She tiptoed down the stairs, feeling no need to advertise her early rising. In the passage that led to the kitchen, she thought for a moment, then donned an apron that would protect her gown, slid her feet into sensible boots, and took up a trug and cutting knife. She intended to show off not only her physical charms, such as they were, but her more practical attributes; that, while fond of healthful exercise, she was nevertheless attentive to the gifts of the fields and woods. She would collect mushrooms and pick apples. And, if necessary, choose and cut late roses and early chrysanthemums for dressing the house. Her intention was to appear something more than handsome; she wanted to look like a chatelaine. Someone who would run a small household with efficiency, taste, and economy; someone who would bestow comfort and order.

She knew what she needed to do.

1818–1819

CHAPTER I

THE BOBBING LIGHT AND SHADOW thrown by the candle woke Charlotte. She sat upright, not alarmed, but alert: there was no soft wail or snuffling from the room alongside. Her husband stood by her bedside, looking down at her with speechless compassion. His face shone wet in the sliding glow of the candle-flame; it gave the impression of movement to his face, and she realised that the hand that held the candlestick was shaking.

And then she knew, before he spoke, reaching for her with his other hand: ‘Come, my dear.’

They stood beside the cot, still as statues, the only movement in their enmeshed fingers, kneading convulsively at each other’s knuckles. Charlotte always imagined that if, when, this moment came, she would snatch up the little form, would shake, cajole, love it back to life. But after that first long look, bending over Tom with the candle held close to his beloved face, she had not moved. Even in the unreliable light, the purple stains under his eyes and the waxen appearance of the pinched nose were unmistakable. No breath disturbed those nostrils, or raised his chest.

Eventually, she tried to speak, but only a hoarse growl came. Mr Collins nevertheless understood her: ‘About half an hour ago, dearest. I came in to see him, and it was immediately apparent. I touched him; he was already quite cool.’

‘What were … why did you go to him? Was he fretful?’ Even as she spoke, she knew she made no sense. If Tom had made the slightest sound, she would have reached him before his father. She had had an extra ear attuned to him since the day of his birth more than three years ago, a sensitivity to any distress he might feel or encounter far more heightened than she had experienced with her daughters.