Patrick and Maggie’s Wedding Trip: Arrival in Philadelphia

The Sinclair carriage waited beyond the station crowd, the family crest just visible on the polished door beneath the glow of the platform lamps. Herbert Sinclair himself stood beside it, gloved hands clasped behind his back with studied composure that fooled no one who knew him well.

The moment Maggie descended from the train, however, some of that composure gave way.

“Margaret.” Her father’s voice warmed visibly as he took both her hands, looking at her properly before kissing her cheek with unmistakable affection.

“You look well.”

“I am well.”

“Yes,” Herbert said, with the faint satisfaction of a man who had personally arranged matters to ensure precisely that. “I can see that.”

Then his attention shifted toward Patrick. “Dr. O’Brien.”

Patrick descended after her with easy steadiness, traveling coat immaculate despite the journey. “Mr. Sinclair.”

The two men shook hands firmly. Herbert held the gesture perhaps half a second longer than strict necessity required.

“We are very pleased to have you in Philadelphia at last.”

“That is kind of you, sir.”

“I trust the journey was not too arduous.”

“Not particularly. Your daughter bore it with admirable patience, considering the quality of railway dining.”

Maggie glanced at him. “You said the soup was respectable.”

“I said it survived examination.”

That earned the faintest huff of laughter from Herbert as the footmen began efficiently collecting luggage.

“Well,” he said, “you will both be relieved to know dinner this evening will be considerably more reliable.”

He ushered them toward the carriage. “Only family tonight,” he added as they settled inside. “I thought it best that everyone have the opportunity to become acquainted before the larger affair later in the week.”

Maggie saw the slight shift in Patrick’s expression at the words larger affair and nearly smiled.

Herbert noticed it too. “I am afraid,” he said with restrained dignity, “that a number of people have expressed interest in making your acquaintance.”

“I had gathered as much,” Patrick replied mildly.

Maggie folded her hands in her lap. “I did warn you.”

“Yes,” Patrick said. “Though I confess I believe I have underestimated the scale of your warning.”

Herbert ignored this entirely. “There is naturally considerable curiosity regarding Colorado.”

“I suspect,” Patrick said, “that Colorado may prove less interesting to Philadelphia than the fact that your daughter elected to stay there.”

That earned him a sharper look of amusement from Maggie. Herbert, meanwhile, allowed himself the smallest smile.

“You may find Philadelphia society possesses a stronger appetite for novelty than you anticipate.”

Patrick settled back comfortably against the carriage seat. “In that case, I shall endeavor not to disappoint them too severely.”

The answer was delivered with such calm good humor that Maggie felt some lingering tension ease despite herself. The carriage moved steadily through the evening streets, gas lamps flickering beyond the windows as Philadelphia unfolded around them in familiar lines of brick and stone.

Beside her, Patrick appeared entirely composed. Of course he did. He would walk into Philadelphia society exactly as he walked into everything else. He would be attentive, courteous, and wholly untroubled by the possibility of scrutiny. It occurred to Maggie suddenly that Ballymore House had been preparing him for this sort of thing since before she was even born. The realization was both reassuring and faintly disconcerting. As eager as she was to see where Patrick grew up, it was still a house that had been built before her own country was even founded, right here in this city. But for now, they were on her home turf.

By the time the carriage turned onto her father’s street, the lamps in the Sinclair house glowed warmly against the darkening evening. Before the carriage had fully stopped, the front door opened.

Robert’s wife Helen appeared first, unable to conceal her pleasure at the sight of them.

“Maggie.”

Maggie had scarcely stepped onto the pavement before Helen embraced her warmly.

“It is so good to have you home.”

“It is good to see you.”

Helen drew back only far enough to study her with affectionate scrutiny. “You look happy.”

The observation was quiet, sincere, and entirely accurate. Maggie felt heat rise faintly in her cheeks. 

Behind Helen, Robert descended the front steps at a more measured pace, though the welcome in his expression was no less genuine.

“Margaret.”

She embraced him next, briefly but warmly.

