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CHAPTER XI

Three weeks had passed since Mary’s arrival in Godmersham, but still she felt nowhere near settled. Though she had, more or less, mastered the layout of both mansion and park, some corners of the family remained as yet uncharted. Of course, the daughters were all sorted out and straight in her head. Apart from the married one, Lizzie – gosh! The scariest creature! – the others all lived there, so Mary met with them daily.

When it came to the sons, though, she did still get into the most terrible muddle. Mary had formed the idea there were six of them (though she might yet be proved wrong), who, for most of their time, were apparently occupied somewhere other than Kent. But then at odd moments – generally just when the household had comfortably slumped into a period of peace – they would suddenly turn up in a pack: laughing and shouting at the top of their voices; taking pot shots at anything non-human that moved.

On those days, Mary tended to keep at a distance, intimidated – and yet not unintrigued. She preferred just to look on at a distance and, from there, try to discern each from the other. But it was simply no good, like trying to pick threads from a box full of yarn: they all clumped together. Only one seemed to stand out apart from the rest. And him she found hard to forget.

Ned, the family called him but he was Mr Knight still to Mary, of course, and young Mr Knight to the world. It was he who had, at that very first family dinner, astonished the universe – or amazed Mary, at least – by starting an argument with her beloved papa. In all her thirteen long years, she had never before seen such a spectacle.

Later, in the privacy of their carriage, Sir Edward had denounced his opponent – an outrage! A blackguard! – and the dutiful daughter had, as ever, concurred. What else could she do, after all? Her papa was her world and his approval was everything. His enemy must be her enemy, or she would risk his displeasure – and therein lurked an evil that could never be borne.

And fortunately, Mr Knight had not been seen in Godmersham since then.

That afternoon found Mary tiptoeing along the first-floor landing of Godmersham, listening in doorways while appearing quite innocent. Of course, these were two conflicting activities – she wasn’t the complete dunce everyone here seemed to think – but she was all out of ideas. Those girls had said they would meet her at two after noon when they had finished their riding, and that was ages ago. But there was no one downstairs, and the nursery was empty. Surely they had to be here, somewhere or other.

The clock down in the hall struck three – late enough to merit concern – and then came the footsteps. At last, someone was … Yet this was a masculine tread! Strong, athletic, taking the stairs two at a time. Mary’s blood quickened. Should she run, should she hide: why must she live in this perpetual state of horrible anguish? Now full in a panic, she made a run for the attic, her own room and safety – but it was too late.

‘Hull- o !’

The early autumnal sun dazzled – danced – through the long, principal window and so blurred Mary’s vision.

‘And what have we here then?’

A halo of light obscured all physical details leaving nothing but a dark figure in outline. Mary could discern only an averagely tall sort of gentleman, broad enough in the shoulder, with a head like a mop that had met with a hurricane – though the weather was perfectly still.

‘You make no reply, madam? Then I see through it at once. You intend to remain a figure of mystery.’ The voice was something quite close to stern, though Mary felt, hoped, she could detect the hint of a chuckle – a bubble of air caught in a stream. ‘Then it falls to me to unravel it.’ The shape put its hand to its hair and made it yet wilder, said ‘Hmm’, stretched out an elbow, leaned on the banister, crossed its long legs at the ankles and thought for an instant. ‘Quite so. There are but two explanations. The first being that you are a Burglar of the Master variety – in which case’ – a muscular arm signalled her plain white day cap and starched schoolroom pinafore – ‘the perfect disguise.

‘Or – and this, I agree, is the more fantastic by far – you have got rather lost. Now.’ With three long strides he crossed the corridor. ‘Which is it to be?’

Mary, who had remained fixed to the same spot – a sapling transplanted – had until that moment stayed blind. And only now that the body had moved out of the shadows and the face was inches from hers, only now could she see who it was.

Mr Knight had returned. He was standing right there before her. But before either could speak, a great, shaggy dog bounded up the stairs, barrelled into Mary and rubbed his head in her hands, as if they were old friends. She bent down to pet him – it was a fine opportunity to hide her own blushing face and, anyway, he was rather a dear – while his owner let out a great laugh.

‘So burglar it is!’

Though Mary was mortified, Mr Knight was, at least, amusing himself. ‘I am proud to say that Lord Byron is not one of the world’s more promising guard dogs. Far too noble a beast for so lowly a role. Any intruder would be in danger of being licked half to death.’

He was now begging her mercy, while his face – chiselled and fine; honeyed bronze rather than ruddy – cracked into a smile. ‘Pray do forgive me,’ he pleaded. ‘I have had the pleasure and my manners are woeful. Miss Knatchbull, is it not? I had heard you were come to stay for a while. Enchanted.’

He tipped into a bow; Mary managed a nod.

‘And yet, if I may, you seem somewhat at a loose end? Now, if it pleases you, do say where you should be and I will escort you.’

