He said as much to his father, who laughed and said, ‘It’s always the way with the women. They want to make a splash of everything. Just let them get on with it, my boy, that’s what I do.’

So, this afternoon Justin was doing exactly that. His mother had said she wanted to discuss the wine with him and he had replied, ‘I’m afraid I have an appointment, Mama,’ not bothering to explain that it was an appointment with the river. ‘Surely the wine is the province of Sir James. I wouldn’t dream of interfering.’ He added gently, ‘And nor should you.’

His mother’s lips had tightened at the reprimand, but she had said no more, simply sighed and returned to her parlour to look over her lists.

As he crossed the yard, fishing gear in hand, Fran emerged from the house.

‘You’re escaping!’ she accused when she saw what he was carrying.

Justin grinned. ‘Afraid so,’ he admitted. ‘Why don’t you come too… provided you don’t mention the word “wedding”.’

‘I can’t,’ answered Fran ruefully. ‘I’ve got another fitting for my bridesmaid’s dress. The dressmaker is coming to fit both Mama and me. I daren’t miss that appointment.’

‘Well, come and find me afterwards,’ suggested Justin. ‘I shall be tired of my own company by then, and who knows, I might even have caught a fish.’

Fran promised to join him as soon as she was released by the dressmaker and went indoors to await her arrival.

Justin left the garden and took the footpath across the fields to where the River Chubb ran through their land, gliding between its banks into sleepy pools before chuckling over the stones in the shallows and on towards the weir. He stepped down from the bank onto a tiny pebble beach from which he could wade into the water and cast his line. The sun had come out and he knew it was really too bright for serious fishing, but he cast anyway. He felt himself relax as he stared down into the water. The river was running a little faster than normal after the last few days of rain and the water was not as clear as usual, but he could see the occasional quicksilver flash of a fish amid the weed.

Dawson had said he’d seen salmon recently and Justin hoped he was right. He had seen them leaping up the weir a little way downstream before now, struggling upriver to spawn, but not so far this year. It was a long time since he had landed a salmon from the Chubb, but he knew they made delicious eating and was ever optimistic.

It was peaceful, standing in the water, casting a fly in the hope of tempting a hungry fish, but on this beautiful summer’s afternoon it didn’t really matter whether he caught anything or not. He glanced back along the footpath to see if Fran had escaped and was on her way to join him, but there was no sign of her yet. The meadows shone green after the rain, poppies gleaming like rubies amid the grass, and beyond them, sheltered by the stand of the oaks that gave the house its name, the house itself drowsed in the afternoon sun – the house where he, Rupert and Fran had been born and which would one day belong to him.