Monday was ostensibly Mr Collins’s day of repose, but Charlotte insisted that such rest was best taken in the form of healthful exercise, whether joining (and sometimes interfering with) Mr Brown’s work in the garden, or walking abroad. On days when the weather made outdoor excursions impossible, she encouraged him to refine his plans for redesigning and gravelling the garden paths, refashioning the shrubbery, and shifting the palisades fencing the meadows. Tuesdays and Wednesdays he went about the parish on pastoral business or did the work of poor relief, leaving Charlotte to get on with her domestic duties, and by Thursday he was once again attending to his sermon. They dined at Rosings at least twice a week, and although her husband found these visits far more thrilling than she did, the difference in their station in life (of which Lady Catherine could be relied upon to remind them) meant that she could benefit from this hospitality without anxiety about reciprocating it.

She soon grew popular with her husband’s parishioners because she did not meddle, but attended to suffering and want promptly, effectively, and quietly. She had no interest in lecturing the recipients of her charity, and the care of their souls she left entirely to her husband. She did not hector like Lady Catherine, who was assiduous in sallying forth into the village to scold the cottagers into harmony and plenty, but focused instead on practicalities, tactfully drawing her husband’s attention to cases of real need or tied cottages in need of repair.

One day as she stood checking the contents of her pantry, Charlotte remembered a dinner she had prepared with special care – for the Netherfield Park party, in fact – at Lucas Lodge, only a few months previously; and yet another lifetime ago.

She remembered the pains she had taken, curling her hair, spending half an hour rubbing a cut lemon over her hands to erase the tell-tale red hue that revealed her hours in the kitchen. As she went downstairs to welcome the company alongside her mother, her cuticles stung slightly, as did the knowledge that she was responsible for the home baking and preserving, as well as some of the churning and cheese-making on those days when Jenny had to help the washerwoman with the household laundry.

The evening had proceeded pleasantly enough, although in the middle of it, the dining room filled with the scent of roasted meat and wine and candlewax, the chink of silver on china and conversation about taxes and hunting, Charlotte experienced an unprecedented moment of exhaustion. What is this for? she found herself asking, she, who was never given to philosophical musings. No one has uttered one word that I have not heard before, multiple times. There are no new topics of interest, and even the novelty of new faces has worn off.