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"Who—who is the Marquis de Chatillon?" "Your adopted son, Thames Darrell," answered Winifred. To recreate the era, I deliberately tried to avoid creating a thinly disguised bodice ripper where an “empowered” woman mouthed off to prospective suitors in jerkins and tights, in other words, a typical romance novel. "Well, Sir Rowland," he said, after a brief pause, during which the knight regarded him with a searching glance, as if endeavouring to recall his features, "I will not gainsay your words. We shall be equally matched. She hesitated about her name, and, being prompted, gave it at last as Ann Veronica Smith, 107A, Chancery Lane. Do you know, Ann Veronica, it is all a lie about your birth certificate; a forgery—and fooling at that. At night she would turn it in her fingers like a rosary bead. ‘Left to yourself, my girl, you may not have any affairs. The freezing water lapped around her ankles as she ran along its edge, marveling at the thousands of tiny white spiral shells the tide had brought in.
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