Nelly, who was looking distinctly mournful at being left behind, replied with a baleful stare. In the end, Meredith decided that Kate Middleton with a touch of Joan Collins seemed about right.

‘Nelly says that for the queen of taupe, you’re looking surprisingly colourful, and she’s wondering what can have happened to make you suddenly want to show off?’ asked Sophie when she appeared downstairs.

‘Tell Nelly she can mind her own business,’ replied Meredith crisply.

It was true she was looking more eye-catching than usual in a burnt orange jacket over her pearl grey sheath dress, paired with a large orange flower in her hair and lipstick to match. It was indeed a much bolder look than she normally wore.

‘Nelly also says, watch out that Margot doesn’t grab your scissors and stick them into you,’ warned Sophie.

But as it turned out, any danger to Meredith’s future happiness was not likely to come from Margot, duchess of Savarin, but from another direction altogether.

Twenty-Two

Meredith caught the red ribbon firmly between both blades of the enormous scissors she had been provided with. ‘Je vous souhaite très bon chance avec votre festival!’ she pronounced in her excellent French accent. ‘I wish you very good luck with your festival!’ – and she cut the ribbon to tumultuous applause.

‘I could get used to this,’ she murmured to Philippe as they strolled through the field together.

‘I’m surprised,’ replied Philippe. ‘I’d have thought you were far too spiky to enjoy adulation.’

‘Ah, but now I own the château I’m becoming a grande dame and rather liking it.’

‘You weren’t behaving like a great lady the other night,’ he reminded her softly, his eyes on hers.

‘But, monsieur,’ Meredith replied in shocked accents, ‘surely you know that great ladies are the biggest sluts of all!’

She looked around her. There must be thirty stalls at least, the majority featuring food or wine. They passed some stalls festooned with local cheeses alongside one from the organic bakery. Next, several vintners peddled their wines. They stopped to taste at the one belonging to the famous vineyard of Clos d’Yvgne. Another couple specialized in the sweet dessert wine, Monbazillac, that Philippe had made them try with their foie gras. How long ago that seemed! Before I began my new life, Meredith thought, and smiled to herself.

Two or three foie gras stalls clustered together next to others specializing in huge wheels of cheese made on nearby farms and sold together in a cooperative by cheery farmers’ wives.

Already queues were forming as people piled their plates with tempting samples from each stall, washed down with wine in the special tasting glass they had picked up at the gate. It was all looking like a big success.