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‘It’ll be all right,’ he said.
    ‘I thought we’d eat in the garden,’ Rosemary announced. ‘It’s less formal, and it seems a shame to waste the good weather. It’ll be autumn soon enough.’
    ‘Won’t it be too hot?’
    ‘Not under the chestnut; there’ll be plenty of shade. Be a love, and move the table and chairs, would you? There’ll be eight of us.’
    Andrew surveyed the selection of food laid out under protective netting – curried eggs, bite-sized home-made pizza, savoury tartlets. There were several salads in the fridge, together with a bowl of couscous and a selection of cheeses and desserts. This meal, he reflected, ranked as what Tina had dubbed Ma’s Harvest Home – a scaled-down version of the fare she presided over on the church catering committee.
    ‘You’re doing her proud, love,’ he said.
    Abigail was dismayed to find James’s parents lived a mere fifteen-minute drive away, in one of the hamlets that fringed the town. The house was approached along one side of a village green, where a group of boys were kicking a ball about. Across its expanse she could see several other houses, a church, and an old-fashioned pub, whose customers were sitting or standing outside in the sunshine. A gale of laughter reached them on the still air.
    ‘Very rural,’ she remarked, and felt James look at her, unsure if approval or censure was implied. Then they were turning into a wide, gravelled drive alongside a stone-built house with a veranda running along the front of it.
    ‘Dad’s grandstand for cricket matches,’ James commented, seeing her glance at it. They drew to a halt next to another car, and he switched off the engine.
    ‘Well, here goes,’ he said.
    As he held the door for her, Abigail heard voices coming through the open side gate.
    ‘They’ll all be in the garden,’ he added, and, taking her arm, led her to meet his family.
    Everyone turned as they appeared, and Rosemary, conscious of their last unsatisfactory meeting, came quickly forward.
    ‘We got off to a bad start, my dear,’ she said, ‘but I hope we can be friends.’ And, bending forward, she kissed Abigail’s cheek.
    ‘Thank you,’ Abigail stammered, and saw to her embarrassment that the rest of them were lining up to meet her. James’s father was tall and straight, with plentiful grey hair and shrewd blue eyes. His handclasp was firm as he subjected her to a long, assessing gaze.
    ‘Welcome,’ he said briefly, and she smiled and nodded, turning as Tina approached. She had James’s colouring, though she was considerably shorter, and her shoulder-length hair was a tumble of curls. She smiled her welcome, but her brown eyes were guarded.
    As each in turn was introduced, Abigail searched their faces for a possible ally. Not Tina, she thought regretfully – at least, not immediately; nor was she convinced Rosemary’s overture was genuine, after her previous hostility. Andrew would clearly need winning over, and Ben, who’d smiled at her kindly and was her best bet, was, as Tina’s husband, sadly out of bounds.
    The children, pushed forward by their parents, she initially discounted, being unsure how to deal with them. Charlie had stared at her with frank curiosity, but there was a flicker of admiration in the eyes of fourteen-year-old Lily, and Abigail breathed an inward sigh of relief. Here, then, might lie her chance of infiltration.
    Ben appeared with a tray of Pimm’s, and Abigail, released from being the centre of attention, was able to look about her. The garden was large and secluded, with several old trees and a lush, central lawn. Down near the end wall, she caught sight of an old swing, and memory knifed into her, making her catch her breath. Instantly, James was at her side.
    ‘All right?’ he asked anxiously.
    It was an effort to smile. ‘Someone walking over my grave.’ Or someone else’s . She added quickly, ‘It looks an interesting house; what period is it?’
    ‘Early Victorian. It’s