Patrick sighed as he leant back against the door of the Bentley. He had parked in a quiet side street from Hyde Park to wait for the Misses and if he was honest, he was glad of the time to just ponder the deeper recesses of his mind and to make some decisions. He placed one foot over the other; a shrill squeak of the leather of his boots piercing through his thoughts as he tried to breath slowly and steadily.
Fishing in his pocket he pulled out a pack of cigarettes and, striking a match, watched the tobacco burn orange before he took a long, welcome drag. They had always been his friend in times of need and he watched the smoke rise in the cold morning air as it drifted skywards. Miserable grey stone buildings rose high above him, probably filled with Solicitors or Accountants going about their everyday lives, standing strong in the face of adversity. The clouds of his own breath followed as he rolled his shoulders, tight, tense and tired; tipping his neck from one side to the other in an effort to release that knotted feeling.
Taking another drag he could hear the sounds of carefree children laughing and giggling, sliding happily about in the snow amongst the carriages and cars that were passing him along the road. Snowballs flew and the beginnings of a carrot-nosed, and some what haphazard, snowman was seen just inside the park railing. For a moment, Patrick stopped still. The future had been weighing heavily on his mind recently, perhaps for the first time in his life wondering if things could have been different. He could have been married years ago; perhaps one or two of those joyful, pink-cheeked children could have been his if he had made perhaps less anodyne choices. Not that the Browne's had not been good to him – they had – but there were times like this, of personal change and development, that made him think. It was New Year in less than ten days and normally he had never favoured this time of year, celebrating the turn of what in fact was just one day into the next. Maybe now though, it was an opportunity.
Deep inside, his heart had never been so entranced before and it would be Miss Mannion that might just take him away from the family for good to new, wondrous life even in his advancing years. Maybe it was time that Patrick Turner took a chance when it presented itself to him and dismiss that nagging, persisting, annoying guilt that would overtake his dreams and aspirations for change. This loyalty that Sir Rex and Lady Browne seemed to treasure so much had been his only obstacle all these years of faithful service. It felt almost as though it was abandonment, no matter what happiness it might bring him, that he would leave others in the lurch and wonder what he might have done instead.
He breathed in and out again, watching his own breath dissipate into invisibility again. Patrick had always had a steady life even back to a young child, a good, strong family and a passion for the wheel, but now he was almost forty-five years of age. A young girl – because that is what Shelagh Mannion was after all – had taken his heart and, God-willing, he had to take this chance. He was almost resolute in his decision, except the devil in his quiet moments would rear up and persist, nag and torture him.
The cigarette burned between his fingers and he flicked the ash to the ground, seeing the gray shards scar the white below him. What was a freezing breeze, without warning as it channelled its way up the street, whipped across his face, awakening him from his slumber, harsh and spiky at his skin. He took another drag of the cigarette and with eyes closed, did not see nor hear the figure – or rather figures - arrive at his side.
Peter's heart had dropped from his chest the moment he saw the nose of a very well recognised Bentley peeking out from Green Street. The familiar number place was enough and even the endless chatter from his nephews was no longer a distraction. He had thought twice about approaching; the boys clearly cold and soggy from the snow and he really should have been getting them home into the warm. Still though, his feet had taken him across the street towards the immaculate vehicle and a man who he could possibly class as a friend. It struck him long before that his swift departure from Knightsbridge would have caused some scurrilous gossip.
"Patrick?" he asked, seeing the older man slowly opening his eyes, more ash falling onto the ground below. Patrick saw Peter had two very bright eyed boys with him who were wrapped up against the elements in every known wool to man.
"Well, well" Patrick replied, holding out his hand for the other man to shake in welcome. "I never expected to see you again..."
Peter smiled. "Lady Browne would probably say I am that bad penny..." he responded wryly. "So how is everybody?"
Patrick nodded. "All well" he replied, crushing the half burnt cigarette into the ground with his boot. "All well indeed. Here for Christmas with the family?" he asked lightly, wondering if the other man could see the worry etched on his face.
"My sister Mary's out in Limehouse..." Peter responded, pushing his hands into his pockets against the chill wind. "My other sister Jane is back from South Africa so they are making a meal of it all. The boys were under their feet..." he concluded with a smile, acknowledging the presence of young Peter and Teddy. "Back up in Yorkshire for New Year though. The Countess's New Years are apparently a sight to behold I am told!"
"Not a patch on Lady Browne, let me assure you!" he replied, not intending on it being a joke. "Nobody is to have a more spectacular Christmas or New Year than her!"
