Trying to keep herself tethered to the moment, to prevent herself floating outside the scene, as she so often had in the last days and hours, a state in which she looked down on herself with both detachment and such acuity she could see the pink line where she parted her hair, Charlotte turned her head back towards Lady Catherine, who stood on the other side of the grave. Like herself, her ladyship was wearing unrelieved black – although this was not so much a statement of condolence as a matter of habit. Nevertheless, Lady Catherine was gazing at her with a rare expression of sympathy on her craggy face and, as she caught Charlotte’s eye, she gave a small, tight nod of something close to approval. She had earlier complimented Charlotte on her fortitude, while seeming to use the words as code for something else.

Laura wailed again, softly, now just a general expression of misery and confusion, and at the same time, Mr Collins began to shudder. One hand still resting on his eldest daughter’s shoulder, the other pressed a handkerchief to his face, and a long, low moan emerged from behind it. Something burst and surged through Charlotte’s veins: it was as if he was feeling her agony, voicing it, giving her relief via emotional ventriloquism. She held Laura still more fiercely to her and, in a spasm of gratitude so violent it threatened to stop her breath, she stretched her other arm towards her husband, who still clasped Sarah. The hand she covered was cold, but their daughter’s hair falling over it was warm and soft. And so it was at the grave of her son, with both her daughters present, that Charlotte Collins, née Lucas, realised that she loved her husband.

Mrs Darcy paced up and down the drawing room, as Charlotte tried in vain to make both herself and her guest comfortable, offering a seat by the fire, to send for refreshments. Since finding her son dead, she had found it impossible to settle – to lie or sit or stand in any one place for more than a few minutes – without wanting to leap to her feet and hasten elsewhere, anywhere. It was a while before she realised she was trying to escape pain the same way a mouse would try to escape a toying cat. This made condolence visits even more than usually difficult – while gratified at the kindness of parishioners and neighbours, every several minutes she found herself battling the impulse to rise and flee the room. But this morning Elizabeth outdid her in restlessness. Her face was wan, and there were shadows under the famously brilliant eyes, now immortalised by one of London’s most sought-after portrait artists.