‘You’ve met Lavinia, of course,’ prompted the dowager. ‘And this is Cynthia Smythe, Muriel’s other bridesmaid.’

Cynthia, who to no one’s surprise was dressed as Little Bo Peep, gushed her way towards her hostess and was followed by a man with knees like carriage lamps, who bent obsequiously over Minna’s hand, clouting her as he did so with his lyre.

But now the Earl of Westerholme came forward, escorting his fiancée. Rupert’s instructions to his butler to ‘for heaven’s sake find him something to wear’ had yielded a perfect replica, used in theatricals years ago, of the costume that his disreputable ancestor, Sir Montague Frayne, had worn to be painted in by Romney. The velvet breeches, the ruffled shirt and high stock suited him to perfection and Minna, seeing him approach, thought she had never seen him look as handsome — or as tired.

But it was Muriel, the guest of honour, who rightly drew all eyes. Muriel’s dress was of blue and silver, the colours that the Sun King used above all others for the glory of Versailles. A myriad bows glittered on the satin bodice; the elaborately flounced overskirt was sewn with tiny bunches of gauze roses and forget-menots. Priceless lace edged the sleeves and the low décolleté, diamonds sparkled on the high, white wig and in the heels of her silver slippers — and round her throat, perfectly matching the blue of the dress and of her eyes, she wore the sapphires that were the bridegroom’s present to the bride. If Muriel looked pleased with herself she had every right to do so, for here was a Pompadour to silence all beholders.

‘My dear, what an unbelievable dress!’ said Minna, genuinely impressed. ‘You’ll set everybody by the ears.’ She turned to Rupert. ‘You’ll have to surrender her for the first dance, I’m afraid. Harry will want to open the ball with her, but after that…’

Meanwhile, obedient to her instructions, Anna had remained quietly out of sight behind a potted palm which flanked the serving table over which Charles, the first footman, was presiding.

‘What the dickens are you doing, wool-gathering there,’ he hissed now. ‘Can’t you see the party from Mersham’s arrived? Why aren’t you out there offering them drinks?’

Anna took a tray, stepped out into the hall.

‘Ah, here’s Anna come to offer us some refreshment,’ said Minna. ‘That’s orange juice in the tall glasses, Muriel.’

Rupert had been standing a little apart from the others in the shadow of a high, carved screen. Now, hearing Anna’s name, he looked up sharply — and was flooded, suddenly, by a joy as violent as it was absurd.

She had not cut her hair.

He had had time to wince a thousand times at his behaviour in Maidens Over. He had been arrogant and mad and mistaken on all counts, for Anna would, as he had since realized, have looked enchanting with her hair cut short. He had deserved only to be snubbed and disregarded. Instead, she had given him this gift, this undeserved benison. And standing there, bound by the iron fetters of duty to a marriage he knew would bring him nothing but pain, he was nevertheless consumed by happiness because his under-housemaid had not cut her hair.

‘Rupert! Hello!’ The earl turned to see Hugh come down the last of the steps from the minstrel’s gallery with a handsome, fair-haired boy a little taller than himself. A boy who suddenly stood stock-still and then, with a whoop of delight, rushed towards them.

‘Annoushka! It is you! Oh, how lovely! I hoped and hoped you would come. Pinny said you were staying near here and I was going to ask if I could ride over.’ Ignoring the dismay in Anna’s eyes, the gasp of indrawn breath, he leant over the tray to kiss her, then circled her admiringly. ‘You look so good! That dress is most becoming! It’s clever of you to wear something so simple. Do you remember that ball that Mama told us about at the Anchikovs where the Princess Saritsin went as a nun and suddenly everyone else looked overdressed?’

There was a titter from Little Bo Peep, and involuntarily the eyes of all the women went to Muriel Hardwicke. But Petya, unaware of any implications, rushed happily on. ‘Only you’re silly to have a tray, ’Noushka. How can you dance with a tray?’

‘How indeed?’ said an amused voice at Petya’s elbow. ‘I think you’d better introduce your sister,’ continued the Earl of Westerholme. ‘She is not known to everyone present.’

‘No, Petya, please.’ Anna’s hands, with their cracked knuckles, had tightened in desperation around the silver handles of the tray.

But Petya was concerned only at his breach of manners. ‘I’m so sorry.’ He turned with a charming bow to his host and hostess. ‘Permit me to introduce my sister, the Countess Anna Petrovna Grazinsky.’

