"Diplomatic violence?"
"He diplomatically suggested Pemberton leave before he violently removed him from the property."
"That's not diplomacy."
"It's Edmund's version of diplomacy, which is the only kind that works on Pemberton."
James, having given up on the necklace as a food source, plopped down on his bottom and began examining his own foot with the intensity of a scholar discovering an ancient text.
"He's going to be brilliant," Clara said fondly.
"He's going to be a handful."
"Your Grace, My Lady, luncheon is served, and I've made those lemon cakes Master James throws with less violence than other foods," the Cook who had just showed up said.
"Less violence is the best we can hope for," Gabriel said, scooping up James who immediately grabbed his father's cravat and tried to strangle him with it. "No, small tyrant. We shall, however tempting the notion, refrain from doing any injury to Papa.”
"Baba!" James declared, which might have been his version of Papa or might have been more war cries.
They made their way to the dining room, which bore the scars of James's food experiments, faint stains on the wallpaper that even Mary's aggressive cleaning couldn't entirely remove, scratches on the table from when he'd discovered spoons could be weapons, and what Gabriel swore was a permanent dent in the ceiling from the great porridge incident of last month.
"We should eat in the garden," Clara suggested. "It's beautiful today, and there's less to destroy outside."
"You underestimate our son's destructive capabilities."
"I never underestimate a Hale's capacity for chaos. I wedded you, didn't I?"
They settled at the garden table, James in his high chair that had been reinforced after he'd figured out how to dismantle the original, and Clara couldn't help but notice how different the garden looked from two years ago. It wasn't formal, would never be formal again, but it was alive, vibrant, overflowing with the kind of wild beauty that came from letting things grow as they wished rather than forcing them into rigid patterns.
Their rose had indeed taken over the entire west wall and was making aggressive forays toward the east, but neither of them had the heart to trim it back. It had become something of a local landmark—the Ashbourne Rose, people called it, coming to see the unusual pink and gold blooms that shouldn't exist but did anyway.
"Lady Agatha's written again," Gabriel said, pulling a letter from his pocket while trying to prevent James from wearing his luncheon as a hat.
"What does the purple menace want now?"
"To meet her great-nephew, apparently. She's decided that producing an heir means I'm not entirely hopeless."
"How generous of her."
"She also mentions that she's heard about our 'agricultural innovations' and wants to discuss them, which I suspect means she wants to criticise our decision to let the tenants farm cooperatively."
"It's working though," Clara pointed out. "The yields have improved, the tenants are happier, and the estate is more profitable than it's been in years."
"Yes, but it's unconventional, and you know how Aunt Agatha feels about unconventional things."
"She feels about them the way James feels about vegetables, violent opposition followed by grudging acceptance if no other options are available."
As if to demonstrate, James picked up a piece of carrot, examined it suspiciously, then threw it .
"James Gabriel Edmund Hale," Clara said sternly. "We do not throw food .”
James looked at her with Gabriel's exact expression of 'I regret nothing' and reached for another carrot.
"He's going to be a terror," Gabriel said proudly.
"He already is a terror."
"Yes, but he'll be a magnificent terror. Look at that throwing arm. He could play cricket."
