Having shut the enraged and growling cat in the larder, Taggie managed to rescue the mouse with a dustpan and brush and put it in a cardboard box. Dressed in only the briefest nightie and gumboots, she carried the box across the lawn to set it free at the edge of the fields. Very gently she tipped it out, but the poor little thing didn’t move; perhaps it had died of shock. Next moment she nearly died too. Coming towards her out of the blue mist across the dew-drenched field on a big, sweating dark-brown horse, rode Rupert. As he raised his hat, Taggie put her finger to her lips and showed him the mouse which was still motionless.

‘Aengus caught it,’ she whispered. ‘D’you think it’ll survive?’

Rupert privately thought a quick shove with his boot would put the mouse out of its misery, but, knowing this would upset Taggie, said it might just be frozen with fear, and why didn’t they leave it for a bit. Gazing at Taggie’s nightgown and gumboots, he asked her if she was going out. Taggie went crimson and said she’d been doing a late dinner party. There was a long pause. Casting desperately round for something to say, Taggie mumbled that it was a nice day.

‘Very. I’ve been cubbing,’ said Rupert.

‘Oh, poor little things,’ said Taggie in horror. ‘Did you kill any?’

‘No,’ lied Rupert. ‘I brought you these,’ he went on, producing some huge mushrooms out of his riding-coat pocket.

‘Oh, aren’t they beautiful?’ Distracted, Taggie examined their pleated pink undersides, ‘How really kind. Thank you so much.’

Anyone would have thought he’d given her another Fabergé egg, thought Rupert. Stammering furiously, she asked him if he’d like some breakfast.

‘I hoped you’d say that. I’ll drop off my horse and come back.’

Taggie raced upstairs and was appalled to see that her nightie had a huge tear, her eyes were full of sleep, and her mascara was all smudged. Frantically she washed, put on an old pair of black sawn-off cords and a dark-brown T-shirt which seemed to be the only things Maud hadn’t pinched, and started cooking breakfast. She steeled herself to the possibility that Rupert would get caught up in some drama at the yard, or at home, and forget to return; or that Maud, smelling frying bacon, would come down and join them. But he was back in a quarter of an hour with a bottle of champagne for Buck’s Fizz, and Maud stayed upstairs, perfecting a song called ‘Jogging in a one-horse gig’.

‘She really is working at it,’ said Rupert, edging the bottle open with his thumbs.

‘It’s wonderful. She’s so much happier,’ said Taggie, thinking how black and luscious the white mushrooms had gone, and tipping most of them onto Rupert’s plate.

‘I hope Tony Baddingham and your father don’t bump into each other on the first night,’ said Rupert as the cork flew through the window into the long grass outside, ‘or either your mother or Monica really will be a merry widow!’

He picked up the Guardian which had a grim front-page story about the rocketing AIDS figures. Thank God he’d had that test.

It was such a lovely day, they had breakfast outside on the peeling white bench. Despite the warmth, the cedars, wellingtonias and yews flanking the house were already full of orange leaves from the nearby horse chestnuts, and the ground was littered with conkers. Lavender, roses, and evening primroses still bloomed on, bravely waiting for the first frost.

‘I’ve never felt such hot sun in October,’ said Rupert, taking off his jersey. ‘With a few more leaves off the trees, I’ll be able to see your house again.’

‘How was America?’ asked Taggie, dividing her bacon rind between a slavering Gertrude and Claudius.

‘Good,’ said Rupert, deciding not to mention four magnificent days hunting in Virginia. ‘I’ve found a marvellous stallion, and a brood mare for Freddie. Which reminds me, I saw Freddie’s red Jaguar parked outside Mrs Vereker’s house while “Cotswold Round-Up” was on the air last night. If he’s going to err and stray, he ought to find a more discreet car.’

Taggie giggled. ‘Lizzie’s so nice, isn’t she?’ she said, breaking a sausage in half for the dogs.

‘She certainly deserves some fun. James treats her like an old wheelchair he can fall back into in old age. This breakfast is quite marvellous. Why are you giving all yours to the dogs?’

‘I don’t usually eat breakfast,’ mumbled Taggie, taking a slug of Buck’s Fizz.

Rupert ran his eyes over her. ‘You’re losing weight. I’ll have to start adding molasses and carrots to your oats.’

‘Jogging in a one-horse gig, any time of night or day,’ sang Maud from upstairs, ‘Careless of the weather, very close together, lovers fall in love that way.’

Rupert raised his eyebrows and filled up Taggie’s glass.

