Mary struggled to imagine her father conceding to any being at all, temporal or celestial. With Right always on his side, there was never a need for it.

‘In short, we must linger no more.’ Ned rose and, with his long stride, crossed over the room. ‘You must write another note to your father, and I to his wife.’ He pulled on his undershirt. ‘Inform them of the fact of our marriage. Beg their forgiveness again.’

He wrenched open the curtains and set about collecting the clothes that had been cast off without care the previous evening. Once again and already, Ned was returned to himself: restless and active.

Meanwhile, Mary stayed just where he had left her: leaning back on the bolster; staring at the pale, northern sky; watching the tops of the trees sway in high winds – and felt her heart sink. From the warmth of that bed – host to such joy – the world looked irresolute, and so very cold. And now heavenly fantasy must make way for more awkward reality.

What sort of welcome could they expect to receive? She thought of her father and mother – they would need time to recover from the shock; her brothers, who, though they might pretend otherwise to their parents, would be secretly thrilled. They had always loved Ned.

But there were so many others besides: friends of both families; neighbours in Kent who had once thought her demure. The villagers of Chawton, whom she must somehow befriend even as they learned of her shame. And – but of course! – she must soon face Miss Austen: dear Aunt Cassandra, in her sweet corner cottage. How Mary had once thrilled at that good, Christian lady’s approval! How she would loathe her disapprobation. E’en still, she must prepare for it.

And – oh! – Mary thought, for the first time since the adventure began. Oh, what have I done?

PART FOUR

CHAPTER XXXVII

On the 25th day of May 1826, Miss Cassandra Austen swept in from the sun into the gloam of the wood-panelled drawing room of the Great House, crying, ‘Good day, Mrs Knight,’ and ‘Welcome to Chawton!’ with a blithe and carefree good cheer.

On the whole, Cassandra was not much given to sweeping in anywhere – those days were behind her, if, indeed, they had ever been known. Now perching somewhere between her fiftieth and sixtieth year (she had dispensed with precision. It was no longer of interest), she was naturally inclined to conserve her own energies. And as for a carefree, cheerful demeanour, well … Though there certainly was such a side to her character, it had been a while since she had known cause to display it, nor did she feel entirely at home while so doing.

So this was hardly her typical method of entry and it left both parties equally taken aback.

‘Miss Austen?’ The words emerged as more question than greeting. Their speaker – flushed, nervous, self-conscious – dared not meet her guest’s eye.