Again he sighed. He could not help wishing his reception had been warmer; it was a natural thing.

‘Finny, will you be nice to me about something?’

‘Yes, my dear. Of course.’

‘There is no real need to make a fuss about the inscription on the bridge.’

He stopped in his walk, considerably taken aback.

‘Oh, but there is. I have put the case forcibly. No one has been left in doubt.’

‘Funds for the inscription have already been collected. It is always difficult to reverse such decisions.’

‘But not impossible. We have reason on our side. We have humane considerations.’

‘We would rather you did not continue to make a fuss.’

‘But, my dear little girl—’

‘I believe I speak for all of us. The bridge is there, and that is that. John James pretends it will somehow not be completed, but of course we know it will be. Similarly with the memorial plaque.’

‘That man sought to murder you and your brothers. In a most gruesome manner he brought to an end the life of an unfortunate servant.’

‘Yes, I know.’

‘He chose to be the family’s enemy. Had he lived he would have burnt Carriglas to the ground.’

‘Yes, that is probably true.’

‘Every time you cross that bridge—’

‘We know about every time, Finny. We are well aware. But we would rather you did not make a fuss.’

He made no further comment. In silence they continued through the gloom.

After their journeys the visitors retired early that night. The Camiers, who had accepted the wedding invitation because of the lavishness of the Carriglas parties they’d heard spoken about, consoled themselves with a decanter surreptitiously conveyed to their bedroom. Villiers Hadnett pulled the bell in the wall by his bed, requiring a carafe of water, but no one came. The Bishop confided to his wife that he was greatly perturbed by the prediction that Villana at the last minute would draw back from the altar and he himself be made to look a fool. His wife, involved at that moment with her stays, replied that she would not be in the very least surprised. Lady Rossboyne’s mattress, in the past lain upon by the Viceroy during his summer visits, had become lumpy with the passing of time. ‘No better than turnips in a sack,’ she crossly muttered.