Like many of the families I have visited, while this one lacks so much that I take for granted, they do not lack the most important parts of a home: love and kindness. That is not to put a pretty face on the poverty I see. There are ten people—parents, five children, two grandparents and an aunt—living in a building smaller than the tiny London townhouse I share with Portia. At least they have outdoor space here, moors to roam and a sea to explore, unlike the city tenement families I am accustomed to.

The Miller family invites us in and plies us with food. That is to say that they quickly prepare fish and heat leftovers from the day before. This is not the home of the nineteenth-century middle or upper class where one can ask the cook to make a meal . . . and the poor woman is left scrambling to prepare supper in an hour rather than the usual half day.

Nicolas dives into his meal with the air of a starving man, which means I do not need to play the dainty lady. We eat our fill while the children pepper him with questions and stare at me. When he is done, he grabs two of the youngest, saying he is going to make them pirates. It is obviously an old and beloved game, and the children shriek and fight him off with wooden swords.

When one child accidentally lands on me, she scurries off, whispering apologies. I take up her discarded sword and execute a few moves, which brings her out again, and Nicolas and I find ourselves giving a mock demonstration, to the delight of the children and their elders. Finally, those elders shoo the children off, and Nicolas imparts instructions for the retrieval of the hidden goods. After that, we sneak out the side door and down a path to the ocean, where we might rest a while and make our plans.

We find a spot on the cliff, hidden by grasses, and we lower ourselves to the ground. Nicolas puts an arm around my waist and slides closer as we look out on the sea.

“You are good with children,” I say.

Do I imagine that he tenses, just a little? If so, he covers it with a laugh. “My sisters say it is because I have never grown up myself. I have nieces and nephews, and while I miss my parents and brothers and sisters, the children will be what brings me home. I do not wish to return in five years, a stranger to them.”

A brief pause, and then he says, carefully, “I must also admit that, as fond as I am of children, I am not certain I envision having any myself. The sort of life I lead is far more conducive to unclehood than fatherhood, which is why I am exceedingly careful on that account. I am not saying I would never change my mind, only it is not in my near future. Although some—like my family—find that hard to understand when I am, as you say, good with children.”