Lord John Frasier stood by the window and gazed out across the terrace. In the distance, by the orangery, the splashing fountain caught the rays of the morning sun. He saw James the gardener beginning work on the rose border, following the instructions he gave him the previous day. Everything seemed to be in order at Palweir Castle which had been the family home for seven generations. There was just one problem which disturbed him – the marriage of his daughter Charlotte. It had kept him awake for many nights. Today she was due to return home with her fiancé to discuss the Easter wedding. Lady Sylvia and he had yet to meet him and to make things extremely difficult in Lord John’s opinion - he was FRENCH! A frown settled across his brow. For God’s sake, couldn’t she find an English chap? There were plenty of blue-blooded types available. Why couldn’t one of them be his prospective son-in-law? The breakfast gong sounded as Lady Sylvia swept into the room.

‘Come along John. Why are you looking so miserable? Hurry up! Breakfast is served and Charlotte and Anton will be arriving at 10 and Juliet from the events company will be here soon after that.’

‘Coming dear,’ he replied.

Charlotte skidded the Jaguar to a halt on the gravelled drive and dashed to the front door to greet her parents. She hadn’t seen them for six months since starting her work at the art gallery in St Tropez. Her mother was smiling, but her father did not look so happy. Anton followed her up the steps to the solid oak door. Kisses and handshakes were exchanged. At least he didn’t kiss me, thought Lord John. Can’t stand the French – they’re always kissing each other.

They settled themselves in the drawing room while coffee was served. Charlotte talked at length about the exciting people she had met at the gallery. Anton kept quiet. He could feel Lord John watching him intently. Not much later Juliet the events manager was shown into the room. She always organised their annual summer fête and Christmas soirée.

‘Juliet darling,’ Lady Sylvia gushed. ‘Lovely to see you. You know Charlotte of course although she wasn’t here for our Christmas event last year. And this is her fiancé, Anton.’

Anton stood up. ‘Enchanté, Madame,’ he said with a small shake of the hand. Lord John noted the gesture and the expensive watch on the wrist. Seems to have some manners he thought.

The three women discussed details of the church service, flowers, marquees and colour scheme. The two men sat and listened.

‘Now shall we discuss the menu for the wedding breakfast?’ asked Juliet, shuffling the reams of notes she’d taken so far. Lord John immediately stood up.

‘I want an English menu,’ he said quite forcibly, with a definite accent on the word English. ‘No fancy foreign food.’ Anton and Charlotte exchanged glances. ‘Soup. Roast beef. Sherry trifle,’ he barked, reddening slightly. Juliet made more notes.

‘What about stilton and watercress soup, dexter beef with vegetables from the walled garden and trifle for dessert?’ she suggested.

‘We must have strong horse radish and good thick gravy,’ Lord John told her.

Charlotte said she didn’t like trifle. (Anton wasn’t sure what it was, but kept quiet.) Eton Mess was decided upon instead.

‘Named after England’s finest school,’ Lord John declared. ‘Most of our prime ministers were pupils there.’

‘Now what about the wine?’ asked Juliet. ‘We usually serve a welcome drink on arrival and of course with the food.’

‘Must be English wine,’ said Lord John. ‘Champagne of course.’

‘Champagne is French,’ Juliet said discreetly. ‘I can find you English sparkling wine. I have contacts with a vineyard in Kent that produces excellent wine. After all, what's in a name? It doesn’t have to be champagne. An English sparkler will be fine.’

‘Good. Excellent. Do that Juliet,’ thundered Lord John.

‘Certainly not,’ interrupted Lady Sylvia. ‘It’s a wedding. Our only daughter’s wedding. We must have champagne. The name is everything. Nothing else will do, no matter how fine you say it will be.’

Juliet explained that the word ‘champagne’ was limited entirely to wine produced in the Epernay region of France. Nowhere else was permitted to use the word ‘champagne’ on their wines.

‘But…’ Lord John was about to say, when Anton spoke up.

‘If you will permit me to say something. My family has vineyards in the champagne region. We will gladly provide wine for this occasion. If you let me know how many cases will be required, I will arrange for them to be shipped over. I have contacts in the Burgundy region too, so I could provide excellent red and white wine also. It would be my family’s present to you all.’

‘Very good of you, sir. An excellent offer. Splendid,’ enthused Lord John. ‘I shake your hand on that. Good man.’

His opinion of his daughter’s fiancé changed immediately and the problem that had been on his mind seemed to have vanished into thin air.