‘No. We’ve another working estate, about twenty miles away. I … prefer to spend most of my time there. I have to be at Montcalm sometimes, like the evening when I met you. And one day I’ll have to live there because that’s what I’m for, in a way. But just now I’d rather be at home on the farm.’ There was a resigned wistfulness in his voice. Helen guessed that he was no more in love with his ancestral home than Oliver, but for different reasons.

As if his thoughts were following the same track Darcy asked, ‘Do you know my brother well?’

Helen answered as honestly as she could. ‘I don’t think I know him at all well. I suppose I was “Oliver’s girl” for a while. An extremely short while.’

‘What happened?’

‘Oh, he turned his attention elsewhere. To Pansy, actually.’

‘Mmm. Were you hurt?’

‘Yes. But it doesn’t matter now.’ Helen was lying, she hoped convincingly.

‘I don’t think I know him either,’ Darcy said, very softly. ‘My own brother. I wish I could do something to … make things easier for him. But I can’t. I don’t understand his world any more than he wants to live in mine. We barely inhabit the same planet. I wish we’d been born the other way round. I think if Oliver had been the elder son he’d have felt less of an anomaly.’

Don’t, Helen thought. Don’t you think that too.

‘Let’s not talk about Oliver. Tell me about something else. Farming. Badgers.’

‘I’m sorry,’ he said gently. ‘Funny, isn’t it? People always talk about Oliver. It’s something about him. Like your friend Pansy, too.’

They were quiet for a moment as they walked, and then hesitantly Darcy took Helen’s arm. Unthreatened, she let herself be drawn against him and lengthened her stride to fit his. Darcy began to talk about the antics of the badgers in the wood.

When they reached the point where the river curved back on itself and into the town, and the lit-up façades of student residences began to lean over them, Darcy stopped and firmly turned around. It was as if he was reluctant to slip by them even in the dark. They retraced their steps to Follies House.

Darcy led her down the steps to the island and watched gravely while she groped for her key. With the door open into the square height of the hall, Helen stopped and asked impulsively, ‘Darcy, what’s your first name? Your real name. Do I have to go on calling you by your title for ever?’

Darcy leaned against the door post, watching her face.

‘John William Aubrey Frederick Mere,’ he recited. His smile was lopsided, rueful. ‘You can choose whichever you like. But I’m always called Darcy.’

‘I’m not surprised,’ Helen laughed. ‘Goodnight, Darcy, then.’