Whit-more Hall stood on a hill above a lake, two hours from the city, surrounded by chestnut trees and a long drive.
"They're here," said Eleanor Whitmore, before the car had stopped. "Richard, come out. They're here."
She was sixty, with silver hair pinned loosely at her neck, and her eyes were the same storm gray as her son's. She came down the steps with her hands outstretched. Lily, who had been drilling herself in the car on how to curtsy, found herself pulled into a warm, flour-scented embrace.
"My dear girl," said Eleanor. "At last. Let me look at you." She held Lily at arm's length. "Oh. Oh, you are lovely. Alexander, you didn't tell me she was lovely."
"I told you she was pretty, Mother."
"Pretty is what one says about a hat." Eleanor kissed Lily's cheek. "Come in, come in. You must be frozen."
Inside, the house smelled of wood smoke and baking and old books. A rangy young man with Alexander's cheekbones and a mischievous grin slid down the banister and landed neatly on the hall floor.
"Julian," said Eleanor. "Behave."
"I am behaving. I'm greeting my future sister." He took Lily's hand and bowed over it with exaggerated gallantry. "I have a hundred questions. Number one: how did you get him to smile? It took me twenty-six years."
"Julian."
"And number two..."
"That is quite enough." A slim girl with long dark braids appeared on the stairs, studying Lily with frank, curious eyes. "I'm Sophie. Don't mind him. He's been awful since breakfast."
"You're all very kind," said Lily, a little overwhelmed.
"We are nosy," said Sophie. "It's different."
A voice came from the end of the hall.
"Julian, Sophie. Let the girl breathe."
The laughter died.
Richard Whitmore stood in the doorway of the study. He was tall and broad-shouldered, in a dark suit despite the casual hour, with iron-gray hair and a face like carved granite. He did not smile. His gaze moved over Lily slowly, from her hands to her face, and she had the strange sensation of being weighed on a very precise scale.
"Father," said Alexander. "May I introduce Lily."
"Miss Thompson." Richard's voice was deep and measured. "Welcome to my home."
"Thank you, sir."
"I have read a great deal about you in the newspaper." A faint pause. "I would like to read a little about you in person."
"Richard," said Eleanor warmly, "give the child a cup of tea first."
At dinner, he sat at the head of the table and asked questions between courses, each one casual, each one a needle.
"What does your family do, Miss Thompson?"
"My father was in business."
"Was?"
"He died years ago."
"My condolences. And your mother?"
"She died when I was born."
A silence followed. Eleanor's hand tightened on her fork. Richard's expression did not change.
"Then you have no family at all."
"I have a housekeeper, sir," said Lily, lifting her chin. "Martha. She raised me. She is the closest thing I have."
She felt Alexander's eyes on her. She did not look at him.
For a long moment, Richard Whitmore studied her. Then, slowly, he lifted his glass.
"That," he said, "is the first honest answer anyone has given me this year."