‘Of course, sir. This will be Livvy’s night of triumph.’ After a frank discussion with his father-in-law, in which Sir Oliver had pointed out the foolishness of denying Olivia’s wishes in respect of her painting, and in light of her renewed interest in the marriage bed and their compromise that she refer to her duties in the parish no less than three times a week, the young parson was a happy man. Ecstatically happy, for this morning the wife he adored had announced she was with child.

Oliver conveyed his elder daughter to join Sir John St Aubyn and the man he had invited to his castle home to appreciate its collection of famous paintings.

‘My dear Pengarron, Reverend Lanyon and Mrs Lanyon, this is a pleasure. And now it is my honour to introduce you to the artist, Mr George Spears.’

The gentleman bowed with a flourish, and Olivia returned a sweeping curtsey smiling with all her charm. Mr George Spears was perhaps about forty, and his looks and his voice fully masculine. She found him forthright and fascinating.

The talk consisted entirely of the world of art, the artist expounding his approach to this and his attitude towards that, what he held in high estimation and what he scorned. He was well-informed and sound, and from the fluid motions of his hands one could almost see the subject he was talking about appear as a brilliant masterpiece. Next came a long catalogue of the wealthy, the noble and the famous who had sat for him.

In any other circumstances Oliver would have found George Spears, as an individual, inconsequential and boring. The artist’s facial lines seemed set a little too high and Oliver felt there was a lot about him that needed dragging down. In his current mood, dejected and morose, he would have liked to set about the task with unequal ruthlessness.

‘My daughter is gifted on canvas and on any other medium, Mr Spears,’ Oliver interrupted the monologue.

‘You paint, Mrs Lanyon? Well, how splendid for you.’

Olivia was so engrossed in Mr Spears that she missed the next announcement of who was entering the hall. The master of ceremony was intoning, ‘Sir William and Lady Rachael Beswetherick.’

Rachael strode straight up to Oliver, rudely ignoring the rest of the group. ‘Oliver, I wish to speak to you.’

Oliver surveyed the matron who had been shunning him as he would a fly who had landed on his person. ‘I’m presently engaged, ma’am. It will have to do another time.’

‘It must do now!’ Rachael risked her extravagantly decorated wig by tugging on him until his ear was on the same level with her lips.

When Oliver righted his head he looked grave. ‘Will you all please excuse me? I shall hope to continue with our fascinating discussion in a short while, Mr Spears.’