In the weeks that followed, although diffident about imposing herself at first, Charlotte became accustomed to walking over to the Rosings stables, and the replenishment she found in following the local rides on Dobbin’s broad back. He was the perfect companion: mild in temper, needing only a press on the flank or a gentle tug on the reins to suggest direction, his presence nevertheless offered comfort. The loss of her child was not something this large beast could ever comprehend, and his perfect indifference steadied her more than human concern could do at this time.

A few times, Anne was waiting in the stableyard when she arrived to ride Dobbin, and accompanied her on her rides, mounted on a grey mare with a gawky-limbed foal at foot. At first Charlotte was somewhat dismayed at the prospect of giving up the solitude these excursions afforded, but found that Miss de Bourgh did not consider them opportunities for conversation. Apart from the necessary consultations as to which routes to follow, their rides took place mostly in silence, broken only by the cawing of rooks, the faint jingle of bridle and bit, and the differing percussions of hoofbeats at walk or trot.

On one of these rides, they came into a field sufficiently sheltered to offer patches of grass, and reined in their mounts to offer them a minute or two of grazing. The foal, which had been circling its dam as assiduously as a bee in a clover bed, bounced towards them as if on springs and thrust its head under the mare’s belly to suckle. Something about its awkward eagerness, its wide-spaced eyes and long lashes, reminded Charlotte so piercingly of Tom that she bent at the waist, almost hissing with pain. She was not conscious of weeping, only of wetness coursing down her cheeks, and small splashes on Dobbin’s withers.

Miss de Bourgh looked back over her shoulder: ‘You are not taken ill, I hope, Mrs Collins?’

By now Charlotte’s face was stinging in the raw air, and she was obliged to fumble for a handkerchief. She tried to speak, but found herself unable to offer her companion any reasonable reassurance or explanation. Eventually, all she could say was, ‘The foal. It is the foal. Miss de Bourgh, I miss him so much. So much!’

Anne’s frown deepened. ‘Of course, you are speaking of your son. I, who have never desired children, and am almost certainly unlikely to bear them, will not claim to understand your grief at the loss of your child, Mrs Collins. Such presumption would be disrespectful. But with my family history, I can contemplate and grasp the implications of the loss of an heir. You might not know that before me, my mother gave birth to three sons – none of whom lived more than a few hours – and thus was the shape of all our lives determined.