"And how is Charlotte?" Alan asked as he offered his arm to lead Caroline into the informal dining room.

"Simply perfect, of course," Caroline chuckled, filled with a maternal warmth. Baby Charlotte, named for her maternal grandmother, was barely twelve months old and still nursing.

Soon to stop, please God, Lewrie begged silently. No matter they could afford wet nurses, no matter how unfashionable for English ladies, Caroline had insisted upon it with every child, months and bloody months of nursing! Months and months of baby talk, billing and cooing between swaddled babe and doting mama, and God help the man who interfered or tried to conduct an adult conversation. Alan espied a tiny, darker damp spot on her demure woolen bodice-a dottle of lovingly egested milk, and noted the flush of pleasure she usually bore after a feeding.

Hugh made another blubber-lipped sound of disapproval as he was helped into a chair by the governess.

"You'll appreciate girls in your own time, me lad," Lewrie cautioned him. "Even a little sister."

He pulled out Caroline's chair to seat her at the foot of the table, saw Cony and Mistress McGowan get the boys placed, and took his own seat at the head. Before he could unfold his napery, out rushed a maid with a steaming tureen of soup, and Cony was uncorking a bottle of hock with a cheery "thwocking" sound.

"Hearty chicken soup, with a dash of tarragon," Caroline announced, urging them all to dig in. 'Takes the winter chill away. Out it goes… then up? 'As a ship goes out to sea, so my spoon goes out from me'\ And young gentlemen never lean over their bowls, do they, Hugh?"

Hugh gulped what looked like a heaping shovel-full into his greedy maw, hunched over his plate with the spoon held like a ladle in a clumsy little paw. His cheeks puffed out like a squirrel's as he tried to swallow, and a line of creamy soup frothed between his lips. Followed a second later by the entire mouthful, since it was so hot. He began to fan, buttock-dance on his chair and bawl.