‘So you are,’ Pansy added. ‘And you’re the only one of us who’s got any sense. Darcy’s the nicest man I know, and he adores you.’

He adores you. The words rang in Helen’s ears and Venice fell away. She saw Darcy standing in the meadows at Mere, smiling at her.

‘Didn’t you know?’ she heard Chloe asking.

Helen collected herself with an effort. ‘Oh yes. I knew.’ She looked quickly from one to the other and determinedly changed the subject. ‘Why are we sitting here talking boyfriends like three schoolgirls? Isn’t there anything else?’ They were all laughing again.

‘There’s us. And The Stones of Venice, for a start.’

‘Do you think we should have some more brandy before Pansy gives us her critical interpretation?’

‘I’m sure we should have some more brandy.’

Much later, when they reached the Palazzo Croce again, they found Masefield and Kim waiting for them in the lounge. There were creases of genuine concern in Masefield’s heavy face, and he was holding out a silver tray with a little square envelope on it.

‘This has just been delivered. For you, Helen.’

It was unmistakably an international telegram.

The glow of pleasure from her evening was torn away from Helen by a cold shock of fear. Oh God, a voice said in her head, not Mummy too. Please, not Mummy too. Her hands shook as she snatched the envelope from the pretty tray and clumsily fought to rip it open.

‘Not bad news I hope,’ Kim said.

For a moment, as Helen stared at them, the words failed to register. She frowned, her lips framing the short message. Then relief so profound flooded through her that she found herself laughing weakly. The telegram fluttered from her fingers and drifted away.

‘What is it, Helen, for God’s sake?’

‘It’s nothing. No, I don’t mean that. It’s Darcy.’

Pansy picked up the telegram again and put it into her hands.

‘Come on,’ she said briskly.

Helen looked down at the words again, then read them out aloud as slowly as if they were in a difficult foreign language.

‘It says “Helen will you marry me Darcy”.’

There was a confused babble of exclamations. Helen found that she was still laughing half-hysterically. ‘It’s so like him,’ she explained to no-one in particular. ‘Not to say it direct. Or even to telephone. It’s so like him, to do it like this.’

Kim stared around, puzzled.

‘Will someone tell me who Darcy is?’

‘Kim,’ Pansy said, ‘he’s Oliver Mortimore’s elder brother.’

Kim’s jaw dropped. ‘The elder brother?’

‘The one and only. We have the possible future Countess of Montcalm in our midst.’ She turned the telegram over. ‘Reply paid. He means business, Helen.’

It was Chloe who gently took her hands. ‘Shall we all leave you alone for a bit?’