Les Deux Fauconx
Carseille, September

Dearest mother,

As the north wind begins to chance its way this far down the Continent I am caught up with thoughts of home. The breeze induces in me an overpowering nostalgia, reminding me of the English Autumntide that I miss so dearly. Spain knew little of the London cold and South France is barely more susceptible.

I apologise for my brief discourse as I know only too well how you have been fretting for my next letter following the last. But steady yourself now for I must warn you that you may not find its next contents to your liking.

The note I received last month in Mont Launee has proved hopeless and I regret to say that all of our hopes has been raised only to be dashed again. Carseille has proved to know nothing of our dear Alexander, let alone any recognition of the name Angus Lawksley. I know not where to turn to next so I rest for a while in the local tavern where I scour publications from France, Spain and the old American colonies for any mention.

I know this knowledge must drive you mad with disappointment – my own heart is sick with frustration also. Oh how we all regret the hasty words of last season! I hope you will find solace in the company of Olivia and Miss Greyling and not dwell alone in Ilchester House.

Do not write in reply as I will not dwell long in Carseille unless I pick up Alexander’s (or the infamous Angus Lawksley’s) trail in which case I will write you in all haste.

My regards to all the family and household and my contuining devotion to your good self,

May this find you in good health,

Your devoted son Patrick