Mr and Mrs Calverleigh had been wed for just over three years when a prim and well phrased notice appeared in the appropriate column of the most respected newspapers that Mrs Abigail Calverleigh had dutifully presented her husband with an addition to their ancient lineage. Abby had known with some affectionate and sympathetic amusement that Miles had been silently dreading his wife's confinement, but as usual he had not expressed his concerns, merely remarking that given her sanguinity, he was confident that she would endure it with pluck. And indeed, to his secret relief, his spouse sailed through the mercifully swift ordeal quite cheerfully and completely unscathed. And even more unexpectedly, looking down into the tiny face of his son and heir, Miles was surprised to find himself head over ears in love for only the second time in his life. With his mother's grey eyes set in dark austere features, he was the image of his father, a fact that had filled them both with some silent misgiving. In fact, this proved to be entirely justified, for Dorian – although his parents invariably called him Beau – was, as his parents indulgently allowed, somewhat accident prone. In his seven short years, amongst other incidents, he had managed to break several valuable and extremely ugly vases inherited from Calverleighs past by playing cricket in the picture gallery; almost drowned in the river trying to build a raft to sail to the Himalayas and broken his wrist falling off an improvised tightrope he had strung between two trees. The last had been the result of a visit to a circus and had not, to his mother's alarm, dissuaded him from pursuing the ambition to master the skill. His father had merely pointed out that if he did manage it they could sell him to a traveling fair and placed a straw filled mat underneath. Rather remarkably he did indeed learn and after some months could walk back and forth with some facility, much to his parents secret pride. He had inherited his father's ability with machinery and at the age of six had taken apart the clock in the drawing room to see how it worked – but put it back together again almost entirely correctly, Miles always added, with some complacency.
His parents, regarding their progeny with a mixture of awe, delight and horror, generally resigned themselves to his almost always well intentioned gyrations. He had inherited his parents charm in full measure and was almost universally adored; he was an endearing child with his dancing grey eyes, mischievous smile and mop of dark hair. His uncle and several of his aunts remarked with deep disapproval that he was exceedingly wild, but his parents absolutely refused to to ever allow their son to be spanked. In fact the only time Abby had ever seen her husband roused to anger was during the last major incident, some four months before.
Abby, acquiescing to Mary's pleas, had dragged her reluctant husband and son to visit James and Cornelia for their annual garden party. During the course of the long, hot and extremely boring afternoon, Beau had caused unexpected excitement when he accidentally set fire to the small summer house with himself and his small cousin inside. For some inscrutable reason, instead of leaving swiftly via the door, the excited children had climbed from the window out onto the roof, and the first that anyone knew of the increasingly perilous conflagration was Beau shouting enthusiastically for his father. Miles had reacted with lightening speed, sprinting across the lawn to agilely climb up and rescue the children, this heroic act made slightly less dramatic by his complete inability to stop himself bursting into laughter the minute they were out of danger. When he finally gained control of himself, he confronted his son in wrathful enquiry, the impact slightly lessened by the tremor in his voice.
"O my God, what have you done now?"
"I didn't mean to, Daddy!" Beau replied with some reproach. "It was an accident!"
By this time Abby had arrived on the scene and dropping to her knees, pulled her child into her arms, examining him with some alarm "You're all right, Beau? Miles, that was masterly! You're not hurt? Oh, what happened?"
"Oh Mummy! Don't fuss! I'm all right. But you know in my book they were in the woods, and the main boy – you know! - made a fire by rubbing pieces of wood together, and it wasn't very clear but I worked it out. It was only very little, but it worked! Which would be very useful in the Indian jungle!" His mother whose face had been quivering during this artless monologue convulsed in helpless laugher. "Oh Beau!"
"But why the devil did you have to try it this afternoon in your uncle's summer house?" demanded his father, with some justification.
"I didn't think it would do any harm. I didn't mean to burn down the summer house, I mean, that would be silly. But I am sorry." He added, turning to observe his work with a critical eye. "It did spread very fast though. Dashed dangerous. Probably would have happened sooner or later."
At this Abby, who had been sobering to calm, broke into another uncontrollable peal of merriment. "Oh Miles, he's yours all over!"
Miles took one horrified look at his wife and exclaimed "Don't blame me!" before joining her in helpless laughter. Their child regarded them in some bemusement as did the assorted guests and family who had approached in alarm only to see the unregenerate couple in fits of laughter in front of the by now quite cheerfully burning summer house.
James and Cornelia, however, had not seen the humour in the situation, in fact, an irate James had threatened to give his nephew a sound beating. Alarmed, Dorian shrank behind his father, and for the first time in their marriage Abigail saw Miles lose his temper. He had swept his son protectively into his arms and asserted with menacing ferocity that Mr Wendover could damned well try, but he would have to go through him first. There had been an ugly scene; the two men had exchanged increasingly bitter words until there had seemed a very real danger of coming to blows. Cornelia had burst into tears, hysterically calling Beau a feral devil child, just like his immoral, disreputable father. Abby, roused to fury, had roundly boxed her ears, declaring that anyone who said such a thing was nobody she wished to consider family, that nothing would induce her to ever cross their threshold again and she, in turn, would never more welcome them. Lifting her head high, the outraged Mrs Calverleigh had swept up her gleeful, demonic menfolk and made a dignified exit. On the way home her husband had sat quietly for a while, their son sleeping peacefully in his lap, before sighing contentedly and declaring in a tone of extreme satisfaction "We won't be seeing them for a while!" His stunned wife had merely turned a blanched face to his and burst out laughing. "O God, Miles!"
He had beamed beatifically at her. "You're a wonderful woman, Abigail," and closing his eyes, gone to sleep. Abby gazed at them for a moment in devotion and did the same. Truth be told, when her husband had so competently saved and then so fiercely defended their child she had never felt more certain that the choice she had made ten years ago had been the correct one. They were happy, and continued to be so.
(That's all folks!)