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CHAPTER IX

Mary Dorothea Knatchbull was still a very small child when she first formed the idea that she might be somewhat lacking. What exactly she lacked, she could not, at first, quite put her finger on. Being but five years of age, she had not yet acquired either the words or the experience which might enable the proper examination of self. But once she had grown up just a little more – indeed, only the following year, when she was first sent off to school – then it became horribly clear: she could not lay claim to the possession of any sort of distinguishing feature.

This absence did not form the basis of any great preoccupation – Mary sensed that would be unhealthy: God would, no doubt, disapprove. But it was certainly an awareness that she carried about with her, as a lady might her reticule; and, from time to time, she rummaged within it, to see if there might not just be something which had been hiding thus far.

But though she worked hard at her lessons, any signs of brilliance failed to present themselves. Her voice was more suited to chorus than solo. In the absence of any positive references to her appearance, Mary could only presume herself plain – and anyway, she hastily reminded herself, beauty was only skin deep. Ah, so might she be distinguished by her exceptional goodness? She did try, very hard, to be good at all times – even if only to please her papa. But then, Christian obedience was hardly a unique quality in her immediate world, and though she prayed most terribly hard, still she remained stuck at some distance from being a saint.

But if only, Mary thought later, she had not wondered at all … Then the Lord might not have noticed her, or marked her down as one who might benefit from punishment. And chosen to inflict a great wound upon her small person that would scar her for life.

The last time that mother and daughter were together was early in the spring of the year 1814. Though she was by then heavy with child and approaching yet another confinement, Annabella Knatchbull was perfectly well and, in every way possible, her normal, affectionate, beautiful self.

As it was Mary’s last day at home before she was returned to her boarding school, they were spending the entire day together in the mother’s dressing room. Mary carried in her favourite toys, her mama rooted about in the basket of scraps and they embarked on the production of an entirely new summer wardrobe for the fortunate dolls who were chosen to accompany them on their annual holiday to Sandgate later that summer.

‘I do believe that what this outfit requires,’ her mother declared as she held up a navy-blue frock in the sailor style, ‘is a straw just like your school hat. Now …’ She twisted her mouth and pretended to think deeply, in that way she did when the plan was already conceived, hatched and close to unveiling. ‘I wonder’ – she leaned in to Mary, put a fingertip to the child’s nose and wrinkled her own in excitement – ‘if I were to write to my own milliner in London—’

But Mary was in no mood to hear it. ‘Mama,’ she began. The relationship between them was happy, honest and open. Though she would hesitate before talking in such terms to her father, her mother encouraged it. ‘I have been thinking.’ If some issue was on Mary’s mind, she was expected to share it. ‘And have now firmly decided that it would be very much for the best if I did not return to Mrs Grant’s tomorrow.’

‘Ha!’ Annabella Knatchbull smiled at her fondly, turned back to the scrap basket, started to rummage and said in an absent sort of voice: ‘My funny little darling.’

‘But, Mama!’ Mary rose. ‘I am being most serious .’ She knelt down and rested her head on the comforting bulk of her unborn sibling. ‘Why can I not stay and be taught here at home? My Honywood cousins have that arrangement, as do the Finch-Hattons. And Great-Aunt Dorothea is worried that the whole idea of schools for girls is starting to look rather affected—’

Her languid mother gave a sudden jerk of alarm.

‘Forgive me!’ she cried then. ‘I beg you, do not say I said so!’ And then, in a very small, collapsed sort of voice added: ‘Please, Mama dearest. Do let me stay.’

Her mother stroked her hair and gave a sad smile. ‘You are worried, my love. And that is perfectly natural. I do believe I remember feeling something similar when your uncle was born. But that all ended happily, did it not? And this will, too. Mary?’ She lifted the child’s chin, the little replica of her own, and looked into the so-similar eyes. ‘I promise you. I have done this five times before and never felt stronger than I do now, with this baby. All will be well. I feel it; I know it.

‘And let me pledge here and now: when the baby is safely delivered, and the nursery is bustling, then I will send for you. Indeed, of course I will send for you. Heavens, now I think of it, how on earth can Nurse and I even begin to manage all those little boys without you , their important big sister! So, yes, my love. I am in full agreement. You can come home to us then.

