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CHAPTER XIII

The loss of her first, precious baby almost broke Fanny’s heart. For five long months he had nestled within her: her closest companion; the love of her life. All those spring afternoons, while the family was busy elsewhere, they had lain quietly together, she and her darling: mother and child. Completely contented while the sun poured through the window and filled both with strength.

It had seemed such a happy time, while she was living it. Fanny was back at her beloved Godmersham – Hatch being still uninhabitable – and dear old Cakey, who had been her nurse back when she herself was a child, was tending to her once again, with Marianne’s assistance. The Knatchbull children were scattered around and about the South of England and were all perfectly happy – Fanny knew that from her most assiduous readings of their various guardians’ reports. And so Fanny felt blessed anew, and vastly important: in a sublime state of grace. In her mind’s eye, the small being inside her was born, growing and then grown: his whole future mapped out before him.

And then came the horror. What had she done to him? Why could she not keep him alive? How was she to live with the shame? Her own mama had delivered eleven perfect children in rapid succession. Though she was not around now for Fanny to ask – the ‘success’, so to speak, having led to her tragic demise – when one looked at the calendar of family birthdays, it did not seem possible that any were missing. And Lizzie, her much younger sister, was already popping them out, comme il faut , in that pea-from-pod fashion. Producing just one, living baby became Fanny’s obsession.

Throughout that difficult time, Fanny tried hard not to forget her own good fortune in all other areas. The Lord was lavishly thanked, in her devout daily worship, for her kind, loving husband and large, prospering families spread around and about Kent. And she counted as a particular blessing the two treasures who were her strongest support.

First, the governess who devoted herself to the well-being of Mary Dorothea. Thanks to her, the girl seemed to be blossoming and that meant so much. Of course, Fanny’s most fervent wish was to spend as much time as possible with her dear little stepdaughter, but with all this unexpected unpleasantness, she could not quite find it in her at that particular juncture. Though she did pride herself on being one of life’s copers , even women like her did have their limit.

And then Marianne: dear Marianne. What a success she had made of running Godmersham since Fanny had left it. Their papa, the younger siblings and all the servants seemed completely contented under her management. Fanny had not heard a peep of complaint. It would be simply too much if she had to deal with her health and all those children and houses.

So as well as her Lord, Fanny thanked both her sister and the governess as often as the opportunity arose. She made sure they were both keenly aware how important they were to her in this difficult period. Neither could be under any illusion. And yet, and yet … even then, they could not be relied upon.

Marianne was the first to cause problems. It was early May 1822, Fanny had recently suffered a second, most unfortunate event and Dr Maton recommended some weeks in Leamington to take the waters. Of course, Sir Edward was too busy to accompany her – Fanny marvelled at Sir Edward’s constant busyness. It was a privilege to be the support by his side – and therefore other companions had to be chosen.

At the time Leamington was one of the more fashionable spas and anyone would seize upon the opportunity of spending a few weeks there among the beau monde . So, for Fanny, the salient question was not who might be available, more which sibling truly deserved such a treat, and could be trusted to properly appreciate it. Fanny thought long and hard – she was never known to be flippant on any family issue – and made her decision.

‘Oh, do look!’ Fanny’s sister, Louisa, pulled up her pony and took a moment to gaze upon the vista beyond Mersham-le-Hatch. ‘A panorama of paradise in the finest of seasons.’

Fanny drew up beside her, and looked as she was bidden. It was indeed beautiful: a day on which to believe that, if you could stay still long enough, spring would dramatically transform into summer before your very eyes.

‘I know you have been through the most terrible sadness, my dear,’ Louisa began cautiously. Everyone was cautious around Fanny these days. They were almost too frightened to speak. ‘But a day like today – surely that must give you hope?’

Hope! It was, indeed, all around her. The air was clear, the hawthorn pungent … but its presence was quite inappropriate. It made a mockery of the despair which lodged in Fanny’s heart. She gave no reply. She felt completely inert: wanted to dismount, lie down and sleep for a week. But then Taffy whinnied and pawed at the ground and, for his sake alone, they resumed their ride.

Louisa spoke up again. ‘You know, dearest, I would do anything to make you feel better. And am thrilled at the idea of taking the waters with you and George. You are so kind to ask me; we could have the loveliest time. But—’

But? Fanny sighed and rose to a canter. Listen to it! All that she did for them and still: not one ever satisfied.

‘I feel,’ Louisa continued, somewhat out of breath from the exertion of catching her up, ‘it might be somewhat more fair if Marianne were to go in my place. She does do so much for all of us, and gets so little fun.’

Taffy, sensing the conversation had turned delicate, slowed to a trot; Fanny rubbed at his neck, prayed for some strength and then spoke up, firmly: ‘Marianne has her hands full, my dear. She is desperately needed, both at Godmersham and by Lizzie and her new addition.’ Why could nobody else grasp these arrangements? ‘ She really cannot be spared, whereas you, Louisa, might see some benefit from being in new, different society.’ Taffy picked her way carefully down to the lake’s edge. ‘This is your first season and we are all working hard to make it as pleasant as possible, so if you might be so kind as to try and enjoy it?’

