He was clearly a man of education and some refinement; his English was excellent, with only a slight roughness on the ‘r’s and a crispness at the end of his words to indicate that it was not his mother tongue. She wondered idly where he was quartered – surely not with the servants? – and where he ate his meals. She was surprised not to have at least seen him at morning prayers, the one occasion when the family and all the staff gathered in the chapel, the family in the balcony seats and the staff standing in respectful rows on the chequered floor below.

‘You had a purpose in coming here, madam. I hope I have not disrupted your plans. And might I know your name?’

Charlotte stumbled through her own introductions, explaining that she was a friend of Mrs Darcy’s, and that she had come in search of an instrument with the notion of playing a little.

‘But why not address one of the pianos in the main part of the house?’ he enquired. ‘I am sure the family will have no objections.’ This obliged Charlotte to explain that she had played little other than nursery rhymes in years, and was reluctant to entertain any audience.

‘Ah! You wish to play in solitude, not perform,’ he said. ‘If you like, I can retire and leave you to test your fingers in peace.’

Charlotte hesitated. Now that she looked around, the tools of his trade were present in an open leather box, and a coat of a foreign cut hung over a chair. She did not wish to disrupt the man’s work, and began to demur.

‘Or perhaps I should play something for you?’ said Herr Rosenstein. Without waiting for a reply, he drew up a stool, laid his hands on the keys and began to play without sheet music, a gentle piece that was quite unlike anything Charlotte had ever heard before. The principal melodic line soon exploded into a blizzard of notes, but she could hear the tune emanating from within the rapidly circling embellishments, still gentle, still yearning, even as the brighter, swifter notes clamoured around them. She drew closer, and was struck by the musician’s hands – long and delicate-fingered, yet flecked with small scars that suggested work with lathe and saw.

He played on, and Charlotte shut her eyes against the sun slowly stirring the dust motes, the man’s swift and sure ivory-coloured fingers, giving herself over entirely to the bright flurries of sound, as clear and satisfying as running water.

When at last there was silence, she was reluctant to break it, but had to ask: ‘What music was that?’