As if she could say a word!

He smiled, shrugged and went on. ‘I was led to believe you are being taught with my youngest sisters but – if you will permit me the wildest of guesses – they have gone “missing”. Might I be warm?’ His voice softened. ‘Miss Knatchbull, I do know the feeling. They would treat me ill, too, if I did not box their ears on a regular basis. Come, let us find them together.’

Mr Knight turned back to the staircase, began to climb the next flight and bade that she follow him. The dog stayed at her heels, as if she were his mistress. ‘As you know, your father and brother came to stay with me a few weeks back.’ He spoke over his shoulder as she and Lord Byron trotted behind. ‘I very much enjoyed meeting Norton .’

Mary privately noted that her father’s name was not mentioned – favourably or otherwise.

‘Have you heard from him since he started at Winchester? I hope he is getting on well, though – as an old College man myself – I can quite see that might not be the case.’

A pause, in which Mary might have confided her brother’s weekly accounts of his increasing misery. Of course she did not.

‘Please know that my house at Chawton is but a short distance from there.’ They were now up on the attic corridor, where Mr Knight proceeded to fling open one door and finding no one at home, march on to the next. ‘I will endeavour to keep an eye on him when I can.’

Resolute, Mary maintained her silence, and yet she felt somewhere within – like the first shot of war in a far-distant land – the faint stirrings of conflict. Of course she could never show disloyalty to her dearest papa! The very thought was abhorrent. But then, what classed as loyalty? For example, were she, say, to wonder at Mr Knight’s intuitive powers, or succumb to the warmth of his kindness, or let her heart sing with relief that Norton at last had an ally in life … would then she be thought of as wicked? It was so hard to know.

‘Little beasts! So they have vanished. It is simply too bad,’ he exclaimed, and signalled to the other end of the landing. ‘They could be along there, but I fear I cannot brave the nursery yet a while. Dear Cakey – you have met Cakey, I take it – loves me considerably more than I could ever deserve and will detain me for hours.’

And so, with a light foot – he must make a fine dancer! – Ned led her back down again and stopped at the door to a room overlooking the park. He then turned, smiled – said: ‘Here at least, we shall find kindness’ – knocked and went in.

‘Ned, darling!’ Miss Marianne Knight sat in a chair by the long casement window, a white silk slipper in one hand and soft brush in the other. ‘I had no idea!’ She laid her things down with great care, then rose to embrace him. ‘And you have brought Mary.’ Her tone was warm, but one of puzzled enquiry.

‘I just had the pleasure of encountering Miss Knatchbull on the stairs.’ Ned stepped sideways and extended one hand. ‘She seemed a little lost , Marianne …’

‘My dear.’ Marianne Knight approached and took Mary’s hand. ‘Pray, do forgive us.’ And to her brother: ‘Thank you, Ned. I will look after our guest from now on.’

‘You are good.’ Ned moved to the door, took the handle, then turned with a frown. ‘But surely it is Fan who should—’

Marianne met his gaze, raised her brows and, pretty blue eyes full of meaning, replied: ‘Mm …’

‘I see,’ Ned said, curtly. ‘That is most – But if you would …’

‘Yes of course, darling. No need to worry. I do try and step in as much as I can.’

He shook his head, gave way to a scowl and, just as quickly, altered his mood. ‘Miss Knatchbull, it has been my pleasure .’

Then – this was to Marianne: ‘Do look after those dancing shoes. I insist that you be my partner at the next Ashford Ball.’

And this to the room: ‘And now, ladies, if you will forgive me, I must take myself off to be worshipped by Cakey until even I am bored of my wonders.’

And with that he was gone.

If she was honest, Mary, too, had had the impression that the eldest Miss Knight – whom they called Fanny – would be the one to take her under her wing. They were soon to be ‘mother’ and ‘daughter’, after all, and certainly her father, Sir Edward, had suggested that would be the arrangement. But somehow it had not quite come to pass.

‘The Bride’, as the young Knatchbulls referred to Fanny then – she was not yet ‘the Mother’ and somehow, given its connotations of romance and passion, ‘the Bride’ struck them as funnier still – seemed to be one of those very busy sorts of ladies. What exactly she was actually busy with was unclear, but Mary could see that this general busyness acted as a wedge or a stop in the relationship between them.

For Mary, life at Godmersham seemed to proceed at a gentle sort of pace, certainly compared to the rigours of Ramsgate; but the poor Bride sped around the place in the most terrible hurry. For example, the moment Mary entered one room was always the point at which Fanny remembered she was due in another. And should Fanny open a door and find Mary within, she would at once start and declare herself in the wrong place. Then if, through no fault of either, they found themselves on the same flight of stairs, Fanny’s eyes seemed to darken with a mixture of guilt and regret, as if Mary were some chore – an untidy cupboard – which she ought not and yet somehow did keep putting off.