Please God, she prayed, make this moment go on for ever and ever. The next moment Gertrude had joined them on the bench seat on Taggie’s side, not giving herself enough room, so Taggie had to move closer to Rupert.

‘Well done, Gertrude,’ said Rupert, grinning. ‘You really are on my side.’

Taggie’s heart seemed to be beating completely out of time to Maud’s singing. Frantically, she stroked Gertrude.

‘Heard from your father?’ asked Rupert.

‘No,’ stammered Taggie. ‘Have you heard from Cameron?’

‘Not recently.’

There was another long pause. A conker plummeted on to the shaggy lawn. Laughing and watching her, Rupert waited.

‘You mustn’t worry about Daddy and Cameron being on their own together for so long,’ Taggie finally blurted out. ‘I know Daddy’s wildly attractive, but he is utterly obsessed with Mummy.’

Rupert was about to deny that he was remotely worried about Cameron. Instead he removed a long dark hair from her shoulder and put it in his shirt pocket.

‘I dreamed about you last night.’

‘You did?’ said Taggie in amazement. ‘Was it nice?’

‘Lovely, and extremely disturbing.’ He trailed the back of his fingers down her arm. Taggie quivered and stopped stroking Gertrude.

‘It’s the last night of the Horse of the Year Show tonight,’ went on Rupert. ‘Tabitha’s in the final of the mounted games. It’s a good evening. Why don’t you come with me? We could have dinner afterwards.’

Taggie nearly wept. ‘Sarah Stratton’s giving a dinner party. I’ve got to work.’

‘Pity,’ said Rupert lightly.

Gertrude stuck her nose under Taggie’s trembling hand, jerking it upwards, urging Taggie to stroke her again. Gertrude and me, thought Rupert.

‘The Baddinghams and the Verekers are going, so they’ll all talk about the franchise. I’ll probably be made to stay in the kitchen,’ babbled Taggie.

‘Well keep your ears open and put a pint of arsenic in Tony’s whisky. They certainly won’t get Buck’s Fizz like this tonight. Paul’s so mean he makes it with Babycham.’

Damn, damn, damn, thought Taggie as she followed him to the door.

‘I’m off to the Tory Party Conference next week,’ said Rupert, getting into his car. ‘I’ll ring you when I get back. That was a lovely breakfast, thank you. By the way,’ he added ultra-casually as he drove off, ‘I hope you noticed I didn’t burn my stubble this year.’

In a complete daze Taggie finished off the Buck’s Fizz. Rupert had dreamt about her, and he’d asked her out, and he hadn’t burnt his stubble. The whole thing was desperately confusing. She ran upstairs and looked out of her window. It was true. Instead of charred patches all over the valley, his cornfields were still yellowed by stubble, or reddy-brown after being ploughed up. She couldn’t possibly be the reason, but it was so nice of him to say so.

There were so many things she ought to do, picking apples, planting the indoor bulbs, getting in the geraniums. There were large bowls of picked mulberries and blackberries reproachfully gathering fluff in the fridge, waiting to be turned into jam. And she must make some tomato chutney, not to mention painting the bench and mowing the lawn.

Suddenly she heard an enraged mewing from the larder. She’d forgotten Aengus. She couldn’t even get cross that he’d eaten half the turbot mousse she’d made for the first course this evening. At least when she went out to search for the fieldmouse it had run away.

By the time she’d reached the Strattons’ house she’d sobered up. Paul was still out playing golf. Sarah was in a panic because she wanted everything to be perfect for Tony, her boss, and even more so for James.

‘Giving a dinner party is far worse than going on television,’ she moaned. ‘Look, I know it sounds horrendously Valerie Jones, but do you mind pretending I’ve done the cooking tonight? Especially the main course, which is a particular favourite of a friend of mine,’ added Sarah, going pink. ‘If anyone rings, pretend you’re our daily, Mrs Maggs.’

Then, leaving Taggie with a mile-long list of instructions, she swanned off to Bath to buy a new dress.

At least everything was tidy, the table laid and the house clean. Taggie got out the French recipe that Rupert had translated for her. An hour and a half later, she was getting on well. The beef daube was sizzling in the oven, the pudding was in the fridge and just needed whipped cream and sugared violets, and she’d done the vegetables earlier. All she had to do was to make another fish mousse. Perhaps she’d just better double-check the beef.

‘Oh, my God,’ she said aghast as she licked the spoon. She tried again from the other side of the dish, and then the centre, where it was even worse. She must have been so distracted by her encounter with Rupert that she’d added a tablespoonful of salt instead of sugar. She tested the sugar in the glass bowl and went green. It was definitely salt.