(Harriet, which should have been entitled Jane and Harriet, as several editorial reviews have observed, is a sideways view of Austen’s immortal Emma, told from the points of view of the fascinating Jane Fairfax and of a young Harriet Smith clever enough to pretend to be foolish.

Here’s an excerpt:

I had thought about Emma Woodhouse’s situation: lauded and admired, with her beauty, her cleverness, her £30,000 and her independence. Her aged father believed her all perfection, she enjoyed all the freedom that time and money could procure, and – though she could have visited London, Bath or Tunbridge – she prefer to be the Pride of Highbury, instead. To any thoughtful person, this suggested that Emma Woodhouse loved best to direct and to dominate – while the recent departure of her beloved friend, Mrs Weston, had reduced her to all the doubtful stimulation of her aged father’s company.

In short, I believed there was a vacancy – not for another governess, but for someone youthful and doe-eyed, submissive and easily led, to give the young mistress of Hartfield an object as well as to restore her previous freedom of movement. And though supremely unqualified for the post – in that I was not in fact doe-eyed, submissive or easily led – I had faith in my powers, that I could appear so.

I was aware that I would have to dissemble a good deal, in order to appear humble, grateful, and submissive, and in no way threatening to Miss Woodhouse’s perfect superiority. I must never sketch – for I have a modest talent in that regard – and must not display my taste in music, the better to show off her own musical prowess – the praising of which gave even Mrs Goddard, at times, minor qualms of conscience. Above all, Miss Woodhouse must never guess that I hoped to use her as a means of escape. For escape I must – else Highbury must be the death of me!

And here’s a bit of Jane Fairfax’s narrative voice, having just met Frank Churchill on a holiday on the coast…

The next morning, I woke early – such an entrancing light! – hastily dressed, and daringly slipped down to the sea. The sun was bubbling on the waves and a little fishing boat being drawn in to shore, just where the pebbles gave way to frills of surf. There was a fresh, clean wind, and I stood for some time, just watching and listening and enjoying the air.

When I heard the crunch of footsteps, I turned – and saw Mr Churchill. He said gravely, ‘Two minds with but a single thought, Miss Fairfax. A perambulation before breakfast is, of all things, my greatest weakness… May I join you?’ Of course, I accepted, though I felt rather nervous. Though it had seemed to me, the previous evening, that both he and his friend Crawford possessed confidence enough to make up for any lack elsewhere.

‘The air is sublime,’ he murmured.

‘The sea looks all softness here, perhaps a little rougher farther out.’

‘Rough? Do you call that rough? Someday, Miss Fairfax, I will revel in far wilder seas than those before us – with luck, as far as Italy.’

‘Does Mrs Churchill travel, then?’ I asked, a little surprised, for I had always understood that his guardian was a perpetual invalid.

‘No, my aunt will never be enticed beyond Richmond, and I am yet to go abroad…To say he truth, it was a whim on my friend’s part, that has carried me even as far as Weymouth. Do the Campbells sea-bathe often, then?’

‘No, I have only once seen the sea before, some years ago… I love the sea. It is endlessly fascinating, endlessly in motion and – even when there was a storm at Brighton – endlessly beautiful.’

I cannot explain my unusual communicativeness – perhaps a reaction to the exhilaration of the morning and the sea air and the light on the water. Although it was perfectly true, for all that. Mr Churchill turned to smile at me, the wind tousling his hair, and brightening his complexion.