Philip felt his heart drop into the pit of his stomach. "Mother, I can— I can explain," he could just barely stammer out.

"Thank God, your father isn't alive to see what you've become." It wasn't the first time she had said something of that nature to him, but it stung nevertheless.

"Yes, Mother."

"Your little queer wants you to pay him a visit," she sneered.

Philip swallowed against the bitter taste of bile building at the back of his throat. Although deep down, he knew that there was no future to be had with Thomas—even if their genders were not a factor, their differences in class certainly were—he was still rather fond of the man, if for no other reason than that the footman's acerbic humor made him laugh. "I know what my duty is Mother," he said as he strode towards the woman who supposedly nurtured him for nine months in her womb. Snatching the telegram from her hand, he crumpled the paper into a ball and tossed it into the fire where it flared for a moment before turning to ash.

"I warned you that if this nonsense continued, I would see that pervert put behind bars where he belongs," she threatened, her voice as cold as the fire was hot.

"I have no intentions of seeing him again, Mother," Philip gritted between his clenched teeth.

Mother was pacing again the room again. "Oh, no. You'll see him again. You'll see him, and you'll make certain that he never comes near our family's happiness ever again."

Happiness? Is that what she called it? "Yes, Mother."

"I imagine you were stupid enough to send him letters? You will go to Downton and you find anything that he could possibly use against our family. And you will burn it all. You will burn it all just the same as those disgusting letters he sent you."

My dearest, how I miss the warmth of your body and the gentleness of your caress.

"Yes, Mother," he mumbled to her back as she moved to exit from the room, for as far as she was concerned, the conversation was over.

How I miss our evenings at Lyons Corner House— and, of course, all that came after.

"Oh, it would seem that Mary Crawley finds herself without a suitor," Mother said as almost an after thought, "it's still a bit unclear whether or not she's eligible to inherit, but it'll be a sizable fortune if she does. See to it once you've gotten rid of that despicable creature."

"Yes, Mother."

My only wish is to spend the rest of my days with you and you alone.

Perhaps a marriage to Lady Mary Crawley would be tolerable enough. As far as Philip could tell, she was a handsome enough woman—so at least the children wouldn't need to be hidden away lest they offend someone's eyes. Besides, Philip found it highly doubtful that his parents ever held any love for one another. Romantic notions of love had no place within the aristocracy. "I know what my duty is," he whispered to himself.

Until we meet again. All my love, T. B.