"Dear God," Thomas Marchmain said, as his children rushed past his study's door for the upteenth time that day, followed by their out-of-breath nanny, Lisa, "don't I pay you to keep them away from me?"

He immediately noticed it was the wrong thing to say because Hannah, the eldest - as far as one can be eldest when triplets are concerned - came to a staggering halt in front of his desk and showcased a most impeccable wobbly pout.

She did have a flair for the dramatic, but he supposed that this time, what he said truly wasn't nice.

So he took a deep breath to apologise, but while he did so, Hannah started to wail with a volume a banshee would be proud of, and Lisa swiftly intervened by lifting her up and all but dragging her out of the room. Hannah's siblings, Georgie and Pip, looked upon the scene from either side of the door opening and Thomas felt like he could still feel their big, blue eyes upon him long after Lisa had pulled the door shut behind her.

He was alone again, just like he asked. It didn't make him feel better.

Someone cleared their throat.

Okay, fine, he was not alone. In the corner of his study, a stuffy old man stood gazing at one of the many paintings that adorn the wall. Thomas knew next to nothing about art, and he didn't want to, either. All of the pieces that had turned his mansion into all but a museum were chosen by Celeste, and now she was no longer here, every day made him want to throw them all out onto a bonfire even more. His agent, however, had assured him that was a terrible idea due to the cost of them, and advised Thomas to take it up with an antiquarian.

"You were saying?" Thomas asked the man, while jotting down something on the paper in front of him to look smart. When he loomed down, he saw his pen had created a rather crude drawing of the man in front of him. He quickly folded the piece of paper in half, as if it was a letter he was planning to send.

"I was saying that Amberdish Antiquarians have agreed to send one of their appraisers this way. He will arrive coming Monday."

"One of their appraisers?" Thomas raised an eyebrow, "not Amberdish himself?"

"Amberdish himself rarely travels outside of London, and his wife is with child. He has assured me, though, that the man sent in his stead is in every part his equal."

Thomas huffed like a spoiled child.

"As long as he doesn't try to undervalue the collection."

"May I remind you that if you had thrown them out of the house, as you were inclined to do but a week ago, you would have undervalued it yourself?"

Thomas threw the man a withering look.

His agent, Chamberlain - if he thought about it, he wasn't sure if that was his first or last name and, if either, what the other part of his name was - had been with the family for years. Thomas didn't know better than having him around, but he had never quite liked him. There was something dishonest about him, even if his father had always trusted everything the man said.

"I didn't burn them," he said, petulantly.

Chamberlain did not deign that with a response, which was probably for the best and honestly quite civil of him, seeing that Thomas was behaving like an eighteen-year-old brat.

He blamed that on the death of Celeste, but even that was not quite fair, if he'd be totally honest with himself, which he never was in the first place. He had always been like this, and then his father had sent him off to school, then he had met friends, and when one of them had hurt him, he had done what any sensible teenager did: he had taken revenge by making a lady pregnant.

His father had been overjoyed when he came home with Celeste, stating they had eloped out of pure love, and hadn't wanted to spend a moment more apart, but after moving into their shared home, and the birth of the triplets, they had endeavoured to spend as much time apart as possible.

Then she had become sick, and then she had died, and now Thomas had an estate, three children, no wife and the stamp of widower on his forehead, which meant that all the freedom he had endured during their marriage had ended and he was stuck with a house he did not want, and children he barely knew.

"He arrives on Monday," Chamberlain repeated, as if he feared that Thomas had not heard and might forget, "so please make sure you are there to greet him. If he likes you…"

Thomas didn't quite like the way the man's voice trailed off, as if that was such a feat for a person, liking him, but he didn't say anything about it.

"If he likes me?"

"He might appraise the art a little higher."

