The conversation turned to Charlotte’s weeping body, and the midwife was able to reassure her that such a physical reaction was, if not normal, certainly not unusual in the wake of grief: ‘It is a bodily expression of mourning. I have seen it before in women who are sorrowing. It may persist for a while. In the meantime, take plenty of beef broth, and eat liver if you can.’ She also recommended drinking a tea of raspberry leaves in the mornings, and chamomile before retiring. ‘And you may indeed find wine helpful, but no more than a glass at a time,’ she cautioned.

Greatly relieved, and with the sense of pleasant exhaustion that often follows relief, Charlotte took Mrs Talbot’s advice and a package of herbs. Whether it was the raspberry-leaf tea or nature taking its course, after a few more weeks, Charlotte’s body settled back into its usual schedule.

But still she could not sleep. She stumbled through the days red-eyed and frantic for rest, dozing off in her sewing chair or at her household accounts and jerking awake, sweating in panic. To her shame, she found herself snapping at Katie, knocking over her water-glass, breaking crockery, crying out in near-hysteria when Laura slipped while trying to climb a stile into the cow-pasture. She was either weak with fatigue or as restless as a caged animal, desperate to walk for miles, swinging her arms, seeing and speaking to no one. But the deepening winter thwarted her, both with the darkness that settled earlier each day, and with rain and fog that did not invite strolling. Besides, the wife of a clergyman – much less one who had the Hunsford living and the patronage of Rosings – could not roam the lanes and fields at will. She required an object for any journeys she made, and there were only so many parish visits she could make.

Her husband at least had the usual business of his office, and the winter pruning to attend to – the walnut and mulberry trees had to be cut back while their sap was dormant, to prevent weeping – and he would sally forth with leather gloves, knives and a bullhook, returning hours later with a face red-chapped by cold, exertion, and the private expression of grief. At those moments, his wife almost envied him his labours, even when the east wind nagged with the sting of sleet.

One evening, Charlotte found herself almost feverish with agitation and exhaustion. Mr Collins, concerned and perplexed as to how best to provide comfort, had finally broached one of Lady Catherine’s bottles at dinner, and the silky red liquor had provided his wife with welcome warmth, colouring her cheeks and easing some of the knots from her neck and shoulders, which, these days, felt permanently crimped.