“If I could have even a shadow of regret, it would only be that I can never give you the chance of going to parties and balls, of coming out into Society and of meeting friends of your own age and your own class.”

“But, Mama, I have friends here. There is Aunt Maria and dear Mrs. Merryweather at the farm.”

Lady Rosemary had smiled but had not troubled to explain further. But as she had grown older still, Gretna had known what she meant. There was no one in the tiny village with whom she could really be a playmate.

But there had always been ‘Aunt Maria’. Gretna thought of her now and felt her heart quicken with excitement. The beautiful exciting Maria Fitzherbert, whom she loved and who she knew loved her.

*

At any moment now the carriage would be drawing up at her front door in Park Street.

She bent forward. Already the afternoon was drawing on.

The stagecoach had been unconscionably slow doing the thirty miles to London, stopping at Posting inn after Posting inn and threading its way through the traffic of the Metropolis at almost a snail’s speed.

Gretna peered through the dirty windows of the Hackney carriage.

Yes, she could make out the words ‘Park Street’ written on one of the tall imposing houses that they were driving past. The street was long and it seemed to her, straight from the country, very impressive and magnificent.

The carriage came to a standstill and Gretna was ready to jump out long before the driver climbed down to open the door for her.

“Here is the money,” she said and the man took off his hat and thanked her. “Please put my luggage on the top step.”

She ran up the steps and rang the bell. She could hear it clanging far away in the basement of the house.

The cab driver deposited her box beside her.

“Good day, lady,” he intoned, touching his hat and, climbing up onto the box of his coach, he whipped up his tired horse and drove away.

Gretna waited. She found herself shivering a little not only because of the wind whistling down the street. It was chilly and the sun had disappeared behind some grey clouds, but colder still were her fears and anxieties.

The conversation of the night before was fresh in her mind.

She realised that she had been waiting for quite a long time. Perhaps no one had heard the bell, she thought, and rang it again.

This time there was the shuffle of heavy feet and then the clank of chains being removed. Finally the door opened slowly. An old, rheumaticky bleary-eyed man stood there, a flickering candle in his hand and beyond him Gretna could see an empty hall.

“Does not – Mistress Fitzherbert live – here?” she faltered.

“Gone away,” was the answer and the man made about to shut the door again.

“But, wait! Wait!” Gretna cried. “Where has she – gone to?”