The maid guided Miss Austen on to the window seat that looked over the park. Panelled in dark oak, cut deep into the stone wall, it had been a favourite hiding place of the Knight children for two generations. Oddly, Cassandra had never sat there before. She made herself comfortable among the crewel work, glanced out of the mullioned window and sensed the ghosts of the ages.

‘This is not uncharming,’ she remarked in her dry way. ‘I can now see—’ But she was interrupted.

‘There is more to this than the measles,’ Booker whispered, fast. ‘I have no right to say it …’ She looked back, checked the gallery for spies. ‘Not sure if the mistress knows yet herself.’ She leaned in conspiratorially. ‘I have every reason to suspect that she’s back in the family way.’

Cassandra was stunned. The past months had been nothing but chaos and crisis. The thought that – well – how could? – and when? Seven in one decade! Still, it must be the truth. There could be no better informant on matters … biological … than a lady’s own maid.

‘And yet she is still feeble …’

‘All those hours in a coach …’

But the plans were all set. The couple set off early the next morning. And Miss Austen waited in Chawton, and fretted.

Of course, she kept herself busy. However heavy one’s burdens or troubled the mind, the fruit must be picked and preserved or what would become of us? So it was that Cassandra was selecting the best plums from the tree in her garden when, three weeks later, the coach sped past the cottage and turned right for the Great House. In the shock of relief, Cassandra dropped her basket, leaned against the bough to steady her old heart and watched as the late-summer dust settled back down on the road. Mary was safe; the couple was home: Chawton life could now resume. The thought set off within her the most curious sensation: blood flowing back in to a limb.

Having allowed sufficient time for the family’s joyful reunion, Miss Austen walked down the lane, past the shorn fields brown with stubble and up to the mansion. Ned was already out in the woods with his guns and his boys – a long journey for him was akin to a sentence in gaol. They could meet later. First, she must see Mary in order to settle her own mind.

With the grudging permission of Booker, Cassandra put her head round the door to the mistress’s chamber. ‘May I disturb?’

‘My dear aunt.’ Mary gave a wan smile from the pillow and lifted a pale hand. ‘Forgive me. I felt the need to lie down. The little darlings have left me quite spent!’