And what she could barely articulate to herself was the hope that if she remained alert, she might hear the familiar chirruping indicating that Tom needed her. That she would take a candle into his nursery to see him light up with smiles at the sight of her, chubby arms windmilling over the edge of the cot, eager to wrap themselves around her neck. That she would scoop him up into her arms, slot him onto her hip and tuck his head into the crook of her neck, the nightmare of the present dissolving, the flow of life reverting to its normal channels, no longer jarringly out of step.

This meant that she dared not take wine with dinner, not even when Lady Catherine sent over a half-dozen bottles of Constantia wine from her late husband’s cellar, a magnanimous gesture that had required both a full-page letter of thanks and a visit for the sole purpose of expressing gratitude.

So Charlotte would lie in sheets that would grow rumpled as the hours crawled by, rehearsing that last day of Tom’s life endlessly, wondering if there was a sign she had missed, something she could have done to change the events of the night. Had he been unduly subdued? Had she missed his catching a cold? She should have supervised his supper instead of leaving it to Katie, fed him special treats. Why had she not played with him longer that day? Held him tighter? How could she have kissed him goodnight so lightly, unconcerned, with no sense of the savage beast waiting to snatch him away, to tear her world to pieces? How could she not have known nemesis was waiting, hidden and leering in the shadows, for her to lower him into his cot and walk away, leaving him unguarded?

Her mind would roam further into thornier fields: should they have consulted more doctors? Heaven knows, Lady Catherine had recommended enough, as well as having so much to say that one might be forgiven for thinking her an expert on water on the brain. Had they accepted too easily the claim that his condition was untreatable, apart from the regular draining of fluid from his poor swollen head? He had always seemed so content, with none of the fretfulness one might expect of a child with such an impairment: he loved his food, the games they played, music … Oh God, she had promised him and his sisters a visit to the piano in the housekeeper’s room at Rosings, for one of their occasional sing-along sorties – why had she postponed an outing he would have enjoyed so much? Why had she trusted that another day would come, another tomorrow, and another? Wait, not yet, not yet, her heart cried. I am not ready. And then, as the clock downstairs chimed away the plodding hours: I shall never be ready.