I was almost ready to rush home to Belgrave Square, pack a suitcase and catch the next train to Edinburgh, when I reminded myself why I had left home in the first place. The answer was Fig, my sister-in-law, the current duchess—mean-spirited, judgmental and utterly awful. Fig had made it very clear that I was a burden to them, no longer wanted at Castle Rannoch, and that she begrudged my eating their food. So when it came to enduring the heat and loneliness in London or enduring Fig, the heat won out.

Only two more weeks, I told myself as I walked home through Hyde Park. In two weeks’ time I was invited to Scotland, not to my ancestral home, but to Balmoral. The king and queen had already gone up to their Scottish castle, just a few miles from our own, in time for the Glorious Twelfth, the day when the grouse shooting season officially begins. They would remain there, shooting and stalking anything with fur or feathers, for the next month and expected their various relatives to come and stay for at least part of this time. Most people tried to avoid this: they found the bagpipes at dawn, the wind moaning down the chimney, the Highland dances and the tartan wallpaper hard to endure. I was used to all this. It was just like Castle Rannoch.

Cheered by the prospect of good, fresh Highland air in the not-too-distant future, I picked my way past the bodies in Green Park. It looked like the aftermath of a particularly nasty battle—with half-naked corpses strewn everywhere. They were, in fact, London office workers making the most of the weather, sunbathing with their shirts off. A frightful sight—the bodies striped white and red depending on which parts of them had been exposed to the sun. I was halfway across the park when the bodies started to move. I noticed the sun had disappeared and at the very moment I looked up there was an ominous rumble of thunder.

The sky darkened quickly as storm clouds gathered. The sunbathers were hastily putting on their shirts and making for shelter. I began to hurry too. Not fast enough, however. Without warning the heavens opened and rain came down in a solid sheet. Girls ran screaming to the shelter of trees, which was probably not wise, given the approaching sounds of thunder. Hail bounced from the footpaths. There was no point in my seeking shelter. I was already soaked to the skin and home was only minutes away. So I ran, my hair plastered to my face, my summer frock clinging suggestively to my body, until I staggered up the steps of Rannoch House.