Sir Edward had sent no hint of a time of his arrival, so they waited in the library together all morning – one at work on her patchwork; the other too over-wrought to be still. The clock ticked; the sun passed its zenith; the tension came close to unbearable. Having paced long enough, Ned could bear it no more. With a great cry of ‘Dash it!’ and ‘Devil!’ he assembled two boys and three guns, and carried them off into the park. So when the carriage finally drew up at the door, at two after noon, it fell to Miss Austen alone to welcome the visitor.

If he was insulted by his lowly reception, Sir Edward was too careful to show it. And if Cassandra had expected an awkward exchange, she was to be more than a little surprised. Once tea had been brought and the weather discussed, he went straight to the heart of the matter.

‘It is gracious of Mr Knight to allow me to come. After all that has passed’ – he looked down at his hands, cleared his throat and collected himself – ‘it would be within his rights to refuse me.’

From all she had heard of Sir Edward, Cassandra knew how much those words must cost. ‘There was no question of that, sir. Such opposition is not in his nature. Moreover, in his mind – in all of our minds – this is still very much the home of your daughter. Mary wished you be made welcome. Indeed, she once longed for this moment – spoke of it sometimes, with hope.’

He bowed his head for some time, rubbed at the black band on his arm. ‘In the days since … since … I am haunted by how little I know of my daughter’s life.’ He looked up, brow furrowed. ‘I do try to imagine … trace her past … but the pictures are blurred and unformed. I lack—’ He stopped and looked utterly lost.

Though she struggled to find sympathy, Cassandra saw his predicament. He had no knowledge of – no reference for – his daughter as wife, as mother – nor even as woman. The Mary he had long ago chosen to cast out of his life had been but a young girl, whose only crime was to fall hopelessly, madly in love.

‘Then come, sir.’ Cassandra rose and extended her hand. ‘Pray, come with me.’

‘So Mary slept here?’ Sir Edward stood, frowning and mournful, in the centre of the Rose Room, and looked around. The soft, pink curtains – framing a pale, wintery sky – still hung in their place. But the dressing table had lately been taken elsewhere and a chintz sofa stood facing the fire, in place of the bed.