‘Yes, Charles.’ She shook him off. ‘You have no right, none at all. Ever since you came to London, and why did you come, by the way, you have judged me, judged the people I choose as friends. We were friends, Charles, such good friends as I thought would never be parted.’ There were tears in her voice. ‘You were witty, and understanding and … my best friend. All that seems in a different life, now, and you have behaved as if you had a right to dictate to me. You do not. Leave me alone. I will not obey you, will not listen to you. I am in my aunt’s charge, not yours. Let me get on with my own life.’ Her voice throbbed, and her cheeks were flushed.

‘Very well.’ He stared at her, and she thought how suddenly cold he looked. ‘You have made yourself very clear, Henrietta, and I … Good day to you, Miss Gaydon.’ She could not know, must not know, how close he was to taking her in his arms, kissing her, proving how little he thought himself in loco patris, and most definitely not fraternal. That would be to betray all they had ever had.

He bowed stiffly, strode past her, flung open the door and passed into the hall, and down the stairs. She heard him ask calmly for his hat and gloves, and the front door close behind him. She stood for a moment, not even able to take a breath, and then she took a great gulp of air, and ran to her room, locking the door behind her. Whereupon she threw herself upon her bed, beating the counterpane with her fists, and weeping her anger, her frustration and her immense sense of loss.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN