That was better, Helen thought. Neutral ground for just a little while longer. The bar was unusually crowded with the run-up to a darts match, but they found a table in a corner and sat facing each other. Helen tasted her hoppy beer and grinned at him. ‘The flavour of England. Home at last.’

‘To stay for ever, I hope. Helen, there’s nothing wrong, is there?’

She shook her head. There wasn’t anything wrong that she could put her finger on. It was just irritation with the world, and with Darcy, and most of all with herself. She looked around the little room, at dark beams hung with pewter pots and at the polished brass handles of the beer pumps.

This much she understood.

‘It’s good to think that we’ll go on sitting in pubs like this, together, for years and years. Watching the people and not saying much, but together.’

It was the first time she had mentioned their shared future. They stared solemnly at each other, realising what they had promised.

Darcy slid his hand into his pocket. ‘I want to give you this.’ A little blue velvet box sat on the table-top amongst the rings of spilled beer. Helen gazed at it, knowing and reluctant.

‘Go on,’ he ordered.

Inside the box was a ring. It was an immense blood-red ruby in an old-fashioned setting of diamonds. ‘My God,’ she breathed, staring at the great jewel. It was so unlike her that she couldn’t conceive herself wearing it. She couldn’t even bring herself to touch it.

Darcy took it out of its velvet nest and lifted her left hand. The ring, cold and massive, slid over her third finger and hung loose as she unwillingly held out her hand for them both to see it.

‘It’s the Viscountess’s ring,’ he told her. ‘I don’t know how many generations, but very old.’ And then, ‘How tiny your hand is. Such thin, little fingers. We shall have to get it altered for you.’

Helen thought of all the proud, splendid women who must have worn this ring as their right, and her heart failed within her. ‘Darcy,’ she said miserably, ‘I can’t wear this.’

‘You must, as my wife.’ There was to be no argument, and it was the first time that Helen had glimpsed strength of will in him. Nor could she have guessed at the insistence on family tradition, but it was clear to her now. Darcy folded her hand into a fist. ‘Wear it for me today,’ he said, ‘and then I’ll get our jeweller to remake it. Don’t you see, my darling? I’m proud of you, Helen, and in my own way I’m proud of my family too. I want you to wear our ring. Do it for me.’