Janet MacDonald watched them go. Five years ago when Lorna Cartwright, as she had then been, had spent the summer at Glendrochatt there had been plenty of rumours flying round regarding her possible relationship with her brother-in-law. Lorna had been heartily disliked locally not only for her high-handed and abrasive approach to everyone – only thinly masked by a surface sweetness that hadn’t deceived many people – but for her blatant attempts to steal her sister’s husband. Giles was a popular landlord and Isobel was much loved locally. Not much doubt, by the look of things, that those rumours had been true, thought Janet now. Surely Isobel herself must be aware of the child’s uncanny resemblance to her husband? A difficult situation, she thought – but thank goodness it was none of her business, and she returned to the more pressing task of selecting a suitable dog to sire her young Border collie bitch’s first litter of puppies – the controlled line-breeding of dogs, in Janet’s opinion, being a much more rewarding preoccupation than the uncontrolled breeding habits of certain humans.

On the drive back to Glendrochatt House, Rory, clearly having had a blissful day, prattled on happily about puppies and tractors, but kept returning optimistically to the subject of guinea pigs.

‘What would be a good name for a baby guinea, Aunt Iz?’ he asked.

‘If the mummy’s called Snuffle how about Hawk?’ suggested Isobel, but such a catarrhal connection was lost on Rory.

‘What about Daffodil?’

‘Umm. Nice,’ she conceded, her mind half-occupied with questions of catering, but slipping easily back into the old ability to carry on one conversation with a child while thinking of something completely different. ‘But it doesn’t seem very guinea-piggish somehow.’ Against her better judgement she allowed herself to be beguiled into a discussion of suitable names for Snuffle’s expected progeny which lasted them all the way back to Glendrochatt.

‘Run along in to Sheena now, darling,’ she said when they had driven up to the back door, ‘and she’ll give you your tea because I’ve got a lot of boring grown-up things I have to do.’

‘I shall tell Sheena I’m going to have my very own baby guinea pig, and she’ll be very excited,’ said Rory, looking up at his aunt under the unfairly long lashes that any girl would have died for, the beguiling dimple, which was so like Edward’s, quivering in his cheek.

‘You tell her what you like, you bad boy,’ said Isobel, laughing at him. ‘I’m afraid it won’t make any difference.’

‘Will you come up and say goodnight when I’ve had my bath?’

‘I will.’

‘Promise?’ he asked anxiously.

‘I promise . . . now scoot.’