Beyond the cliffs the snow clung to the bare branches of the oaks, gently covered the grass on Putney Downs, and partially buried the lifeless body of the elderly gentleman lying on the path, leaving only a bedraggled dog to mourn his departure.

At the far end of the Esplanade, Cecily Sinclair Baxter stood at the window of her sitting room overlooking the Pennyfoot grounds. The bowling greens resembled icing on a wedding cake-smooth, shiny, and begging for that first footprint to mar the surface. The sight brought her no pleasure, however.

“This storm couldn’t have come at a worse time,” she murmured, “with so much to be done. I have to go into town tomorrow. My gown for the Welcome Ball needs some alterations, and the snow looks very deep. I do hope Samuel won’t have trouble with the carriage.”

Across the room, her husband remained silent behind the pages of the Daily Mirror.

Cecily tried again. “I sincerely hope that all this snow goes away in the next few days. Our guests are not going to enjoy the Christmas season if they are floundering about with freezing noses and toes.”

The rattle of a newspaper warned her that Baxter was deeply immersed in an article and did not wish to be disturbed. Since Cecily had never conformed to the adage that a woman should bow to her husband’s wishes at all times, she turned to face him. “Did you not hear me?”

“I heard you.”

The newspaper remained upright in front of Baxter’s face, much to Cecily’s annoyance. “Then please do me the courtesy of giving me a reply.”

Baxter’s sigh seemed to rebound off the walls. He lowered his newspaper and sent his wife a reproachful scowl. “What would you have me say?”

“That you agree that this snowstorm could be disastrous for our Christmas activities.”