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"So your answer is yes?" he said, taking my hand and looking into my eyes.

I nodded, suddenly shy at the thought that he was about to kiss me. But of course he didn't: he wasn't a savage.

"Wonderful!" he said. "Let's tell your father the good news."

*  *  *

They announced our engagement the very next day, in The Times. We might easily have missed it; we never read the society announcements. But that day, there was a piece about that new ship, the Titanic, saying it'd be at least two years before it was ready.

"Well," said my father, "I dare say you'll be married by then. How about we see if Frederick fancies a trip across the Atlantic?"

"He will! He said it sounded marvelous."

"And you won't mind your old father being a gooseberry?" 

"Of course not."

"Then we'll do it."

I tore the article out to save it, and as I refolded the paper, there was my name.

Lord and Lady Storton of Winterton Hall are delighted to announce the engagement of their son, Frederick, to Elinor Hayward, daughter of Mr. and the late Mrs. Robert Hayward, of Clereston.

He must've telephoned the newspaper straight away. What girl wouldn't think that romantic, that he was so keen to tell the world? It made up for the actual proposal being, if I was honest, a bit disappointing. But my father frowned.

"That's quick off the mark. There's the settlement to discuss, and I don't want them backing me into a corner."

"Who's ever managed to back you into a corner?"

He smiled. "Don't you fret about it, anyway. You start thinking about wedding dresses."

CHAPTER 2

A week later we motored down to Kent to meet Frederick's family, stopping overnight on the way. As the car wound its way up a gravel drive edged with lime trees, through woodlands and rolling pastures with deer grazing on one side and sheep on the other, we looked at each other, taken aback. We had grounds at Clereston, but they were a pocket handkerchief compared with this. Then we rounded a bend and there was Winterton Hall: huge, in honey-colored stone, with towers at each corner. Not quite a castle, but not far short. 

The entrance hall had a vaulted ceiling like a cathedral, and dark wooden paneling hung with portraits in heavy gold frames. A wide stone staircase led to a gallery running round all four sides, like the center of a spider's web, connecting the two wings on either side. Lady Storton was as forbiddingly elegant as she'd been at the ball, in lilac wool crêpe with a long rope of pearls. She introduced us to Frederick's older sister, Kitty—dark like her mother, and pretty in rose pink, but with a pinched look about her face—and Lord Storton. He was Frederick to a tee, tall and rangy, with the same fair hair and easy smile.

"It's wonderful to meet you both," he said. "Frederick's told me all about your mills, Mr. Hayward, and how clever the whole setup is. You must tell me all about it over luncheon."

*  *  *

We were on the second course, and the conversation had moved on from our mills to the rumors about the King's health, when Kitty, sitting beside me, noticed me looking at one of the portraits on the wall opposite.

She murmured in my ear, "Great-great-grandmother. It's through her we're distantly related to the King."

"I didn't know that."

"Really?" Still speaking softly, she said, "Surely your father's checked the family tree? Doesn't he want to brag to his friends about how far up you're marrying?"

The words were delivered with such an angelic smile that it took me a moment to realize what she'd said. She broke a little piece off her bread roll, buttered it and popped it into her rosebud mouth, as though we'd just been discussing the weather.

By the time I'd picked my chin up off the table, Lady Storton was saying, "Now, the wedding. We were thinking the second of March."

"That's very quick," said my father. "We've a lot to discuss first."