‘I came as soon as I could,’ she told Booker as she peeled off her gloves. ‘The weather …’

The maid took her cloak and bonnet – iced in the time it had taken to run from coach to door – and, with sudden emotion, flung her arms around Cassandra.

This was so out of character that Miss Austen’s first thought was that she was already too late. ‘Tell me.’ She pulled back and spoke urgently.

‘The mistress was delivered this morning.’ Booker blinked back the tears. ‘Dr Stone was by her side all the while. She is tired but – thanks be to God – entirely herself.’

‘Then what fools we have been.’ Cassandra smiled out her happiness, turned and took to the stairs. ‘Might I be allowed just a peek?’

Booker followed behind her. ‘She has been asking for you …’

‘And the baby?’ She paused at the half-landing and looked back at the maid.

‘A fine specimen.’ Booker held out her hands in amazement at this unexpected development, before adding: ‘Though of course they’ve only gone and given him one of their funny names again. William Brodnax, if you’ve yet heard the like? Poor little mite.’

Miss Austen stopped, stared at Booker and raised an eyebrow. Had they not already used William for Wyndham? Then he must be known only as Brodnax … The two shared their amusement – they were of the same mind on most matters – and pressed on to the chamber.

The next week passed perfectly peacefully. The nanny had charge of the baby; Nurse and Booker each took their turn to tend to the mother. Cassandra read aloud at Mary’s bedside – Pride and Prejudice, naturally. What better restorative? – each afternoon. And every night, as she tried to get comfortable on the narrow bed on the top floor, Cassandra longed for her cottage, where she hoped soon to be.

But on 15th February, Mary started a fever. Dr Stone came at once, administered potions – saw no cause for concern. Mary rallied at once, to great, general rejoicing. By the 20th, though, it returned with some force. And the following day, relieved from her stint in the chamber where she had passed some long troubled hours, Cassandra went slowly – sorrowfully – down to the drawing room, and Ned in his misery.

At the sight of his aunt, he leaped out of his chair. Ran a hand through his hair. ‘Well?’ he demanded.

Suddenly aware of a bone-crunching weariness, Cassandra fell into a chair and felt shame at her weakness. ‘My dear.’ She spoke carefully. ‘Might I suggest that you now send for her father? Of course, he may well refuse … and one could reasonably argue that such a privilege is beyond his deserts … Yet we both know that Mary would – would have – hoped … nay, expected …’

For one long, quiet moment, Ned sat with his face in his hands. Then he sprang into action, and out of the room.