For a full week, they shared the duties of care, together fought back the fever and at last returned the sad patient back to something like life. Still, Cassandra could not shake her concern. Mary’s eyes were restored, but her complexion had suffered and it seemed doubtful that she would ever recover her previous bloom. More than that though, her entire system had been weakened severely. She had little to no energy and the strength of a newly born lamb. It would be some time before she could return to the full duties of mother-of-six and mistress of the household. A long convalescence would be required. Cassandra would need to be firm.

And, throughout the month of June – as the sun bestowed a kind warmth and the grounds burst into splendour – the devoted nurse got her own way. It was not long before Mary could walk out unaided – fill her lungs with great draughts of green air – and take pleasure in her family again, though still she tired very easily. There was every hope of a full recovery, and Cassandra was able to return to her own bed at night now, catch up on missed sleep and find enjoyment at the Great House once more.

Serious illness is a trauma for every household; the blessed relief of its passing brings with it a new and sharp pleasure in the banality of the mere everyday. And so, on a glorious Thursday morning in the third week of July, it was a very cheerful Miss Austen who tripped down the drive to take tea with Mrs Knight in her chamber. As was their habit, they would sit for a while in the pink, airy bedroom – discuss the plans for the nursery; the news from the village – until Mary was ready to rise. There was no reason to suspect that day would be any different, and she approached it with pleasure.

‘Good morning, Booker,’ she chirruped as the maid opened the door.

‘Oh, no it’s not, madam,’ came the gruff reply. ‘See if you can knock some sense into that head. I give up.’ And she stomped out of the room.

Cassandra found Mary in a state of high agitation: sitting up straight against the bolster; wild curls springing out of her nightcap. The mahogany writing box was balanced on her lap and she was frantically engaged in the act of composition – like Beethoven at the height of his madness.

‘What on earth—?’