Lord Hurst had paused as his son fired, having seen the movement out of the corner of his eye. He smiled slightly. Charles was trying, that much was clear, even if he had looked momentarily disappointed when his father had instructed him to come with the remaining hunting party.
He didn't notice if the shot hit it's mark or not, but he did momentarily excuse himself from Lord Eward to approach his boy. "Enjoying the morning, Charles?" He asked, reloading the gun calmly next to the young man. "So... a poem for Abigail?" He asked, smirking slightly, eyeing his son. "A sonnet?" He asked, lifting his gun again to his shoulder and taking a shot at a pheasant. The bird went down, and Plato rushed off from his master's side to retrieve it.