He had left her changing for dinner, flatly refusing to call one of the housemaids for the glass of water he wanted. "I have legs and hands and can find the kitchen without a map".
Although he would happily follow her lead with regards to whether this particular fork should be used for that fish or that meat going to get a simple glass of water was not something he would impose on that poor girl, so reminiscent of his memories of his grandmother, who he had seen running around repeatedly with silver trays laden with drinks. He had already received a very odd and somewhat disparging look from a fellow guest when he had held the door open for her when they had returned from their walk in the garden and she had an incredulous expression on her face. Chummy had just smiled when she noticed, not telling him that he really should not have done that; at least not in this type of society.
"Oh, you will never guess who I saw arriving!" he heard suddenly as he reached the bottom of the stairs, about to walk past one of the many studies the house held. It was a woman's voice, clipped and not so unlike his wife's.
"Do tell" another female voice asked.
"Camilla Browne".
Peter was ready to continue towards the kitchen and to ignore the gossip until he heard his wife's name, presuming that there could not be two 'Camilla Brownes' who may be known to these people. He decided to stay for moment, sitting down the bottom of the stairs, 'accidentally' undoing his shoelace and pretending to tie it back up curiousity getting the better of him at the mention of her name. He didn't think he might regret it.
"Really?" This was a third voice.
"Mmm. I heard Johnny say she was in a Nunnery".
"A nunnery? How apt. Best place for her – tucked away from the male population. Not that she would attract much attention that way anyway!"
It was followed with one of the most derogatory laughs he had ever heard. There were definitely three people in that room, discussing his wife and he could feel his blood start to simmer. He had to be calm, collected and able to cope in those moments when he was faced with violence and abuse when he was on the beat, but this was different. He would not be embarrassing her in making a spectacle of himself but he sat and continued to listen, the voices however melding into one complicated jumble of insults.
"Oh no, darling" the first voice suddenly rang out. "I saw a wedding ring!"
"Pardon?". The surprise in the voice was palpable even through a wall. "Camilla Browne married? I wonder which poor fool that is then?"
"I did see someone from the back with her but I can't say it was the husband or not. Last time I heard that Lady B had tried to marry her off to old Ma Aston's middle one and I haven't see hide nor hair of Georgie for aeons".
"Oh, no, that went firmly by the wayside. He married Abigail Farrington, must be about 5 or 6 years ago now. Three little boys already!"
"Is she the one with the laugh that sounds like she is having an asthma attack?"
"Yes; that's her. I know so little about her but she is harmless enough one imagines".
"In wonder if Daddy helped the arrangement along?"
"You know what Pa Browne was like with his money old girl. Stingy old goat wouldn't part with enough of it to off load her".
He stood abruptly having been prepared to listen, walk away and ignore it. Instead he found his feet walking to the door, 'accidentally on purpose' stumbling upon the group. It bore no impact on him how he had been described by these people he would perhaps never have contact with again in his life as he had been called worse than a 'fool' on the beat on an almost regular basis.
"Excuse me?" he asked as three made up, immaculately dressed women turned towards him. "Did I hear you say you saw Camilla Browne this morning?"
"Yes. Do you know her?" the first voice answered. It belonged to a rather prim looking twenty-something nursing a pre-dinner glass of what was probably disproportionately expensive champagne.
"In a way" he replied before he found himself suddenly absorbed into the confines of the group as they collectively realised that he could be a source of gossip.
"So is it right she is married, then?" This time it was a blonde, not so unlike Isobel, with perhaps less welcoming eyes.
"Yes. I went to the wedding. Only a few weeks ago if I remember rightly", he replied innocently politely refusing a glass of champagne that was offered to him.
"Well blow me".
"Do you know who he is then?" The group was closing in on him like he was prey.
"Yes. A police officer" he replied, seeing jaws drop and little gasps at this 'scandal'.
"Bet you Mummy is pleased" the third voice, an entirely too skinny brunette, said. "Do you know his name?"
"Yes", he replied nodding earnestly with no intention of revealing his identity quite yet. "Chap called Noakes if I remember rightly".
"Poor fellow being stuck with her. Wonder if there is a reason?" The questions were shooting back and forth between the three of them, bombarding him.
"You mean he had to marry her?"
"Not as far as I know" he interjected. "I was just on my way around to speak to her. If you see her could you tell her?" It was an utter lie as he knew perfectly well where she was.
"Of course" the blonde said. "Didn't catch your name though?"
He thought for a second.
"Just tell her her husband was looking for her".
He turned tail on the deathly silence he had induced, deliberately not turning back. Her background had never been a significant issue for him; he knew they were different and knew how they could be perceived by others but he was now starting to understand - properly - why she had been so reticent to revisit this place and her past life.
Her father's money; her families money had never featured his thoughts perhaps too innocently as he had started to learn from her just exactly how materially privileged her life had been before Poplar. Even when had learnt of the handmade dresses, jewellery foisted upon her by her mother, tea at the Savoy and supper at the Ritz on a regular basis and staff to cater for your every whim, he knew so little of the reality of it that it was not something that even in his imagination he could stretch to considering.
His glass of water forgotten, Peter walked straight back upstairs into their room where he found her sitting at the dressing table, one leg drawn over the other as she clipped her suspenders.
She had seen him come into the room, assuming it was his return from the kitchen, but heard the key being turned in the lock securing it tightly before he walked over to her. She raised her head to see him sit down on the small velvet and mahogany stool, a squeeze enough for two grown adults before she felt his palm slide up her cheek and the forcible kiss that followed, that quite frankly, took her breath away for a moment.
"What was...?" she spluttered out, nicely shocked at his reappearance and the determination of his contact.
"Just never forget I will never stop loving you".
"I won't" she replied, confusion reigning at this sudden burst of affection and the gravity that was painted across his face.
"Are you alright?" she asked.
He nodded quickly and painted a smile to his face to reassure her.
"Did you get your water?"
"No, I got to the bottom of the stairs and realised I missed you too much and came straight back up"
Chummy laughed. It was one of those wonderful, liberating expressions of joy that she had found she could frequently be lifted into in this new life of hers.
He had already decided, for now, she would not know of what he had heard.