As the carriage approached Magdalen Bridge he knocked with his stick to indicate that the coachman should bring the horses to a halt. He had given no notice of the visit, and an unexpected guest was under no obligation to be punctual. After the footman had lowered the step and helped him down, he stood for a moment on the pavement without moving, leaning heavily on his stick until he was sure that his balance was steady.

Even so early in the evening a mist was rising from the river, stroking Magdalen's tower with wispy white fingers. The wandering scholars of the Middle Ages who came to rest in Oxford chose for the home of their new university a place surrounded by water, dank and unhealthy, an area of swamps and fevers. The marquess, who as a young man in the eighteen-thirties had spent four riotous years at Christ Church, remembered his undergraduate days as a period of golden sunshine; but he was old enough to recognize that such memories were created by youthful high spirits and energy, not by climate.

Now he could feel the dampness of the air attacking his bones, and see its chill turning his breath into plumes of mist. It would not do for him to remain long in the city. To a man in his eighty-sixth year, danger came in many disguises.

At a good steady pace he stomped across the bridge, the tapping of his stick echoed by the hooves of the carriage
horses just behind him. He walked past Magdalen and past Queen's before halting to stare across the High at a row of three shops. A tailor, a wine merchant, a tobacconist. As an undergraduate he had been in debt to them all, and had for forty years or more afterwards continued to patronize their London establishments.

One year he had given up tobacco for Lent and, finding himself the better for it, had never placed another order. More recently, taking note that he had more than enough clothes to last him for the rest of his life, he had also ceased to call at Savile Row.

Wine was a different matter. Although he himself drank little but brandy these days, he regarded it as an obligation to buy the best of the new vintages each year and lay them down for his sons. But no longer from The House of Hardie. It was The House of Hardie which had robbed him of his heart's delight.

âPretentious rubbish!' he muttered to himself, studying the mock-gothic letters above the unrevealing dark green glass of double bow windows. The House of Hardie, indeed! A shop that had been in business since 1710 was still, in 1898, only a shop.

A family of tradesmen might hand down expertise and commercial good sense through six generations. They might become prosperous, and well-respected within their own social circles. But they remained where they had begun â in trade. When a girl of good family, a Beverley, eloped with the son of her grandfather's wine merchant, society was right to be scandalized. The girl's brother was justified in refusing to allow her any share of the estate left by their parents. And the girl's grandfather was in honour bound to close his account with The House of Hardie.

It was less easy, though, to rule off affection. Ten years had passed since he last saw Lucy, and he had never in word
or deed recognized the existence of any of her children. But silence and neglect could not kill his love. A few days earlier, giving orders for the planting of a new chestnut avenue at Castlemere, he had been startled by a new thought. For eighty-five years he had enjoyed almost unbroken good health. It was, nevertheless, possible that he would not live for ever. He wanted to see Lucy again before he died.

In his youth the marquess had fathered three sons â blond babies who grew up to be wild boys before maturing imperceptibly into sober middle age and grey-haired dignity; the future marquess, a general, and a dean. Sons to be proud of, if he had ever thought to consider the matter. But it was his daughter Rachel who had been his darling for all the twenty-three years of her life.

He had allowed her to marry one of her brother's fellow-officers for love, making a handsome settlement so that she could continue to travel and dance and hunt and look beautiful in the style to which she was accustomed. And when, only three years after the wedding, she died giving birth to her second child, the pain of his loss stunned him, so that for many months he could hardly bear to mix with anyone who was happy.

But the baby, Lucy, survived to be his only granddaughter. As golden-haired as her mother, impulsive and extravagantly generous in her love, she warmed his heart into life again. The two motherless children were brought up at Castlemere while their father continued his military career, and they remained there after his death. It was at Castlemere that the trouble had begun.

The marquess recognized his own contribution to the disastrous events of 1887. He had summoned his wine merchant, John Hardie, to inspect the cellar books and advise on new purchases. The two men had known each other for twenty years. It did not seem an impertinence
when Hardie's son, attending with his father to note what was decided, enquired whether he might be permitted afterwards to inspect the herb garden for which Castlemere was famous. The young man, it appeared, although destined one day to inherit his father's business, had a passionate interest in botany.

