Their walk took them to the principal bridge over the gleaming river, where they paused to look back over the handsome property, the stonework of the main house turning gold, then biscuit-coloured in the fitful sun, the plume of the lake fountain falling in a lazy arc. Mr Collins was in raptures, having learned that none other than the famous Mr Lancelot Brown had landscaped the grounds under the stewardship of Mr Darcy’s grandfather, and had turned from discussing philosophy to explaining the principles of landscape architecture to all who would hear him, with a long disquisition on Mr Brown’s motto concerning the ‘capabilities’ of a property. Mr Darcy was drawn into this conversation, and was now engaged in pointing out sightlines and horizons to her husband.

Charlotte found Jacob standing beside her. ‘Frau Collins, would you not agree that to truly appreciate some things of great beauty, as in the case of this view of the buildings of Pemberley, perspective is required?’

His question coincided with the party striking out on the return journey, and he offered Charlotte his arm with an ease and naturalness for which she was grateful: she could not have borne awkwardness or distance. His arm felt like an extension of her own body, and they moved automatically in step.

‘As you know, Herr Rosenstein, I am an ordinary and ignorant Englishwoman, with no special insight into the art of landscaping. I simply know what I like when I see it. And everything I have seen in my time here, I have liked.’

They walked in silence for a minute, then she added: ‘I am no romantic, as all my friends – and I hope you are one – know. I rely on consistency for my contentment. I like to see the same things, to follow the same routes, each day. What is familiar to me is what is also dear to me.’

‘Ah!’ he cried. ‘I comprehend you. There is indeed comfort to be found in knowing, in a world in which we have little say over our destiny, that some things remain unchanging, that their beauty or worth will not decline, or very little, over the passage of years.’