‘You should have been up here a few years ago when there was a Stately Car Boot Sale at Dunbarnock in aid of charity. People went completely mad over the most amazing things. Poor old Neil made the mistake of announcing to the press in advance that he would sell his mother’s moth-eaten old Persian lamb coat for fifty pounds to the first person to arrive. The result was that the road became completely jammed in two directions and the police had a frightful job holding the public back till the gates were opened. Two of the travelling fraternity raced each other to Neil’s stall and then came to fisticuffs over who should have it and the one who lost proceeded to put a curse on the coat! It was the most successful money-raising event there’d been in the neighbourhood for years and we all had a splendid time. Isobel sold an old ARP helmet and my grandmother’s honeymoon knickers for a hundred quid each.’

‘How on earth did you know they were her honeymoon knickers, and what were they like?’ asked Marnie.

‘Oh, I found a pile of them on a shelf at the back of some old cupboard wrapped in tissue paper and still labelled Trousseau.’ Isobel giggled. ‘They were amazing concoctions in wonderful pale peach crêpe de Chine. You had to put the legs on separately and wind yourself up in satin ribbons like a gift-wrapped parcel and then there were fiddly little buttons in a rather awkward place. Tricky if one was taken short! They sold like hot cakes, but I kept one pair back for posterity.’

‘A dowry for Amy?’ suggested Christopher.

Everyone, including Louisa, expressed themselves delighted that the visit had proved so successful for both Marnie and Morwenna and were all full of praise for how much they’d enjoyed their day. Morwenna was overcome with pleasure at the turn things were taking in her life and as soon as they had got back to Glendrochatt had rung Joyce to tell her of the possible new developments in her writing career. Joyce had sounded very pleased, but when she’d enquired slyly how the Colonel was, Morwenna had clammed up. She didn’t feel ready to expose her tentative hopes in that direction to anyone – hardly even to herself – but down in Cornwall, Joyce drew her own conclusions.

Giles, the least parsimonious of hosts, opened champagne again to celebrate the end of a successful day and mixed it with white peach juice to make Bellinis; Isobel produced a delectable Italian chicken dish with black olives and a rich tomato sauce, served with their own home-grown and freshly dug up new potatoes from the farm, which really tasted of something, followed by rhubarb meringue pie and wonderful cheese. It was all very enjoyable.