‘How could you, Vicky?’ Zelda said crossly as they went upstairs for hats and parasols. ‘Paul’s nanny is quite capable of taking Paul to the park or the Zoological Gardens on her own. It’s what nannies are for.’

‘But it will be so much nicer if he is with us. And didn’t you think it wonderfully kind of Berthold Remer to agree he could come? I think he’s an exceptional person. Quite, quite special.’

Zelda came to a halt as they reached a spacious landing, home to an enormous marble statue of a Greek goddess. ‘Are you losing your mind, Vicky? Only a man verging on the witless would take someone else’s child—a child he is not acquainted with—on an excursion. Can you imagine Josef Remer doing such a thing?’

‘No, I can’t.’ She didn’t add that she couldn’t do so because she didn’t think Josef Remer nice enough for such a gesture.

The conversation between the two of them didn’t improve as they waited for Paul’s nanny to bring Paul to them.

‘My instincts tell me Berthold Remer is a disappointment to his father.’ Zelda tilted her wide-brimmed hat, laden with peacock feathers, to a more seductive angle. ‘He quite obviously takes no interest in the Remer steelworks or in any other aspect of the family’s vast holdings—and the little I overheard of his conversation with you yesterday evening was pathetically unsophisticated. Josef was telling me of how, on his visit to Baden-Baden last month, there were more crowned heads in the casino than at King Edward’s coronation. I doubt Berthold ever visits Baden-Baden.’

Vicky doubted it as well, and was glad of it. She didn’t want to be in love with a man who thought it important to be seen in the company of European royalty.

Not wanting to discuss Berthold any further with Zelda she adjusted her broad straw hat with its decoration of artificial pink roses and picked up her white lace gloves. Her dress was white too, high at the throat, fashionably hobble-skirted and prettily trimmed with broderie anglaise. She didn’t look as breathtakingly sophisticated as Zelda, but it didn’t matter. Berthold wasn’t interested in sophistication. He was interested in the things she was interested in, and also—and this she knew with happy certainty—he was interested in her.

Three days later, Berthold asked her father for his permission to propose to her.

‘Great Scott, Vicky! I could hardly believe my ears!’ her father said to her later that evening when he spoke to her in the privacy of her room. ‘Naturally, I told him it was far too soon—not at all the thing. Still, he’d be a grand catch. Much better than Amos Ramsbotham’s son at Ilkley, or William Priestley’s son at Keighley. And though you would expect his father to be opposed to his marrying a non-German—and to someone not of their own elite social set—that isn’t the case. Herr Remer knows of his intentions and has raised no objections. Considering all the advantages such a marriage would bring to you, it calls for serious thought. That being the case I told Berthold to approach me again in six months’ time, when it is possible I might give him a different reply.’