She was glad to be distracted from all that overwhelmed her by the arrival of another letter from Lizzy, and opened it anticipating news of glamorous far-off events – evenings at the theatre in town, balls at court, mingled with accounts of less exciting but more interesting events among their mutual acquaintance – but the contents were of a different order entirely.

Mrs Darcy wrote to announce that she was also expecting a child and, like Charlotte, would soon approach a confinement. She and Mr Darcy had not bruited the news abroad for fear of another disappointment, but the doctors were optimistic, the child was kicking lustily, and there was every reason to hope for the best possible outcome.

Lizzy wrote: ‘Just think, my dear Charlotte, our children may one day be friends, so close in age as they will be. I certainly hope so. I regret not telling you of this before, especially after receiving your happy news, but I know you will understand the reasons for my reticence, and share in our joy and anxious hopes. I shall pray for you as you approach your delivery, and beg you to do the same for me.’

CHAPTER XXXVIII

SOMEWHERE DEEP IN LABOUR, HER body as burdened as a pack animal’s, Charlotte faced that moment of believing she could not go on; that something was wrong, that she was facing imminent death, that the child struggling to exit her body would kill her, or she it; above all, that she was too tired to continue. She wanted it all to stop, the possession of her vast and heaving body, the pains that both convulsed and pinned her down with weighted claws, the rusty smell of blood and vinegar. She wanted to escape, to flee, to be a narrow-waisted girl again, walking in the fresh air, not to be trapped on this bed, the linen sodden with sweat and other fluids.

But, she remembered, she had felt this pitch of terror and exhaustion during every other one of her labours, even though (according to Mrs Talbot) the births of her girls had been easy. And then the moment passed as another contraction clamped down and around and through and in and on her, and she became once again a groaning beast on an arduous journey that had to be completed.

It was hours later, with a weak dawn filtering through the curtains, that she gave a final heave. Mrs Talbot, red-faced with exertion, tugged – there was a slither, a gush, and the first angry snuffles and squeaks could be heard as the midwife said, ‘It’s a lass. A bonny girl.’