From that moment on, everything had happened at breakneck speed. It was not surprising that young Gordon Hardie, catching sight of Lucy as she painted in the herb garden, should have thought her the most beautiful girl in the world, because this was undoubtedly the case. But neither the marquess nor his grandson Archie, Lucy's brother, ever discovered exactly how the two young people had contrived to further their acquaintance. In no time at all, it seemed, Lucy was demanding that she should be allowed to marry Gordon Hardie.

Naturally, permission was refused. The marriage was unsuitable on all counts. Besides, she was proposing to accompany this headstrong young man on a journey of exploration to Central Asia to look for new seeds and plants, or some such rubbish. It was a preposterous plan for a young woman brought up with every comfort wealth could buy. Archie, as his sister's guardian, laid down a decisive veto, making it clear that if she were to defy him she need never expect to see her family again, nor to receive a penny piece from them as long as she lived. He appealed for his grandfather's support in this declaration and was given it.

The marquess did not expect, as he nodded in agreement, that he was pledging himself never to see his favourite grandchild again. He assumed that when she found the two men she most respected to be united in their disapproval, she would see sense and abandon her fantasies in favour of a London season.

Five weeks later Lucy ran away from home. The marquess
had not seen her since. The letter in which she informed him of her marriage was posted in Shanghai. A later letter, announcing the birth of her son, had been written with pride when she should have been ashamed and apologetic, and her grandfather had been too hurt and angry to answer.

Other babies followed: a second son, twin boys, a girl. He reminded himself that The House of Hardie was a thriving business; and on the death of John Hardie in his fifties, his only son had become its proprietor. Nevertheless, it was difficult to dismiss from the imagination a picture of a harassed young woman with five children tugging at her skirts. Her brother, it was certain, would never speak to her again. But an old man might be excused his moment of sentimentality. The Marquess of Ross had come to Oxford to forgive Lucy for the pain she had caused him. And perhaps to say goodbye.

Half an hour later, standing with his legs apart in front of the drawing room fire, the marquess stared at his granddaughter with an intentness which made her flush. Like all the Beverley women she was golden-haired and very tall. She had been a beautiful girl who should by now have matured into an elegant woman; but instead her appearance was dishevelled. He had to remind himself that she had not expected a visitor; and it appeared that she had been playing with her sons when the doorbell rang.

âWhen do you expect your husband home?' he asked, after the first startled and awkwardly restrained moments of reunion were over. He had no wish for a meeting with Gordon Hardie.

âIn five or six months.' Lucy laughed to see that her grandfather had not expected such an answer. âHe's gone back to China. Our expedition together was a great success, you know. One of the lilies he found was awarded a
gold medal. And his work on the propagation of new rhododendron species has been much praised. He was invited to return and explore the higher valleys, and to bring back an even greater variety of rhododendron seeds.'

âSo that's what all your dreams of excitement have come to!' growled the marquess. âYour husband has all the adventures while you sit at home alone.'

âWith five young children â' began Lucy, but her grandfather interrupted her.

âOh yes, yes, of course. You can't go gadding about any longer: no need to explain that. But anyone could have told you that's what would happen. You wouldn't listen, though, would you?'

âIf I had stayed at Castlemere,' said Lucy, her voice quietened by self-restraint. âIf I had then married the son of some suitable duke, I might still be the mother of five children today â living more luxuriously, perhaps, but still bound by all the restraints of society. And then I should never have had those two years in the mountains. Travelling so far; experiencing so much. What I saw and learned during that expedition with Gordon is something that I have in my memory for the rest of my life, something I could never have found in England or Europe â something that no one will ever be able to take away.'

She stood up and took a turn up and down the room before facing her grandfather again. âI'm sure that you and Archie were sincerely trying to protect me when you forbade me to marry Gordon,' she said. âAnd I understand that you were hurt as well as angered by my disobedience. I was sorry to lose your love as well as Archie's, Granda, because I hoped perhaps â¦ but then, I know that the family is more important than any single member of it. What I'm trying to say â' She needed to struggle with the words before looking him full in the face. âYou and Archie had the right to be angry with me, and unforgiving. I shall
never complain about that. But you are not to be
sorry
for me, because I have a husband whom I love and who loves me. And five dear, loving children. And now that I've seen my darling Granda again, I'm the happiest woman in the world.'

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