As Charlotte looked up from this letter, Lizzy said: ‘I must confess, I am surprised that Miss de Bourgh is such a regular correspondent. I do not mean that I am surprised she has chosen and values you as an intimate, dear Charlotte. But she seemed so – faint – to me, almost a ghost of a woman. I can make no claim to know her on the basis of a few visits to Rosings, but she seemed more of an absence than a presence. I cannot imagine what she might have to relate, much less at length.’

Charlotte had to suppress a smile at these words. If you only knew, Eliza. Aloud she said, ‘Miss de Bourgh is an enlightening correspondent, and she has indeed news of interest to impart – she is travelling abroad, in the South of France at present. For her health, of course. She sends you her compliments.’

‘Heavens! The South of France in midsummer? The heat will be scorching. She must indeed be unwell if her doctors believe such a course of action is necessary.’

The musician looked up from his coddled eggs. ‘I should be sorry to hear that any one of your friends is experiencing ill-health, Frau Collins. But I am sure that the warmth of which Mrs Darcy speaks will be beneficial. What I remember of Provence is that the heat, while stupefying, is a dry heat, one that penetrates the bones, opens the chest, and relaxes the body.’

Elizabeth was full of lively interest: ‘You have travelled in France, Herr Rosenstein? Pray tell us more. It is a country I would love to visit, but of course the last few years have not been conducive, what with the Terrors and that wretched Bonaparte – himself not even a Frenchman, I believe – harassing us like a terrier. Thank heavens he has now been confined to a far more distant island – a rock somewhere near the South Pole, I believe.’

‘I have been fortunate, Frau Darcy,’ replied the musician. ‘My father and I travel regularly to Paris for purposes of our business, of course, although the wars did indeed disrupt these trips. But it is the journeys of leisure to the southern parts of that country that I remember with the most pleasure. The cities of Nice and Avignon – with its famous truncated bridge – the walled towns perched on rocks, the brazen glitter of the sea, the mountains shouldering into the sky – I am lucky to have seen all this.’

He went on to describe ancient Roman ruins and aqueducts, marshes rustling with blond grasses and populated by wild horses, mule-tracks clinging to dry and peppery coastal cliffs where tideless waves washed far below, seaside promenades made exotic by the planting of tropic palms, palaces jealously guarded by apostate Popes, fields of sunflowers turning their heads to follow their parent orb.