Tea, as Isobel had promised, was a splendid affair with tiny sandwiches and a huge fruitcake; there was ginger parkin and Mrs Cameron’s special caramel shortbread, which Isobel remembered from childhood days, and plates of melting drop-scones with a choice of either crabapple jelly or the almost treacle-coloured Tillydrum honey that overpowered the taste buds with the scent of heather and was not a liking that Isobel had ever acquired. The vast, ornately carved oak refectory table in the centre of the dining room would have been much too large for a mere seven people, so Evelyn Fergusson presided at the smaller oval breakfast table in the south-facing bay window. It was covered with a white damask tablecloth, frayed at the edges with age now – like its owner, Isobel thought sadly. She noticed that Evelyn wielded the heavy Victorian silver teapot with difficulty and guessed it was painful for her hands, though she knew better than to offer assistance with this ritual.

Marnie was enchanted. As she drank tea from a Crown Derby cup and helped herself to a couple of ridged butter pats from a shell-shaped silver dish, she felt she was being given a glimpse into the sort of world that her Contessa must have inhabited as a child – the world that Luciana had brought so vividly to life to a lonely little American girl in the very different setting of a tropical island twenty years before. Christopher, half watching Marnie across the table, while he chatted politely with his hostess, thought she looked lit up with happiness and hoped desperately that he might be able to make that look the rule rather than the exception in the future. It turned out that Evelyn had visited Christopher’s grandparents’ garden on Mull and this led to a discussion on the notable gardens of the west coast. Evelyn was enthusiastic about Morwenna’s new idea to write a series of articles about Scottish gardens and promised to give her some introductions. She and Evelyn were soon deep in rhododendron talk and, thanks to his mother’s lifelong passion for gardening, Christopher managed to keep his end up in a session of horticultural name-dropping that left everyone else feeling rather inadequate.

‘What on earth’s a Griersonianum cross when it’s at home?’ laughed Marnie, mocking his display of knowledge, as they left the dining room. ‘An esoteric religious symbol or some kind of Scottish mongrel dog?’