For mothers everywhere

A little bit of Mrs Stewart (unedited) out of the next Cambridge Fellows book:

Monkey Island July 1909

The journey to Fyfield was a pleasant one, especially when Mr. Stewart insisted on a surprise diversion to Monkey Island—Jonty hadn’t been there since he was a just a little sprat, and Orlando had never been there at all.
“You’ll have to assure Orlando there aren’t actually any monkeys there. He’s not fond of furry creatures,” Jonty said, as the carriage took them from Maidenhead station to Bray, their luggage having gone north the few miles to Fyfield in the capable keeping of Hopkins. 
“Not monkeys, so much as monks, I believe. Canonical rather than simian.” Mr. Stewart beamed. “Although I suppose in either case they might be capuchin?”
“Your jokes are getting worse.” Mrs. Stewart’s smiled indulgently. “You see, Orlando, the island used to be owned by one of the local abbeys. Then there was something to do with the fire of London. Richard, you know the story.”
“I do, and it’s a boring one. About ballast and rubble and building the island up. Nothing as exciting as monks or monkeys. By the way,” he added, “I’ve made some subtle enquiries and I don’t think they’ll be there today.”
“They? Oh, them.” Jonty raised his eyebrows. “Might be a little awkward.”
“Might somebody enlighten me as to who they are and what’s so awkward about it?” Orlando looked daggers at his friend.
“The Royal family. Or selected members thereof.” Mr. Stewart narrowed his eyes. “You’re too sensible to want me to elaborate.”
“Indeed.” Orlando nodded. Mr. Stewart had been acquainted with the House of Saxe- Coburg and Gotha since childhood, when he’d been taken to play with the young princes, as they then were. While they still remained on amicable terms, he couldn’t persuade his conscience to accept His Majesty’s “interesting” attitude to marital fidelity. Jonty’s father may have been able—after some soul searching—to acknowledge his son’s unusual position on the matter of women, but an adulterer he couldn’t abide.
“As is the way of these things,” Mrs. Stewart stepped in adeptly to change the subject, “Monks’ island—or maybe it was monken island, who knows—became Monkey Island. And there are monkeys there, of a sort. Painted ones on the walls. Doing amusing things.”
Jonty, who’d seen the monkeys at the zoo doing things which would have made his mother’s eyes stand out like organ stops, stifled a snigger. He was still within leg slapping range—both in terms of distance and age.
“So long as they’re not pursuing me, I’m happy.” Orlando looked stern, but the twinkle in his eye gave the game away. “It’s the sort of thing your youngest son would force on me.”
“Alas, you’re perfectly right. I don’t think he’ll ever improve with age so we’ll just have to grin and bear him.” Mrs. Stewart wrinkled her nose.
“I heard that. You do know that I’m not some piece of pottery you can talk about and it’s none the wiser?” Jonty yawned, stretched and strained his head to get a better view along the road. “Are we there yet?”
Mrs. Stewart rolled her eyes. “See? That’s just what he was like when he was a little boy.”