‘You have my word.’

By the expected time of the birth, Mary was back in the schoolroom in Albion Place, Ramsgate, where the wind whipped off the sea and the pupils kept their gloves on in lessons for fear of losing their fingers to frostbite. Though she had not particularly minded being there as a New Girl, Mary now found that the more established she became, the more passionately she loathed it. With an increasing and unhappy impatience, her every conscious and unconscious moment was consumed with longing for the moment her mother finally sent word to summon her home.

When, twice a day, the girls were dispatched to march up and down the promenade in crocodile formation, she alone kept her eyes on the school in case a carriage arrived. In lessons, her ear was permanently cocked towards the hall entrance, to catch that delightful, featherweight drop of paper packet upon pewter. By night, she sucked quietly on her little fingertip, recalling those heavenly sensations of napkins and muslins and milkiness and felt something quite close to soothed. Until at last, one cold Thursday morning, news arrived that the baby was born safely and to be called John. Curiously, the note was from Great-Aunt Dorothea, Lady Banks, rather than either parent. And although it was obvious there could be no good reason for that, with heroic self-control, Mary chose not to consider the matter too closely.

Officially, ‘Letters’ was an activity restricted to that Sunday afternoon lull between the many, many church services the girls were required to attend but, by the full force of her powers of persuasion, Mary obtained special dispensation to message her mother at once. She expressed her earnest love and good wishes and – though no one could expect her to be too excited about a fifth brother in five years – her conviction that she would adore him, in time. She closed with the assurance that no more than a moment’s notice would be required for her to quit Mrs Grant’s for ever, and waited, with her few possessions neatly assembled, for the blessed hour of deliverance.

The days dragged on; the nights stretched eternal. Though Mary could not lose faith in her mother’s good word, it was hard not to feel a trifle put out by the lack of urgency being shown. Finally, on 8 April – more than a week into baby John’s life – Mrs Grant herself appeared by her side at the breakfast table, to say that her father was waiting for her in the parlour.

Mary had never before been allowed into Mrs Grant’s sanctuary, nor had any of the pupils with whom she was on terms. It was the most astonishing breach of the lady’s defences and – sweetly, unthinkingly – Mary thrilled at her coup. For a minute, she stood in the cold, austere, tiled hall, pledging to remember every astonishing little domestic detail, before she knocked and then entered.

Her first thought was, Oh, my! as her eyes were assaulted by colour and softness. With the almost balmy warmth and chaos of chintz, it was as if she had walked straight out of winter into a garden in bloom. The sheer charm of the ambience – the discovery of this Eden within their grey prison – was nothing less than a revelation. Mary started, and smiled at it, and might even have giggled, had she not then noticed the one black stain in paradise.

‘Papa?’ Slowly, she approached the sofa as she might the gallows. Edward Knatchbull – sunken, crumpled – extended an arm without raising his gaze.

Mary slid in beside him; felt his hand tremble as he clutched at her shoulder. And then he began.

‘My dear Mary Dorothea.’ His voice was thick and damp and frighteningly unnatural. ‘I regret to say that I am here with the most sorrowful news. I fear it has pleased God to inflict upon me the heaviest calamity that can befall the most loving of husbands.’

Mary felt horribly cold.

‘Little did I know, when last we met, what cruel punishment then lay before me. The confinement went well; the child is a bonny one. In the very last minutes of her life, she seemed in better health than she had for a year. And then’ – he stumbled and choked – ‘and then—’ He stopped to collect himself. ‘At the eleventh hour of the morning, four long days ago – without any warning – she, my dearly beloved, was ripped from this world.’

He paused, sniffed; then he retrieved a large handkerchief, blew his nose loudly, and continued.

‘As you are keenly aware, to me she was everything; as you could predict, without her I am nothing. And, as you would no doubt expect, my grief is deep and sincere.’

He paused, as if requiring an answer. ‘Poor, dear Papa,’ was all she could muster.

‘Though it brings pain to admit it, true domestic happiness is now behind me forever. I have little more to look forward to – until I, too, am called up to heaven and by her side once again. I can only pray I will not be left long in my agonies.’

‘Oh, Papa, no!’

‘And, until that moment of blessed delivery, it falls to you, dear child, henceforth to devote yourself utterly to the comfort and succour of your afflicted parent.’

