‘This was very much the mistress’s chamber,’ Cassandra explained, ‘but it was lately decided it would be better used as a sitting room. Since the sad day, the family has taken to gathering here each afternoon. They say they still feel the fond presence, and find some comfort in that. But, of course, it is a little easier for the children if they do not have to see all her personal things about them.’

‘Indeed,’ the bereft father said gruffly. It seemed that he, too, had a sense of Mary still being there.

‘It has a symmetry for me, one which Lady Knatchbull will, I think, understand, for it was a sitting room once before, in the old days. Indeed, I remember my sister in here, reading Pride and Prejudice to Fanny for the first time!’

Cassandra turned to him, hoping for some expression of recognition. None was returned. She was irked, but hardly surprised.

‘And there’ – Cassandra pointed to the oil on the wall, which he had not yet registered – ‘my nephew has put up her portrait.’

Sir Edward looked up and studied the likeness in silence. Mary – full curls; bright, hazel eyes; sharp chin turned up in confidence – smiled down upon him. ‘Ah.’ He cleared his throat. ‘And that was done when?’

‘I cannot say exactly.’ Cassandra did want to be helpful, but the years skipped about in her memory and she struggled to catch hold. ‘It is certainly recent.’

‘It must be. She looks quite altered from how I remember her …’

Cassandra was mystified. ‘Yet, sir, did you and Mary not meet, only last summer?’

He started at that, and turned away from the picture. ‘Ah, indeed. I forgot for a moment, but you are entirely correct, madam. We did meet, that once. Very briefly.’ It seemed then that he blushed. ‘Little knowing at the time it would be our last opportunity.’ He walked to the window and spoke to the parkland. ‘God’s will be done.’

Silence fell upon the room until, at last, Ned strode in and broke it.

Of course, the meeting was bound to be awkward. Too much had passed and, anyway, God could not have created two men more diverse in their characters. Still, it had been made in good faith, and with a great deal of effort … Cassandra stood back, heart full of hope.

‘Sir Edward!’ Ned crossed the room; shook his father-in-law’s hand in hearty fashion. ‘How passed your journey?’

Cassandra watched on with dismay. So they were on the wrong foot at once. Both men were at fault: each was misjudging the other. Ned – whose grief had been manifest – was now presenting the brave face that, he presumed, his adversary expected. ‘And where did you break it? To my mind, the best table is to be found at the George in East Grinstead.’