Helen took out the ring, and he slid it on to her finger. The wide gold circlet fitted perfectly now, but the ruby felt too heavy and too obvious.

‘Please wear it,’ he said. ‘I want them to see our ring on your finger.’ He hugged her and then kissed her forehead, cajoling.

He’s afraid of them too, Helen realised dismally. He’s a grown man, but somehow they reduce him to a small boy, who thinks that presenting them with a fait accompli will make his disobedience easier to swallow.

Sadness engulfed her as she followed Darcy down to the echoing gallery and out through the heavy door on to the island. For the first time she was struck by the appropriateness of the name of the old house.

The drive to Montcalm was unbelievably short. It seemed they had barely left Oxford before they reached the lodge at the great gates. The ticket booth was open and there was a small queue of cars in front of it. Darcy swung round them and the ticket man looked up sharply, and then straightened into a half salute. Helen and Darcy didn’t look at each other.

She saw the house on the skyline again, and now it seemed more threatening than fantastic. Darcy stopped the car at the centre of the gravel sweep between the two towering side-wings of the house. There was to be no momentary shelter in the safety of Jasper Thripp’s yard on this formal morning. Darcy ushered Helen out of the car and up the shallow rise of steps to the huge doors. The doors swung silently open in front of them and Maitland, black-coated, stood against the brilliance reflected from within the dome.

‘Good morning, my lord. Good morning, madam.’

Helen’s breath was coming in short, painful gasps and her heart seemed to pound with audible thumps. Darcy was pale, but he turned at the door to the private wing and smiled at her, then clasped her hand.

‘I love you,’ he whispered. Helen prayed that she was only imagining the effort at conviction she heard in his words.

‘His lordship and her ladyship are in the private drawing room, my lord.’

‘Thank you, Maitland.’

A few steps, they were at the door, and then inside the room.

Lady Montcalm was sitting at her embroidery, a spaniel asleep at her feet. Lord Montcalm was standing stiff-backed against the fireplace.

Helen saw, just as she had imagined, the cool and distant surprise in their faces, and her flickering courage died inside her. She knew, as fatally as if it had already happened, that she would fail miserably to impress these frosty people as a future daughter-in-law and heiress to the towering pile around them.

For a moment nobody spoke. Then Lady Montcalm put down her embroidery and smiled, a little tired smile.