There was a hiss from Muriel; the codfish mouth of Undine the Water Sprite fell open and Lord Byrne, who had not expected to enjoy himself, beamed on the company.

‘But I thought she was—’ began Cynthia Smythe, and found that the Dowager Countess of Westerholme had stepped heavily on her foot.

‘Petya, I beg of you,’ whispered Anna, and added a few words of entreaty in Russian, imploring him to leave her.

The certainty, the joy, drained visibly from the boy’s face. He looked at the hostile woman in the silver dress, at Anna’s desperate eyes… Had he made a mistake? Was it possible… but it couldn’t be! Uncle Kolya, he knew, was a doorman at the Ritz. But Anna! Half-remembered fragments of conversation at West Paddington came now to plague him. If she was working as a servant while he was lording it here… If…

‘Your hands,’ he said, his collar suddenly choking him. ‘They’re bleeding.’

Minna, who had seen the boy’s face, moved to his side. But the Earl of Westerholme had stepped out of the shadows. ‘You must blame your Stanislavsky and his Method Acting for that. Anna spent the whole afternoon at Mersham dipping her hands into soda so as to get the feel of the part! I told her it was unfair to her partners but she wouldn’t listen!’

The light voice, the amused tenderness with which he looked at Anna, partly reassured the boy. But Hawkins, waiting to announce the next guests by the double doors, had sent an irate signal to Charles. Now, the first footman approached, his face as purple as his livery. What was the wretched girl doing? She’d been hours serving drinks and now she was actually talking to the guests.

Lord Byrne, with his bluff kindness, prepared to intervene. It was unnecessary. Anna, too, had seen her brother’s face. Her head went up, she turned — and as the bullying footman approached she said with a serene and charming smile: ‘Ah, Charles. How kind! You have come to relieve me of my burden.’

And before he knew what was happening, the footman, responding instinctively to the practised authority in her voice, found himself holding the loaded tray.

‘Well, what are you hanging round for?’ said Lord Byrne to the goggling Charles. ‘You heard what the countess said. Take the thing away.’

‘Ah, that’s better!’ Anna had shaken out her skirt, straightened her apron, tilted her cap — and suddenly it was obvious that she was in fancy dress; no real uniform ever had such grace, such gossamer lightness. ‘How good it will be to dance again!’

‘With me?’ said Petya excitedly. ‘Will you dance with me?’

‘Of course, galubchik.’

‘No,’ said Tom Byrne. ‘First with me.’

‘I’m sorry to disillusion you both,’ said the earl, ‘but as Anna’s host at Mersham I undoubtedly have first claim.’

Petya’s face blazed with pride and happiness. This was like the old days, with men fighting to dance with Anna. What an idiot he’d been! For a moment he’d really thought…

‘She’s a marvellous dancer,’ he told the earl, of whom, as a partner for his sister, he thoroughly approved. ‘Especially when she waltzes. Fokine said when you play Anna a waltz you can see her eat the music. She goes round and round and she never gets giddy!’

Rupert smiled enquiringly at his hostess. ‘A waltz could perhaps be arranged?’

‘Very easily, I think,’ said Minna, to whom nothing that had happened had come as a surprise.

Rupert turned to Anna. ‘May I have the pleasure of the first dance, Countess?’

She lifted her face to his, not even trying to hide her blazing joy. ‘You may, my lord.’

And so they went together into the ballroom to dance for the first and last time in their lives, the ‘Valse des Fleurs’.

13

A great deal had happened to Tchaikovsky’s sumptuously orchestrated showpiece to turn it into a suitable waltz for the ballroom, but Mr Bartorolli was not dismayed.

‘Told you,’ he said to his first violinist when Minna came with her request, ‘I had a sort of hunch,’ — and lifted his baton.

It begins slowly, this well-loved, well-remembered waltz. The preluding is gentle, the phrases soft and pleading, the dancers have time to smile in each other’s arms, to catch their breath. But not for long. Soon the familiar phrases try out their plumes, begin to preen, to gather themselves up until reality is swept away in an intoxicating, irresistible swirl of sound.

To this waltz, born in a distant, snowbound country out of longing for just such a flower-scented summer night as this, Rupert and Anna danced. They were under no illusions. The glittering chandeliers, the gold mirrors with their draped acanthus leaves, the plangent violins might be the stuff of romance, but this was no romance. It was a moment in a lifeboat before it sank beneath the waves; a walk across the sunlit courtyard towards the firing squad. This waltz was all they had.