Charlotte also felt a yearning that was somehow intensified by Miss de Bourgh’s account of her unorthodox adventures, but she could not put a name to her restlessness. She knew only that their time at Pemberley was spinning by faster and faster, and something needed to happen – but what?

Her imagination could supply no answers; she only knew that soon Mr Darcy would return, bringing with him her own husband to conduct them back to Kent; and that they would all return to their usual demesnes and lives, and that this suspended summer would be over. There was no denying she missed her home; at the same time she dreaded that the grief she had been able to dress in different colours here might resume its usual blacks and greys.

The pianos were all tuned, and the harpsichord repaired and set to rights at last. Herr Rosenstein declared himself satisfied, and invited the ladies of the house to Miss Darcy’s rooms so that he could give them a little concert, an occasion that was much enjoyed. Sarah and Laura, who had never heard a harpsichord played before, were particularly intrigued by the differences in tone and volume between the exquisite little jewel of an instrument, with pastoral scenes painted on its sides, and the larger and more sombre-looking pianofortes they were accustomed to hearing played.

Now only the harp remained to be tuned, and that would take but a few days, according to the musician. Fortuitously, Georgiana Darcy was about to begin her journey homeward from Switzerland, so one of the Pemberley coaches would take Jacob as far as Dover, where it would await Miss Darcy and her companion, and convey them home.

That night, as their group ate their usual picnic supper of fruit and cheese in the saloon, Charlotte was seized by a sense of urgency. She could not stop fidgeting, so much so that Lizzy asked her what was amiss. Charlotte looked around the room, its deep windows framing vistas of the hanging woods and hills. Laura was under the piano, pretending to be a leopard stalking its prey, growling to herself. Sarah was lost in another no doubt unsuitable book, the tabby cat curled in a knot of sleep on her lap. Lizzy herself sewed with her usual swift darting movements, and only Charlotte rumpled the shawl she was supposed to be repairing. ‘I shall miss this. You, my dear Eliza, this place – these evenings.’