Miraculously, the answer had been the right one. She said, ‘Yes; let’s do that.’

They found a taxi. Peter gave it the address of the garage where they had left the car and they trundled away through the silent streets.

‘Where’s Bunter?’

‘He’s gone on down by train, with a message to say we I might be a little late.’

‘Will your mother mind?’

‘No. She’s known me for forty-five years.’

The great north road again, mile upon mile, through Hatfield, Stevenage, Baldock, Biggleswade, north and east to the Hertfordshire border-the same road they had travelled four days earlier, with Bunter sitting behind and two-and-a-half dozen of port stowed under his feet in an eiderdown. Harriet found herself dozing. Once, Peter’s touch on her arm roused her to hear him say, ‘That’s the turn for Pagford…’ Huntingdon, Chatteris, March-still north and east, with the wind blowing keener over the wide flats from the bitter northern sea, and the greyness that heralds the dawn lifting coldly into the sky ahead.

‘Where are we now?’

‘Coming into Downham Market. We’ve just passed through Denver-the original Denver. Duke’s Denver is about fifteen miles further on.’

The car swung through the little town and turned due east.

‘What time is it?’

‘Just upon six. I’ve only averaged thirty-five.’

The fen lay behind them now, and the country was growing more wooded. As the sun rose. they slipped into a tiny village with a church from whose tower a clock struck the quarter.

‘Denver Ducis,’ said Peter. He let the car dawdle down the narrow street. In the cottages, lighted windows showed where men and women were rising to go early to work. A man came out from a gate, stared at the car and touched his hat. Peter acknowledged the salute. Now they were out of the village, and running along beside a low wall, with high forest trees hanging over it.

“The Dower House is on the other side,’ said Peter. ‘It’ll save time to go through the park.’ They swung into a tall gateway, with a lodge beside it. The growing light showed the stone beasts crouched upon the posts, holding each a shield of arms. At the noise of the horn, a man hurried out of the lodge in his shirt-sleeves and the gates swung back.

‘Morning, Jenkins,’ said Peter, and let the car stop. ‘Sorry to bring you out so early.’

‘No call to be sorry, my lord.’ The lodge-keeper turned to call over his shoulder. ‘Mother! here’s his lordship!’

He was an elderly man, and spoke with the familiarity of long service. ‘We were expecting you any time, and the sooner the better for us. Will this be her new ladyship?’

‘Got it in one, Jenkins.’

A woman appeared wrapping a shawl about her and curtsying. Harriet shook hands with the pair of them.

‘This is no way to bring your bride home, my lord,’ said Jenkins, reprovingly. ‘We had the bells run for you on Tuesday, and we were meaning to give you a good welcome when you came.’

‘I know, I know.’ said Peter, ‘but I never could do anything right from a boy, could I? Talking of that, are the boys all well?’

‘Doing first-rate, my lord. thank you. Bill’s got his sergeant’s stripes last week.’

‘Good luck to it,’ said Peter heartily. He let the clutch la, and they moved on up a wide avenue of beeches. ‘I suppose it’s a mile from your gate to the front door?’

‘Just about’,,„

‘And do you keep deer in the park?’

‘We do.’

‘And peacocks on the terrace?’

‘I’m afraid so. All the story-book things.’

At the far end of the avenue, the great house loomed grey against the sunlight-a long Palladian front, its windows still asleep, and behind it the chimneys and turrets, rambling wings and odd, fantastic sprouts of architectural fancy.

‘It’s not very old,’ said Peter apologetically, as they turned away, leaving the house on their left. ‘Nothing before Queen Elizabeth. No donjon keep. No moat. The castle fell down a good many years ago, I’m thankful to say. But we’ve got specimens of all the bad periods since then and one or two of the good ones. And the Dower house is impeccable Inigo Jones.’

Harriet, stumbling sleepily up the impeccable Inigo Jones staircase in the wake of a tall footman, was aware of a scurry of high heels on the landing and a cry of delight. The footman flattened himself swiftly against the wall as the Dowager Duchess shot past him in a rose pink dressing gown, her white plaits flying and Ahasuerus clinging for dear life to her shoulder.

‘My darlings, how lovely to see you!-Morton, go and get Franklin out of bed and send her to her ladyship immediately-You must be tired and famished-How dreadful about that poor young man!-Your hands are frozen, my dear-I do hope Peter hasn’t been driving at a hundred miles an hour this horrid cold morning-Morton you silly man, can’t you see Ahasuerus is scratching me? Take him off at once-I’ve put you in the Tapestry Room, it’s warmer-Dear me! I feel as though I hadn’t seen either of you for a month-Morton, tell them to bring breakfast up here instantly-and what you want, Peter, is a hot bath.’

‘Baths,’ said Peter, ‘real baths are definitely a good idea.’

They walked along a wide landing, with aquatints along the wall, and two or three tables in Queen Anne Chinoiserie with Famille Rose jars upon them. At the door of the Tapestry Room was Bunter-who must either have got up very early or never gone to bed, for he was dressed with an impeccability worthy of Inigo Jones. Franklin, also impeccable, but slightly flurried in her manner, arrived almost at the same moment. The grateful sound of running water broke refreshingly upon the ear. The Duchess kissed them both, announcing that they were to do exactly as they liked and that she wasn’t going to bother them; and before the door shut they heard her energetically scolding Morton for not having gone to see the dentist and threatening him with gumboils, pyorrhoea, septic poisoning, indigestion and a complete set of false teeth if he persisted in behaving like a baby.

‘This,’ said Peter, ‘is one of the presentable Wimseys-Lord Roger; he was a friend of Sidney’s and wrote poetry and died young of a wasting fever, and all that kind of thing. That, as you see, is Queen Elizabeth; she slept here in the usual way and nearly bust the family bank. The portrait is said to be by Zucchero, but it’s not. The contemporary duke, on the other hand, really is by Antonio Moro, and that’s the best thing about it. He was one of the tedious Wimseys, and greed was his leading characteristic. This old harridan was his sister. Lady Stavesacre, who slapped Francis Bacon’s face. She’s no business to be here, but the Stavesacres are hard up, so we bought her in…’

The afternoon sun slanted in through the long windows of the gallery, picking out here a blue Garter ribbon, there a scarlet uniform, lighting up a pair of slender hands by Van Dyck, playing among the powdered curls of a Gainsborough, or throwing into sudden startling brilliance some harsh white face set in a sombre black periwig.

‘That awful ill-tempered-looking brute is the-I forget which duke, but his name was Thomas and he died about 1775-his son made an imprudent marriage with a hosier’s widow-here she is, looking rather fed-up about it. And there’s the prodigal son-rather a look of Jerry about him, don’t you think?’

‘Yes, it’s very like him. Who’s this one? He’s got a queer, visionary sort of face, rather nice.’

‘That’s the younger son, Mortimer, he was as mad as a hatter and founded a new religion with himself as its only follower. That’s Dr Gervase Wimsey, Dean of St Paul’s; he was a martyr under Queen Mary. This is his brother, Henry-he raised the standard for Queen Mary in Norfolk at her accession. Our family’s always been very good at having a foot in both camps. That’s my father, like Gerald, but much better looking… That’s a Sargent, which is about its only excuse for existence.’