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The wedding breakfast was laid beneath a broad striped pavilion pitched on the lower terrace lawn.

Ninety-six places had been set with fine Oriel silver. No more, no less. Ernest had successfully held that defensive perimeter against three separate maternal incursions. Flowers were banked along every timber support, their scent mingling with roasted meats and cellar-cooled wine.

At the center of the head table sat the wedding cake—four tiers of white almond paste, atop which rested a miniature, polished brass model of Belfast Number One.

Ernest stared at the confection. Eleanor leaned in beside him, her brow arched.

"Arthur," Ernest said across the table.

Arthur glanced up from his cold salmon, the picture of wounded innocence. "Chairman?"

"Explain the presence of an iron locomotive on our almond paste."

"Our wedding cake," Eleanor reminded him gently.

"Why is the company's founding locomotive perched on our pastry, Arthur?"