Nory laughed. “That’s probably true,” she admitted. “He was young, though. Your dad. Sorry, I don’t mean to pry, it’s just that I remember he and my dad were around the same age.”

“Cancer,” said Isaac simply. “It’s a bastard disease.”

Nory nodded. “So, you took over as head gardener.”

“I was a horticulture lecturer in Cornwall. But I’d been getting itchy feet for a while; I missed getting my hands dirty, wanted to get back to practicing what I’d been preaching. When Dad knew he wasn’t going to be able to work anymore, he suggested to Lord Abercrombie that I take over his role. Been here ever since.”

“Do you miss it? The teaching?”

“I miss the learning atmosphere, the hopeful vibe at the university. But I’m not a natural academic, I need to be doing. So, when I came here, I had a meeting with Lord Abercrombie and we created a partnership with Hart’s College, so that kids taking vocational courses like horticulture and environmental studies can come up here for their practicals and fieldwork.”

“The best of both worlds.”

“Exactly. How about you? Corporate banking? Or CEO?”

“Sorry to disappoint you. None of the above, I’m afraid. I own a secondhand bookshop in Shepherd Market, London.”

Isaac smiled. “That’s unexpected. You’ve taken me by surprise there. It sounds wonderful.”

“Are you teasing me?” she asked.

“No! Genuinely, that sounds wonderful. I have a thing for old books. I dunno, something about the smell of them or the binding . . .”

“Yes! There is no smell like book smell.” She nodded like a woman who’d sniffed a lot of books.

They were quiet for a moment, each sipping their cocoa while contemplating the other. This was not how Nory had envisaged her evening turning out, but it was a welcome surprise. She looked around the room. It was peaceful and comfortable, just the sort of space you want to relax in after a hard day’s work. The sofas were particularly sumptuous. A painting in one of the alcoves caught her eye.

“Is that . . . ?” She crossed the room, still hugging her cocoa, and stared at the small botanical study of wild garlic, from bulb to flower, in a dark wood frame. “Is this an original Serena De-Veer?” she asked a little breathlessly.

Isaac was contemplative for a moment. “Yes.”

“Oh my goodness, do you know how rare these are?”

She couldn’t quite believe she was looking at an original De-Veer; she’d only ever seen them in museums or books. And here was one just casually hanging in Isaac’s front room.

“I have an idea,” he said.