Lord Lansbury's Christmas Wedding. Helen Dickson

that. I can only hope my son knows what he’s doing.’

      ‘I’m sure he does, Lady Lansbury,’ Jane answered, careful to hide her envy of Lydia Spelling while wishing with every fibre of her being that she was the woman being flaunted on Lord Lansbury’s arm.

      ‘I’m not at all sure, Jane. I have great affection for my son, but he does have his faults. I’m concerned about him doing the right thing. But of course I take care not to let such comments reach his ears. It is his affair, after all, who he marries. But if I were a betting woman I’d wager he isn’t in love with her.’

      ‘Not everyone who marries is in love,’ Jane said quietly. ‘In some of the countries I have visited, men and women have their marriages arranged by their parents. Sometimes the couple don’t meet until their wedding day. I’ve heard the opinion that love and marriage are two separate things.’

      Lady Lansbury studied her closely. ‘And what is your opinion, Jane?’

      ‘That those who expressed that opinion must be sadly cynical people. What other reason is there to marry?’

      ‘Children is a good place to start.’

      Jane gave Lady Lansbury a look of feigned astonishment. ‘Oh! I did not realise one needed a wedding ceremony to beget children.’

      Lady Lansbury laughed. ‘What a wicked observation, Jane. Some would say you are quite shocking.’

      ‘Wicked, maybe, but also sensible.’

      Lady Lansbury’s smile died. ‘You are a wonderful revelation, Jane, and I shall enjoy continuing our conversation on marriage at another time.’ She glanced once more in the direction of her son, but then, recollecting herself, she looked directly at Jane. ‘Forgive me, my dear, for being so forthright, but—what I said about Christopher, I am sure I can rely on your discretion.’

      As if reading her mind, Jane said, ‘Of course, Lady Lansbury. I never betray a confidence.’

      A look of understanding passed between the two women. ‘Thank you, Jane,’ Lady Lansbury answered.

      Considering Lord Lansbury’s affairs nothing to do with her, Jane thought it prudent to keep any further opinions on marriage to herself. For the time she had known Lady Lansbury, she had discovered she had a forthright friendliness she liked. They often talked together. Lady Lansbury was very frank. She told Jane how much she admired her Aunt Caroline, who had made quite a niche for herself since her husband’s death ten years ago.

      Observing Octavia who was watching her brother, Jane noticed her cheeks were flushed and her eyes were larger and brighter than she had seen them. ‘Are you all right, Lady Octavia?’

      She nodded. ‘Can we go and get something to eat? I’m hungry.’

      ‘Of course we can. If you will excuse us, Lady Lansbury.’

      ‘Of course, my dear. Run along,’ she said, looking with concern at her daughter as she fidgeted from one foot to the other. ‘Octavia is looking a little flushed. Perhaps it’s the sun.’

      ‘I’ll get her a glass of iced lemonade—and I’m sure an ice cream would not go amiss,’ she suggested, knowing of Octavia’s love of that particular desert.

      ‘I don’t like Christopher’s friend,’ Octavia said, in a childishly conspiratorial whisper when they were far enough away from her mother to be overheard.

      ‘But why? Why don’t you like her, Lady Octavia?’

      ‘She’s always cross. I just don’t like her. She isn’t my friend.’

      And just as suddenly her agitation was gone and she looked up and searched Jane’s face with her soft blue gaze. There was a gentle elusiveness about her that declared her to be as fragile and vulnerable as a summer flower and she possessed a strange, tragic quality that always touched Jane deeply.

      ‘We shall always be friends, won’t we, Jane?’

      ‘Yes, Lady Octavia, I will always be your friend,’ Jane said with genuine warmth.

      Octavia continued to search Jane’s face. ‘Truly? Cross your heart?’

      Jane smiled, then with her forefinger she made a sign over her own heart. ‘Cross my heart,’ she promised.