When he arrived at the car, she was powdering her face with the aid of a vanity mirror.

“We have to get back,” she said. “They’ll be waiting for me.”

For the remainder of the afternoon, he watched her carefully. Saw her making conversation with aunts and uncles, only some of whom he remembered meeting at their wedding. Saw her exchanging pleasantries with the vicar, bending down to kiss the cheeks of tiny cousins, shaking the hands of well-wishers from the village. Nodding politely, smiling bravely. Going through the motions.

At some point he became tired of struggling to make small talk and took himself off for a walk outside. In the rose garden he sat down on a bench for a smoke. He was surprised when a thin man, whom he recognized as Doctor Peters, the family physician, joined him and lit a cigar of his own.

“Sad business.” Doctor Peters had a pronounced lisp and spat slightly as he spoke.

“Isn’t it. You must know the family pretty well.”

“Oh, yes.” Peters nodded emphatically. “I brought young Genevieve into the world, you know. A difficult birth.”

Robert puffed on his cigar. “I didn’t know that.”

“Well. She’s not the type to slip out easily, is she? Not our Genevieve.” The doctor seemed to realize, as soon as he’d spoken, that he’d presumed too much with that pally tone. His smile was twitchy.

“I suppose not.” Robert gave him a sidelong look. He didn’t like the “our.”

Doctor Peters cleared his throat. “Genevieve is a lucky girl.”

They were quiet for a moment. Robert looked across the sea of roses in varying shades of pink, red, yellow and cream.

“How so?” he said.

“Pardon?” It was one of those occasions when a person says “pardon” not because he hasn’t heard the remark but because he isn’t sure of how to respond. It was something Robert had encountered a lot in his business life. It enabled the speaker to play for time, and it usually meant he was not being entirely straightforward.

“I said how so?”

“Well…” Another clearing of the throat. “You’re obviously a devoted husband, sir. Genevieve is lucky to have found a man who cares for her so completely and unconditionally.”

“Unconditionally? What the deuce are you getting at, Doctor?”

“Oh, dear me. Nothing at all, sir. I’m sorry to have…It was, as I say, a very difficult birth. For a while it looked unlikely that either Genevieve or her mother would pull through.” He knocked the burning end off his cigar, wrapped the remainder carefully in a handkerchief and placed it in his breast pocket.