‘I am small, feeble, and advancing in age. I have no special talents or beauty to attract admiration or even envy. Miss Darcy is every impecunious young aristocrat’s dream: rich, exquisite, from one of the first families of the land. Her brother is a byword for diligent guardianship and excellent management. All bodes well for her future. But while she has a dowry – and one that is magnificent by any standards – I have Rosings: the buildings, land, grounds, woods, cottages, rents, crops, livestock. Every acre I see—’ here she gestured at the wavering aspect of the land seen through the rippled glass of the hothouse windows ‘—will be mine when my mother dies. There is almost not a woman in England, no matter how rich or high-born, who can say the same. And yet the moment I sign the marriage register in Hunsford Church – or St James in London, or wherever the ton stage their weddings – every particle that is Rosings, every stick, plant, and pheasant on the property, every sod of soil, becomes the property of my husband, to do with as he pleases.

‘So the Colonel is in difficulties. He is enough of a gentleman not to court two women simultaneously. He cannot be suspected of any double-dealing; Mr Darcy, and indeed his own conscience, would not countenance it. And he cannot be sure of Miss Darcy, should he turn in that direction. Who is to say that his attentions will inspire her affection? They are indeed close, but he has been in the position of an elder brother to her all her life; and some young women require the novelty of a fresh admirer. Miss Darcy might harbour dreams of romance. Her wealth and position allow her that luxury.

‘And so Colonel Fitzwilliam presses me hard for a favourable reply. He offers new terms: should I accept his hand, we will live as brother and sister. He will accept that there will never be issue from our union, no heir to inherit. He speaks of fostering instead, perhaps a boy from a family close to ours. And I confess, I am tempted even as I feel harried. It would be something to be settled, to know what the future will hold.’

She looked into Charlotte’s face again: ‘Forgive me. I did not wish to burden you. I have said far too much. I understand that without even asking your permission, I have treated you as a confidante, and enjoyed all the ease of speaking freely while placing you under constraint. But I have had no peace since receiving the Colonel’s offer several days ago, an offer he repeats in a letter I received this morning. I must reply; at the very least, I must not torment the man. He is no villain who deserves to be played with. Hence my need to speak my mind to someone of sense.’