We came under the cold shadows of the colonnade to find a mighty Mercedes, its exhaust breathing heavy white smoke in the freezing air, the engine humming with lazy power. The driver was a uniformed man of about forty-five who Francis cheerfully informed us had been in the special forces. He said this in the man’s presence as he loaded Jessica’s bag into the boot, and the driver’s sad features broke into a brief smile when he heard it. I read into that smile a long and happy history, and Francis later told me that the two of them had shared the drives to and from Eton when he was a young schoolboy (his father being always too busy to take him), and he had told Francis many tales of heroic missions and dead comrades, which were received with open mouth and shining eyes by the teenager bouncing up and down on the passenger seat. On the rare occasions when he travelled with his father, they always sat in the back, and Francis would have to stare at the silent fold in the back of his neck. I wondered at the time why Lord Soulford had hired someone with such specialized skills to be his driver, and when I came to know more of the man I concluded that he had taken him on for just that reason, to make you wonder. The air of manly mystery, and the possibility of loyal muscle trained in the British army suited his idiom. Having ex-military personnel on his staff must have given him a little thrill of officer status, and given his political opponents brief pause for thought.

Francis hopped into the front seat and sat with his knees up against the dashboard. Jessica and I climbed into the back, separated by a wide channel of cream leather. Even the clunk of the smooth belt in the buckle sounded expensive. Francis said casually, ‘Papa’s still down in London, isn’t he?’ The driver nodded. As we rolled out of the college gates, Francis slid a silver CD with red handwriting on the front into the player in the walnut console, and the car was filled with the confident rap of Mos Def.

The meet was being held on the land of a farmer in Francis’s village. I was disappointed to discover that we would not be seeing his house, which I imagined must be very beautiful. There were perhaps thirty horses and riders, and a churning mass of ninety hounds milling around the legs of the spectators, who drank port and ate sausage rolls in the cold half-light of the autumn morning. The honest stench of the animals filled the clear air. Francis introduced me to a family who were tenants on one of his farms, who kindly offered me a place in their Land-Rover to follow the hunt. When the riders set out, we barrelled along the winding roads, tracing their route as best we could, trying to anticipate the run of the fox. Initially, it was breathtaking to witness those proud riders on the fields, but the postcard elegance quickly wore thin, and I found myself becoming bored, riding along with the good-natured family, who asked me questions about Cambridge. I was also acutely aware that I might have pawned my last excuse to see Jessica and Francis for a day when I would not be able to speak with either of them, and that at the hunt’s end, with politeness satisfied, they might cast me back into loneliness.