‘Ah,’ Mary exclaimed, with something quite close to envy, though that was hardly appropriate. ‘Fortune indeed! Having met one of those ladies, I can imagine no better company in circumstances so vile. As for the other, I presume here you talk of your late aunt – she who wrote the delightful novels?’

Thus far – despite the beauty of the Weald all about them; the crisp clarity of that particular day – they had proceeded buried beneath a cloak of dull and dark misery. Now, as if the identity of Jane Austen were the spell in a magic trick, that was quite ripped away.

‘You are an admirer then, madam?’ Ned turned to her sharply, damp eyes now bright, face pink with pleasure.

‘But of course!’ Mary laughed, for who on this earth would not be? ‘I have read every one and return to them often. It was my old governess who first introduced me – perhaps you remember Miss Atkinson?’

‘Ah, yes.’ Ned shook his head. ‘Poor Miss Atkinson. That was another bad business. I remember thinking at the time that had my Aunt Jane been still with us then, she might have shown the lady a little more sympathy than our combined families …’ He sighed, paused – as if in solemn remembrance of the fallen – before, with the ease of one so at home in his own present, snapping back into life. ‘And I can have no doubt that Lady Knatchbull, too, has encouraged that particular literary interest?’

‘Oh.’ How very odd. ‘In fact, she has not.’ The omission had not struck Mary before. ‘Indeed, I had no idea of any connection between you until Cassy claimed the lady as your own.’

Ned stopped his horse and seemed stunned, in sheer disbelief. ‘Fanny had no cause to mention it? That I struggle to— Of course, you speak only the truth, but then is that not bizarre? I have a very clear memory that she and my aunt were particularly close.’

Now, Mary too was surprised. Having formed such a strong image of the writer, it was hard to imagine that she might find much in Lady Knatchbull to please her.

‘Your mother does read with you, though, surely?’ He started to ride again. ‘By the fireside, in the evening – the family circle: that is an established Austen tradition.’

‘Oh, yes!’ Mary conceded, while her eyes followed the sway of the horse. ‘I cannot say that many novels could ever meet with my dear father’s approval, but in his long absences, then your sister’ – the word ‘mother’ felt quite inappropriate, in so many ways – ‘then your sister will reach for a book. Lately, we have been enjoying Discipline – do not laugh! It is not quite as dull as it sounds. Otherwise, she is particularly fond of the works of Sir Walter Scott.’