I shot her a reproving look. The shaggy blonde moved slowly away, looking unnervingly, as Celia observed, like Boris Johnson, and sent us a baleful stare. We rumbled over the cattle grid to where gravel replaced clay. Past the agricultural barn we went, with hay bales stored one side and loose boxes the other, the latter these days housing classic cars rather than horses, and on towards the arch of the coach house and stable yard where the real equines lived. We purred through the yard, slowing down for the cobbles, and anything that might be tied to a ring and ready to swerve its backside nervously into my path. All the gorgeous creatures my hungry eyes sought, though, were sensibly in the shade, at the back, of their stables: only a noble iron-gray had his Roman nose over a door and regarded us with mild interest as we rolled on through and under a corresponding arch. As we emerged, Celia was treated, not only to the best view of the house with its famous John Soane facade creeping with pale pink roses, but crucially, to a panoramic view of the sea, which we drove towards, and which faced the front.

"Oh!" She sat up, duly impressed. Speechless, actually.

The large, rambling old manor sat serene and comfortable, its windows glinting in the sunlight, presiding over a shimmering sweep of pure blue. Out of sight, at the foot of a cliff, which wasn't as steep as it looked and which I knew every inch of how to clamber, lay a pale sandy beach. In a far corner was a small wooden boathouse, inside which Hugo and I had spent many happy hours. All we could see from here, though, was the edge of the garden, which stopped abruptly at the cliff, and was a riot of daisies and cowslips. A more manicured lawn and a formal gravel sweep led to a curving flight of shallow stone steps, worn thin by centuries of feet — not to mention bottoms, for this spot afforded the best view then double front doors, invitingly open under a splendid fanlight. So many laughs on those steps: so many friends gathered, so many flirtations, so many intense, moonlit conversations. If only they could talk.

“Did you fall in love with the house or with the man?"

I hesitated, remembering the first time I'd come here, on a very different sort of day. It had been the dead of winter, with a frost so hard it made everything sparkle, the windows glittering even more brightly than they did today.

Celia saw my hesitation and laughed. "Oh, don't worry, Lizzy Bennett gets off on Pemberley, which all the feminist literature professors determinedly overlook. Forget the wet-shirted Darcy, it's his gaff that clinches it for her." She gazed out speculatively. “This is certainly working for me. I say, who's this bucolic character straight out of central casting?"