When Helen found her way down to breakfast she was aware at once of an atmosphere of excitement. Even Maitland’s impassive face bore a tinge of animation. He was presiding at the sideboard over an array of silver chafing dishes, filled with the essentials of an English hunting breakfast. At the table, Lord Montcalm and his guests, as well as Oliver, were fuelling themselves for the day. Helen saw that there was kedgeree and kidneys beside the eggs and bacon but she shook her head at Maitland’s enquiry. The brandy of the night before had given her a slight, dry headache.

Tom was sitting a little apart, reading a newspaper. Helen slid into the chair next to his and he nodded briefly, then went on reading.

There was no sign of Lady Montcalm. Pansy appeared when everyone else had almost finished. She had protested that she had never hunted and only rode occasionally but she looked perfectly the part now in jodhpurs and an immaculate black jacket. Lord Montcalm himself took her plate and chose her breakfast for her.

‘Looking forward to the day, eh?’ he said. ‘Best kind of weather. I hope Thripp’s got you mounted properly.’

Oliver looked up. ‘She’s taking Madam Butterfly.’

‘Good, good.’

For once there was no sign of tension between father and son. Pansy sat down beside Oliver and they smiled at each other, the unmistakable intimate smile of recent lovers.

Helen stared down into her coffee, hating the corrosiveness of jealousy.

As soon as breakfast was over, everyone seemed to have a great deal to do. Helen aimlessly followed the bustle of people across the great hallway and under the dome. The low winter sun streamed through it, filling the space with misty light and gilding the voluptuous draperies and twining limbs of the painting. The main doors stood open and as she came level with them, Helen looked out at a sight that might almost have been another painting.

Against the winter-sharp landscape were horses, brown and white and chestnut, groomed until they shone. They wheeled and stamped with impatience, and when they snorted their breath plumed in front of them in the icy air. The riders were straight-backed women with their hair caught up in nets under bowler hats, and men in flaring red coats against white breeches. Their black peaked caps were pulled down over florid English faces.

Between the legs of the horses were milling hounds, brown and white and black, tongues lolling, keen with anxiety to be off.

For a moment Helen stood and took it all in, then she let herself be drawn closer, out into the thin sunlight. The air was full of crisp greetings, the jingle of stirrups and the creak of leather.

The excitement was almost tangible now.

Between the horses, Maitland passed to and fro with a heavy tray, handing up silver stirrup cups.