“You’ve been away a very long time,” he said.

“I know.” She smiled at him. “And much has changed.” 

“Yes,” he said. “My little sister, a married woman.” 

Then Robert turned toward Patrick. For a moment the two men regarded one another with the polite reserve proper to a first meeting of this kind.

“Dr. O’Brien,” Robert said.

“Mr. Sinclair.”

The handshake between them was firm, direct, and brief.

“We are glad to have you with us,” Robert said.

“You are very kind.”

There was the slightest pause afterward. It wasn’t awkward, merely evaluative. Maggie knew her brother well enough to recognize it immediately. Robert was observing Patrick’s manner, his bearing, his speech, and all the small things men noticed in one another. She knew he’d hear the slight Irish lilt of a landed family polished by years at Harrow.

Patrick, meanwhile, seemed entirely at ease beneath the examination.

Helen possessed no such restraint. “Maggie’s letters have been wholly inadequate,” she informed him with candid warmth.

Patrick glanced sideways toward his wife. “That is surprising, given that she is an accomplished writer.”

“She has said remarkably little about you personally.”

“I suspect,” Patrick replied, “that Mrs. O’Brien preferred to preserve some element of mystery.” He smiled quickly at Maggie.

Helen’s eyes brightened instantly at the answer. “Well,” she said, smiling now, “you must forgive us if we are curious.”

“I have already resigned myself to my fate, madam.” Patrick’s tone was dry and faintly amused.

That drew genuine laughter from all of them, including Robert.

From the doorway Herbert gave a faintly impatient gesture toward the warmth of the house. “Surely we may continue introductions indoors.”

And together, they entered the Sinclair home.

The Sinclair drawing room reflected Herbert Sinclair precisely: elegant without ostentation, orderly without stiffness, and arranged with the quiet confidence of a household that had long understood its own place in Philadelphia society.

The room glowed warmly in the evening lamplight. Dark walnut furniture stood in careful conversational groupings across a richly patterned carpet, while tall shelves of books lined one wall beside marble-topped tables crowded with periodicals and neatly arranged flowers. Heavy draperies framed the windows, and a coal fire burned steadily in the grate.

A servant entered quietly with a silver tray of drinks, crystal catching warm reflections from the firelight as he moved through the room. Helen and Maggie accepted sherry; Herbert selected Madeira with the ease of long habit, while Robert took brandy. Patrick’s gaze flickered briefly toward the gentlemen’s glasses—quick and unobtrusive, more observation than hesitation—before he accepted Madeira as well. 

Maggie watched the exchange with faint amusement. Her husband adapted to unfamiliar surroundings as naturally as other men breathed, observing first and stepping into the rhythm of a household without ever making the adjustment visible. Patrick waited until Herbert had lifted his own glass before taking the first measured sip, as though he had spent half his life in Philadelphia drawing rooms rather than in Ireland, Scotland, Paris, and on the Colorado frontier. 

“So, Dr. O’Brien, how long have you been practicing medicine?” Robert asked. 

“Since qualifying in Edinburgh. Nearly ten years now, depending on how one counts hospital work.” 

“And qualification there was more formal than here, I understand?” 

“It is,” Patrick agreed. “Quite rigorous university examinations. Then I was admitted to the Medical Register in 1866, and was legally permitted to practice medicine. But I certainly did not consider myself a fully qualified physician yet. One needs experience outside of the university setting.” 

“My father mentioned you acquired that experience in Paris?” 

“Yes. Daily rounds with the attending physicians. Notes, lectures, postmortems.” 

“So you speak French?” Helen asked.

Patrick chuckled. “I understand spoken and written French. I speak it like an Irishman speaking French. Which the French would say does the language no favors.” 

“Didn’t you say you had a friend who critiqued your pronunciation?” Maggie asked him sweetly. She’d made Patrick tell her about his Paris education. He’d been forthcoming without sharing much detail. 

“You must be referring to Madame Fournier,” Patrick replied. “She was merciless. Entirely unimpressed that I could perform surgery if I insisted upon butchering the French language in the process.” 

