Sarah had soon become enamoured of Lady Anne’s pastime of riding; the pair of them would gallop for miles up the gently sloping hills, crossing acres dear to them both, speed and wind tearing at their hair. Moreover, she emulated her honorary aunt’s habit of wearing men’s clothing on these and other occasions.

This decision cost Charlotte some consternation, but she held her peace. There was no doubt that the outfits Anne and Sarah wore for riding were practical indeed; they greatly facilitated their comfort and their ability to control their mounts, and thus the pleasure they took in the exercise. The scandal caused when they had first started going about on horseback in men’s clothing had galvanised the neighbourhood for months, but as it slowly became clear that the pair of them were impervious to public opinion, and therefore could not be punished for their eccentricity, the grumbling had died down to a resigned mutter.

Charlotte gave thanks yet again for the latitude offered by independent means: that her daughters were sufficiently secure in terms of home and income not to have to live in fear of the strictures of society and its wagging tongues – that their reputations as unconventional, bookish, and daring could do them so little harm.

Now, having found and placed a cushion behind Charlotte’s back, Sarah left them to change into her masculine costume, which was the work of a minute. As she never left anyone in doubt, she deplored the fashionable stays and corsetry into which so many of her peers laced themselves, which (apart from interfering with the ability to breathe deeply) rendered them dependent on maids to dress and undress. She soon padded back in stockinged feet and sat with her mother and aunt for a minute as she tugged on her boots.

‘Where shall you ride this afternoon?’ Charlotte asked.

‘If my aunt is agreeable, I thought we might try jumping the log fences out of the woods. And then make our way back home via the old pilgrims’ way along the spine of the Weald.’

‘I hope you fly,’ Charlotte smiled; an old family joke, stemming from her habit of stopping to shade her eyes and gaze upwards whenever she saw a bird hovering.

‘We shall, Mama. We shall indeed,’ her daughter promised.

Her companions departed in the direction of the stables, and Pandora, alert to the needs of others even when deep in dream or book, rose to see if she could be of any service to her mother.

‘Simply bring your book here, my love. That is, if your sparring sister can spare you as a spectator. I shall sit and warm myself in the last of the sun while you read.’