AMELIA MET HER MOTHER in the dining room at a stuffy women’s club Countess Brockett favored when in London. It wasn’t technically her mother’s club, but offered reciprocal membership with the club she belonged to in York. The interior decorating wasn’t to Amelia’s taste, but for once she couldn’t lament the choice. Amidst the garish florals there was plenty of space between tables and a reasonable expectation of discretion from staff and members alike.
“How’s Dad?” Amelia asked, once they’d ordered, trying to delay the inevitable crux of the conversation ahead.
“Not saying much. He spends most of his time reading the papers. Which don’t usually contain photographs of his daughter with the Prince of Wales.”
“Could you please pass the sugar?” Amelia asked. Maybe conversational blandness c