“Merciless, was she?” Maggie asked, laughing at Patrick’s comment.

“Quite. On our second acquaintance she informed me that my French sounded as though three separate accents had entered the room and declined to cooperate.”

“Let me guess,” Maggie said. “You just laughed at that.” 

“I did,” Patrick said. “She wasn’t wrong. And it was amusing how she managed to look down her nose at me while having to tilt her head up to look me in the eye.” 

“So, did Madame Fournier succeed in improving your French?” Helen asked.

“Substantially,” Patrick admitted. “Though I fear she considered the effort one of charity rather than scholarship.”

Maggie, who had been quietly sipping her sherry beside the fire, spoke without looking up. “To hear Patrick tell it, Madame Fournier was extraordinarily devoted to his education.” She gave him a mischievous smile.

The faintest pause settled over the room.

Helen’s eyes brightened instantly. “Oh?”

Patrick turned his head slowly toward his wife, the twitch of his lips noticeable only to her.

Maggie continued serenely, “She took a very personal interest in his continued improvement.”

Robert looked abruptly interested in his brandy and covered a chuckle with a cough. Herbert’s mouth twitched once at the corner.

Patrick, however, appeared entirely untroubled. “Madame Fournier,” he said calmly, “was firmly of the opinion that no man should be permitted to disgrace himself publicly when correction remained possible.”

“Only publicly?” Maggie asked.

Now there it was — that tiny shift in his expression that meant he knew perfectly well what she was doing.  “I was in Paris,” he replied, still looking utterly unperturbed. “The French possess strong feelings on nearly every subject.”

Helen laughed outright. “And was she successful?”

Patrick considered briefly. “She eventually ceased threatening to seat me beside English tourists when dining out as punishment for sounding atrocious. My French actually became tolerable enough to avoid embarrassing myself in consultations.” 

“Severe enough to be seated with the English, hmm?” Robert observed dryly.

“It was indeed. The French have very little patience for Englishmen abroad. I found it wisest not to be mistaken for one unnecessarily.” He chuckled quietly. “My reception among Parisians was always better when they discovered I was Irish, not English.”  

Maggie finally glanced at her husband over the rim of her glass. “And yet you survived the ordeal.”

“Barely.”

The answer came so gravely that even Herbert laughed quietly into his Madeira.

And Maggie, watching Patrick endure gentle family interrogation with the same composed good humor he brought to everything else, found herself absurdly pleased by how seamlessly he fit into the room. She also noticed that he adroitly changed the subject by asking about Robert’s work at the Herald. He asked questions that indicated both his careful attention and his quick grasp of the business. Watching him, she felt an impulse to lean over and kiss him — which she resisted, of course. 

And then dinner was served, and seated at the table, Robert and Helen clearly wanted to know more about Patrick’s background. 

“Of course, Dr. O’Brien, we are terribly curious about what it was like growing up in Ireland on your family’s estate,” Helen said. 

“What would you like to know, Mrs. Sinclair?” Patrick responded politely. 

“Well, first of all, what is your family like? Is your father very grand?” Helen asked. Maggie cringed a bit inwardly, but she saw Patrick look at Helen like this question was completely understandable. 

“I would not say that my father is grand at all,” Patrick replied. “He is respected, but much of that is because he is not the sort who thinks too highly of himself or uses his position for anything frivolous. He is a serious and hardworking man, who considers his duty first and foremost. He might seem intimidating to someone who does not know him at all, and he is formidable when he needs to be. But the people of our area do know him, and they consider him to be approachable.” 

“That is fascinating,” Helen said. “Was he a strict father?” 

“He was indeed,” Patrick said, but he smiled recalling it. “Though I must say, the O’Brien children required a firm hand. We were a lively bunch, and neither Father nor Mother was having us run amok. He was not a harsh father, and was usually kind and patient. But he absolutely meant what he said, and one did not cross him without regretting it. He does not suffer fools gladly, and he has no tolerance for the foolishness that he has seen among the sons of acquaintances, often of higher rank. He believes that excessive indulgence and excusing poor behavior produce young men a father ought to be ashamed of.” 

