She also found growing pleasure in exploring the grounds and gardens of Pemberley, with its grand avenues, woods, and grounds set with mature oaks, beeches, and Spanish chestnuts. Although their garden at Hunsford was a source of pride, occupation, and healthy exertion for Mr Collins in particular, Charlotte herself did not give its beauties too much thought, especially as her husband was more fond of enumerating its contents and excavations than contemplating it in any aesthetic sense. For her, the kitchen garden, herb beds, and orchards were what mattered, and it was these which she was determined to bend to her will. If that took manure in spring and sacking in autumn, hers was always a pragmatic response.

So it was a gradual revelation to stroll around the estate of Pemberley and find that her eye was drawn in certain directions, her perspective and focus coaxed by sightlines and horizons, sweeping lawns, copses, and streams that first looked as if nature alone had sited them, but which blended harmony and proportion in pleasing fashion, sometimes soothing, sometimes stimulating. A climb up the slope behind the house to the top of the stone cascade down which water tumbled soon became a favourite goal of most rambles. With long, fine days, the sunshine persisting long after dinner, she grew into the habit of walking further and further into the long golden evenings, the air heavy with fine dust and the scent of warm grass.

Charlotte’s visit also yielded the pleasure of companionable chat with her old friend, whose wit required an audience. At times, Lizzy’s tendency to jest bordered on impropriety, but there was no doubting the liveliness of such conversations, something Charlotte missed sorely as a clergyman’s wife, who had to consider the possible interpretations and misinterpretations of every word she uttered in company. Moreover, she considered it an excellent thing that they could reminisce about the events of their past – the ‘follies of youth’, as Elizabeth put it – with only the gentle tax of amusement to pay.

‘Oh my dear Charlotte! Can we ever forget that ball at Netherfield all those years ago, when we were still unmarried women? How Mr Darcy grew stiffer and colder, stalking about as if his boots were pinching him? My sister Mary would not stop singing, my mother would not stop boasting to all who would hear about Jane’s conquest of Mr Bingley—’

‘And you declared you detested Mr Darcy, and I had to scold you into behaving when you stood up to dance with him,’ said Charlotte, laughing a great deal. ‘Never did a couple seem less intended for union, he so haughty and you so indignant; and yet within less than a twelve-month, I was throwing rice at your wedding and wishing you joy.’