Lord Peter Wimsey blinked at his wife, grey eyes registering nothing but pure shock. "You aren't serious."
"Darling," his wife replied, "you are the joker in this family, not I."
"Trust you to call me a fool," he muttered. But there was no malice in his tone; there never was, when he was speaking to her. Besides, his lordship's attention was diverted elsewhere: in his arms he held a small bundle, wrapped in a white blanket. It was the fourth time he'd held such a precious bundle, and the novelty had yet to wear off. But now his silence lasted perhaps longer than even his wife had anticipated.
"Say something, Peter." Harriet paused. "Speak the speech, I pray you," she added drowsily, sinking back against the pillows with a yawn.
"Trippingly on the tongue?" he asked lightly. After a moment, he shook his head. "No, my dear one, I fear you have rendered me quite speechless."
Several minutes passed in this fashion, and when Harriet slipped into a welcome -- and well-deserved -- sleep he handed the bundle off to the nurse.
In the hall, three boys stood sentry, and when their father came out, their cherubic (and yet still somehow mischievous, though his lordship rather supposed that was his fault rather than any doing of their mother's) faces lit up with equal parts anticipation and worry.
Master Bredon, aged seven and, as the eldest, the spokesman for the troop, stepped forward. "Is everything all right, Father?"
The man in question took a seat on the nearby stairs, sinking down with a sigh. "I'm afraid, men, we are quite undone." A heavy silence followed as the three boys exchanged worried looks.
"Wh-what is it?" Young Roger ventured, not at all reassured by the events thus far.
"Congratulations, men. You've a sister."
And I've a daughter.
For it was one thing to have in one's life a woman around whose little finger you were happily wound -- to have two such women in one's life was quite another thing entirely.
And now, Lord Peter/Harriet
"Darling," his wife replied, "you are the joker in this family, not I."
"Trust you to call me a fool," he muttered. But there was no malice in his tone; there never was, when he was speaking to her. Besides, his lordship's attention was diverted elsewhere: in his arms he held a small bundle, wrapped in a white blanket. It was the fourth time he'd held such a precious bundle, and the novelty had yet to wear off. But now his silence lasted perhaps longer than even his wife had anticipated.
"Say something, Peter." Harriet paused. "Speak the speech, I pray you," she added drowsily, sinking back against the pillows with a yawn.
"Trippingly on the tongue?" he asked lightly. After a moment, he shook his head. "No, my dear one, I fear you have rendered me quite speechless."
Several minutes passed in this fashion, and when Harriet slipped into a welcome -- and well-deserved -- sleep he handed the bundle off to the nurse.
In the hall, three boys stood sentry, and when their father came out, their cherubic (and yet still somehow mischievous, though his lordship rather supposed that was his fault rather than any doing of their mother's) faces lit up with equal parts anticipation and worry.
Master Bredon, aged seven and, as the eldest, the spokesman for the troop, stepped forward. "Is everything all right, Father?"
The man in question took a seat on the nearby stairs, sinking down with a sigh. "I'm afraid, men, we are quite undone." A heavy silence followed as the three boys exchanged worried looks.
"Are we... quite doomed, Mister Scatterblood?" Bredon asked earnestly.
Lord Peter nodded gravely. "Quite, Cap'en Teach."
"Wh-what is it?" Young Roger ventured, not at all reassured by the events thus far.
"Congratulations, men. You've a sister."
And I've a daughter.
For it was one thing to have in one's life a woman around whose little finger you were happily wound -- to have two such women in one's life was quite another thing entirely.
Great Scott, I'm in it now.