“What kind of foolishness?” Robert asked. 

“Whenever he came home from his club In Dublin, or if he’d had to travel to London, he’d invariably heard about the scrapes of Sir Whomever’s or Lord So-and-So’s son. These involved the usual varieties,” he said dryly. “Gambling debts. Young men who drank too much, raced horses they could not afford, neglected their estates or their studies while pursuing actresses, or other misbehavior with women, or behaved as though inheriting land or money exempted them from basic competence.”

Helen’s eyes widened slightly.

“Did things like that truly happen so often?”

“Often enough that Father considered them cautionary tales rather than rare tragedies.” A faint smile touched Patrick’s mouth. “Whenever he returned from Dublin after seeing acquaintances or spending time at his club, my brother and I could generally expect some variation of: ‘If either of you are idiots enough to disgrace yourself in such a fashion, I shall personally see to your humiliation before society has the opportunity.’”

Herbert chuckled quietly at that.

“And did you believe him?” Robert asked.

“Entirely,” Patrick replied without hesitation.

That answer, delivered so promptly and matter-of-factly, sent another ripple of amusement through the room. “Father has always had very little patience for self-indulgence,” Patrick continued. “Or for young men who expected their families to rescue them from the consequences of foolishness. Gambling debts were one of the things he was most incensed by. He did not consider youth an excuse for such profound stupidity and lack of judgment enough to borrow money to lose at cards.” 

“What would he have done if you or your brother did that?” Helen asked. 

“Father said, ‘If they say they’ll kill you, then we shall see whether they do,’” Patrick recalled dryly. “‘But they’ll not see a shilling from your father to save your hide after being fool enough to gamble money you never possessed.’” 

“Was he serious?” Helen asked, wide-eyed. 

“Thomas and I certainly took him seriously on the matter,” Patrick said, though a slight smile played at the corner of his lips. 

“So you never gambled?” Helen asked.

“Well, I wouldn’t say that,” Patrick said. “I was quite fond of cards as a pastime at university, when I had studied sufficiently to spare the time. I only gambled what I could afford to lose, in cash, and amounts that would require no explanations whatsoever to my father. But then, there was the matter of the horse, which despite my best efforts, did appear at Ballymore at the end of my first year in Edinburgh.” 

“The horse?” Herbert asked. 

“Yes, a quite magnificent hunter. Nearly seventeen hands, dark bay. Splendid animal. I’d only returned home the night before, when my father summoned me to the stables and demanded to know why — he put it quite colorfully — that horse was there. He handed me a letter which had arrived with it, and said, “Read it.” 

“How old were you at the time?” Robert asked. 

“Eighteen. One of my finest moments of that year.” 

“So what did the letter say?” Helen asked. 

“It went something like this,” Patrick said. 

O’Brien—As immediate liquidity is unfortunately unavailable to me at present, I am compelled to send Bucephalus against the amount owed until such time as the matter may be settled properly. 

“Bucephalus?” Maggie asked, laughing. 

“That’s exactly what Thomas said,” Patrick replied. “He started laughing hysterically. He already thought this was hilarious, a horse arriving addressed to me, and a ridiculous name on top of it. Father just closed his eyes and said something like ‘God help me.’ 

“What else did the letter say?” Maggie asked. 

“That was it, except for a most unfortunate postscript. I can recall it almost perfectly, as it was so incredibly stupid. It said, “‘P.S. If my father writes to yours, I should be grateful if you neglected to mention how much whiskey had been involved. Though admittedly the arrival of Bucephalus may already have weakened that position considerably.’” 

The table erupted in laughter. 

“So this horse’s arrival was the result of a drunken card game?” Robert asked with interest. 

“Well, it was drunken on Finley’s part.” 

“What did your father say?” Robert wanted to know. 

