Dumb and speechless with fear – me, not Celia, who looked horribly enthralled – we had no choice but to follow Belinda's swaying floral behind through the living room and towards the open French windows, which gave on to the terrace and a sweeping lawn. A huge cedar tree spread its branches centrally over it, like wings, and another beautiful sea view unfolded beyond. It was years since I'd walked through these rooms: years since I'd been here with my baby in my arms – I'd breastfed him over there, by the fire, when I'd brought him here for the first time from London, on that sofa. He'd taken his very first steps out there, on the terrace we were making for now, cheered on by his father and grandfather, who'd applauded as if Peter were winning the Grand National horserace. Roger had taken his finger and walked slowly with him down the lawn whilst Peter, unsteady and wobbly on chubby legs, had beamed toothlessly, as I'd taken pictures.

Roger was rising from his chair at the head of the table. He was a tall, statuesque man, with a shock of white hair, a little stiffer perhaps these days, but still handsome. He was smiling broadly and his face looked even more brick-red than I remembered, but perhaps the hair was whiter. He held out his arms and came towards me, beaming.

“Flora! My dear. How lovely to see you.” He embraced me warmly and then stepped back. He struck a classical pose, hand on hip, chin in the air, a finger poised beneath it. “Will I do?”

I laughed, despite myself. “Of course you will, Roger. Very Gainsborough.”

“Only I'm sure you're used to nubile young chaps with chiseled chins and lean thighs, eh?” He lurched towards me, twinkling. “Possibly in the buff these days, too. What with all those life classes. Well, you'll be delighted to hear I'm clinging to the garments. Belinda wants me in the High Sheriff garb, but I thought like this? Slacks and a sweater? More relaxed?”

“Definitely. Although we could always try you in your hunting pink?” I said mischievously.

His eyes popped with pleasure as I knew they would. “I say, why not! Terrific idea! Bit of a clash with the old complexion, though?”

“Definitely,” Belinda said briskly. “And there are more than enough hunting portraits in this family. Now, don't monopolize the poor girl, Roger, these two are dying to see her.”

I was entirely happy with the genial Roger though, and would cheerfully have never left him, but Belinda had her hand under my elbow and was steering me lightly but firmly on. To be fair, I think she was lending me her strength. She might guess this was an ordeal.