Charlotte took her daughter firmly by the hand, and began listing the strictures under which she would be allowed to remain in a room so pristine and populated by fragile ornaments. Laura was temporarily subdued until Herr Rosenstein began to unpack his box of tools, releasing the scents of linseed oil and cedar. Soon, she was assisting him in this important task, receiving an explanation for each piece she helped lift from the box. The materials of his trade released, he played a short piece by a Mr Bach – to test the keys, he explained – and Charlotte could hear that some of the lower notes were indeed sadly out of tune.

Next, he shuffled through an assortment of wood fragments and shavings as if dealing a pack of cards, repeatedly disappearing under the instrument to hold up samples to compare them with the fabric of the original. When he was satisfied, he lit a spirit lamp, and began concocting a glue mixture, the room now filling with more pungent and less pleasant smells. Once it was the consistency he desired, he began applying it in tiny amounts to leaves of wood he then inserted into the cracks in the damaged harpsichord.

Laura was fascinated at first, but she had an attention span consistent with her age and, after twenty minutes or so, she arranged herself on a divan in the corner. After earnestly explaining that she was not sleepy, she was just closing her eyes, she fell into the sudden boneless slumber available only to small children and kittens.

Once again, silence fell between the two adults and, once again, it was an easy one.

‘Frau Collins,’ said Herr Rosenstein, ‘I could require that you entertain me as we wait for the glue to dry. I did warn you that this would be a tedious business. But you are equally welcome to choose a book from Fräulein Georgiana’s personal collection, or simply to rest your eyes, as your daughter assures us she is doing.’

‘I would happily entertain you, Herr Rosenstein,’ said Charlotte. ‘But truly, I know not how I could accomplish such a task. Last night, listening to you speak of your travels and experiences, I felt – not foolish exactly, but so narrow. My life has been such a limited one by your standards. Until my marriage I never left my parents’ home in the small town of Meryton, except for one trip to London with my family – the occasion on which my father was knighted for his services to the Mayor. And this visit to Pemberley is the furthest I have ever been from my home in Kent. I have seen and done very little, you know.’

‘But you run a household, you are a wife and helpmeet to a clergyman, and a mother to two daughters,’ he said. ‘Surely this must expose you to all that is most rich in human experience?’