Charlotte was reluctant to allow her daughter to undertake such an enterprise unless she personally kept watch over her, in case of crushed fingers or toes, and she took up her sewing basket, along with some cushions, and settled herself nearby, after Laura had first shooed her away from what was apparently a potential battlefield, with bees and starlings on aerial patrol.

Sarah went along with her sister’s scheme good-naturedly enough, but then spied a nearby ants’ nest, and became absorbed by the traffic of its tiny denizens. She duplicated her sister’s efforts in miniature by constructing the ants a new home made of leaves, and then attempting to divert them in its direction by placing obstacles such as fences (made of twigs) and walls (made of gravel) in their path. Upon finding her new friends obstinately unwilling to change their routes, she found a dimpled stone that held water in one of its hollows and used it to create a lake – which led to the further discovery that ants could travel underwater as long as their almost invisible feet maintained a purchase on the surface below. These zoological exploits kept her content while her sister presided over her more elevated and martial post.

The doves throbbed in the trees that forested the upper part of the gardens, and the air was heavy with pollen, heat, and somnolence. Charlotte abandoned her stitching and stretched her legs out on the grass. Gazing down the slopes of the sheep-nibbled lawn, she saw Herr Rosenstein out strolling, and beckoned to him to join her and the girls. He climbed the hill towards them willingly enough, and after commending Laura on her fortification skills, and suggesting that she turn a cannon made of bark to face possible raiders from the valley, he took his place beside Charlotte and Sarah.

‘I see we have here an incipient Duke of Wellington and a naturalist,’ he said, wiping his brow with a handkerchief. ‘And how wise they are to seek outdoor pursuits! The atmosphere inside the house is close today, and I suspect a storm is brewing. I find myself in need of fresh air. The odours of the glue I have been applying have my head swimming.’

He leaned back on his hands. ‘I require diversion, Frau Collins. I am tired of strings and tuning forks and varnish. At this moment, I am more interested in the daily round of a clergyman’s wife. If you are willing, I should like to hear more of your life in Kent. So many stories stop at the church or chapel door, with the vows said and the rice thrown – as if life did not begin afresh at that point, with new adventures ahead. Pray continue the narrative you were good enough to share the other day – I confess to no small curiosity as to how you managed the formidable-sounding Lady Catherine, for instance.’