The Harvest Man by Alex Grecian Page B

suggest?”
    “Margaret and Mary, after his sisters. They were twins, too, you know.”
    “But they died when they were . . .”
    “They were three.”
    “That seems particularly morbid to me. And perhaps an ill omen.”
    “Our neighbor’s little boy was named after his own grandfather, a man he never got to meet. It’s hardly an unusual custom.”
    “Fine, then.”
    “It doesn’t matter anyway. I had other names in mind. What do you think of Winnie and Henrietta? Except she’d be Winifred, wouldn’t she?”
    “Who would be Winifred?”
    “The small one. She looks like a Winnie.”
    “And who suggested those names?”
    “Nobody. I read them in a book. Fiona gave me—”
    “So now Fiona Kingsley gets to name my children.”
    “No, she has not. She gave me a book and there’s a poem in it called ‘For Winnie and Henrietta.’ I think they’re adorable names.”
    “And what does your father think of them?”
    “I haven’t asked him.”
    “Don’t you think you’d better?”
    “Walter . . .”
    “After all, it hardly matters what I think. It’s your father you’ll turn to when you need something. His influence pervades every nook and cranny of my home.”
    “You don’t like—”
    “It doesn’t matter whether I like the names or not. They’re my children and I’d like to name them myself, without his bloody meddling in it.”
    Claire stared at him for a long moment. She swung the cane from her lap and took it by its end, extending the crook for him to take. “I told you, my father had nothing to do with the names I like. You’re being hateful toward him. My parents are trying their best to be helpful. I know they can be difficult, but they’re making an effort, however small that might be, and you are not. You’ve behaved worse than the babies ever since . . .” She indicated his leg with a glance. “Well, anyway, you haven’t been yourself in quite some time and, forgive me for saying so, I’m beginning to lose patience with you.”
    “Well, that’s just wonderful. They’ve turned you against me now. I knew they’d succeed at it eventually.” He snatched the cane from her and pushed himself up, hobbled to the door with greater difficulty than he really felt, and opened it. “If you want them here so much more than you want me, you may have your wish.”
    “Oh, Walter.”
    “Tell your parents they’ve won. The lot of you can name all the babies you want to name without any interference from me.”
    “Walter!”
    He stepped into the hallway and slammed the bedroom door behind him. He turned and saw a door at the end of the hall quietly close, with just a glimpse of one eye back in the darkness. One of the many newcomers to his household had witnessed their quarrel. His face flushed and he looked down, realized he was still wearing nothing but his nightshirt.
    “Well, the hell with it,” he said. He was talking to the closed door at the end of the hallway. “I will wear a nightshirt in my own home if I choose to wear a nightshirt. A man’s home is his castle, and all that.”
    Claire exited his room. She walked to her own room and shut the door without ever looking at him.
    Day stomped to the stairs and started down, thumping his cane loudly against each step. Halfway down, he could see a light on in the study below. He hesitated, then turned and went back up and put on his trousers. A man’s home was indeed his castle, but decency needn’t be thrown out the window. There were, after all, several new women now under his roof. His second journey down the stairs was taken with a modicum of discretion.
    Leland Carlyle was standing at the drink cart when Day entered his study. The older man turned, but when he saw Day, he grunted and went back to pouring his drink.
    “Port?” He spoke with his back to his son-in-law.
    “I’ll take a brandy,” Day said.
    Carlyle stoppered the port and reached for another decanter at the back of the silver tray. “I thought