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breathed in the fresh sea air. "We want to marry here on the ship."
    With a flick of his wrist, Craven tossed the cigarette into the ocean. He faced John squarely, with the stance, the gaze, and the aplomb of a man who accepted only his own opinions.
    "That's ridiculous, John. It shows your immaturity," he scoffed. "Do you know what you're saying? A spur-of-the moment wedding? Lydia's wedding should be the social event of the season. With her friends present. And her father."
    Arguing would serve no purpose. "Tell me this, Craven. What church aisle or even palace steps are more impressive than the grand staircase?"
    Craven's inability to name one spurred John on. "You speak of friends. How could there be a more splendid event than the gathering of these first-class passengers on the greatest ship in the world? Where else would she be more acclaimed? What more could you want for Lydia?"
    John knew. Craven's expression and eyes seemed to say myself.
    "You've made your point," Craven allowed. "But Lydia sees with you a kind of life that is different from the one to which she is accustomed. And this ship? I daresay even a woman older and more experienced than Lydia would be impressed with romantic thoughts of a wedding on this ship. Do you really think this is the time and place for deciding something that will affect your entire life? You haven't even known each other long."
    "Long enough," John said.
    "I'm older than you, John. Perhaps I could give you a little advice."
    Yes, he could use some advice—where to find the captain.
    "Lydia is somewhat sheltered. And she's impressionable."
    Circumstances now ruled out whatever opinion, advice, or lack of blessing that might come from Craven or Lydia's father. But John would like their approval. "We love each other, Craven."
    Craven scoffed, "I cannot imagine a man who wouldn't love her."
    John understood the implication. Lydia was everything a man could desire. Aside from that, she was heiress to a vast fortune and would likely come into it at a young age, since she was an only child of her parents' middle-aged years.
    "You know her father would be highly displeased to hear of your plans. Such a move could affect her entire future."
    As much as John didn't like to admit it, he felt inhibited around men like Craven, who gave such a vivid impression that they owned the world that one could almost believe it.
    Nevertheless, he said, "I wanted you to be one of the first to know."
    "To be sure," Craven said stiffly.
    The conversation—or was it a confrontation?—unnerved John. Just as he turned to try to stroll confidently along the deck, he almost tripped over a little boy, who sprinted away from a man shouting after him, "Henry." John caught hold of the railing and forced himself against it rather than fall over and crush the boy.
    The man and John said, "Sorry," at the same time. The little boy had stopped and looked up at them as if he had no idea what might be their problem.
    The man, whom John recognized, touched the boy's head. "You need to watch where you're going, son." He extended his hand to John. "Henry Stanton-Jones."
    John shook his hand. "John Ancell. Pleased to meet you."
    Henry introduced the boy as Henry George and the pretty young girl near him as Phoebe. An elegant middle-aged woman John had seen with them before walked up and was introduced as Lady Stanton-Jones, his mother. The gracious lady extended her gloved hand, and John bent his head and touched it with his lips.
    "Come along, children, let's get to the dining room. Henry George, don't run ahead."
    The woman and two children walked on. John wasn't sure what he should say. He'd never say to Cyril Beaumont, I've ridden on your trains. But he might as well plunge in. "Mr. Stanton-Jones, I've read your books. And I was particularly intrigued with Once Upon an English Country Garden."
    The author smiled. "Thank you. I appreciate that." He paused, as if weighing his thoughts. "I've seen you with Miss Beaumont and