Jane’s father had just succeeded to his title on the passing of his uncle. They had moved to Goodrich Hall only a week earlier, in fact. Jane had never seen either the vicarage or Mrs. Mitford before that afternoon. Though she was to disgrace herself horribly over both when she finally did see them.

She could remember it clearly now, though she had been very young then—and had tried her best ever since to block the memory from her mind.

She did not, after all, want to burn as a witch. Or be snatched away by gypsies.

“Oh, look,” she had cried to her mother and Louisa, pointing excitedly at the vicarage as they approached in the carriage. “I used to live there.”

Louisa had tutted and tossed her glance at the roof of the carriage.

“You are strange, Jane,” she had said. “Why would you even want to live there?”

“You are mistaken, Jane,” her mother had said kindly but firmly. “Of course we have never lived in such a small cottage. You really must learn to confine your imagination to the nursery and your dolls.”

Jane had forever been suffering scolds for the vividness of her imaginings, which at the time she had called real and her father had called falsehoods and her mother had called inappropriate. Her nurse had occasionally made her stand in a corner to reflect upon her fibs.

After the housekeeper had admitted them to the house, Jane had looked about at the familiar scene with wide-eyed interest, noticing what was still the same and what had changed. And then, before she could say anything about her observations to her mother, a straight-backed, sweet-faced but sad-looking lady dressed all in black had stepped into the hallway to greet them. Jane had smiled brightly at her and committed the horrible social error of speaking up before any of the adults had had a chance to do so and before anyone had spoken to her.