She opens the door a crack, but both her mouth and the door fall open at the same time and somehow he is already within before she can think to make an excuse.

He is even taller than she remembers, his hair as wild and curly as ever. It’s as if his hat is sprung off his head simply from the power of his compressed curls. He is all limbs and angles and energy, an eager young colt made human.

‘Hmm,’ he says, as he carefully places his hat on the table and nods towards Uncle Jos. ‘How long has he been like this?’

They are too familiar in many ways to need the usual civilities of introduction, but she is irked that he has not at least attempted it. He is part family, part friend, part something she is not yet sure of. This is Richard Gibbs, journalist, wit and consumer of coffee in large quantities. He is as fiercely intelligent as his sparkling eyes suggest, but also profoundly shy behind his recently discovered cloak of confidence and they both know it.

Richard had been a big part of their lives since Uncle Jos trained him up as a young court reporter some six years ago, but, just as swiftly as he’d been incorporated into their little circle, he had departed from it. An unexpected offer of a senior job in Edinburgh eighteen months ago had been irresistible. No one could blame Richard for taking up the opportunity, but Jos had felt abandoned. He had not been easy with his forgiveness, and yet, at George’s funeral, he had fallen upon Richard almost as a long-lost son. In the two months since, Richard’s letters had become considerably more frequent. Mary too had been sorry to see Richard leave; he was glorious company and had always treated her as his intellectual equal. And now, here he was again. More outwardly assured now that he’d reached the grand old age of twenty-three but, underneath it all, still the same old Richard.

‘How long?’ he asks again. ‘Please, Mary.’

She looks at him for a moment, head to one side.

‘Well, good evening to you too, Mr Gibbs,’ she says, with a faint air of sarcasm. ‘What a pleasant and unexpected surprise. We had not been expecting company. I trust you have been faring well since we last met?’

‘Miss Ward.’ Richard bows, ashamed for a moment. ‘Mary. Forgive me. I had not meant to offend. Only that . . .’

‘I am quite well, thank you,’ she says, archly. ‘I trust you are too. And how was your journey from Edinburgh, Mr Gibbs?’

Richard isn’t sure what to make of this unexpected sharpness. The black mourning dress becomes her, although he’s surprised to find her still wearing it. She catches his puzzlement, reads him like a book.

‘Uncle George was as a father to me,’ she says, and Richard nods. Of course. Two months for an aunt or uncle, a year of mourning for a parent. His gaze wanders to Jos again and Mary softens.