So much for the piano. There lay on it now a china bowl full of press-cuttings, and Lucia glanced at a few, recalling the triumphs of the past week. The fête, favoured by brilliant weather and special trains from Worcester and Gloucester and Birmingham, had been a colossal success. The procession had been cinematographed, so too had the scene on the Golden Hind and the click of cameras throughout the whole performance had been like the noise of cicadas in the south. The Hurst had been the target for innumerable lenses (Lucia was most indulgent) and she was photographed at her piano and in Perdita’s garden and musing in an arbour, as Queen Elizabeth and as herself, and (she had got one of those artists to take, rather reluctantly) a special photograph of Drake’s poor wife. That had not been a success, for Daisy had moved, but Lucia’s intention was of the kindest. And throughout, to photographers and interviewers alike, Lucia (knowing that nobody would believe it) had insisted that all the credit was due to Drake’s wife, who had planned everything (or nearly) and had done all the spadework.