"I can imagine..." Peter responded ruefully. "How's Miss Mannion?" he continued, knowing full well of Patrick's situation and admittedly wondering if there had been any thunderstorms in his absence.
"Well too " Patrick responded, before hesitating slightly. "I've erm...I've asked her if she will be my wife". He knew that the whole house - or at least downstairs - probably knew of this liaison so there was no harm in talking of it.
"And she has accepted?" Peter asked, seeing the other man smile which he took as 'yes'. "Well, congratulations. Do the Browne's know?"
"I am not entirely sure" Patrick responded, a frown appearing on his face. "If they do nothing has been said or done." He paused. "I've made some enquiries for a job up in the Lake District. It will be closer for her family and I do love that area. Subject to Shelagh's agreement we will marry quietly and go there. She will find a post with some ease I do imagine".
"That will be a shock". Peter had no doubt that the wrath of Lady Browne towards him would not be a patch on what Patrick might endure. He had been there how long? Fifteen or more years? It did not bear thinking about.
"I know" Patrick replied. "I have to say I am dreading the day, but it has to be done".
Peter did not have to answer. He knew that full well that sometimes that time had come. He thought on for a second and realised he how had the perfect opportunity.
"Could you give this to Miss Browne? It's from Miss Mount" Peter asked, pulling the creased letter out of his pocket. He knew he could trust Turner and this was better than creeping around the Browne's house under the cover of darkness like a common thief. He had tried to deliver the envelope last night, but the whole house was lit up like a proverbial Christmas tree from floor to floor. It was obvious to any fool that the Brownes' were entertaining. Why he thought he could get away with quiet footsteps along the darkened passageway in the hope he might not frighten Shelagh or worse Evangelina, he would never know. How he would then get the attention of someone he could trust was another matter; picking his way up the snow-covered path hoping he might hear a friendly voice.
He had seen Camilla though through the vast front room window, sitting with another dark haired woman deep in conversation. For a moment, he was sure it was the woman who caused the uproar with Miss Mount but surely not? Surely the Browne's would never have allowed the interloper amongst them? Despite himself just wanting to see her face properly, Peter had not stayed for long for fear of discovery and returned, downcast trudging through the driving snow, to Limehouse. The letter was still burning a hole in his pocket and it had stayed there until there might be another opportunity.
"From Miss Mount?" Patrick repeated, admittedly rather surprised as to how the letter had come into the other man's possession.
Peter nodded and knew he needed to explain. "The place they sent her to; it's near where I work now. I saw her a few days ago and she asked me if I could see if I could find a way to deliver it..."
"Rather dangerous, that" Patrick laughed, considering the envelope, turning it over in his fingers. "But, I will pass it onto her. Above it all", he sighed, "she will be happy to hear of her. She has been rather downcast these weeks". He could see the two boys who were with him were becoming restless. "I will pass it to her. I know she misses her very much".
"Thank you", Peter replied. He wanted to ask further about Camilla. Seeing her last night had only served to pique his fascination with her again. She looked so perfect, sitting there in a deep blue silk dress, hair curled at neck and...his namesake pulled on his sleeve. "Yes, I know" he said, directed at the boy. "There's a man selling roast chestnuts up by Marble Arch..."
Patrick smiled. "I wish you luck with that".
Peter held out his hand for the other man to shake again and they departed ways, leaving Patrick to his thoughts again and Peter to his unanswered questions.
The Misses were not a minute longer than they had told Patrick they intended to be, and they had driven home in relative silence. Patrick had dare not mention seeing Peter, or the letter, until he could be sure that Miss Browne was on her own. He hoped that they had not seen him conversing.
On the short journey, it had begun to snow quite heavily again and as soon as they arrived back, Delia rushed inside to escape the fresh flurries leaving Chummy and Patrick.
"Miss?" he said suddenly, seeing Chummy turn towards him on the path; an expectant look on her face. He handed her the envelope without another word. "It's from Miss Mount. I was given it to give to you".
"From Patience?!" Chummy responded, quickly whispering as she gulped at this news, her heart racing suddenly in excitement not caring of the cold or damp. She noticed quickly that the envelope had no stamp or postmark on it; just her name in Patsy's neat handwriting. "Was it delivered?" she asked, curious as to its origins as it must have made its journey to London somehow.
"In a way" Patrick replied almost in a whisper, feeling admonished at her question even though it was not intended that way.
Chummy frowned at him and decided to rephrase her question, confident there was nobody eavesdropping on their conversation. "Were you given it, Patrick?"
He held his head down. He had no alternative but to tell her the truth.