The UD finale left us holding so many loose threads as the series closed with the impending WWII. This is simply another "What If..." that I have no real idea where I am going with it. Feedback is very much loved and appreciated.

OCTOBER, 1939
Mr. Caspar Landry
The Ritz-Carlton, Boston

Mr. Landry,

I wanted to thank you for your kindness. Its months late, I know. Perhaps it is better late than never. We don't get much of that these days. It all appears to be a rush to get everything done. We're all clinging desperately to 'what if' moments and with each passing day. I'm tired of it. Mostly I feel like I am putting on a smile for the children and Pamela alone and even that exhausts my very soul.

I have brought my children to St. Cadoc's, to my father. They will be safe here I am told, but I daren't believe them. I don't believe there is anywhere so safe anymore. They are out of the fire certainly but that does not mean that they will not suffer. It is drafty and damp in this mouldering old castle, and Veronica's lungs are still so weak.

These days I feel very much the hypocrite. I never wanted to bring the children to Wales. But here I am. I promised myself that I would not write you again after the last time. I still do not know why I am writing you now. Perhaps it's this castle. It's really is very ghastly.

I hope that you are well. I hear that America is not nearly at sixes and sevens as we are over here. Perhaps that is a good thing.

Sincerely,

Lady Agnes Holland.

Lady Agnes Holland
St. Cadoc's, Wales

Agnes,

I hope it was not too much of me to send the enclosed. I hope it does your daughter some good. Perhaps it is a bit large at first, but if children do anything well it's grow.

I'm just happy to hear from you. America might not be as idle as you're thinking—most of us were in the Scouts and their motto was 'Always be prepared'. I'm ready to do what I can to help out my country; Even if it's something as small as nylons. It's been three days since Landry's nylons were in every department store across the country, which is to say things have been pretty hectic around here. The novelty will wear off soon enough and I will go back to plain old Caspar Landry.

I heard about your sister by the way, if I may offer my utmost condolences. Losing family is tough. We've got to hold on to what is dearest to us in these times.

I'm glad you wrote me. I'm not a begging man, but perhaps I may implore you to write again? If only to hear that you are doing well.

Yours,

Caspar.

Mr. Caspar Landry
The Ritz-Carlton, Boston

Mr. Landry,

Now is not the time to be refusing gifts. Thank you kindly for it, Veronica looks just the thing. She seems happier, as well, not as stiff or fussy. I'm sure Nanny thanks you for that as well, if I may be so presumptuous. Pamela sends her love. She was quite taken with you. She has told me to pass something on to you, which you will have found enclosed.

These last few days have gone quiet. I cannot tell which fills me with more dread: the silence or the prospect of returning to Eaton Place. They need me. In both places they need me. For the longest time I wanted nothing more than to be needed. Now I feel stretched as thin as too little jam over burned toast. Rationing is something that I never wanted to relearn. Everything is being rationed now. Returning home almost seems treacherous. Both our chauffer and footman have been called to National Service. I can't imagine how they are managing now. I suppose, like with all things, we will muddle through. That seems horribly crass of me to admit, muddling. But I cannot seem to find the grace in much of anything these days.

Yesterday, Hector tripped on a broken step in the courtyard. The same step I'd tripped on as a child, it has been cracked for as long as I can remember. He simply got up, dusted himself off, and went on following the cat around the yard. He's always cried before, when he was hurt. They do grow so fast. Sometimes I have nightmares that he will grow up too fast. That this war will never end and they will take him away like they have done with all the other young men. It's a silly sort of nightmare, really. Admitting it feels quite therapeutic, if you will permit me. We are not big on sharing, I'm sure you understand. I feel that since we of an understanding, you will forgive this faux pas.

I've joined the ambulances. I joined months ago. The uniform is completely unflattering but the work is largely rewarding—If you can call infirming people rewarding. Never have I been so grateful for your nylons as then.

By the time you receive this, I will have returned to Eaton Place. I know not what lays ahead of me. I daren't promise to write again. Things at home are too complicated. But I thank you, again— for everything.

Until the next time,

Lady Agnes.