Herr Rosenstein shook his head. ‘I have seldom been so entertained. You are a natural teller of tales, a skill you have no doubt formed as a sister and a parent. We are all children at heart when there are stories to be heard – none of us can resist the lure of a story well told. But yours is far from complete. You have said nothing of your life as a clergyman’s wife in Kent, and I am eager to hear more. But perhaps another day?’

‘I am glad I have not burdened you. It is not often that I am able to speak so freely.’ Too late, she realised her words could be misconstrued as marital disloyalty, rather than a general comment on the role of a clergyman’s wife more accustomed to listening than speaking, but her companion seemed to understand.

‘It is always a solace to speak without first considering whom we might offend or how we might be misunderstood. But enough! I am sure this little Fräulein needs her bread and milk.’

Charlotte shook her daughter gently, murmuring as the flushed child made the transition from sleep to wakefulness. The next few minutes were spent getting Laura to her feet, assuring her she had missed no events of importance, and persuading her to withdraw from the luxuries and novelties of Miss Darcy’s quarters.

Before they left, the musician extracted a promise from Charlotte that she would soon return to continue her account of her life: ‘I warn you, Frau Collins, I am like the Arabian king whose bride was required to tell him endless tales in order to remain alive. Although I am more merciful than in his case – no spectre of beheading awaits you – but I assure you I am eager to hear more.’

His words were playful, but his gaze was warm on her face, and she felt all the force of it as she escorted Laura out of Miss Darcy’s apartments and down the wide corridors. At the head of the stairs, she turned back to see him standing in the doorway looking after them, and was glad of the spontaneity with which her daughter waved at him.

The next day, Elizabeth unearthed a pile of sheet music that had been ordered from London, but which she had been too busy to play. ‘By which I mean, too idle. Somehow there is always something else to distract. But now I shall ask Herr Rosenstein if he will be so kind as to play some of these pieces for us tonight while you and I attend to our letters, dear Charlotte.’