"He could, if he doesn't get expelled from school for throwing things at his instructors."
"We'll homeschool him."
"You want to attempt teaching our son, who has your attention span and my stubbornness?"
“A sound argument, indeed. We shall therefore dispatch him to a suitable academy without delay.”
"Not Eton," Clara said firmly. "I won't have him turned into a proper little aristocrat who thinks emotions are weakness."
"Goodness no. Somewhere progressive. Somewhere that won't try to beat the wildness out of him."
"Does such a place exist?"
"We'll found one if necessary. The Ashbourne School for Ungovernable Children."
Clara laughed. "We'd only have one student."
"Two, if my suspicions about your condition are correct."
Mrs. Potter appeared, as she always did when they were being particularly domestic, like she had a sixth sense for moments that needed interrupting.
"Your Grace, the Hartleys have arrived for tea, and Lord Hartley says to tell you that Miss Ashworth, excuse me, Mrs. Thomas Ashworth has sent a letter with news you'll find amusing."
"Penelope's always amusing," Clara said. "Last month she wrote that she'd convinced Thomas to present a paper on the romantic habits of roses at the Royal Botanical Society."
"The what?" Gabriel asked.
"Apparently she's been documenting how our rose grows toward certain other plants and away from others, and she's convinced it's displaying preference based on compatibility."
"The rose has romantic preferences?"
"According to Penelope, yes."
"That girl is either brilliant or mad."
"Both," Clara and Mrs. Potter said in unison.
"Speaking of mad," Mrs. Potter continued, "Master James has managed to remove his clothing while you were discussing roses."
They turned to find James had indeed divested himself of every stitch of his attire and was now attempting to climb out of his high chair, apparently offended by the restriction of garments.
"He's your son," Clara told Gabriel.
"When he's naked and escaping, he's definitely my son. When he's charming and adorable, he's yours."
"He's always naked and escaping."
"Then he's always mine, which I'm perfectly content with."
Edmund and Margaret arrived, along with their twin daughters who were six months older than James and significantly more civilized, which meant they only threw food on special occasions rather than as a general practice.
"Upon my very soul," Edmund said, taking in the naked, dirt-covered James who had successfully escaped his chair and was now chasing Harold across the garden. "Your son looks like a feral creature."
"He's expressing his individuality," Gabriel said defensively.
"He's expressing his bottom to the entire county."
"It's a very nice bottom. It is, alas, inherited directly from his mother's side.”
