At last the animal and his accoutrements were safely stowed; the next challenge was to get Anne back to the house. But first it was time for some nursemaiding. The eldest of six children, Charlotte was an old hand at sprains and bruises. She forced Miss de Bourgh to remove one boot, itself a production, as the ankle had swelled, and could be released only by strenuous efforts that left tears freezing like diamonds on Anne’s cheeks. Then Charlotte made her sit with her injured foot in the water trough – where first they had to break a crackling skin of ice. She hunted around in the dark for a handful of dock leaves spared by the frost – she was lucky to find a rosette of them close to the muck-heap – and something she could use as a bandage. It was only in story-books that heroines ripped strips from their clothing, she thought, contemplating the unassailable thick cotton of her nightdress under her outer layers. She was perishingly cold, and could only imagine what Anne, one bare leg in ice-water, must be feeling, but there was no help for it.

Her treatment, though brutal, did the trick, and her patient, leaning heavily on Charlotte’s shoulder, was able to shuffle back towards the house. After an interminable journey, they slid into the kitchen quarters, the comparative warmth of the house offering relief as solid as any embrace. Here, too, they dared not light a candle, but the fires, though banked, gave off a faint coral and gold glow, as well as blessed, glorious heat. At last Charlotte could treat Miss de Bourgh’s injured ankle by wrapping it first in the leaves she had picked, and then in a cloth girth purloined from the tack room.

The dim light meant that Charlotte could take in Anne’s appearance more thoroughly, and the younger woman saw herself scrutinised; once again, with her uncanny knack of answering Charlotte’s unasked questions, she said, ‘These are my father’s hunting clothes, made at least thirty years ago. I took them from his quarters after his death, and stored them in a trunk in my dressing room. Thank heavens he was a small man! I am very like him in appearance, you know.’

Charlotte thought it wisest not to comment on the matter. ‘Can you get upstairs undetected, do you think?’

Anne grinned, something Charlotte had never before seen, and it transformed her narrow face: ‘My co-conspirator! Yes, I am sure I can return to my chambers now. I thank you for your assistance, Mrs Collins. I spoke harshly when first I took my tumble, but you understand how necessary it is to evade discovery, especially in what sometimes feels like a court of Jacobean spies. How lucky it was you I encountered; you I know I can rely upon.’