‘But I feel …’ Louisa began.

Honestly, Fanny could scream.

‘I feel that I have already had such a lovely debut, and Marianne never did quite get one. Through no fault of anyone! Just,’ she finished lamely, ‘as things turned out.’

‘My dear Louisa. I implore you. Be grateful for that which is given to you , and pray – understand that all people are different. Marianne is a kind, selfless soul,’ proclaimed Fanny. ‘Devoted to her family, lives to help others … She is perfectly content with this life God has given her. I am sure of it.’ She pulled Taffy’s head out of the water. ‘And will hear no more on the subject.’

But when, the very next day, news came to Hatch of Marianne’s sudden illness, such was the coincidence in timing that Fanny struggled to believe it. Although the details were rather dramatic and, it was true, might be hard to put on – several people had, it seemed, witnessed the most violent seizures – she still thought it a little suspicious that it should occur so soon after that very conversation.

Fanny made no changes to her travel arrangements, Marianne duly recovered and when the spa party returned they made every effort to include her in their week at the races. At the ball, Marianne enjoyed as many dances as all of her sisters, and, it was agreed by all onlookers, seemed to enjoy the whole festival more than anyone in Kent. Always a pretty girl, she was never lovelier than that glorious August, appearing to float through the week in her white silken slippers and on a cloud of euphoria.

Fanny looked on and did wonder … But it was not until one morning in the middle of November that all was revealed.

The Knatchbulls were now properly ensconced in the family seat. Renovations were almost complete and, though her heart must always belong to Godmersham, even Fanny had to agree that – in principle, at least – Hatch was the superior house. Still, for all its spacious apartments and ornate decoration, the only room that offered true comfort was the one yet to receive any attention, and that was the library. So it was there, in the squashed, vermilion, book-lined gloaming, that she and Sir Edward tended to spend their few spare free hours. And there that her eldest brother rushed in on that day, without warning, demanding an interview.

‘Ned, darling!’ How Fanny loved it when one of her family turned up at her door. It made her feel she was still at the heart of all things; gave her a warm, happy sense of belonging. She moved to rise, intending to kiss, and then registered his unnatural demeanour: a little flushed, short slightly of breath; almost – a tiny bit – something like flustered. This was highly irregular.

Of course, when hunting or killing or hitting a thing, Ned moved like quicksilver. In the world beyond sport, though, he knew no sense of urgency and was rarely disturbed. Yet here he was, eschewing all greetings – Fanny prayed Sir Edward would opt, just on this one occasion, to not take offence – and – what was this? – spluttering about yet another drama of Marianne’s making.

‘A proposal ?’ Fanny fell back into the depths of the worn leather sofa. ‘A proposal from whom, might one ask?’

It was to her eternal credit that Fanny’s first thought was given not to Godmersham’s domestic arrangements and her own convenience, but that the gentleman’s identity did, in fact, take priority.

‘Billington,’ she repeated, once informed. ‘ Billington? ’ Now she was thoroughly mystified. ‘But, Ned dearest,’ she explained in her patient voice, ‘we have no knowledge of any Mr Billington. ’ As if that put an end to the matter.

To her husband, however, the name was familiar. Slowly, he rose; took position in the centre of the faded, elegant Aubusson; made fists like a fighter. ‘ BILLINGTON? ’ When in the comfort of his family home, Sir Edward roared much less than might have been popularly imagined, but when he did, that roar came with significant effect. ‘ Your sister has got herself mixed up with that fellow Billington ?’

‘Ah.’ Ned looked worried and bit his lip. ‘So you do know him, sir? We did wonder if you might have some information that would prove relevant. It is for that very reason my father urged me to come.’

‘Know him?’ Sir Edward marched to the tray and poured a stiff drink, even though, Fanny noted, it was yet to turn noon. ‘Oh, yes. I know him.’ He did not offer one to Ned. ‘He has the living over at Kennington—’

‘So he is a clergyman ?’ Fanny cut in. At last: this was hard, useful information, going some way to grounding her thoughts, which were, until that moment, spinning quite out of control.

‘I fear so, my dear,’ her husband supplied. ‘A clergyman indeed, and’ – an air of menace entered his tone – ‘ of the very worst kind .’ In the wobble of his jowl, Fanny marked a new likeness to dear Lady Banks.

‘I say !’ Ned, shocked and alarmed, ran his hand through his hair until it stood up on end. ‘The rascal! What on earth is he up to?’

‘He and I are in some dispute,’ thundered Sir Edward as he stared first at his wife, then at her brother.

‘A dispute?’ Fanny echoed. Oh dear. Not another one …

‘Yes, my dear. About tithes .’ He swallowed the sherry, slammed down the glass, adding as an aside: ‘Do not worry. I am convinced that Right is on my—’

‘Oh, but of course,’ his wife hastily cut in.

