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plate and took it to the table. My new husband exerted himself to make pleasant conversation and the events of the previous evening began to fade from my memory.
    When I had satisfied my hunger, I turned to him. "I am eager to meet Ned." I hesitated, my eyes searching his face.
    "Please," Edward said, his dark face twisting into a frown, his voice caustic. "No more implorings on behalf of the motherless twins."
    I still could not stop myself. "But …"
    He raised a hand. "I understand your feeling for the motherless," he said. "But my major concern is Ned."
    "The company of other children—" I dared.
    "I know," he replied sardonically, "will be good for Ned."
    I stared at him; could this possibly mean— He rightly interpreted my questioning look. "I have reconsidered my decision," he told me, his face severe.
    "The twins may stay—for now."
    "Thank you! Oh thank you!" I cried. "I knew you were a good man." I felt as though I had received the reprieve. And perhaps I had, for I wanted the father of my child to be—
    He scowled. "Just be sure Ned isn't slighted."
    This time I didn't take offense. "He won't be, I assure you. He won't be at all!"
    * * * *
    Moments later I stood outside the nursery door. "Hello," I cried, pushing it open and stepping in with a smile on my face. "How are you this morning?"
    The boys were sitting at table, just finishing their porridge. They raised their heads, two fair, one dark. Edward's son was easily recognizable even without his difference in coloring from the twins. Ned's scowl was just like his father's.
    "I am—Hester," I said, deciding to forego the rather spurious titles of mother and aunt. "I am here to take care of you. We're going to have great fun."
    The twins grinned, evidently willing to give me a chance, but Ned's scowl deepened. "We don't want you here," he said. "Go home."
    I was prepared for his hostility. "I am home," I said calmly. "I live here now."
    Ned's face twisted. "You can't be my mother! She's gone."
    I nodded. "I know. I don't want to be your mother." A slight lie, I thought, for the boy's sake. My heart had already gone out to him. "But I am your father's wife."
    The twins looked at each other and murmured something I couldn't make out.
    "It's not polite to whisper in company," I said. "Why don't you speak aloud?"
    The boy did, but though the words consisted of recognizable sounds, they made no sense.
    I laughed and clapped my hands. "I see," I cried. "You have your own private language. How grand!"
    I glanced sideways at Ned. "I wish I had someone to share such a language with."
    I saw the flicker of interest in the boy's eyes, but he masked it quickly and remained silent. "Oh well. Ned, I hear you have a dog. Where is he?"
    "He's mine!" Ned said fiercely.
    I pretended not to notice the fierceness. "Yes, I know. I just want to say hello to him. I love dogs."
    Ned frowned. "He's not allowed up here."
    "My goodness, that's too bad. What did he do?"
    Ned's face turned crimson. "He didn't do anything. It was me. I put a snake in the last governess's bed."
    "Really?" I pretended surprise. "And she didn't like it?"
    Ned looked startled, as well he might. "'Course not. Girls are scared of snakes and stuff like that."
    "Not me. I like snakes."
    The boy stared at me and the twins looked at each other and snickered.
    "Well," I said, turning toward the door. "I just came in to say hello. We'll start lessons tomorrow. Today I want to explore the castle." I moved toward the door. "It would be more fun if I had someone to go with me, but I suppose you're all busy."
    The twins looked at each other and without exchanging a word got to their feet.
    Ned hesitated, then he rose too. "I'd better come along," he said. "This is a big castle, and dark. A stranger could get lost in here."
    * * * *
    The castle was big and dark. Gloomy, too, but having the twins along helped to enliven things. Their cheerful grins were like sunshine in the dim halls and their babbling language, though I