‘You can’t expect to have more than one satisfactory daughter, not nowadays,’ he commented. ‘We’re all losing our grip. There’s not so much obligation or fear knocking about; at least one is bound to fall off the rails.’ He chuckled, resolutely light-hearted about the matter. Mrs Foster bit down on her lip. Her husband didn’t seem to accept that the marrying business might be at all grave; he made a big joke of it. But then he was a man; his career and his marital choice were able to remain quite distinct. ‘I’m sure it will all turn out well. He’ll no doubt call today or send flowers, you’ll see.’

Everything was now in the hands of Nathaniel Thorpe. It all might turn out to be rapturous or disastrous depending on him: his actions, his words, his intentions.

The conversation was cut short by the maid delivering the papers. Mr Foster opened his Times, shook it and then held it like a wall between them, clearly indicating that he didn’t believe the subject required any more discussion. Mrs Foster’s Daily Mail lay neat and undisturbed on the chaise longue. She had not shared her thoughts that the interlude might very well have gone further than a bit of kissing (although that would be damning enough); no one would ever hear her articulate her worst fears. She would not admit to such catastrophic failure. Besides, Mr Foster was not the sort to reach for a shotgun and demand that Nathaniel Thorpe do the proper thing. He was too bookish for that. Happiest sitting by the fire with a difficult, weighty tome and his pipe. He lacked ambition and fury. It was what made him the most delightful husband in the world, and the most useless. She had to manage it all.

They sat in comparative silence for twenty minutes, the only sounds being the regular ticking of the clock and the slow turning of the pages. Mr Foster occasionally made some comment connected to whatever he was reading. ‘My God, the Irish’; it wasn’t clear if it was an oath or a prayer. ‘The House will have to look at that. Can’t ignore it any longer.’ Recently when reading the papers he tended to become agitated, distressed. He often huffed and puffed impotently at the issues that were being reported. It saddened Mrs Foster to know that whilst he was clearly still very aware of the political landscape, he didn’t consider himself young enough to be part of a solution or an outcome; he had consigned himself to the role of outraged observer.

‘Oh, I think you need to see this.’

She was not too concerned by his tone; she imagined it was some article about the latest desperate atrocity the suffragettes had committed. But when he lowered the paper and caught her gaze, she saw the grief and compassion in his eyes.

Lord and Lady Winters of Belgravia announce the engagement of their eldest daughter, Cynthia Mary Elizabeth, to Nathaniel William Henry Thorpe, son of Sir Robert and Lady Thorpe. The marriage will take place at Westminster Abbey in April 1915.