At eight o clock in the evening, Sir Edward Knatchbull arrived, was met by the son-in-law whom he had sworn never to meet, and ushered into the bedroom, alone. It was the concession that Mary had longed for: the occasion of intimacy – demonstration of love from a parent – for which she had yearned. But by then she was beyond any knowing that her prayers had been answered; or that, at the bell’s final toll, she had at last been forgiven.

And at two o clock in the morning of the 22nd day of the month – with only her beloved husband beside her – Mary Dorothea Knight née Knatchbull drew her last breath.

Throughout the dark hours, Cassandra issued comfort to Ned. Then, as dawn broke, she stole one last, private visit with the dearly departed.

A strange magic occurs, soon after death. Cassandra had seen it before, with her own dear Jane. When the contortions of pain are no more – the cruel symptoms of sickness no longer required – so then the face of the corpse seems to settle and recover the beauty of the once-living self. It must be counted as but one of God’s many blessings. He does it that we may be spared the memory of the suffering, and reminded of the one we have lost.

But Cassandra had no need of such kindness. She had never once lost the image of Jane in her prime. How could she? Every day since her death, her sister had walked – she walked still – beside her: whispered in her ear, shared her best thoughts. Still her favourite company; still the greatest of friends.

And so it would be again. In the faces of her children – the perfect, enclosed world of Chawton built by her love – Cassandra would see Mary always.

And miss the dear lady for the rest of her days.

Epilogue

Sir Edward Knatchbull arrived at Chawton Great House on the 17th day of March in the year 1838: a date almost perfectly judged to inflict not one, but two evils upon Mary’s grief-stricken family. For it came well before they were ready, while also being twelve years too late.

The visit presented as a harrowing prospect for the young widower, still raw in his sorrow. Ned had begged Cassandra be there to support him and, though diminished in strength and with little to no appetite for any further distress, she could only agree.