She was said to be gazing sideways across the firth towards Ayrshire, home of her lover Robert Burns. Behind her rose the grassy rock on which Dunoon Castle had stood centuries ago. Robert the Bruce had stayed there once, and Mary Queen of Scots. Now only a few stones were left. This sunny May evening a flag was flying: the blue and white St Andrew’s Cross of Scotland. The twins would be pleased. Like Papa they were staunch nationalists, foolishly, in Diana’s opinion. But what, she thought, as the car ferry Juno approached the pier, would it matter who governed Scotland, what would anything matter, if Mama died? She was instantly cheered by the sight of her sisters among the people on the pier. As always they were attracting looks of admiration. As tall as Diana herself they were alert, healthy, full of vigour, and interested in everything. They had their hair arranged in ponytail fashion, tied with red ribbons. Their jeans were blue, their jackets red, and their sports shoes red and white.
