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And once they had been seen by all her relations, the children’s absence could be explained away forever after—or at least until her grandfather passed away. By then, no doubt his enterprising wife could invent a tale of how the youngsters had left for America, or one or the other had perished, or married poorly, or any of a hundred things.
At worst, they could certainly put off another in-person meeting between either of their families and their children for two or three years, or until they could find older youngsters to portray Malcolm and Flora. Children’s appearances did alter greatly from year to year.
“Better, George?” he asked.
The boy tentatively lifted his face from his hands. “That was horrible. I’m never listening to you again, Rosie.”
“I said you shouldn’t do it, gundiguts.”
“Goodness. Rose, ladies do not say that word.” At George’s responding snort, Emmeline faced him. “And neither do gentlemen.”
“I ain’t a gentleman.”
“Ah, but you will be one,” Will took up. “Best begin practicing now.”
George frowned again. “You know I can’t really be a duke, because my papa wasn’t a duke. He was a sailor.”
“In His Majesty’s navy?” Emmeline asked.
“No. On a whaling ship. He was a harpooner.”
“Georgie said that Mama said a whale split his boat in two with its tail, and dragged Papa down to Davy Jones’ locket,” Rose added.
“Locker, Rosie. You’re such a baby.”
“I am not a baby. You heard Mrs. Pershing—I mean, Mama. I’m a lady.”
“Our real mama was a washerwoman. That means you ain’t a lady.”
George knew some of the rules of heredity, evidently. What they hadn’t been told yet, and needed to be informed of soon, Will reflected, was that they were about to stand in for the great-grandchildren of the Duke of Welshire. If this had been an adoption, it would all but guarantee George’s future membership in the best gentlemen’s clubs in London, and invitations to all the best parties. And while Rose wouldn’t be a duchess, she would certainly be a lady. All that, though, was a handful of very high-flying fantasies.
“When a woman behaves correctly and politely,” Emmeline said on the tail of his thought, “she is a lady, no matter her social status.”
“See?” Rose stuck her lemon-yellow tongue out at her brother again.
And for a few weeks, at least, she would be a young lady.
CHAPTER SIX
“George?”
The flaming sword George Fletcher had been wielding to stave off the horde of giant rats chasing him and Rose down a dark alley vanished from his hands. In the same breath the tall, hooded rat king gestured, and one of the unusually large rodents lunged at his face. “Rats!” he shrieked, flailing.
“No rats, Georgie!” Rose yelled from a long distance away.
His eyes flew open. Rose, safe and seated across from him. In a coach. Late-afternoon sunlight in the windows. The frigate looking at him with a concerned expression on her face while the swell checked his pocket watch. The Pershings. The nuns weren’t turning out the beds looking for hidden food or baubles, and the rat king was at least as far away as London. “I’m awake,” he grumbled.
“He’s afraid of rats,” his sister said in a matter-of-fact voice.
He sat up, wiping drool from one corner of his mouth. “No, I’m not, you pudding-head.”
“We thought you two would like to look out the window,” the lady said with a too-big smile. “Being that we’re on Winnover property now, and the house is at the top of the hill.”
George shifted to the window, pushing open the glass to lean outside while Rosie did the same on the coach’s other side. “This is Gloucestershire,” his sister reminded him. “We’ve never been so far away.”
“I know. A whole day away from London. I can’t even smell it, anymore.” Or hear it, which could be nearly as overpowering. He liked being this far away, even if it would only last for eight weeks.
“I still smell horse shite,” his sister answered.