Mary did not mind any of it, particularly. Though she had learned next to nothing at school, she had developed a certain forbearance. And anyway, the longer she stayed at Godmersham, the more companionship she did seem to find there. Miss Marianne was the kindest of spirits, Booker, the maid, a complete darling and, soon after young Mr Knight’s visit, Louisa and Cassy suddenly became her great friends. But when it came to her little brother John, she felt very differently. For John, Mary minded a lot.

Her youngest brother had been sent to Godmersham soon after Mary, though he had never been there before and was barely acquainted with the Bride. But still, his bags were packed, his papa bade him farewell and suddenly, there he was in a quite different nursery. He was so excited in the carriage from Hatch, chanting: ‘We’re off to see the new mama, the new mama, the new mama. Off to see the new mama …’ over and over until Mary thought she might scream.

How she wished the new mama felt as excited about him.

‘What do we think, then?’ Booker was looking over Mary’s head and into the glass. ‘Hair up or down? Which will she prefer, do you suppose?’

Mary peered back at her own reflection and saw little to admire. ‘Oh, Books, it doesn’t much matter. I’ve got horrible hair. It’s all – oh, I don’t know.’ What was that word again? ‘That’s it: lank.’ Then the whole phrase came back to her: ‘It’s unfortunate and lank and a terrible pity .’

‘ Lank? And a pity ?’ Booker dropped the ribbon in outrage. ‘Who on earth gave you that idea?’ Their eyes met in reflection, but Mary did not reply. ‘Oh, I see. Did she indeed. You’ve been listening in doorways. No good ever comes … Well, I never heard such nonsense.’ She picked up a strand and let it run. ‘Like silk, that is. Pure silk.’

Mary was not persuaded. ‘Whatever you go for, it’s going under a cap and anyway, she just doesn’t like me. A bow isn’t going to make any difference.’

‘Owph, we’ll have none of that, miss.’ The maid took a swipe at her head with the brush. ‘Why wouldn’t she like you? I’ve not told you before – we don’t want that head of yours too big for its bonnet – but all of downstairs says you’re their particular favourite.’

‘Oh, Booker!’ Mary swung around in surprise. ‘You can’t really mean it?’ But of course, the maid’s face shut up like a clam. It was never a good idea to question a compliment – one always ended up being punished, in some way or another. But imagine if it were true? She allowed herself a brief moment of silent fantasy. A rare accolade! And the good opinion of the servants was worth so much more than the Bride’s. ‘Ow!’ How she hated those hairpins, and Booker was driving them in now with force.

‘Stay still, now. Nearly done.’ She measured out a ribbon, planted it on and conceded. ‘It is indeed true, and not like there isn’t stiff competition. They’re all good sorts, here – the boys and the girls. Lovely family, the Knights. You couldn’t have chosen better if you tried. There!’ Booker stepped back, admired her own handiwork, then covered it all up with a cap.

‘I hardly chose them,’ Mary replied as she stood up. ‘But I do agree: they are charming. All except—’

‘That’s enough!’ Booker admonished. ‘She may not have done much for you yet, grant you that, but it’s all going to change now the wedding’s upon us. Tea in her bedroom, indeed! What could be kinder? Now, let’s have a look at you.’

Mary crossed the floor – it did not take long – over to the cheval, smoothed down her day dress and gave a little twirl. It was one of the three gowns that Marianne Knight had had made for her, to add to the new petticoats and nightgowns, and Mary was amazed at the magic wrought by a new wardrobe. She could almost pass as a Knight. But one knew better than to show pleasure in one’s own reflection. ‘I suppose I will do.’ She turned and took the maid’s hand. ‘Wish me luck! Let’s go and find John.’

It was not exactly hard finding John in those strange, early Godmersham days: find Cakey, and there he would be. It was Mary’s one consolation that while the little one might not have been blessed with the mama of his dreams, he could not wish for a more loving nurse.

Cakey had been with the Knights since the Bride was a baby – now there was a curious image – and, though her services were no longer required, she was still there, in the attic. The idea of letting her go was quite out of the question. She was the Godmersham treasure! Cakey was touched, of course, but clearly, also, a little bit bored. So when this motherless bairn came into her nursery, she flung herself at the task.

They were still at the basin when Mary and Booker appeared. Was Cakey washing the boy or was she polishing him?

‘Glory be!’ exclaimed Booker. ‘It’s assault by a flannel.’

‘Thank you, dear Cakey.’ Mary tried not to laugh. ‘I think that will do.’

‘If you say so.’ Reluctantly, the nurse let him out of her grip. ‘Needs to be at his best, though …’

‘For the mama!’ John squealed as he ran to his sister and buried himself in her skirts. ‘We’re going to see the new mama, the new …’

Cakey caught Booker’s eye and shot a look of enquiry. Booker sent back a shrug, muttering: ‘An attack of good conscience? Just hope it sticks.’ And Mary pretended she had not seen or heard any of it.

