Indeed: thus far, the vast majority of women on Zechariah’s doorstep had been direct relations, and few so far from the tree as to fancy a British marriage. The most suspicious that could be said of him was that he spent an awful lot of time letter-writing, and seemed [rather] protective of some of the contents, both incoming and outgoing. ‘Confidentiality,’ he would cite.

Zechariah’s smile only widened as his servant turned co-conspirator (or was it co-conspirator turned servant?) caught on quick. Had he known what deductions had brought that conclusion’s immediacy, he might have not.

“She thinks she marries two weeks from now,” he said, dropping his voice to a conspiring murmur, “so our dear Rose must be fairly far along.”