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CHAPTER X

The Replacement Mother – or ‘the Mother’, as the Knatchbull children would say with a smirk once they mastered the great art of irony – was hardly the one they would have chosen. The differences between Annabella Knatchbull and Fanny Knight were so stark that to even consider the latter was to make a mockery of the maternal ideal. Where the first was plump and dimpled and laughing, the second was long, hard, pious – so pious – and bony. Where Mrs Knatchbull adored every one of her darlings; those very same darlings, as they were made only too aware, left the soon-to-be Lady Knatchbull a tiny bit cold.

So the idea that their father might wilfully choose to marry this creature struck his offspring as barely credible. And when it turned out that not only had she interviewed this Miss Knight for the very position, but she had actually given the appointment her blessing, Mary Dorothea could not have been more surprised.

Two weeks before that great revelation, the children were still at bliss in their ignorance, and allowed to run wild.

And on 15 August, they were flying across the lawn towards the slope that led down to the lake, with their feet bare and dirty, and clothing dishevelled.

‘ Hurry! ’ Norton cried in something between a yell and a whisper. ‘ You can’t let them see us! ’

He was way out in front, the next two boys in age closing in from behind. Mary was struggling to keep up, to her shame. She passed the small ridge where the land fell away steeply – the point, they had established, at which they could no longer be seen from the windows – and stopped for a moment, to catch her sharp breath.

How were the boys so much faster than her, when she was the eldest? It could only be school, she supposed. Stupid school. At hers, running was forbidden; at theirs, encouraged. She bent over, put a hand on each knee, waited for her heart to stop banging, began to rage at the world. Then came a small voice from behind her: ‘Wait for me, the Others! Oh, do wait for me!’ And she turned just as John’s little legs gave way beneath him and he fell to the ground.

Mary looked ahead of her – they were halfway to the boathouse – and back at the helpless, pitiful sight of the youngest. Oh, John, darling, she thought, do not ruin this glorious morning! They were all so excited. Still: more noble to die than desert him. ‘Crawl to me!’ she called quietly. ‘Don’t cry, dearest. I’m here. Crawl and keep low, mind. Don’t let the grown-ups catch you.’

He wriggled on his belly until he was near enough for Mary to swoop down and grab him. ‘I’ve got you, my precious.’ She nuzzled into his neck as he sobbed on her shoulder. ‘We’ve made it. Come on, I’ll hold your hand.’

They were safe in that part of the grounds – invisible from their papa in the library – and able to take it more slowly. Mary thrilled at the spring of the turf beneath the pink skin on her soles, the dazzling light on her face – her brothers came out without hats and why should not she? The little one, cheerful now, skipped along by her side. Had she ever known a happiness like it?

‘Look at this, Johnny.’ The slope here was at its steepest – almost a hill. Mary lay on it, cross-wise, limbs stretched to their limits. ‘Copy me!’ And then, with a screech and a holler – what would Mrs Grant say? – they both rolled, over and over, down to the bulrushes.

Gingerly, she sat up, waiting for the dizziness to pass, let the grass stains on her pinafore come into focus, then sent her head back and laughed. So this was her life now! Her father had – quite unaccountably, and with no sort of notice – withdrawn her from school. And, for the summer at least, she could look forward to adventure after adventure; lark after lark; new sensation upon new, delicious sensation. She felt like one of Cook’s best desserts, kept in the ice house all winter and now brought into the sunlight to thaw. If only little Edward had lived long enough to enjoy this with them all …

Though the estate of Mersham-le-Hatch had been in the family for some considerable time, it was all quite new to this generation of Knatchbulls. While their grandpapa had lived here, they had not been welcome, the last Lady K. having taken against their papa for some reason unknown. But now the grandfather was dead, his widow evicted and the whole place was theirs. And the sheer size of the mansion and extent of the park was truly the stuff of their dreams.

The last home had been extremely pleasant of course, but on a quite different scale. They knew every inch of it blindfold, and were never allowed to explore anywhere beyond it. The nurses and maids who had them in their charge had all known their late mother and, naturally, adored her as everyone had. Their chosen method of respecting her memory had been to wrap her poor offspring in cotton wool. The children were not once allowed out without supervision, and every cough, shiver and sniffle had them confined to their quarters. They had been finding it increasingly tiresome.

