Charlotte smiled as her elder daughter ran back towards her to reach for her free hand. ‘And you, my treasure? Are you happy here among our kind friends?’

‘Oh yes, Mama! So very happy. But I wish Papa were here, too.’ Sarah leaned her head against her mother’s side. ‘And Tom.’

Charlotte was once again amazed that she could still be surprised by the stab of pain her son’s name occasioned, but contented herself with stroking her daughter’s hair and murmuring endearments. It also struck her, not for the first time, that here in Derbyshire she found she missed her son more than she did her husband. But this was not a productive line of thought: Mr Collins was alive and well in Kent, and she had received from him only that morning a letter boasting of the success of their marrow crop. No repining was required, whereas the knowledge that his sisters also felt Tom’s absence, even in the midst of hearty outdoor pleasures, was bittersweet.

Herr Rosenstein drew to a halt as she attended to Sarah, but pressed her arm more firmly against his side, a gesture of comfort she did not take amiss. As her daughter wheeled away in pursuit of her sister, Charlotte was once again grateful that the musician did not speak or ask questions. She did not trust her own voice at that moment, and they walked on, now more swiftly, as it was no longer clear whether the moisture on their faces was blown from the lake fountain or descending gently from the sky.

Midsummer approached, with the northern dusk glowing until late in the evening, and the sky never turning quite black, but intensifying to a warm Persian blue. On the eve of St John’s Day, Lizzy, the musician and Charlotte ambled along the main avenue that bisected the garden in the long twilight, the garden tickling and rustling around them. One could almost hear the plants growing, and every insect had a minute voice to add to the star-speckled night. Only a few sleepy birds still murmured, but small bats fluttered about like flakes of ash caught on an invisible breeze, and the air was heavy with the scent of lilac and green sap. On the surrounding hills, midsummer bonfires glowed like jewels.

‘Does all this not suggest magic?’ said Lizzy. ‘One can understand why Mr Shakespeare wrote his play full of fairy folk for this night.’ She had become an avid aficionado of the theatre during her winters in London as a married woman, and now recited the words:

If we shadows have offended,

Think but this, and all is mended,

That you have but slumber’d here

While these visions did appear.

And this weak and idle theme,

No more yielding but a dream.