"Thank you. I learned from watching Clara manage you."
"I don't manage Gabriel," Clara protested.
Everyone at the table looked at her with identical expressions of disbelief.
"I don't!"
"Yesterday you convinced him to attend a village assembly by strategically placing his brandy where he'd have to go through the ballroom to get it," Edmund pointed out.
"That was coincidence."
"Tuesday you got him to approve the new tenant farming agreements by discussing them while wearing that blue dress he particularly likes."
"The dress was comfortable!"
"Last month you managed to get him to host a dinner party by casually mentioning that Lord Pemberton had said he'd never dare show his face in society."
"That was... strategic motivation."
"That was management," Gabriel said, kissing her hand. "And I'm perfectly content being managed by you."
James chose that moment to return, still naked, now covered in mud as well as dirt, carrying what appeared to be a frog.
"Mama!" he declared, offering her the frog like a precious gift.
Clara accepted the frog with the dignity of a duchess receiving jewels. "Thank you, darling. It's a lovely frog."
"Only you could make that sound sincere," Gabriel said.
"I am sincere. It's an excellent frog. Good color, impressive size, relatively calm temperament."
"You're analyzing our son's frog like it's a horse at Tattersall's."
"Would you prefer I analyse it like a potential meal? Because Cook's French recipes probably include frog."
"Mama, no!" James said clearly, his first complete sentence, clutching the frog protectively.
Everyone stared at him.
"Did he just…" Edmund started.
"He did," Clara said, tears in her eyes. "His first sentence was defending a frog from culinary doom."
"That's the most Hale thing ever," Edmund observed.
"Mama, no!" James repeated, apparently pleased with his linguistic achievement.
"No one's eating your frog," Gabriel assured him. "Though you do need to put on clothes eventually."
"No!" James declared, and ran off again, frog in hand.
"His second word is no. Also very Hale," Margaret said.
"He's perfect," Clara said firmly.
"He's a naked, muddy tyrant with a frog."
"Exactly. Perfect."
