As the days lengthen, my prison expands – it is much harder to go night riding on these evenings of golden light, even though the softness of the air and the lengthening shadows of the trees tempt me tremendously. I have to wait for full dark before venturing down to the stables. But on the rare occasions I manage it, the sensations are delicious: the night air is perfumed not just by the blooms of the day, but all the scents of the soil and grass as they give up the day’s warmth. The stars hang closer than ever, the barking of foxes carries over the hills, and Bruno and I swing along the tracks more languidly than usual. Poor creature, he does seem puzzled when I tiptoe into his stall in the middle of the night! But we have had no misadventures, and I store up the sensations to relive during the days that creep by. These excursions have the added benefit of leaving me sleepy and yawning, which is noticed, and serves as an excellent excuse for retiring from company – not on account of the frailty so easily ascribed to me by my companions, but because of the need to catch up on missed sleep.

Other than that, there is absolutely nothing of note to report. Mr Collins seems well cared for by the Parsonage staff, but he is dining here rather more frequently than usual, and seems unusually downcast. There is no doubt that he misses you and his daughters, and all my mother’s advice on how he should take this opportunity to rewrite his sermons cannot cheer him.

I hope your daughters are thriving – they are of an age to benefit from all the pleasures of Pemberley while yet being too young to be overawed by the experience. You will of course pass on my compliments to Mrs Darcy, which compliments are also due to you.

Yours, etc.,

Anne de Bourgh

Charlotte was not unmindful of the tribute paid to her discretion by the contents of Miss de Bourgh’s letter. But while she was relieved to hear that no alarming or even mildly disturbing events were taking place in her absence, she was seized by the memory of the almost oppressively opulent drawing room at Rosings, with its superfluity of heat and ornament, the incessantly ticking clock, the scents of polish and tapestry fabric and smoke and roses mingling with the slight whiff of mould. Anne’s account of the tedium that lay several hundred miles to the south rose up to choke her.

She must have made some small sound, because Herr Rosenstein caught her eye: ‘Frau Collins, may I trouble you with a request for assistance? Would it be possible to set your letters aside and turn my music sheets for me?’

Here was escape, and Charlotte sprang to her feet to oblige the musician.