Charlotte, exhausted, was amazed at the clarity and strength of the emotions that ran through her. Joy, but also relief. There was no decision to make: this child was hers. And if Anne de Bourgh stood by her promise, this little girl was safe. No one person could guarantee any child happiness, although she, Charlotte, would move mountains to make it so; but dignity and security lay in her new daughter’s future.

Mrs Talbot put a practised hand on Charlotte’s distended abdomen, then bent to peer between her thighs. ‘Mrs Collins, we must go back to work. I do believe there is another infant coming.’

All was rush and flurry; the housekeeper was called to hold the first blotchy red and white bundle still squalling with indignation at being forced to breathe spring air, and it was not long before the second infant breached the barrier from inner to outer life. ‘A boy,’ said Mrs Talbot, and Charlotte gasped with more than joy.

The afterbirth was delivered, the fire stoked, the two women helping her shadowy figures against its mobile light as they worked to clean and comfort her newborn babies, sounds of water in ewer and basin – and here they were at last, swaddled, in her arms, on her breast.

The little girl, the elder, was given to her first; as tightly furled as a bud, with a sprinkling of nutmeg freckles across her button nose. ‘Pandora,’ said Charlotte, touching the nose with a finger, ‘you shall be called Pandora,’ and her daughter opened eyes a lighter shade of blue than was usual in a newborn. ‘Her eyes will probably stay that colour,’ said Mrs Talbot as she handed her charge the second infant.

Both babies looked like wrapped parcels at this stage, but like any fond new parent, Charlotte traced their minute features with fascination, seeing beauty and hunting for resemblances in features as yet clay. Her son was quieter than his squeaking sister, a starfish hand reaching for his mother’s breast. His eyes were the deep blue of kittens, his squashed features topped by a quiff of dark hair. Charlotte peered; it was hard to tell, and perhaps it was wishful thinking, but his nose seemed to beak slightly from his face. None of the names she and Mr Collins had chosen for a boy quite fitted this exquisite creature; perhaps Anne de Bourgh might like to suggest one. Or she would reread the Old Testament, and choose the name of one of its heroes or prophets.