Morgan had thought, naively, he now realized, that spending time with Arthur and Philip would be straightforward and simple. He was wrong.
“Uncle Morgan, I’m boh-oh-ored,” Arthur announced, sprawled dramatically across the sofa in the drawing room like a woman fainting.
“We’ve only been playing for ten minutes,” Morgan pointed out. “Surely I’m not that bad.”
“Exactly. Ten whole minutes,” Arthur sighed as though the weight of the world rested on his small shoulders.
Philip was at least still engaged with the toy soldiers Morgan had found in the nursery. He was lining them up in careful rows, his tongue poking out in concentration.
“What would you like to do instead then?” Morgan asked Arthur.
“I don’t know. Something fun!”
“Cards are fun.”
“Not really…”
How did Ambrose make this look easy?
“All right,” he said, setting down his cards. “What do you consider fun?”
Arthur sat up, his eyes brightening. “Can we go to the beach?”
“It’s nearly dinner time.”
“After dinner, then?”
“It’ll be dark.”
“Tomorrow?”
“Perhaps. If the weather holds.”
Arthur’s face fell. “You sound like Uncle Ambrose.”
Morgan wasn’t sure if that was a compliment or an insult. He assumed an insult if he knew his friend.
“Your uncle is a very… sensible man.”
“Sensible is boring,” Arthur muttered.
Philip looked up from his soldiers. “I think Uncle Morgan is nice.”
“Thank you, Philip,” Morgan said, feeling absurdly grateful, his chest puffing up at the compliment.
“Can we have cake for dinner?” Philip asked suddenly.
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because cake is not dinner.”
“It could be.”
“It could not. I promised your Uncle I would take good care of you. I can’t have you eating sweets for dinner.”
Arthur flopped back onto the sofa. “I want to go to France.”
