Would their parents have addressed each other in similar terms? Cassandra very much doubted it – their mothers were, typically, much more subservient. This amiable frankness struck her as progress.

‘But Mr Goose is my very best friend.’ Lewknor began then to wail, as he so often did. Fat tears rolled down his cheeks; the younger ones joined in and soon the entire crowd of children was consumed with despair.

Mary picked up each one in its turn, wiped every face, pledged to let the bird live in conditions of comfort into old age, before marching towards Cassandra, the calm and the shade.

‘The Lord give me strength!’ she exclaimed, fanning her face with a quick, pretty flick.

‘It seems He has already given you plenty,’ Miss Austen replied. ‘But perhaps it may be wise not to lift them all, in your condition? They are no longer babies, my dear, but sizeable children.’

‘I can hardly reach down, as I have no waist left to bend.’ Mary sat back complacently, and rubbed at the shape of the next baby, due in a matter of months. ‘And I refuse to leave them to cry! I know all too well what that is like for a little one.’

‘You must be the judge. Forgive me for fussing.’ Cassandra gave in at once, and chided herself. Mary had got off to a difficult start: Lewknor had been born prematurely and was still worryingly delicate; the next child born still. It had been a very dark time for them all and, though the fond aunt had issued her comfort, still she could not shake her concern.

But then had not Mary simply sailed through her past three confinements? She now presented as a strong and healthy young woman – as was so often the way. Look at Fanny, for example. Having endured nearly five years of misery, she was now the proud mother of seven, with one more on the way. The thought occurred that it was rather like a sailor getting his sea legs, and caused Miss Austen to chuckle.

‘It seems to be a pleasant enough afternoon.’ Mary caught her husband’s eye, sent over a sweet smile and a wave. When she turned back to Cassandra, she was all over pink – as if still in the first days of new love. ‘Dear Ned – never happier than when a brother is with him. Is not sibling affection a wonderful thing? I do hope my own children grow up to enjoy it.’

‘You sound wistful, my dear.’ Cassandra reached for Mary’s hand and took it into her lap, before daring to remark: ‘I am conscious that your life now is very much more Knight than Knatchbull …’ With Lady Banks dead, Mary had no visitors of her own. ‘Might there one day be an opportunity for your own brothers to visit?’