As usual, Ned moved at the pace of one in competition with time. Mary, her hand in his, skipped along by his side. Was she yet fully aware that she had married a man who could not sit still? Cassandra smiled as she wondered. Even as their distance increased, their laughter could still clearly be heard. This evident companionship – nay, intimacy – was not unintriguing. The family reports and, in particular, the letters from Fanny had given Cassandra the impression that the couple were virtually strangers; that their declarations, and certainly their marriage, were somehow unserious; that this was no more than a manifestation of Ned’s sorry, impetuous nature.

Yet to look on them now was to witness a love not only deep, but longstanding and tested. How could that be? How could two dutiful parents have missed that which was right under their noses? Cassandra shook her head, proceeded down the slope to the church and, instead of coming to judgement, allowed herself a frisson of pleasure at how the morning had passed.

Thank heavens she had chosen to take the friendly approach! Had she joined in with the mass disapprobation, then how much would she have lost? At the start of the year, her mother had suffered an unfortunate episode that had left her quite bedridden. The doctors agreed that she was not long for this world and so, after many long years of daughterly devotion, Cassandra would soon be alone. Some kind friends did try to suggest that, when the sad moment finally came, her daughter would at last know freedom: a life untrammelled by duty! In her own mind, it loomed more like a demotion.

She had been dreading the want of a purpose. So how very kind of the Good Lord to deliver her this: a nephew close by who loved her – she was perfectly aware that most struggled to go beyond merest respect – with a dear wife who showed every promise of becoming a friend; a house in need of attention. And might one entertain the hope of the arrival of babies? There was certainly a large nursery to fill.

Cassandra came to the small, parish church in the dip between hills; stopped at the white fence and looked over the graveyard. On an ordinary day, she might approach it and pay her respects to forebears and friends, but on this, she resisted. Scent wafted up from the camomile lawn; a cuckoo cried out its delight from the heights of an old elm. Preferring to dwell on her pleasure, she began her ascent through the park.

Cassandra was rather looking forward to the evening. It was her experience that, having attained some significant years, ladies could always find plenty to talk about. Life had thrown down its challenges; they had been met with and survived and, suddenly, one’s station and origins diminished in consequence. Age was a leveller.