‘I have not yet decided whether to write to you while you are at Pemberley. As you know by now, I do not dissemble. I am either frank in my speech and recounting, or silent – mostly the latter. If I do write, I will be as straightforward as in our other dealings, even in the discussion of intimate matters. But I am well aware that to write things down for others is to put ourselves in their power. I also know that letters from Rosings will be a matter of interest – even if that interest is slight – at the Pemberley breakfast table. I have no wish for my communications to be circulated, other than in the form of spoken summaries in the broadest and mildest of terms.’ She raised her voice above the sound of trotting hooves and whirring wheels. ‘Do you understand, Mrs Collins?’

Charlotte made noises of assent as she held white-knuckled to the edge of the fragile, bouncing carriage, hoping that they would circumnavigate without incident the cart pulled by plodding Clydesdales ahead.

‘The same applies to any letters you may send in return. Their arrival will be a topic of conversation, and there will be open curiosity as to their contents. My mother will demand such a full accounting of any news you impart that letters to myself will constitute letters to her as well. You will bear this in mind, should you write. Which you are under no obligation to do. I shall leave it up to your judgement. Which, I might add, I trust.’ She shot her companion a look.

Charlotte was both mindful of, and touched by, the compliment, but said nothing beyond a murmured ‘Thank you.’ She knew that her ability to curb her curiosity made her valuable to Miss de Bourgh, but she could not restrain herself: ‘Might I ask—? Colonel Fitzwilliam?’

Anne laughed. ‘I am delighted, for his sake, as well as my own, to report that he seems to be on the verge of making an excellent match. And no, not to Miss Darcy, who remains free to wait and look around and take her pick, marry for affection, should she so choose. The Colonel has long been friends with a widowed French aristocrat, a Madame Fauré, who lost her husband in the Terrors abroad. With the cessation of the wars in Europe, and by dint of diligent legal pursuit, her family lands have been restored to her, and she is once more a woman of fortune. They are at last able to marry. I wish him happy, and wish him well. I am sure he will bring his bride to visit Rosings in due course.’

They were trotting briskly around the edge of the park, and a long straight stretch of road had the ponies frisking, then breaking into a gallop. The wind whistled through Charlotte’s hair, and any further words were torn from their mouths.