“Pink?” He laughed. “You wouldn’t catch me wearing pink.”

“It’s really red. Only it’s called pink.”

“This really is a bloody silly country,” he said.

“You said you were called Blue because of your red hair,” I pointed out. “So Australia must be just as silly.”

“You got me there.” He laughed. We went into the dining room and grabbed an early breakfast. The dowager duchess joined us just as we were finishing, looking terrifying in full hunting gear. “I couldn’t turn down the chance to hunt once more,” she said. “But I had to promise I would not take the jumps.”

We went out to find three magnificent horses waiting for us. Jack looked at his and laughed. “What kind of saddle do you call that little thing? It doesn’t look big enough for my bum, let alone yours.”

“Well, really!” Edwina exclaimed. “That is a perfectly normal riding saddle, although when I was a gell a lady always rode sidesaddle.”

“Do you mind if I take it off and ride bareback?” he asked.

“I most certainly do mind.” Edwina allowed the groom to help her into her saddle, the poor man straining and red-faced as he hoisted that considerable weight. “You must learn the rules, John. You must learn to uphold the family honor at all times.”

Jack swung himself easily into the saddle and I followed suit.

“We join the hunt down in the village,” Edwina said. “It will give you a chance to get the feel of the horse.”

“All I can feel right now is this bloody saddle digging into my arse,” Jack said. “How can you ride with anything so uncomfortable?”

“What sort of saddle do you use?” I asked. “Or do you ride bareback?”

“Sometimes,” he said. “But when I was riding the boundary fences, we had big, Western saddles with a pommel in front. Sort of like sitting in an armchair and hard to fall off if you’re trying to rope a calf.”

Our hoofbeats echoed in the still, morning air. A flock of rooks rose, cawing from the copper beech. The horses danced nervously, and I noticed how comfortable Jack was in the saddle. Here was someone who really knew horses. Finally his grandmother would have something to be impressed about. A large crowd of riders and spectators on foot had gathered at the pub, while the hounds milled around, wagging tails.

“What are the dogs for?” Jack asked.

“They’re hounds, and they track the fox for us. They pick up the scent, chase it and corner it for us.”

“It sounds like a lot of bother for one little fox,” Jack said. “Wouldn’t it be easier to find its den, wait until it comes out and then shoot it?”

Edwina had turned pale and was clutching the gold tie pin at her neck.

A man in a white apron was going around, handing out stirrup cups.