She could not speak yet. Only her eyes begged for the power to trust in this miracle.

‘I must say that I find that a perfectly detestable nightdress,’ said Rom cheerfully. ‘Your Aunt Louisa can certainly pick them!’

It came then. Belief. He was real, he was here. She sat up and threw herself forward into his arms — and among the frenzied words of love and agony and longing Rom caught, surprisingly, the name of a well-known London suburb.

‘You want to live in St John’s Wood?’ he asked, startled. Later it occurred to him that this salubrious district had probably saved Professor Morton’s life, for the passion with which Harriet now pleaded to be set up as a kept lady so intrigued him that he forgot his murderous rage.

‘It is an entrancing prospect, certainly,’ he said. ‘Especially the Gothic windows. However, I am not going to install you in a villa in St John’s Wood. I am going to install you at Stavely, where you will be my love, my companion and also — by tomorrow afternoon — my wife.’

‘No.’ Harriet had had her miracle. She needed no more, and lifting her face a daring inch away from his, she informed him that he was going to marry Isobel.

‘Harriet, do be quiet about Isobel. I never had the slightest intention of marrying her and if you had not been so obstinate and blind you would have seen that at once. I don’t even like her any more — the way she treats Henry would put me off for a start. In fact, in the month I’ve spent with her I’ve grown quite sorry for my brother. Now listen, I must get hold of the necessary documents and go and find your father, but I’ll be back—’

No. She was not able to be left. Her eyes grew wide with fear. ‘If you go, they’ll find some way of separating us. They’ll lock me in again and tell you I’m mad and—’

‘All right then, we’ll go together,’ he said, cheerfully matter-of-fact. ‘You can wait in the car. Get dressed and—’

‘I can’t. They’ve taken away my clothes.’

Rom gritted his teeth against a renewed attack of fury. ‘Never mind.’ He pulled a blanket off the bed, wrapped it round her, picked her up. ‘Poor Harriet, I’m always abducting you in unsuitable clothes.’

‘Good heavens, Mr Fortescue!’ Louisa, with Mrs Belper hovering behind her, was waiting in the hall. ‘Whatever does this mean?’

‘It means that I am taking away your patient immediately,’ said Rom. ‘I have diagnosed pernicious anaemia, tuberculosis of the lung and an incipient brain tumour. It is possible that I can save her with instant treatment at my clinic, but there is not a moment to lose.’

‘But that’s impossible… I must consult my brother. This is not what we expected at all…’ Louisa was entirely at a loss. ‘And the fees at your clinic would be quite beyond us.’

Rom took a steadying breath. ‘If you want a corpse on your hands, Miss Morton, and a court case, that is your affair. You have called me in; I have given my diagnosis. Now, please fetch the patient’s birth certificate at once: it is required by the governors of my clinic as a condition of admission.’

‘I told you she was too thin,’ bleated Mrs Belper.

Totally flustered, Louisa made as if to go to the telephone, only to find the extraordinary surgeon standing in front of it while still holding Harriet in his arms.

‘Her birth certificate,’ he said implacably. ‘At once.’

The Rolls had driven off and the ladies were trying without success to calm themselves in the drawing-room, when the doorbell rang again.

‘Good afternoon,’ said the obese, grey-haired gentleman standing on the step. ‘You are expecting me, I know. My name is Fortescue…’

Professor Morton was lecturing, pacing the rostrum, his gown flapping, his voice managing to be both irascible and droning; while in the front row Blakewell, a fair-haired, good-looking young man destined for holy orders, wondered if boredom could kill and kicked Hastings, who had gone to sleep and was sliding from his chair.

‘And this man who calls himself a scholar,’ rasped the Professor, ‘has the effrontery — the unbelievable effrontery — to suggest that the word hoti in line three of the fifth stanza should be translated as—’

The door burst open. An agitated College servant could be seen trying to restrain a man in an extraordinarily well-cut grey suit who pushed him aside without effort, closed the door in his face and proceeded to walk in a relaxed manner to the rostrum.

‘Professor Morton?’

‘I am Professor Morton, yes. But how dare you walk in here unannounced and interrupt my lecture. It’s unheard of!’

‘Well, it has been heard of now,’ said the intruder calmly, and the students sat up with a look of expectancy on their faces. ‘I came to inform you that I have removed your daughter firmly and finally from your house and to ask you to sign this document.’ He laid a piece of paper with a red seal on the lectern. ‘As you see, it is your permission for my marriage to Harriet.’

The Professor grew crimson; the Adam’s apple worked in his scraggy throat. ‘How dare you! How dare you come in here and wave pieces of paper at me! And how dare you kidnap my daughter!’

‘I think the less said about that the better. I found Harriet half-starved and confined like a prisoner because she tried to have a life of her own. If you would like me to tell the students of the state in which I found her, I should be happy to do so.’

‘How I treat my daughter is none of your business. Harriet is sick in her body and sick in her soul—’ But he took an involuntary step backwards, aware of a sudden menace in the stranger’s stance. ‘Who are you anyway?’ and rallying: ‘I won’t be blackmailed. Harriet is underage—’

‘Professor Morton, it is only because you are Harriet’s father that I have not actually throttled you. Anyone else who had treated her as you have done would not have lived to tell the tale. I choose to believe that you are misguided, pompous and opinionated rather than sadistic and cruel. But unless you sign this document without delay I will take you out into the courtyard, debag you and throw you into the fountain.’

The look of expectancy on the students’ faces changed to one of deep and utter happiness.

