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CHAPTER XV

Lady Banks was correct. Sir Edward did prefer to travel with his wife as much as was possible. Simply put, he was happier and more effective when she was by his side, and Fanny was touched by that. For, in truth, she now – nearly three years into their marriage – felt something similar. She might not be in love exactly. And she might never know the need to storm around the house protesting her passion – the memory of Marianne’s recent behaviour was still somehow irksome. Still, as she had hoped, Fanny had come to love her husband.

Even her terrible luck with the baby business could cause no rift between them – indeed, quite the opposite. While she wept and grieved, Sir Edward was endlessly patient and kind: the sorrow seemed to bring them yet closer. They lived together in a mercifully peaceful spirit of gentle benevolence, and on every matter – the family, the estate, their country and their God – they were in harmony.

And so when Sir Edward was called to Town by business or politics, then of course, within reason, Fanny went, too. And if a particular trip looked to be inconvenient or tedious, then would it not be absurd to drag poor Mary along? She was so happy with clever and pretty Miss Atkinson; bolstered further by that precious friendship with Cassy Knight – and dear Booker, the maid, would lay down her life for the girl.

While the parents travelled, that little group was free to roam between Hatch and Godmersham – wherever the fun seemed to be at the time – and as a system, it seemed to work remarkably well. Certainly, Fanny never received any evidence to suggest cause for concern, and all the young people of both households seemed perfectly happy.

Therefore, when, in that summer of 1823, Lady Banks found an issue with Sir Joseph’s estate requiring attention, Sir Edward and Fanny set off in the coach for the capital with nary a backward glance. Why on earth would the girls want to leave Kent in that glorious weather?

William Knight – he who was the Most Fun in that parlour game of old – had taken Orders in June, and was due to take up the curacy in Steventon in September. In the gap that remained, it was agreed that he would spend the summer based mainly at Hatch, while reading in for his position at St John the Baptist in Mersham. Fanny was delighted with this arrangement. Everyone would be happy with William about the place – how could they not? He was a purveyor of joy: it was as simple as that. Even Norton would surely have to cheer up just a bit. Poor Norton. It was a shame.

So on the Wednesday afternoon at the end of August when Fanny arrived home alone – her husband having been unfortunately detained up in Town – she rightfully expected to see signs of some sort of summer jollity. The coach swept in from the road, followed the drive past the cricket pitch – an incomprehensible score still displayed up on the board. Why were the numbers always so high ? It seemed so unnecessary – and turned around the nursery wing. And all the while, her neck was craned for the sight of some fun: a boat trip; a picnic; the arc of a shuttlecock against a brilliant blue sky.

The place was deserted.

‘Thank you, Daniel.’ Fanny took the driver’s hand and wobbled on to the top step. ‘Where is everybody?’ Five hours in that coach and her legs were like jelly. ‘Surely they cannot be inside on a day like today?’ Safely on the gravel, she paused for a moment for the blood to return and then tottered to the edge, where the grass began and the land fell away towards the lake in the valley. ‘Ah, I see the girls!’

Halfway down the slope, Mary Dorothea and Cassy Knight were spread, lolling, on a tweed blanket – both stretched out with their legs on display, one using the stomach of the other as a pillow. Really, she thought to herself as she moved down towards them. They look practically debauched. She waved and trilled in a friendly fashion. They scrambled up, straightened their dresses and pulled down their straw hats. What on earth had been going on?

‘My dears!’ she said brightly while eyeing up evidence: lemonade and cake, they could not be minded. But the books … ‘I see you are reading! How pleasant. Anything amusing?’ Or yet more of those novels Miss Atkinson encouraged?

Cassy reached down, grabbed both volumes and clutched them to her chest. ‘Not especially.’ She stepped forward and kissed her eldest sister. ‘How was the trip, Fan? I hope not too tiring.’

‘Thank you.’ Fanny peered around Cassy. ‘Mary!’ She held out her hand. ‘You are well, child?’

Mary shuffled forward, and, as usual, they fumbled their greeting. ‘Mama,’ she said, with a slightly ironic grimace. It was ever thus – always that edge to things.

There seemed to be a general understanding that now Fanny was home, the fun must end. In her defence, Fanny had not intended it, and yet even she could detect that it prevailed and somehow must be obeyed. Together, they gathered up all their possessions and started to walk back to the house.

‘I did not expect to find the two of you alone , dears.’ This was quite an understatement. ‘Where is Miss Atkinson? William? The boys?’ Even Booker, for heaven’s sake, would be some sort of comfort.

They had now reached the front door; the girls were climbing the steps. From behind, Fanny could see the exchange of glances and intuited a sense of slight panic. ‘Um,’ said Cassy.

‘I think—’ Mary began.