Meanwhile, Ned had sunk down into an armchair, placed an elegant foot over a shapely knee and was now smiling and returned to his habitual languor. ‘So not the worst one might fear, eh, Fan?’ He winked across at his sister, and clicked with his tongue. ‘Thought for a minute there our May was giving herself up to an axe murderer. Ha!’

‘Mr Knight!’ Sir Edward roared.

‘Hull- o ?’ Ned bolted straight up again.

‘It is my considered opinion that this Billington is not a fit match for Miss Marianne, and his suit should be discouraged.’

‘Ned, dearest.’ At last, Fanny’s caring, sororal nature ceded way to matters of her own convenience. ‘What does Papa make of it? Is he minded to approve?’

It really would present difficulties if he did. Supposing Marianne and this ‘Billington’ were after a quick engagement? Godmersham had been running so well! As if she did not have her hands full already, no doubt the business of organising a replacement would devolve upon Fanny. Things generally did, after all.

‘Can’t say he is, old girl.’ Fanny caught her husband’s wince; Ned pressed on. ‘Not so much to do with the tithes or whatever, though that’ – he flung this in the direction of Sir Edward as one might a steak to a lion – ‘is obviously of the highest importance. More the age-old story. No money. Not a bean. Love in a cottage and all that.’ He opened both palms. ‘Well, a rectory in this case, but I gather rather a mean one. Cold. Damp. Coming down round the old ears. She says she won’t mind a bit, of course. But there we are. Such is love.’

‘Love, you say?’ Fanny repeated, puzzled. ‘Marianne considers herself to be actually in love ?’ She felt oddly put out.

‘She does rather. And do you know, old girl, I am beginning to think I believe her,’ he replied. ‘Something’s up, that is for certain. Not exactly her usual sweet self. Charging around the place, drumming for supporters, stirring everything up into a terrible old rumpus. Dear Cakey’ – he turned to Sir Edward – ‘that’s our old nanny, by the way’ – then back to his sister – ‘ready to blockade herself into the nursery on the lovers’ behalf. A less likely Robespierre one could barely imagine, but that is where we have got to.’ He issued one last glance of regret towards the untroubled drinks tray.

‘Sir, my father will be most interested to hear your views on the matter.’ Ned smacked a hand on each thigh. ‘As he is determined to put an end to the whole affair.’

He rose, stopped and, for a moment, stared out to the middle distance and plunged deep into thought. ‘Must say, old Fan – quite entre nous , of course – I do find it all just a tiny bit odd. If Marianne really wants this Billington of hers, should she not have him? But then perhaps one is simply more of a live-and-let-live sort of fellow.’ Ned gave a twist to his mouth and a shrug.

‘Not that anyone has asked my advice, nor am I particularly minded to give it, but seems to me there’s only one possible move left in the game, and that is elopement. The young get their own way and the old have no choice but to get on with it, eh?

‘Ah, well.’ He snapped out of his musings and back to his natural ebullience. ‘No doubt all will work out in the end.

‘Tally ho, then, dear Knatchbulls, and back to the battlements.’ And, remembering to give a brisk bow, Ned took his leave.

Stunned, Fanny rose from the sofa, went to the window and watched his departure. Elopement? How could Ned throw that out in such a casual fashion when the very word brought her out in a rash? Once the gig had taken to the gravel and left her vision, she turned to her husband.

‘Sir Edward.’ She went to his side, and slipped her hand into his.

Her husband grunted.

‘My darling. Though most reluctant to exploit your excellent nature—’

‘No need, my dear.’ Sir Edward raised her hand to his lips and kissed it. ‘Our families are as one now. Our interests align.’ He strode to the bell and rang for a servant. ‘A spot of cold mutton and then I shall call on your dear father. I am quite sure that, between us, we can make the girl see some sense.’

‘And if not?’

‘There was a similar sort of business with a sister of mine a few years ago, and I must say that my late father – with whom, as you know, I did not generally see eye to eye – dealt with it admirably. The girl was simply closely guarded by maids, day and night, until the supposed passion abated, as all passion must. I shall be urging your own father to adopt similar measures.’

‘Oh, Sir Edward,’ breathed Fanny, feeling quite overcome. For – truly! – how lucky she was. Marianne might be ‘in love’ – or think herself so, silly creature – but Fanny already had the most excellent husband. One of those serious, solid sorts of husband who not only had all their best interests at heart but also pursued them, with vigour. In that moment, her own heart was brimful.

Fanny could never be entirely sure quite how much influence Sir Edward was able to wield. But what she did know for certain was that, within days, Mr Billington’s plans had been thoroughly scuppered and Marianne’s hopes utterly dashed. Moreover, the whole episode had been settled without any personal involvement from Fanny. Not once did she even have cause to voice an opinion. It really was most satisfactory.