Lizzy loved her father dearly, and was deeply affected by the news of his death, but as the sorrowful day wore on, with Sarah coming and going with trays of broth, sherry and other liquids traditionally supposed to soothe those afflicted by great sorrow, a new anguish appeared. ‘Oh Charlotte!’ she cried. ‘I shall have to have my mother come and live with us at Pemberley. Kitty and Mary, too. Them I shall not mind; but think of having Mrs Bennet at dinner every day! I know I sound harsh and unfeeling, especially at such a time; I admit I lack the respect I owe a parent. But I cannot give my husband yet more grounds for reproach. He is so patient and loyal; not a word of criticism, not a hint, crosses his lips. He is too much of a gentleman, and I know he will suffer my mother in silence. I would rather he roared and protested. There is already too much silence between us.’

Charlotte murmured a mention of Mrs Bingley, and Lizzy brightened a little: ‘Jane! Yes, Jane and I might manage between us. Lydia – we cannot look for help there, and it would not be suitable for my unmarried sisters to make a home with her.’ Then came a fresh burst of tears: ‘Oh Charlotte, my poor sisters! How I miss Jane, my dear Jane! She will be so grieved at the passing of our father. I must write to my mother – and to Jane. I cannot think what to do first, my mind is so disordered.’

With a spike of pain, Charlotte remembered how scattered her thoughts had been immediately after Tom’s death, how grateful in those first days she had been, for once, for Lady Catherine’s interference and advice. She reminded her friend that her husband would know how to proceed, and that he surely had practical matters well in hand. She encouraged Mrs Darcy to begin her letters without delay, leading her to her desk, sharpening nibs and looking out for ink and paper.

Once Lizzy had settled to her letters, with Sarah, pink-eyed, hovering in attendance, Charlotte went in search of her own husband, although she did not have to hunt around much; he was in his favourite room, the library, which rivalled anything he had seen at Oxford and cast even its equivalent at Rosings into shade. He was applying himself to correspondence of his own.