But after retiring to bed, she found herself as tense as always. She thrashed for what felt like hours, conscious of a semi-familiar pressure in her lower body she associated with the middle months of pregnancy. The heat of the wine had slid from her throat, chest and fingers to pool in her pelvis, thudding along with her pulse.

Charlotte did not have the vocabulary to give a name to sexual hunger, but she did know that the sense of urgency and loneliness she felt could no longer be endured. Sitting up in bed and flinging back the quilt, she called, ‘Mr Collins!’ Then, more loudly, ‘William!’ She was about to scramble out of bed to go and wake her husband when she heard footsteps and fumbling at the dressing-room door.

He stumbled into her bedchamber dishevelled in the dim light, and extremely anxious: ‘My dearest Charlotte, whatever is the matter? Are you taken ill? Must we send to Rosings? Should I wake the servants?’

By now, she had managed to light her bedside candle, hands shaking, and saw that he had come to her with such alacrity, he had not even put a shawl or gown on over his nightclothes. Unable to speak, but hoping he could see that nothing physical ailed her, she simply stretched out her arms. He bustled to her side and bent to embrace her. She snared him around the waist and lay back, tugging him towards her. At his slight resistance, born of confusion, she urged, ‘Get into bed, William. You’ll freeze to death otherwise.’

He scrambled under the covers with her, still hugging her awkwardly, still murmuring queries: ‘Are you in distress, my dear? Are you sure you are not ill, or in any pain?’

‘I am quite well. But I cannot sleep!’ It came out as a wail that caused Mr Collins to cluck with great tenderness. ‘Here,’ Charlotte added, with a fine disregard for logical sequence, ‘your feet are blocks of ice. Warm them on mine.’

They lay wordless for a minute, tangling their legs together, panting slightly. Then, with blind instinct, she pushed up the tail of his nightgown and ran her hands up his back, digging her nails into his flesh. He began to kiss her all over her face, and she was overtaken by animal hunger that had her dragging up her own gown, and lunging upwards with her hips.

He all but fell into her, burying himself in the warmest part of her, and they both groaned. It was usual during their congress for Charlotte to lie still, but this time she bucked under him, unable to stifle her cries. Within seconds, she began to spasm in an agony of relief. He gasped and shuddered in response, and tears welled from Charlotte’s eyes. It was a while before she realised that he too had shed the tears wetting her face.