When there was still no response to her pleading shouts, she went to the window. There was something in the way, hard against her knees. A chest of some sort. Leaning across it, she looked each way to see if there was anyone to whom she could plead for help. The lamps were not lit yet, though she thought it was not long before the lamplighter must come out. But she could see no one in the narrow street. In desperation she began to bang on the window anyway, trying to release her feelings, to alert someone, anyone, please, dear Lord, please . . .

‘Help me!’ The pane shuddered under her hand. She tried to force up the sash but it did not budge. ‘I’m locked in. Someone let me out – help!’

At that she heard a sound outside the room. She stilled.

‘Margaret.’ It was his voice, low, outside the door.

She tore towards it. ‘Charles! Let me out! What’s going on?’

‘You must stop banging on the window.’ His voice was soft and persuasive again. ‘Stop that noise, now. You wouldn’t want anyone to get any ideas in their head, would you? You sound . . . unstable. Anyone seeing you, might begin to think—’

‘Let me out!’ she shrieked. ‘What d’you think you’re doing, locking me in here like this? Let me go home. You said . . .’ Her voice, to her fury, began to break into sobs. ‘You said we should go home this evening.’

‘I did, I know,’ he said reasonably. ‘But I don’t think you are in any fit state to travel now, are you? Let us wait a little and see if you feel better in the morning, shall we?’

‘In the morning – no-o-o!’ She was wailing. ‘Why have you done this? You’re . . . you’re a terrible, wicked man . . .’ She was about to continue telling him what he was, but fear gripped her. She was in his power here. She must not say anything to enrage him. She stopped abruptly.

‘Wicked, am I?’ The soft voice again, through the wood of the door. ‘Why – what did I do, Margaret? I have no memory of anything other than that I was hit over the head by some deranged person . . .’

She stood, trembling, behind the door. He was wicked. Even more wicked than she had ever believed. And she had thought that things might be made right, that there could be understanding, forgiveness. Tears ran down her cheeks. She was angry, but even more, now, she was frightened. Even in her upset state she realized, with cold rationality, that she must not insult him. What else might he do if she said the things she really wanted to say?

‘I’ve tried to believe the good in you,’ she managed, attempting to control her voice so he would not hear that she was weeping. ‘I came with you because I wanted us to make peace.’