When he knocked at Sir Lyle’s door that evening, he was in dress uniform. A few snowflakes were fluttering about, but the wind had died down and it seemed much too cold for real snow.
He thought of Catherine, on her way to Wansdyke and thence to Wales. No matter how lushly appointed her carriage, it would still be chilly and uncomfortable. And the spasms – he knew nothing of what happened to women expecting children, but he thought they could not be right.
The butler who admitted him spoke gravely and with respectful admiration for his rank. He would show the captain directly into the library, he murmured. Sir Lyle was there chatting with another well-wisher. He led Jocelyn across the hall and along a short corridor toward a beautiful pair of heavy doors. The butler pulled one open.
Joc