The servants at Hatch, though, could not be more different. As the housekeeper did not mind explaining to Mary, the staff here had much preferred life under the previous incumbents – back when nobody asked to see ‘the accounts’ with the butcher or ‘the key’ for the wine cellar, and the nursery wing was just as it should be, shut up and dark. The last gentleman – God rest his soul – was not cold in his grave when, all of a sudden, they were expected to put up with the king in his counting house and his great rabble of children. Five of you devils! The servants, she said, had come to unanimous agreement: they would look after them as little as possible.

Mary Dorothea had never before known a minute’s neglect and – oh! – how she relished it. It was not just the hours – endless hours, sun-drenched and warm – of true freedom that opened before her. It was also the time with her brothers. For most of their lives, she had either been away or just somehow separate – expected to do something other or be somewhere else. But now, here she was: one of their number; part of the pack.

At last, Mary and John arrived, breathless, at the back of the boathouse. When they saw Norton already at work – head bent over wires; brown paper and bottles assembled – John cried out in dismay.

‘We missed it,’ he wailed. ‘They’ve done the a speriment!’

Norton, his brow low with concentration, looked up and snarled: ‘Course I haven’t, you fool. I’ve been wanting to electrocute you since the day you were born.’

Mary sank down to the earth, crossed her legs, patted her lap, pulled John down into it and rested her chin on his golden head. Gosh, but were not boys marvellous ? She loved that frank contempt with which they spoke to each other, when girls always pretended to friendship while inside they were beasts. And fancy knowing all about electricity and galvanism , when she had but the haziest idea of what the words even meant. And imagine – just imagine – having the sheer nerve to try it out on all of your siblings! Mary was completely in awe.

‘Right, you lot.’ Norton looked up. ‘In a line with you. Now!’

Mary stood, held hands with her brothers, closed her eyes, bit her lip and awaited the thrill of her life. Could it really be true that her hair would stand on its ends? The maids might go wild, but that would come later. Right now, sheer anticipation was making her all over quivery …

And then it came:

‘Miss Mary! Miss Mary? Where has that wretched girl got to?’

‘Dash it!’ Norton threw down the magnet in fury. ‘Typical! You’ve gone and ruined my experiment. They’ve come to take you away.’

An hour and a half later, she was with her papa at an estate that called itself Godmersham, visiting some people by the name of Knight – though Mary had no idea what on earth she was doing there.

With her stockinged legs crossed at the ankle, white-gloved hands loose on her lap, Mary sat and – quietly, heroically; with the greatest politeness – started to melt.

Of course, their hostess had taken precautions against the worst of it. The table had been set in the shade of a cypress, Miss Knight had found Mary a Japanese fan and ices were served before cake. But still, the air was unusually stifling. One poor footman, in stiff Godmersham livery, was looking decidedly faint. Mary had a sudden vision of her brothers down by the lake or, more probably in it, and to her horror she heard herself sigh.

Thank heavens her papa did not notice and instead simply breezed on with his passionate views on the recent assizes. Mr Austen Knight, though, who Mary thought might be a very good sort of gentleman, looked over with sympathy.

‘Quite so, Knatchbull. Quite so,’ Mr Austen Knight cut in. Mary had noticed he agreed with her father on everything. Most people did. ‘My dear’ – he addressed his own daughter – ‘are there no girls around to amuse our young visitor?’

‘I fear not, Father.’ Miss Knight’s chest, exposed in a delicate muslin, started to flush with some violence. ‘Please do forgive me.’ The pink moved up to her cheeks and on to the roots of her hair. ‘I could not—’

‘Pray, Miss Knight, do not worry!’ Sir Edward cried with what seemed to Mary unnecessary vehemence. ‘I assure you, my daughter could not be more happy.’

Mary essayed a smile, looked over at the house – a friendly sort of place, but not a patch on her Hatch – and then studied their hostess. Now, here was a curious creature – stiff as a poker and awkward with it; not un attractive, but what Mrs Grant used to call handsome ish , which the whole school understood to be a fate worse than death. What age might she be? Not ancient exactly, yet there remained not a trace of her youth. Ah! Perhaps she was one of those ‘poor spinsters’ one heard so much about? How very interesting. As far as she was aware, Mary had never actually seen one in the flesh.

Her musings were interrupted then by a loud whoop travelling up from the direction of the river below them, followed by a sequence of splashes.

‘Forgive me,’ Miss Knight repeated, leaning towards Mary. ‘My brothers …’

Yet again, the lady started to flush – that long, goosey neck all red and mottling. What was the matter with her? Mary could not make it out.

