Wednesday, 4th August

While the butler went through the established ritual of serving the coffee, Gervaise de Courtney, 13th Earl of Ridley, looked quickly around the rosewood table which Thomas Chippendale, the master craftsman, had personally designed for the Great Library in 1758.

To the earl's right was his wife, Katerina, the Countess of Ridley. He had married her in his early thirties – which was considered very old for the heir to the earldom to enter his first marriage – but he daily thanked God that he had waited, because she had brought a light into his life which had made him want to continue living it.

To his left sat Edward Bell, his estate manager, a solidly built man wearing a rough tweed jacket which seemed to be such a part of him that he would shed it in only the hottest weather. Bell had worked at Stamford Hall all his life, as had his father, and his father's father, right back to George Bell, who had been appointed the Hall's first steward in 1705.

They were loyal to him – both of them – the earl thought, and he needed that loyalty, because sitting opposite him was his mother, Sarah, the Dowager Countess, and if there was one person in the world who really hated him, then – he suspected – that person was her.

The mother spoke. 'I wish to make it known, in the strongest possible terms, that I disapprove of the coming madness, and intend to confine myself to my apartments for the entire period it is being perpetrated,' she said.

The earl sighed. 'Couldn't you at least have waited until Barton had finished serving the coffee, Mother?' he asked.

His mother looked up at the butler, who was expertly pouring coffee from a large silver jug into small, delicate china cups.

'Does it distract you if I talk while you are serving, Barton?' she asked. 'Or do you believe, as I do, that a good servant will allow nothing to distract him from doing his duty?'

'I am not distracted, my lady,' the butler replied, in a voice totally devoid of any expression.

It really wasn't fair of his mother to put Barton in such a difficult position, the earl thought. And it wasn't fair of her to show such lack of respect for him in the presence of a servant.

But the problem was, the dowager countess didn't think that she was either making the butler's life difficult or embarrassing her son, because as far as she was concerned, the feelings and opinions of servants – if, indeed, they had any – counted for nothing. From her perspective, the servants' only function in life was to serve her, and when they were not doing that, they didn't really exist.

The butler finished his task, took an almost imperceptible step backwards, asked if there was anything else that the assembled company required, and withdrew when he was told there wasn't.

'It's not a good idea for you to stay inside all the time, Mother,' the earl said, continuing the earlier conversation. 'You know the doctor told you that you should get some fresh air at least once a day.'

'But the problem is that the air will not be fresh, will it?' his mother countered. 'It will have been horribly polluted by the rabble you will have allowed to invade the Hall.'

'No one will be invading the Hall,' said the earl, laying a plan of the grounds on the table, and smoothing it out with his right hand. 'The music stage will be here, close to the west wall. The main camp site, however, will be beyond the walls, close to the west gate.' He paused. 'The portable toilet cabins will be here in plenty of time, won't they, Mr Bell?'

'They will, sir,' the estate manager confirmed.

'And we must ensure that there is an ample supply of fresh water. In this heat, there's a real danger of dehydration.'

'That's already been taken care of.'

'Our guests will be here, in a large semicircle around the stage,' the earl said to his mother and his wife. 'When the last band of the night ...'

'Band!' his mother snorted.

'... when the last band of the night has completed its set, all the fans will leave the grounds, and the gates will be locked.'

'And in the daytime?' his mother asked. 'Will the vile hooligans be free to rampage through the rose garden and the greenhouses? Will you just stand by and watch them kill the ducks and swans in the north lake, and row their sweaty bodies up and down the south lake?'

'As I have explained at least half a dozen times before, Mother, the concert area has been cordoned off from the rest of the grounds by a wire-netting fence,' the earl said.

'And what will happen when the riff-raff decide they will break down the fence?'

It was amazing how this woman – who really had a very limited imagination – could find so many different words to describe people she disapproved of, the earl thought.

'They will not break down the fence, Mother,' he said. 'They will listen to the music and do their best to become at one with the universe. And even if there are a few people who decide, for some inexplicable reason, to make trouble, the marshals I have appointed will soon deal with them.'

'The marshals!' the dowager countess repeated. 'Is that what you call them? I call them motorcycle thugs. Vandals! They will probably do more damage than the rest of the scum put together!'

'Since you have no interest in hearing what I have to say, I suggest you withdraw, Mother,' the earl said, his patience finally wearing thin.

'Are you ordering me to go?' the old woman asked.

'No, Mother, of course not.'

'Because you could order me to go, you know,' the dowager countess said, in a tone designed to make him feel both guilty and cowardly. 'You are, after all, the earl, whereas I am nothing.'

'Mother, this really isn't necessary,' the earl said.

'I don't see why you have to do it,' the dowager countess persisted. 'We don't need the money. You are rich.'

'The estate is rich,' the earl corrected her, 'but even so, running the Hall is a costly business, and if we do nothing to augment our income, the money will melt away soon enough.'

'Then do something with a little dignity to it,' the old woman argued. 'Open the house to guided tours for the respectable middle class – if you can find any! Build a safari park, if you consider it absolutely necessary.'

'That's already been done by others,' the earl pointed out. 'Besides, I believe in the RockStately Festival, Mother.'

'The RockStately Festival! What does that even mean?'

'It's a play on words,' the earl said, wondering why he was even bothering to explain, since he knew his mother was not interested in the answer. 'It's a combination of "rocksteady", which is a kind of music, and "stately home", which is what ...'

'Is my son charging enough?' the dowager countess asked, turning to Edward Bell.

'I'm sorry, my lady,' Bell replied, stalling.

'You're the man whose supposed to know about figures, Bell...