Although Sarah also had her knife and a polishing cloth in her apron pocket, and offered to clean the headstone, Charlotte, rising stiffly to her feet, decided to leave the Tom’s stone, decorated by orange and sea-green rosettes of lichen, untouched. The two women each took it in turn to run their finger over the unoriginal but no less sincere words carved into the stone:

In memory of Thomas William Collins: 5th February 1815–7th November 1818. Gone to the angels. Beloved son of Revd & Mrs William Collins.

‘I sometimes feel badly that I remember so little of my brother,’ said Sarah. ‘But you loved him so much, Mama, and that love was as much part of our childhood as food on the table and books on the shelves. It was like being haunted by a ghost, but such a beloved one; indeed, a friend.’

‘Yes,’ Charlotte agreed, leaning on her daughter’s strong arm as they turned to begin the short walk home. ‘I promised myself, and him, he would never be forgotten. He would – will – always be my son. Some forms of love never die. That is their burden and their blessing.’

They strolled at a gentle pace, and in every direction, the view was as pleasing as it was familiar. They stopped twice – once to admire the profile of the house and the towering chestnut trees on either side, the second time to watch a distant hawk circling over barley stubble, bracing against thermals invisible to them except in the taut span of its wings.

Approaching via the west entrance, they saw two sparring figures and heard faint cries: Laura and her husband were fencing on the greensward. It was typical of Laura to insist on fencing lessons, and then to fall in love with her master. When the dazed and dazzled man had dared to reflect the glory of her affection back to her, she had married him forthwith. They seemed never to stop laughing, and for that Charlotte was more than grateful, remembering the mirth that marked her continuing friendship with Mrs Darcy. Mutual amusement was an excellent basis for lasting intimacy.

The twins were watching from the stone terrace, or at least one of them was; Pandora, as always, had a book in her hand, and was in that tranquil trance into which she invariably fell when reading. Jonathan, down from his college at Oxford, was cheering on the duelling couple, offering encouragement without partisanship to both parties.