Politics once again. And not even the fun sort, either. He had engaged in plenty of politics while in school. Friends had been sons of politicians and philosophers - while he was the son of a duke, so they all really wanted to lick his heels - and he had enjoyed their little games. They, however, had been handsome, and he had yet to meet an antiquarian that was. Not that had met many, but he imagined they might be old, and stuffy.

"Is that all?" he asked in his most haughty tone.

"No, sir, that is not all," Chamberlain continued, "your wife has been dead for over a year now, and it is our belief that you would do well to find a new one."

"A new one?" Thomas couldn't hide his tone, which bordered on disgust, and hoped that Chamberlain would interpret it differently from how he had meant it. It wasn't a lie entirely, because in the end, he had loved Celeste. He had just been indifferent to it until he had lost her, which was sort of the general theme of his life, if he thought about it - which he tried not to do too often. It was depressing.

"There is a ball, next month," Chamberlain pressed on, "I imagine you remember how those go, even if you refused to attend the last… six, no, seven that I advised you to visit after you were invited. Luckily, the people really like you."

They really liked his title, but Thomas appreciated the sentiment.

"So you say I have to go and find a new wife," Thomas summarised.

"Exactly," Chamberlain said dryly.

"I will consider it."

He would not.

Chamberlain seemed to suspect as such, but did not say more. He brushed some imaginary dust from his jacket and walked towards the door in the same rod-ram-straight pose he usually kept. He opened it slightly, and through the crack Thomas could hear the excited voices of his children, in the distance. He reached over to put another, empty sheet of paper on his desk.

"Monday, sir," Chamberlain reminded him.

"Yes, yes, Monday, boring antiquarian, make him like me, sell the art, go to the ball, find a wife," Thomas scribbled a small, angry face upon the paper, to make it look like he made a list, "I will remember, Chamberlain."

"And, sir, if I may make a suggestion."

"You will do it regardless," Thomas muttered, "so why bother to ask?"

"Maybe you can consider dining with your children tonight."

Thomas stopped scribbling, the pen suddenly felt very heavy, but he didn't want to look up. He couldn't  even think of a snide remark to tell Chamberlain how that, of all the things he did not desire to do, was the thing that sounded least appealing.

"I will consider it," he repeated, eventually, in a clipped tone that didn't sound quite true.

Chamberlain opened the door further and slid out. The sound of his children grew louder. They were singing a song that Thomas didn't know, but his parents had never been the musical type, except where the harp was concerned, of course. His agent closed the door behind him, and Thomas was back, locked in his own little, comfortable world.

He dropped his pen, closed his eyes, and let out a sigh.

As he opened them again, his eye immediately fell on the painting above the fireplace, which was a family portrait Celeste had given him for his thirtieth birthday. He didn't particularly like it, but he wasn't quite sure why. It was an image of Celeste, sitting on a blanket in the grass, their three children next to her, depicted like little angels he knew from classical paintings he had seen during his days of study.

Looking at it unnerved him. The way the children were drawn he couldn't even tell which one was which, and while they looked alike, he was very certain that this was simply the painter being a terrible one. Thomas, as a father, would surely be able to distinguish between them, even if they all had identical hair and eyes, as they had had when they were younger.

He took a deep breath, and pushed up. Perhaps Chamberlain was right. He could call for dinner in the dining room tonight. It didn't have to be a fancy one, either, simply a get-together with the children and Lisa. It would be nice, he supposed, to see how far they had come in their table manners.

Deciding that would be his course of action he strode to the door, trying not to think of all the times he had done this before, trying to forget that he knew what would happen. His hand landed on the doorknob, which was cold to the touch, and yet he pulled back as if he had been burned, rooted to the spot, unable to stride out of the study and go to his children, as he had decided to do mere seconds ago.

His breath was shaky, like he had ran a mile. When had that happened?

"Come on, Tommie," he told himself, "it's a dinner, not an execution."

And yet, when his hand reached for the doorknob again, instead it pulled the bell cord that signalled he wanted his food brought up to the study.