Together, the two Knatchbull children – eldest and youngest – set off down the stairs and all the while, John prattled on. ‘I want to climb into her bed! Will the New One let me climb into her bed? Like you used to do with the Real One?’

Mary privately fretted. For the truth was that she had told a little white lie. Miss Knight – the mama – had, in fact, only invited Mary to join her for tea. John she had somehow forgotten. But surely, if he came too, then it would be to everyone’s benefit? The wedding was now but a fortnight away. They would soon be a family …

They arrived at the door; the maid knocked and announced them. Miss Knight – her head in a nightcap, rose silk shawl round her shoulders, tray across knees, looked up and cried: ‘Dear children! You came.’ Her lips smiled; her eyes flashed with fear. ‘What a pleasure to see you. And yet, such a pity !’ Now all in a fluster, she put the tray to one side – spilling tea on the bedcover – turned, put her feet into the nicely placed slippers. ‘Today of all days!’ She rang for the maid. ‘So much to do, and so little time. Come, children.’ She beckoned them both over, but only John approached. ‘Do give me a kiss, dear. And are you not looking splendid? Ah, there you are, Sayce.’ Her voice all relief. ‘Time to dress now, too sad to say. But you are so sweet for coming, and we will try again soon.’

On the 20th day of October, Mary stood by her bags at the foot of the Godmersham steps and awaited the carriage. She was far too modest a girl to ever expect one of those great, grand farewells, although a fond one would have been pleasant. But the Wedding was now just a few days away and the household in absolute uproar. John had left a few days before, to live with a gentleman who would prepare him for school. And her own removal would inevitably be the last thing upon anyone’s mind.

A kindly footman had been charged with seeing her off. They stood side by side, each endeavouring not to catch the eye of the other, though, when the worst did happen, they achieved a shy smile. But the carriage was late, their wait taking too long. Eventually, he was emboldened to speak.

‘Weather set fair for your journey then, miss.’

In perfect unison, like partners in ballet, they raised their eyes up to the wide, Kentish sky and, necks stretched, traced the great arc of unbroken blue.

‘Nothing like autumn for fine weather,’ he declared.

‘Oh, indeed,’ Mary warmly replied, though she was not entirely convinced that was true.

‘Mind, they do say it’s soon on the turn. Rain from the east coming.’ They both looked to their left. ‘Always the worst. Shame, what with the Wedding and such. Poor Miss Knight. Waits all those long years and now in for a drenching.’

‘Oh! I am sorry to hear that,’ Mary exclaimed, with now genuine warmth. ‘That would be a pity.’

In fact, her thoughts were less with the Bride and more with the bridesmaids: Miss Marianne in particular. She was so very determined to wear her white shoes. What if they were ruined? Mary found her eyes turning back to the house, and her thoughts to her friends.

Of course, Mary herself had been shocked that the marriage was to happen so soon. The Knatchbull children had, somehow or other, got the idea that they could enjoy a two-year grace, which in turn had provoked the hope that it might never happen, with the result that they were quite unprepared. And yet, somehow, for Marianne, the blow had seemed much more severe. In just a few weeks, she had become pale and thin, was moved quickly to tears: it was as if all the light had gone out of her person.

Though still too young to see clearly, Mary had just enough wisdom to judge that this wedding would affect so many lives – not just those of the Bride and the groom. Like elements in one of Norton’s great chemical experiments, two families would be combined into one and the result could be, well – who could predict? Such a thing had never been tried with this particular set of ingredients. Suddenly, this new future – its changes and challenges – reared up before her. Though she could not expect to wield any control over, or say in, what might come next, she could not help but wonder …

There came the great rush of hooves, wheels, the roar of a coachman and with that her thought chain was broken. At once, her bags were stowed, her hand taken and small self settled. As the horses prepared, she turned for one last look at the mansion and, at that, the front door swung open.

‘Miss Knatchbull! Miss Knatchbull!’ Ned Knight skipped down the step and on to the gravel. ‘Forgive me! I was not aware you were leaving us. How rude not to bid you farewell! ’ He spoke through the window, kind face at the glass. ‘Let me wish you safe travel.’ The broad smile displayed near perfect teeth. ‘And I do hope we see you here soon.’

Before Mary could reply – and how could she have spoken? What would she have said? – he issued two sharp slaps to the carriage, the man cracked his whip and the journey commenced.

As they turned on the gravel and took to the drive, Mary twisted round in her seat the better to study him. He first plunged his hands into his pockets, then had a word with the footman – flung his head back and laughed – drew a shape in the dust with the point of his boot. So it would be quite wrong of Mary to claim that Ned was watching her go.

But he certainly stayed there and waited, until she could no longer see him.