And then came the unmistakeable sound of feminine squealing to add to the whoops from the water, and she formed an idea. So Miss Knight had asked those girls to look after her, and they had refused. These sisters were the excluding type, then … She knew them well from school. Still, on that afternoon, it was hard to lay blame. Who did not prefer being with their brothers? Mary certainly did.

Her mind drifted towards Hatch and to wondering: had Norton actually managed to create electricity? All that earlier, thwarted excitement thrummed through her veins, while Sir Edward opined on the latest Archbishop – ‘hell in a handbasket’ – and Miss Knight languidly enquired about her various accomplishments: ‘Not play , my dear? Then surely you sing .’

And eventually – just at that crucial point when Mary felt she could bear it no longer – there was reached a general, unspoken agreement that the visit had come to its close.

On the carriage ride home, Mary sat, face fixed towards the window, as if she were actually interested in the passing, desiccated country, when really she just wanted to cry. Of course, she understood it should be an honour to accompany her papa on a visit, but really she could only resent it. If that was this ‘calling’ she had heard so much about, then they could keep it. Her papa and those Knights seemed close to strangers and clearly had little in common beyond a shared geography. On the basis of that experiment, Mary saw no earthly reason to meet them again.

Her father reached over and patted her leg. ‘The most charming occasion I thought, did you not?’

‘Yes, Papa.’ Mary managed a smile through the side brim of her bonnet. ‘Thank you so much for taking me.’

‘You are a pleasure to take out, my dear,’ he said warmly. ‘I was most keen for you to meet Miss Knight in particular. I wonder, did you warm to the lady?’

‘Oh, very much indeed, Papa.’ She twisted her white-gloved hands in her lap. ‘She could not have been kinder.’

At that, he fell into his thoughts and Mary turned her face to the window and pondered. Had she once, since the death of her mother, had an honest conversation with a single grown-up? Lady Banks, perhaps, but even her dear great-aunt – kind though she might be – set down limitations.

For the rest, she had long ago formed a habit of only ever telling adults what they wanted to hear. Having observed Norton’s honesty and the trouble it brought him, it seemed obvious that her life would be easier if she did not follow his path.

Only now did she see that her own way had brought with it a whole other problem. There was not now an adult around her with any idea of who Mary truly was: not the feelings in her heart, nor the thoughts in her head.

On 31 August, straight after breakfast, the nursery maid lined up the children – wiped five eggy faces; scrubbed ten jammy hands – pronounced: ‘It’s as good as I can get ’em and ’e can like it or lump it,’ and led them all into the library.

Like a chorus of angels, they chirruped: ‘Good morning, Papa,’ sounding so very unlike themselves, that Mary looked around. The fear in those little pink faces … So she was not alone, then. They all, even little John, could sense something afoot.

‘Ah, yes.’ Sir Edward cleared his throat. ‘Children.’ As if he had, until that moment, forgotten he had any. ‘You are brought here today …’ He studied the detail on the Aubusson with particular care. ‘I wish it to be known …’ he started again, rubbing at a knee with each hand. ‘ I am to be married! ’ he blurted out in a rush.

This was met not with cheers, nor cries, but a paralysed silence. Sir Edward looked up, flushed, and looked down again. The library took on the quiet of the grave.

At last, as if this were his regiment and he was addressing the general on behalf of his men, Norton took a pace forward, stood crisp to attention, and said: ‘Thank you, Papa. Then, of course, we all our offer our warmest good wishes. Might we now be informed as to whom ?’

Sir Edward looked at his son and heir with barely suppressed fury, though that was not out of the ordinary. Norton’s every word and deed provoked his father to fury, and had done for years. Still, Mary thought it a shame. Somehow, she sensed her papa had come to this interview fully determined to be kind – as kind as she alone believed him to be capable of being. Yet already – and as usual – things were going awry.

‘My boy,’ he thundered. ‘You must concede that it is not in my nature to be wild or impetuous, and I resent the implication of your words. This is not a wanton decision, but one taken with great care. And I will have you know’ – he half rose out of his chair, as if pulling a trump from a good hand and certain of victory – ‘that not only has your sister met with the lady, but she has wholeheartedly approved of the match.’

Mary was stunned. All masculine eyes turned to her for some explanation. She was as baffled as they were.

‘My fiancée , and your future mother ,’ Sir Edward went on, ‘is Miss Frances Knight of Godmersham Park—’

Mary felt a dead weight in the pit of her stomach. Surely he cannot … he did not … not that strange, awkward … oh, dear, good Papa!

And they had all been so happy.