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taking it in turns to outdo each other in high leaps and fancy footwork and the crowd cheering them on as if at a sporting match. The girl fiddled faster and faster, the concertina player gave up in despair on a last dying wheeze and Daniel spun, leapt and capered like a man possessed until the other three simply gave best and stood back, admiring. One more run of notes from the fiddle and he spun until he was no more than a blur and collapsed panting on the grass.
    Max had got into conversation with a Welshman about some detail of trade union politics that sounded as complicated as the Trojan war and would probably go on as long. I left them to it and went for a walk round the margin of the field, in no hurry to claim my uncomfortable bed in the cheesy dairy. On the whole my day had been difficult but not, I hoped, entirely wasted. Daniel might be a wild lad, but I’d got him to take the problem seriously. I cut across the field back towards the bonfire, which was no more than a red glow now, hoping for another word with him. Only a dozen or so people were left around the dancing place, with most people gone to their beds or elsewhere. The girl was wrapping up her fiddle in a cloth, a group of men and women were discussing something quietly together and Daniel was still there, sitting by the fire with a bottle of beer in his hand, talking to Harry Hawthorne. It looked like an intense conversation. I noticed Harry glancing up at the girl with the fiddle as if she were part of what they were talking about.
    It was coincidence that I happened to be there just when Daniel made his announcement. It’s likely that he was a little drunk, not so much from the ale as from the excitement of the dancing or Harry’s speech, or perhaps from nerving himself for what he was going to do. Anyway, Daniel leapt up from a sitting position straight to his feet and spun round as if starting another dance, with only the last of the flames this time for accompaniment.
    â€˜Everybody – friends, comrades, don’t go. I’ve got something to announce.’
    They all stared at him except the girl who went on calmly wrapping up her fiddle. They probably thought, like I did, that he was going to make a political speech, but what he said was, ‘I’d like to introduce you all to my fiancée.’
    I looked round for Felicia, enchanted by this latest turn in their puzzling romance. So the demure young lady had got tired of waiting for her wandering lover up in the manor house and come down to meet him in the field, like the raggle-taggle gypsies-O. Appropriate in view of all the folk music, although surprising. But there was no sign of Felicia: not in the group of men and women, nor by the fire, nor in the direction that Daniel was looking. His eyes were on the fiddler girl and her mouth was wide open, swathed violin dangling in her outstretched hand. Daniel walked over to her, took the fiddle and tucked it under his arm, then took her right hand in his free hand.
    â€˜Comrades, my fiancée, Daisy Smith.’

Chapter Five
    A FTER THAT BOMBSHELL, DANIEL AND HARRY Hawthorne walked away with Daisy in between them. From the only glimpse I had of her face, she looked more dazed than delighted. There’d been a few puzzled murmurs of congratulation from around the fire but most people were too dumbfounded to react.
    By the time I joined the other women in the old dairy to get ready for bed the news had spread. A good gossip was going on, which was a relief. High-mindedness and political dedication were all very well, but these women would have been less than human if they hadn’t been interested. On the whole, they were in favour of Daniel Venn. Several of the girls from London were dance and folk-song enthusiasts and had met him at classes and displays. He wrote good tunes for singing, they said, and although he came from a rich family there was no side about him. He’d just proved it – with his money and