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Marianne was pleased that her companion did not attempt to speak on any other subject for the rest of the dinner. The magnificent spread of white soup, roasted goose with prunes, salmon pie, and apple puffs was attacked with abandon by the rest but wasted on Mrs Brandon, who picked at her food. Her nerves had the better of her and she was unable to do her meal true justice.

She was relieved when they retired to the “petit salon” to imagine themselves in foreign climes. A wallpaper frieze adorned with palm trees dripping with coconuts, and a landscape peopled with exotically robed figures, ran round the length and breadth of the room. Coupled with a hand painted ceiling of a blue sky, with scattered clouds edged in sunset pink, Marianne was inclined to think it all rather too fanciful for her taste, so she was pleased when her mother made all the right noises.

“Lady Lawrence, I declare I have never seen anything quite like it,” Mrs Dashwood assured her hostess.

Marianne was quite certain her mother never had and made a long perusal of a tropical plant as another fit of mirth threatened to overcome her.

“No, indeed,” Hannah Lawrence prattled on, “I am happy to tell you that I am the very first, proud owner of such a device in all the West Country.”

“As you may imagine,” Marianne heard Henry whisper to Margaret, “we are hated by our neighbours, who are consumed with envy.”

Margaret stifled a giggle but it was too late. Not for the first time did Marianne see Lady Lawrence look at her sister disapprovingly.

Sir Edgar, who was keen to have Margaret shown off to her best advantage, immediately diverted the conversation by inviting her to play for them. Everyone took their seats; Marianne was relieved to be at a distant and quite opposite seat from Mr Willoughby. A lover of any romantic song, Margaret sat at the pianoforte in the corner and with the help of Henry chose a song. They sang together, an Irish melody of sweet remembrances that was not only familiar to Marianne but had once been dear to her heart.

“Other arms may press thee,

Dearer friends caress thee,

All the joys that bless thee,

Sweeter far may be;

But when friends are nearest,

And when joys are dearest,

Oh! Then remember me!”

Glancing across at Willoughby, Marianne was unable to resist seeing if any recognition of a song they had sung so often together was detectable in his countenance.

“When around thee dying,

Autumn leaves are lying,

Oh! Then remember me.”

As their eyes met across the room, Marianne scolded herself for her stupidity. The last thing she wished was for Willoughby to think that she still had any attachment to either the libretto or the tune. She turned to stare into the fire, with the instant realisation that she had made yet another mistake.

“And, at night, when gazing

On the gay hearth blazing,

Oh! Still remember me.”

Turning her eyes from the fire, Marianne studied the performers with unvarying scrutiny. The fact that Mr Willoughby was still staring unnerved her more than she would admit, but she was determined not to show her feelings.

Marianne led the applause as soon as the song was finished, clapping with great enthusiasm, but she could not resist saying above the general noise, “I am surprised you should sing such an old song whose sentiments are bordering on the ridiculous, Margaret. Henry, help her to find something more modern, those old Irish airs are not only antiquated but rather pathetic.”

“Oh, Marianne, how can you say so? That song has such romance. And I am sure I have heard you sing it often!” Margaret declared, shuffling the pile of music in search of something else. To sing with Henry was a delight and she could not wait to do so again.

“It is a favourite song of mine, though I seldom hear it sung nowadays,” spoke up Mr Willoughby, whose eyes did not leave Marianne's.

“I daresay it has resonances for most of us,” Sir Edgar added with a wistful expression, and though his wife insisted that it had been a special song for her also, Marianne could not help feeling that her spouse's