‘Tell Jensen your ideas when you see him in London,’ said Marjorie, pursing her lips. ‘He knows a profitable scheme when he sees one, he might take the bait.’

‘Yes!’ Betsy clapped her hands. ‘If anyone can convince him to come back to Fernfield, it’s you, my dear.’

My heart squeezed at the hopeful looks on their faces.

‘I’ll do my best,’ I promised. And I meant it; after all, I realized, I wanted Jensen to come back just as much as they did.

‘The grapes will be pressed on the day we pick them,’ I said, smiling at my audience, ‘which is usually mid-October, and the juice pumped into tanks where it will stay until February—’

‘Sorry for interrupting, Lottie, the sugar levels are very high for September,’ Godfrey put in, pulling his notebook from his pocket and flicking through it. ‘Ah, here we are. I took readings from the Pinot Meunier this morning and the refractometer was giving me sixty-four in places. So I don’t think it’ll be mid-October this year.’

‘I agree,’ said Pippa, raising a hand. ‘We’ve had a lot of sun this season and apart from the rain in August, we’ve had very few setbacks.’

‘Gosh.’ I pulled a face. The number was an indicator of sweetness. According to Ted’s notes, we hadn’t reached a reading of above sixty until the end of September last year. ‘So harvest really could be very early?’

It was later that same afternoon and I’d gathered the team on the terrace under the shade of the parasol. Betsy had gone for a snooze and Marjorie had gone home and I was running through my presentation for the library wine-tasting event next week. At least, I was trying to. My audience consisted of Matt, Clare, Godfrey and Roger, most of whom couldn’t resist adding in their own two penn’orth at every opportunity. Pippa was there too, acting as my assistant. She was in charge of pouring the wine samples and handing round the sheets of detailed tasting notes that Roger had prepared.

‘This dry weather is certainly bringing the grapes on well,’ she said now, grimacing as she eased the cork out of sparkling elderflower juice which we were using instead of the real McCoy for our practice. ‘It’s more like the Dordogne than Derbyshire, particularly through the Chardonnay vines: the paths are dusty and dry and the leaves are beginning to turn brown at the edges.’

‘The Pinot Noir is looking good too,’ said Clare, looking up from her crocheting. Apparently, she was still being harangued by the blanket committee. ‘I sent Sidney some photos of the crop the other day and he reckoned they were as ripe as his.’

‘Phew.’ Matt pretended to wipe his brow. ‘Looks like we emptied out the tanks just in time, then, Lottie.’