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“My particular favourite ice is muscadine, with the flavour of elderflower, but rissolis and burnt filbert are excellent, too. As you see, there are endless varieties,” said Henry.

“Oh, a muscadine ice sounds perfect,” Margaret answered, scarcely able to tear her eyes away from such a mouthwatering exhibition.

Before long a waiter directed them to a corner table. Margaret felt they were hardly noticed, such was the hubbub of chatter and laughter, the clink of china and spoons upon glass. After the chill of the outdoors, the interior steamed with warmth. Margaret unbuttoned her pelisse and removed her gloves. Their order was taken, the waiter slightly bemused that he could not tempt them to some warming turtle soup. He then quickly returned with glasses of ice topped with crystallised fruits.

“Thank you, Henry, this is such a treat,” Margaret said, taking a spoonful of fragrant ice and licking her lips.

“Hopefully, it is the first of many. I could not miss seeing your first impressions of London, nor would I have overlooked observing the way you have attacked that confection for the world,” he smirked before he paused, staring at her mouth. “To be an ice would be very nice on Miss Dashwood's lips.”

“Henry Lawrence!” Margaret cried, pretending to be outraged but secretly thrilled and blushing with delight at his words. “Someone will hear you and I would imagine in a place like this there are spies all around. We will never be let out alone again.”

“I do not care,” he retorted. “There is certainly no one here that I know and in any case why should I care what others think of me? I always speak the truth. And the truth is, Miss Margaret, that I hope we will find somewhere to go on our own every day. Why should we not?”

“Some might consider it improper.” Margaret paused as she considered how she might broach the subject uppermost in her mind. “Your Mama, for one.” Margaret put her spoon down in the saucer for a moment and returned Henry's steady gaze. “I will speak the truth. I do not think your Mama likes me, Mr Lawrence.”

Margaret did not fail to notice that Henry was suddenly absorbed in his glass of ice, scraping the last of the sorbet from its depths with determination. Looking up, he spoke carefully.

“My mother is a difficult woman, but what you imagine to be a dislike of yourself is to make too personal a judgement. The truth is that my mother has no time for anyone, except perhaps for my father and Uncle Brandon, and to the former her behaviour may be described as equivocal. That is her way and I am sure she does not disregard you any more than she does anyone else.”

Margaret felt dissatisfied with his answer. Why did he defend his mother like that? Although with reflection she thought she recognised that what he said was perfectly correct. Hadn’t Marianne complained about Hannah Lawrence from the moment they had met? Theirs was an uneasy relationship, complicated by the fact that the latter did not wish to share her brother with Marianne, Margaret felt sure. Lady Lawrence scarcely acknowledged her sister. What hope was there of the lady embracing Margaret with open arms?

“That is not to say that I think her behaviour acceptable,” Henry added. “I hope in time that she will come to regard you as I do. I wish you to become very much more acquainted with my family. Indeed, it is my greatest hope…”

“Halloo! Halloo!” A voice called out, interrupting Henry and alerting the couple to a figure they both recognised very well. Mrs Jennings was almost doubled up in her efforts to attract their attention from the door several feet away and even when they acknowledged the lady, her waving arm would not be still.

They both immediately laughed out loud. “Now we’ve done it!” cried Henry. “We shall never hear the end of it. Mrs Jennings will make jokes and hints until she has raised the curiosity of everyone.”

“Oh, goodness!” Margaret cried, unable to stop laughing, “However shall we bear it?”

“Well, we’ve managed thus far and I’m sure we shall again.