‘Shot, sir!’ Ned cried as, by his force alone, the ball soared up into the infinite blue and away. ‘Now, run! Run for your life!’

Lewknor squinted into the sunlight – unsure whether he had indeed scored a hit – set off in a slow, gentle amble across the back lawn, then stopped to examine an ant hill.

‘Fielders!’ called William. ‘Where are my—? Dash it! Gertie, how many more times? There is no scientific value in testing a chin with a buttercup! And how can you catch, Dickie, when you’re cuddling a kitten?’ He flung out his arms in exasperation. ‘Brother, what is wrong with our children?’

‘I fear they’re all duds,’ Ned roared back, in laughter. ‘When we were that age, we were playing at Lords, if I remember correctly.’ Pausing the game, he strode towards the table beneath the rose arbour where the lemonade waited. ‘Is that not right, Aunt Cass? Were we not already feted as sporting heroes?’

From her wicker chair, Cassandra called out that they had both been the most horrible ruffians and the despair of all nurses; received a volley of cheerful abuse for her excellent memory. Then the riotous party returned to the pitch, and she fell back into contented reflection.

For was she not, in that period, the most fortunate creature? This family had been delivered unto her as a gift: a gift from the Lord, made even more precious by its time of arrival. She had once expected to spend the autumn of her life dwindling away in quiet solitude; thanks to the Knights, it was all busyness, amusement and constant diversion. Having once kept their distance, now all of her nieces and nephews flocked about Chawton – dear Ned drew everyone in. So their old aunt now saw them all often; knew every offspring. How many single ladies could boast of such a position at the centre of the great family whirligig? What she had possibly done to deserve such an honour, she could not quite say. But she would forever be grateful.

The arrival of a goose, swaggering on to the scene, leading a fine flock of bantams, was the sign that Mary approached. As Lord Byron had once been his master’s herald – the poor dog now snored by Miss Austen’s feet, too old even to run for the ball – so domestic fowl performed the same role for the mistress. They came with her everywhere.

‘My dear wife!’ Ned greeted her as she came round the corner. ‘Pray be so kind as to remove your menagerie from the pitch. How can we breed sportsmen in such conditions? Off with you!’

The goose turned and hissed, and continued.

‘Excuse me, but you are addressing our next Christmas feast,’ Mary scolded. ‘Show some respect, sir, or you will be dining on string.’