Patrick sat up a bit straighter. He looked at me and said, “‘Explain this nonsense at once.’ So I explained that Finley had become deeply offended by someone’s suggestion that he did not understand probabilities as well as I did,” Patrick said. “This led, regrettably, to a game of cards.”

“Regrettably,” Maggie repeated.

“It turned out regrettably,” Patrick said. “At first, the stakes were perfectly ordinary, A few pounds. Nothing particularly alarming. Then Finley began losing steadily.”

“Were you winning steadily?” Robert asked.

“Very much so,” Patrick admitted. “Unfortunately, this appeared to irritate him into increasingly poor judgment.”

Herbert laughed. “And you did not stop?”

“The difficulty,” Patrick replied, “was that by this stage several spectators had become invested in the matter and were encouraging Finley not to stop.”

Robert laughed. “Of course they had. Undoubtedly also fueled by drink.”

“Unfortunately so,” Patrick said. “Young men are never more amused than when observing another young man making increasingly disastrous decisions. Needless to say, Father was not impressed by this explanation,” Patrick continued. “Particularly when I mentioned that I’d been holding four aces during the final hand.”

Helen stared at him. “You actually said that to him?”

“I thought it an important contextual detail, that I knew myself to be at next-to-impossible odds of losing more money than I had on me. I thought Father would be — well, reassured is probably not the correct word, but less convinced of the stupidity of my actions when I attempted to explain that statistically speaking, I was extraordinarily unlikely to lose.”

Robert nearly choked on his drink laughing.

“Patrick,” Maggie said, laughing harder now, “you did not.”

“I did.”

“So what happened?” Helen asked, clearly delighted with this story. 

“Father informed me that intelligence was not merely the ability to recognize probabilities,” Patrick said. “It was also the ability to recognize the precise moment respectable people ought to go home.” 

Patrick paused for a moment. “Then he gave me that I’m disappointed in you look and said, “‘Instead, you remained seated long enough that I must now write to Viscount Finley regarding a horse called Bucephalus. This is not, Patrick, the future I envisioned for you at Edinburgh.’” 

Maggie chuckled, guessing that Patrick, whose Irish accent had just deepened, sounded just like his father.

“The truly unfortunate part,” Patrick said, “was that I had not expected the horse at all.”

Robert blinked. “You didn’t?”

“Certainly not. Finley had given me an IOU. I assumed the matter would be settled quietly once he recovered from his humiliation. He could have waited until the next term.”

Maggie laughed. “Instead he sent you Bucephalus.”

“Apparently his father declined to finance the repayment of gambling losses incurred while intoxicated and told him to handle it himself. Father wrote to him anyway, and he did eventually receive a reply from Viscount Finley,” Patrick continued. “Father allowed Thomas and me to hear portions of it, as he considered it educational.”

Robert was already laughing. “What did it say?”

Patrick considered. “The phrase ‘idiot boy’ appeared repeatedly.”

Helen laughed helplessly.

“Father was particularly pleased by one section.” Patrick slipped again into that deeper Irish cadence unmistakably borrowed from Sir Eamon. “‘If my son was drunken enough to gamble away the damned horse, then perhaps losing him will improve his judgment where my previous efforts have failed.’ He was in complete agreement with Lord Finley on that point.” 

“So what became of the horse?” Maggie asked. 

“Well, though Father referred to him as ‘the blasted horse’ for quite some time, he grew rather fond of the animal. Especially once he rode him himself and found that he was indeed a brilliant jumper. He’s retired from active hunting now, but you’ll meet him when we visit Ballymore. I have no doubt Thomas will send for ‘Patrick’s gambling prize horse’ for you to see.”

“I am looking forward to it,” Maggie said, chuckling.

By then, dinner had come to an end. “Come, Maggie,” Helen said. “You and I have so much to catch up on, and I know your father and brother are pleased to get to know your husband better. We’ll leave them to their port for a bit.” 

“Very well,” Maggie said.  She caught Patrick’s eye as she rose, reassured by the calm ease in his expression before she followed Helen from the dining room.