Mrs Andrews.

I don't think my dear husband could become more infantile.
Look at him with his shotgun trying to grasp out at some form of masculinity, I do think he is rather beautiful.
I force myself to think that because I have come across like I have not one ounce of bitterness.
The plan would never work otherwise.
When I spoke to the painter earlier I asked him whether he would reserve a space on the bench,
which Mr Andrews would presume was for his future heir.
In fact I only requested for this painting to be done
so I could have a memory to laugh and cry about.
The space in the picture was never planned for an angelic offspring,
but for one dear Mr Darcy.
Majorie our maid had consulted me to not have a dalliance with such a young rapscallion,
but perhaps that's what enchanted me about him,
his beautiful chest pulsating with overbearing passion,
certainly more than Mr Andrews:
'once a month for recreation'.
And whenever he consulted his conscience and realised he didn't have an offspring to leave his estate to, he pathetically tried to woo me into the four poster;
curiously it was never the right time of month.