‘Of course, Papa.’

‘Your brothers are yet young, but then soon to be absorbed into their own lives and futures. You alone I can count on.’ He laid his heavy head upon her crisp, white cap, and left it there. ‘You are all I now have.’

‘Thank you, Papa.’

‘And you must always remember, the more you endeavour to be a good girl, so the prouder I shall become and the better I will love you.’

‘I shall try my hardest, Papa.’

‘Then that is the only source of contentment I can foresee.’

And with that, he abandoned himself to a loud and violent demonstration of his own misery.

Mary was gripped by paralysis. Her neck hurt with the weight of him. His tears spilled on to her pinafore, making her shoulder uncomfortably damp. Somewhere inside of her something was breaking, like a bone china teacup being dashed to the floor.

And yet even then, there grew in its place another sensation: the niggling feeling that she had some pressing commitment. What was it now? While her father sobbed, Mary worried away at it. She was sure there was something. Until gradually it dawned what was required, what was expected, indeed.

‘There, there, Papa.’ At first, Mary was tentative, shy even. After all, she was barely seven years of age, and had never had occasion to soothe anyone before, beyond a pet or a doll – or herself. But: ‘There, there,’ she said again, ‘there, there.’

And then simply continued to repeat it like a mantra, while clasping his much larger hand.

Though Mary was, from that moment, forever changed, she was no more than a mere member of a substantial herd while still at school. Even motherlessness – though new, livid and red raw – was not enough to set her apart from the rest of Mrs Grant’s girls. A good number had been sent to Albion Place for that very reason. Many a mama was lost to childbirth, of course, and many a family the victim of those cruel, common diseases that stole into the home like a thief in the night. There was also a pupil whose mother had run orf , as Matron liked to put it in her scandalised whisper, but – as the woman could just as easily run back again at any moment – that pupil was more an object of envy.

For many, though, bereavement was a common condition and while, in the first hours and days, Mary did receive some sweet gestures of sympathy, the special attentions did not last long. No one around her wore mourning – they had never met Mrs Knatchbull, so why on earth would they? And because, presumably, everyone at home had other things to think about, no black was sent over for Mary, so even she had to go about life in her normal attire.

Mr Knatchbull had left without making mention of Mary returning back home; he did not even refer to their plans for the summer in Sandgate. She was left with no choice but to sink into school life – a paler, even plainer, more joyless version of her previous self.

By day, as per her instructions, little Mary endeavoured. Through long hours of labour, her embroidery became something close to exquisite; her curtsey astonishing; her demeanour and conduct never less than becoming: she had her catechism down to a T. Every week, Mrs Grant dispatched glowing reports and Mary sent home, in her copperplate hand, endless tales of her honours and triumphs.

Her father’s replies came perhaps once a month, but – although sometimes he suggested he hoped that he might – he never appeared.

Hot tears hung, scalding, at the backs of her eyes, waiting for the moment when they might gush forth and relieve her. But at night, in bed, however hard Mary willed it, they still would not come. How she longed to give vent to her misery – pour it all out; roll around and wallow, just as her father had done. But there had been something about that new and odd way he had addressed her. Somehow she had got the impression that true grief was a privilege she had not quite done enough to earn. It was not until 1818, when a letter arrived informing her that her sweet little brother Edward had died from a fever, that she could, at last, cry. He was but eight years of age! The sheer cruelty of that was overwhelming enough, but worse: it brought with it a new terror. Would the other boys stay safe? Could she trust any of her family to simply survive?

And as for her own future: Mary lay – lonely, fearful and sleepless – and pondered. Well, first she would stay at Mrs Grant’s until such time as she was simply too old to stay. Thereafter, she would take up position by the side of her afflicted papa, where she would comfort and support him through his unending misery, until came the blessed moment when he was, at last, reunited with his beloved in heaven. And then what would become of Mary? Wither and die too, she supposed.

People like her – the great undistinguished – had no right to expect any more from their lives.

But, as Mary was beginning to learn, that was the thing about being a child: the exact moment one got used to one’s own situation and learned to treat it as normal, was always the very same moment that the adults decided to throw all of it up in the air.

And at last, just on the cusp of her thirteenth birthday, came the moment when everything changed.