‘You wouldn’t dare!’ blustered the Professor.

‘Try me,’ said Rom. He looked down at the row of upturned faces. ‘I can do it myself, but it would be easier if I had help. If anyone is willing to help me debag the Professor, would they put up their hand?’

There were fourteen students in the lecture room and thirteen hands shot up without an instant’s hesitation. Then Ellenby, sole support of a widowed mother, shook off his moment of cowardice and also raised his hand.

‘I think you should sign, you know,’ said Rom pleasantly. ‘After all, it’s no tragedy to have your daughter installed as mistress of Stavely.’

‘Eh? What?’ The Professor peered at the document and registered the fact that Harriet’s suitor was Romain Paul Verney Brandon of Stavely Hall, Suffolk. ‘Good heavens!’

If the Professor had continued to defy him, had kept up his bluster, Rom might have felt a reluctant respect for the detestable man. But over Professor Morton’s face there now spread a look of servile amazement and awe — and unscrewing his fountain pen, he signed his name.

He was, however, not destined to resume his lecture. Rom might have left the room, but he had shown the students a lovely and fulfilling vision; he had unleashed primeval forces which were not to be gainsaid.

Blakewell rose first and even when he became a bishop he was to speak with nostalgia of this moment of release. Hastings followed — then Moisewitch, whom the Professor had humiliated in front of the entire tutorial group, took off his spectacles and laid them carefully on the window-sill. No words were necessary as every student in the hall moved as one man towards the rostrum.

‘His trousers first,’ said Blakewell. ‘Start with his trousers…’

Rom drew back the curtains and looked out on Stavely’s moonlit avenue of beeches, the silver pools of light in the meadows of the park, drank in the sharp clean smell of the air with its first touch of frost. He was back home and with every reason to rejoice. To the place he had left as a penniless and rejected youth, he had returned as master — and he had brought his future bride.

Away to the left he could see the chimneys of Paradise Farm, but no light showed from the house. Isobel was back, having sulked all the way across the Atlantic, but she had decided to remain in London and spend some of the allowance Rom had bestowed on her. Her son was with her now, but a message from the housekeeper had informed Rom that he could expect Master Henry at the end of the week. Clearly it was not going to be difficult to keep an eye on his nephew!

He stayed for a while, still, by the window, but the dreams he had had for Stavely eluded him. It was probably just reaction from the constant exercise of will, the long journey and fruitless delay in Russia, that made him feel both restless and weary. What else could ail him, after all — and knowing that he would not sleep, he nevertheless turned from the window and began to prepare for bed.

He was interrupted by a knock at the door — quiet, but not noticeably timid — and Harriet, still in her Aunt Louisa’s appalling nightgown, entered the room. At which point Rom became aware of what had ailed him… and ailed him no longer.

‘I’m sorry to disturb you,’ said Harriet, ‘but I woke up and I wondered if I could make a request of you?’

She had folded her hands and now with a rush of expectancy he looked down at her feet which she proceeded to fold also.

‘What request would that be, Harriet?’ he asked, matching her own grave and measured tones.

‘Well, you said we were going to be married tomorrow, didn’t you? Because of the special licence?’

‘Yes, I did say that. If you wish it, that is?’ he teased.

How did she manage to look like that after the ordeal she had been through? Did she somehow consume and metabolise love, this extraordinary girl?

‘I do rather wish it,’ said Harriet. ‘I wish it like someone who has been lying in a cold grave might wish for the day of resurrection. Or like an extremely hungry lion might wish for a Christian. And I mean to be immensely respectable and wear a mob-cap and have quarrels with you about the coal bill to show how independent I am. Only there is one thing I so very much want to do, still, and it isn’t a very married thing. I know you don’t approve of it and I do understand that, but it would make me so happy because you know how interested I have always been in Suleiman the Great.’

He looked at her and felt the tears spring to his eyes, because after all she had been through she had kept the gift of laughter, could offer him what he longed for with such gallantry and grace.

‘You want to creep from the foot of the bed into the presence?’ he asked with mock severity.

Harriet admitted that this was so. ‘They weren’t abject, the odalisques,’ she explained. ‘People have that wrong. They just worked very hard at love — it was all they had.’

But Rom, aware that the time for conversation was running out, was applying himself to the practical aspects of the problem.

‘Under the counterpane or over it, do you wish to creep?’ he enquired.

Harriet’s face crumpled into its urchin grin, acknowledging a hit. Then she raised her arms as does a child who wishes to be gathered up and in two strides he was beside her.

‘We will creep together,’ announced Rom idiotically and carried her — this lightest and most beloved burden — to his bed.

Epilogue

‘Hurry, girls!’ cried Hermione Belper. ‘The bus will be here in a minute.’

The ‘girls’, however, were not easy to hurry. It was not as in the old days, when a word from their president had the ladies of the Trumpington Tea Circle jumping to attention. Now, ten years since they had last been to visit Stavely, the changing times had taken their toll. Bobbed hair, a penchant for rag-time and radical ideas of all sorts had spread through the ranks. Even Eugenia Crowley, one of Harriet’s erstwhile chaperones, wore a skirt which cleared her ankles by a good nine inches.

But it was not the fact that the ladies no longer sprang to attention at her command which annoyed Mrs Belper; it was the condescending and superior behaviour of Louisa Morton, who had declined to accompany them.

‘My dear, I regard Stavely as my second home,’ she had said snootily. ‘It is hardly necessary for me to go there in a charabanc.’