It was Caroline
who had laughed and planned, it was she who had made the place a home.
Rose was too remote, Sophia was living in the past, and Henrietta felt
herself alone. Even her father's portrait looked down at her with eyes
too much like her own, and out there, beyond the high-walled garden,
the roofs and the river, there was only Francis Sales and he was not a
friend. He was, perhaps, a lover; he was a sensation, an accident; but
he was not a companion or a refuge.
And the thought of Charles rose up, at that moment, like the thought
of a fireside. She wished he would come now and sit with her, asking
for nothing, but assuring her of service. That was what he was for,
she decided. You could not love Charles, but you could trust him for
ever, and the more trust he was given, the more he grew to it. She
needed him: she must not lose him. Deep in her heart she supposed she
was going to marry Francis Sales, yes, in spite of what Aunt Sophia
said, and it was a prospect towards which she tiptoed, holding her
breath, not daring to look; but she, like Rose, had no illusions. She
was the daughter of her mother's union with her father, and she was
prepared for trouble, for the need of Charles. Besides, she liked him:
he was companionable even when he scolded. One forgot about him, but
he returned; he was there. She went to bed in that comfortable
assurance.
9
There could be no more parties for Henrietta that winter, but Mrs.
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