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“Yes, and how is a shaving injury on the bridge of your nose?” Archie asked.

“Did you want some goose, Archie?” Simon said in an overloud voice as he used the serving spoon to move some of the meat from the serving platter toward Archie’s plate.

Archie recoiled, recovered himself, and said, almost primly, “No, thank you.” He then turned to talking about how delicious—and filling—the carrots had been, and Simon’s aim of changing the subject away from his wound was achieved.

When the maid came in later to clear the dishes, he said, “Will you please tell the cook—What is the cook’s name?”

“Christine, my lord.”

“And what is your name?”

“Polly.”

“Polly, will you please tell Christine that the orange cake was wonderful?”

Before the boys could remark on the unusual degree of interest Simon was showing for cake, he said, “I was thinking, Archie, about the impending arrival of the ladies and the problem of how cold the pool is. Could you simply add hot water? Or would that dilute the alleged curative properties of the water? Or perhaps it would tax the servants unreasonably.”

As a diversionary tactic, the question worked.

“I am not sure Clementine should immerse herself regardless,” Archie said.

“Julianna will be undaunted by a little cold,” Effie said of his wife. “As, I imagine, will Olive.”

“Yes,” Archie said. “But my mother.”

“Who is the one you built the pool for,” Effie said, though Archie had never said so explicitly.

“It is for all of us,” Archie said. “It’s not a bad idea, Simon. If we have two ladies willing to brave the cold, and one abstaining, we may as well see what Mother prefers. We can ask her when she gets here.”

“You forget Miss Brown,” Simon said with mildness he did not feel. They were always doing that.

“I do, don’t I?” Archie said. That was exactly what he’d said when Effie had been counting the ladies accompanying them this year.

“You do,” Simon said, perhaps a little too vehemently, for Archie was looking at him oddly.

“Well, we shall ask all the ladies for their thoughts when they arrive.”

The time until that happened went both quickly and slowly. The boys passed the days in the usual way, rambling through the countryside, riding into a nearby town and poking around, drinking more than was advisable, talking while Simon and Effie ate meat and Archie pretended to. This trip had the novel addition of the pool, which they continued to enjoy. Well, Simon enjoyed it. The others were fixated on the unpleasantness of the temperature. But even they appreciated a session by the fire after a bracing dip.

The other novel bit this year was that Simon made friends with Christine.

Historically, there was a certain temporal rhythm to an Earls Trip. Simon was an early riser and Effie a night owl. Archie, who seemed not to need a great deal of sleep, generally spent time one-on-one with Simon in the morning and with Effie at night. Of course, that was only around the edges: The three of them spent the bulk of each day and evening together.

This year, Simon told Archie to sleep in. When, on the first morning, he’d attempted to rise with Simon, who had been trying to sneak out of the gentlemen’s cave, as Effie persisted in calling it, Simon whispered, “You needn’t be getting up with me, you know.” When Archie tried to protest, he said, “I appreciate that you have, historically, but your wife will be here next week. As I said, traditions must evolve. And I can see you rubbing your eyes! Go back to bed. I shall be fine. In fact, I was looking forward to a little solitude this morning, if I am being perfectly honest.”

It was somewhat of a lie, and it had worked. It had allowed him to spend the mornings baking with Christine.

“I much prefer cooking,” she said the morning the ladies were due to arrive. They were debating the merits of cooking versus baking. “Less fussy. More instinctual.”

“I haven’t the instinct, I suppose,” Simon said. “I find baking immensely satisfying. If you can read, you can bake. One merely needs to follow the directions. And isn’t it something of a miracle that a list of simple ingredients—eggs, sugar, flour, butter—can yield something so delicious?”

“The rub here, though, is we don’t have a recipe for lemon pound cake.”

“Yes, but isn’t the point of a pound cake that it contains a pound of everything?”

“Certainly not a pound of lemon, though.”

“Ah. I see.”