As far as Cousin Caroline could see, the only problem with Henrietta’s manner was that she clearly thought that ‘beating about the bush’ was sometimes ridiculous, if not verging on the dishonest.

‘Do you expect me to tell lies, Caroline?’

‘No, no, it is just … think of it like the dance, cousin. One could walk across the dance floor in a few paces, but that would not show off one’s abilities, nor be entertaining. By using the steps, following what is expected, we show ourselves at our best. So if someone were to ask your opinion of a new book, or picture, saying “I thought it mediocre” is too blunt. One must try and say a few nice things about it, without overpraising.’

‘What if I cannot think of anything?’ Henrietta had a smile on her lips but a frown between her brows.

‘Make something up.’

‘But that is the lie, Caroline.’

‘I think you are going to discover there are a lot of lies in the London Season, my dear cousin.’

CHAPTER THREE

Sir John received his beloved daughter’s first letter, thankfully not crossed, within a week of her departure from his gate. It both cheered him, knowing that she was safe and well, and left him dispirited, because the house felt empty without her youthful and optimistic presence. It was illogical, he told himself, to think that the absence of one person rendered his house ‘empty’, but he could not remark to the servants about the small things he noted on his daily walk, nor invite the butler to play chess with him. Lord Henfield came over several times, and one afternoon they went out to shoot rabbits, but it had to be said that Charles was not his usual self either, and although he put a brave enough face upon it, he appeared a trifle low spirited.

The letter was read to him when he came for dinner, was dissected and smiled over, and both gentlemen reminisced about their very mildly misspent youths whilst considering ‘pups’.

‘At least I think we can be sure Henrietta will not be bowled over by her cousin,’ declared Sir John.

‘Most definitely not,’ agreed Lord Henfield, gazing at the contents of his brandy glass as if it might produce some unexpected augury.

‘One wants to see her settled and happy, of course, but, you know, Charles, the thought of her gone, perhaps residing at the other end of the country, quite fills me with gloom.’ Sir Charles was watching his godson quite closely.

‘Mm.’ It was clear that Lord Henfield found the thought equally unappealing.

‘She is not an angel. I never pretended she was, because at times she can drive a man of sense to distraction, wilful miss that she can be, but … she has a spark. Her mother had it, God rest her, and … I miss her damnably, and she has only been away a week.’

‘Mm.’ This time the ‘mm’ was more distant.