"And here they be-cinnamon sticks!" he cried as he produced them, to howls of rapture and leaping, clutching little hands.

"Oh, sir," Mistress McGowan simpered. "You'll spoil their supper. La, I do allow you cosset these lads something sinful. Come along, Sewallis, Hugh. There's good boys. Wash up and dress. Sweets later, if you're good. Waste no more of your father's time. Mister Lewrie, sir, mistress says to tell you that table is set, and you may sup as soon as you've washed the road away. Come, lads. Now."

"No, now!" Hugh demanded petulantly, but it was not to be. He saw his treat tucked into Mistress McGowan's apron pocket. Lewrie stood, with none of the magic of the moment left but the stickiness of the cinnamon sticks on his fingers. And feeling as ordered about as the boys did as they were chivvied off.

"Well, damme," he groused, returning to the fireplace for a warmup. "Ain't this my own house? Ain't they my own lads, to cosset as I wish? Cosset 'em? Aye, damned right I will. And how dare that… that hired bitch gainsay me, hey?"

Cony only shrugged in reply. "Got water'n towels laid out, sir. Bit of a wash afore supper?"

"I suppose so, Cony," Lewrie huffed. "Damn my eyes, but there's a hellish lot of… domesticity about these days. Aye, I'll come up. I'll be a good boy. Ain't we all learned to be such…. good ladsl"

"Ahum!" Cony coughed into his fist to hide a rueful grin of sympathy. "Aye, sir."

Alan paused in the central hallway, though, peering at the two portraits hung there side by side; his and Caroline's. His had been done in '83, just after the Revolution, whenhe'dbeen a twenty-one-year-old lieutenant. Caroline's had been painted by a talented (but annoying) artist in the Bahamas, just after they'd arrived in 1786, when she was twenty-three, and a newlywed.