Autumn at the Great House was hardly conducive to proper recovery. Like the beat in a fast-moving melody – a polka, say, or a jig – the rhythm of annual events propelled the family along. From the excitement of Harvest Supper, then nutting and shoots; through Rent Day, the great lunch for the tenants, and so on to Christmas. And all the while, Mary – the fond wife and mother – performed all her duties with charm, while growing greater with child. But to Cassandra’s sharp eyes, she appeared thinner, more depleted in energy.

Though the confinement approached, neither Mary nor Ned were parents who would countenance any stinting on the Christmas festivities. Equal in their devotion to their children – determined to satisfy the excitement engulfing the household – they threw themselves in. And Cassandra was delighted to see how they followed deep family traditions at every stage. The games that the Austens had once played in their rectory all those long years ago were brought out again – enjoyed anew by this young generation. And the Masquerade on Twelfth Night – the King, the Queen; costumes and processions – was quite à la Godmersham. Such continuity came as a balm to Cassandra’s soul. Her beloved, large family now had its own folk memory.

And whatever fate might have in store, she could have faith that the indomitable spirit of the Austens of Steventon would live on through the ages.

Miss Cassandra Austen could not remember a January as harsh in all her long days. Snow fell day after day, frosted then froze, and she was trapped in her cottage. The poor of the village would, of course, be in the most dreadful distress, but such were the drifts, how could she go out? For an always capable woman, impotence at a time of great community crisis was a trial indeed. At last, she and her maid hit upon something useful to do: producing vats of good broth, which a few able menfolk – shod in their old pattens as had not been seen for some years – came daily to collect and then distribute. To be so useful and busy was, at least, of some comfort. Still, Cassandra could not shake her feelings of foreboding for dear Mary.

Towards the end of that long January, the skies finally cleared, and though there was still ice on the roads, a few hardy souls now passed by her windows in wagons. And on the 28th day of that month, when Daniel appeared, without prior notice, at the door of her cottage to take her down to the mansion, Cassandra presumed the hour of Mary’s confinement had come.

Only to find the couple both preparing to dine.

‘This is to be our last evening in Chawton for a while, Aunt,’ Ned explained as he led her to table. ‘And we wanted you with us.’