From Fizroy's Private Diary (Extract 105)

Today Hope asked me again what I was like as a child. As usual, I gave my response - ‘shorter’ - in a gruff voice. She normally laughs at this, but recently, more than once, she has sighed and rolled her eyes in a manner quite like her mother. Then she repeated the question tugging on my sleeve. Even with one as dear to me as my little goddaughter, I do not like - in fact, I positively detest - people pulling at my clothing. With a suit this well cut, it can ruin the line, and indeed, ruin the entire suit. I am inclined to forgive her as her father favours rough, baggy tweeds, which if anything would be improved with a little tugging or, better yet, being thrown into the midst of the gardener’s bonfire (although I would allow Bertram to be first extricated from said item as I am aware Hope is fond of her father.)

So having stared at her, and my sleeve, for a long, cold moment, in which time she diminished in size like a frightened puppy, I decided I should give some kind of answer to prevent such a near catastrophe from reoccurring (thankfully the line of the suit remains intact).

I count my childhood as ending at the age of nine, when my mother died. I did not feel the need to share this with Hope, but I thumbed mentally back through the pages of my memory. I recalled a number of cats my mother had, and of course my faithful friend, the kitchen cat, named ‘Biscuits’ on account of the round biscuit shaped brown patch on her back. My father had dogs, which he taught to snarl at everyone, including me. Great Danes, I seem to recall, which are usually the most placid of creatures, but in his company, they grew crotchety and discontent. I recall being placed by my mother on the back of an enormous stallion. I suspect the horse was normal sized, and that it was myself who was tiny.

I have a most distinct memory of my mother once taking me down to the kitchen and baking scones with me, much to the cook’s embarrassment. My mother was of the opinion, having grown up in the more liberal United States of America, that everyone should know the basic skills of life, of which she included cooking. In the end she struck a bargain with the cook that she would not return to the kitchen herself, it being unsuited to her status as a Duchess, but that the cook would teach me such skills. I believe our old servant dreaded this idea, but I proved an able student, and my time spent below stairs afforded me a window into a world not usually seen by a Duke’s son.

I remembered the long walks I would take across the estate, with Biscuits following me. I would take my time, and the cat, a serious birder, would climb trees and wait for me to catch up. On occasion, she would even drop into my arms, or onto to my head. This taught me the important life lesson - always look up!

So, I said to Hope, ‘I had a number of cats. I learned to cook. I enjoyed riding. I was, as I have frequently told you, shorter, but most of all, I was happy and loved.’

‘Just like me!’ squealed Hope and gave me a wide tooth-gapped smile. I profoundly hope her adult incisors grow in soon.