Katie, the maid, her florid face swollen with tears, and Mrs Brown, the housekeeper, had each offered to pack away his clothing and toys, but Charlotte had refused to allow this. Lady Catherine had, on one of her visits, indicated that she would send over one of her maids to undertake the sad task, but Charlotte, accustomed to acquiescence, along with biting her tongue a hundred times in the presence of her ladyship, had uttered a flat refusal, excused herself, and left the room.

Normally, such rebellion would have been punished with a withdrawal of attention from Rosings, with no cucumbers from the hothouses or invitations to drink tea after church until Charlotte and her husband had made an adequately fulsome display of regret, but this time, no umbrage was taken. Lady Catherine continued to call on Charlotte in the mornings, on which occasions they spoke of the weather, the health of their respective surviving children, and the prowess of Charlotte’s hens, while acknowledging the superiority of the Rosings poultry. The matter of Tom’s few possessions was not alluded to again.

So the days were bearable, most of the time, if only just, leavened as they were by the presence and playfulness of her daughters, as well as the attentions of her husband. Charlotte sometimes wondered if he too had felt that shift in the tone of her emotions as they had stood by Tom’s grave. She dreaded his uttering platitudes that might drive away her unexpected new warmth for him, but he was quieter than usual, his customary torrent of wordage muted by real grief.

Theirs was not a union in which marital candour or intimate communication had ever featured; Charlotte had always considered that part of the bargain she had struck was to withhold, even hide, her true feelings and thoughts. Marriage had required her to become an even more than ordinarily contained person, and she assumed the same held for her spouse. So they had no way in which to find their way towards one another through words; but now Mr Collins would hover over her chair after meals, come and find her at intervals in the day to enquire after her health; he would press her hand, pat her shoulder, or kiss her forehead, gestures she received gratefully.

The nights were the problem. Charlotte went to her bed the way a witch or heretic went to the pile of faggots: knowing that certain torture lay ahead, but with no avenue of escape. She could have summoned a doctor or apothecary – Lady Catherine would have been delighted to be consulted for advice on such a matter – and asked for a sleeping draught. But she was afraid that after years of sleeping with one ear open, she might, if insensible, somehow miss a sound indicating that Sarah or Laura were in distress or afflicted, that her inability to wake might prove fatal.