Miss de Bourgh, holding the reins taut as her ponies fretted, leaned towards her and spoke without preamble: ‘Mrs Collins, would you be prepared to ride out tomorrow morning with Walter and myself to visit the tinkers in the pasture up by Dingle Wood? There is a matter to be taken care of there that will benefit from your understanding and advice.’ She barely waited for Charlotte’s nod before giving her ponies their heads with a snap of the reins, and speeding off.

Charlotte was quite willing to accompany Anne on her errand, but was perplexed by the novelty of the request, especially considering its source. As the resident clergyman’s wife, she had infrequent but regular dealings with the itinerant gypsies who flooded into Kent twice a year, in straggles in spring, then in much greater numbers when the time came to harvest the hops in September.

They brought with them a swelling in the problems of indigence, as well as other small upheavals; petty theft, poaching, the occasional chicken disappearing in the night, quarrels when liquor had been taken, but they were a mostly welcome and accepted part of country life in that corner of England; they made, mended, and sold trinkets and household goods, and Charlotte was able to set aside a good sum each autumn through selling them cider and perry. She did not romanticise their colourful kerchiefs and beads, or their musicality and dancing, but neither was she dismayed by the dirt and dismal ignorance of their children, who, although treasured and petted, mostly remained unlettered; and when called upon to offer what relief or comfort was in her power, she did so without fuss.

Charlotte explained the morrow’s errand to her husband, who fortunately ascribed it to the bountifulness of the ladies of Rosings, and who was in any case accustomed to the local women sometimes preferring to approach his wife for aid rather than deal with him directly, especially where feminine mishaps and misfortunes were involved. Ever-practical, she packed up a pot with a handle that needed mending and checked her purse in case the visit was productive of something useful to purchase.

The next day, their party met at the stableyard, Anne dressed in a sober black riding habit. Walter did not lead out Bruno; instead he saddled the quiet grey mare, foal still circling its dam, for his mistress to mount. Charlotte had her trusty Dobbin, who whickered a welcome at the sight of her. They set off across the park, the foal cantering in wide circles around their little cavalcade, its ears like furred lilies pricked and broom-brush tail straight up in the air. Once they reached a fairly broad track, Anne held her horse back, letting Walter go ahead and opening up a small distance between them. Once she was sure she could not be overheard, she said quietly to Charlotte: ‘They know about my riding. At night, that is.’