‘He has proposed before. You are aware, Mrs Collins, of my unusual situation. My mother managed to settle the estate on me as her heir, but if I die a childless spinster, all our property and fortune reverts to the next surviving male – who is Mr Darcy. The one man in England who does not need a single extra penny. This while so many impecunious young men have fast horses, gambling debts, and other necessities to pay for.’

Charlotte stared at the younger woman – she did not think she had ever heard Anne speak with such asperity in their several years of acquaintance.

‘Forgive me,’ she said, trying to think of a delicate way of asking why Miss de Bourgh had presumably and repeatedly declined the Colonel’s proposals. ‘But it sounds like an unobjectional offer. Is it sincerely made?’

But even as she spoke, she thought she understood. Anne lived in comfort, even splendour. For as long as she lived, her home, the vast and handsome roof over her head, was secure. She need never fear deprivation, or possibly worse – all the uncertainties of relocation, starting out in an unknown neighbourhood, with a new household to run, new servants to manage. She breathed familiar air, saw only familiar faces and sights. In as much as anyone who lived under Lady Catherine’s sway was able, she had only herself to please. Why would any woman fortunate enough to find herself in these circumstances expose herself to the risks, the haphazard lottery of marriage?

‘The Colonel is sincere enough. It is not me he wishes to marry; it is Rosings. It pleases me that he does not dissemble. The first time he proposed, it was with all the flutter of flattery. I confess I laughed out loud at his protestations of esteem. The man is no fool – he soon retracted his claim to have lost his heart. I had knowledge that it was in fact his chaise and pair he had just lost, and I charged him with this. Oh, his face!’ Anne snorted, a surprisingly robust sound coming from her tiny form.

She reached down towards a green shrub with a spreading aspect and pale pink blooms cross-hatched with darker pink, and picked a star-shaped leaf. She passed it to Charlotte: ‘Here, crumble this between your fingers and then hold it to your nose.’

The leaf was tough, almost leathery, and covered with a down of fine hairs. Charlotte did as she was told, and was overwhelmed by the bright smell of citrus, with a powdery undertone of rose. She exclaimed, and Anne answered her unspoken query: ‘It is a pelargonium, from the Cape of Good Hope down at the tip of Africa, family to the geraniums found in our northern gardens. A transplant, like you. If you wish, I shall send over cuttings, but you will need to keep them in a warm spot indoors. They will not withstand frost.’