And then they heard voices. It was a feature of the mansion that the stables were conveniently close to the entrance, and yet not visible from its door. Sound, though, did travel: the honeyed coaxing of a gentleman, for example – or a lady’s delicate laughter, indeed – came across clear as a bell.

Fanny and the girls stood – staring at each other – until, hand in hand, the owners of those voices appeared around the corner.

‘Miss Atkinson?’

The horror on the woman’s face was a picture.

‘William.’

‘Ah.’ William sidestepped away from the lady’s side. ‘Fanny,’ and strode to his sister. ‘We were not expecting—’ He went in to kiss her, and was met with the side of her bonnet.

‘Clearly.’ She looked over her shoulder. ‘Miss Atkinson, perhaps you might be prevailed upon to resume your duties, just until dinner? You are too kind.’ She then took William’s arm. ‘My brother and I will now withdraw.

‘Thank you, Graves.’ She nodded at the footman as she passed him. ‘I think tea in the library.’

‘An attachment ?’ Fanny exclaimed. ‘I suppose you must mean of the romantic variety?’ Dimly, she hoped for some alternate definition; when William nodded, her spirits sank. Oh, how she missed her dear husband and his excellent roar. ‘My dear boy …’ She plunged into the sofa and closed her dry eyes. ‘And how long has this’ – she searched for a neutral word, one that might denote even a little respect, then quickly surrendered – ‘ nonsense been going on?’

‘It is not nonsense, Fanny, and I would be grateful if you did not demean us so.’ William stood with his back to her, and chose to declare himself to the large window and the view of the Weald. ‘We are in love.’

‘In love.’ Truly, all other words failed her. Did he not witness the Marianne saga? Apparently not, as it was all happening again with no lessons learned.

For there they were, faced with exactly the same issue. William was set for the church in Steventon. Their dear papa had recently spent five thousand pounds on improving the rectory. How now did William intend to furnish it, run it – live in it even – on the love of a governess, of all people? The boy was a fool.

‘William,’ Fanny began, ‘I must confess to a feeling of some disappointment. Both in you and, I am particularly sad to say, in Miss Atkinson. The woman is our employee , as you are quite well aware. And as such, her behaviour is truly depl—’

‘Enough.’ William, who had been prowling about like a beast in a trap, strode across the room and loomed over her. ‘Forgive me, Lady Knatchbull, but perhaps your own behaviour might also be called into question.’ Though his words were brutal, his tone was oddly mild. Still, Fanny shrank back into the sofa. ‘Can you not find within you even an ounce of human sympathy? We are aware of the difficulties, as we are no longer children. Yes! We are in love. And I am sorry if this development might cause you some small inconvenience, but that does not entitle you to treat us unkindly. You are so harsh these days, Fan. And to be frank, it is not just me and Emily—’

Emily?

‘We are all of us feeling it rather. Dearest …’ He sat down beside her then, and took her hand. ‘I do understand you have been having a rough time of it lately.’

Fanny froze. This was irrelevant to the topic under discussion and, furthermore, deeply intrusive.

‘But it is making you—’

‘Thank you, William.’ Fanny stood, crossed to the bell and summoned a servant. ‘That will be all.’ Her whole body was trembling. ‘Ah, Graves, Mr Knight is just leaving us.’ She held a shaky hand out for William to kiss, and issued her final instruction. ‘I suggest you go at once to see our esteemed father. He can always be trusted to supply the most excellent advice.’

Now alone, Fanny sank to her knees in the middle of the Aubusson, while there raged in her breast extremes of emotion: shock at all which had just occurred; cold dread of what was to come. But overhanging it all was the worst feeling possible, and that was her own, particular guilt.

William had been ten years of age when their mother died; Marianne not quite seven. Of course, Edward Knight had always been the most conscientious of parents, but he could not have raised all eleven of them entirely alone. Whatever the justice of the matter – after all, she had only been fifteen herself – Fanny, too, had been responsible for the upbringing of her younger siblings. She had been entrusted with their spiritual and moral education and had, she was sure, thrown herself into that challenge. Yet now look at how they were all turning out!

Lizzie – dear Lizzie – had managed to make an excellent match, but of the rest, only two had so far declared themselves and – unless Miss Atkinson surprised them all by producing a fortune – both with disastrous results. It was as if neither had ever learned the basic tenets of what was socially acceptable, or simply possible. Fanny must accept at least some of the blame, and could only fear what was to come. There were still seven more siblings yet to be matched. What more did fate have in store?

The one comfort was that, for these Knights at least, the ramifications would be negligible. They would always know the protection of a good family. As happened with Marianne, William’s affair would soon be over – possibly even by the end of that afternoon. As soon as he returned to Godmersham, her brother would be made fully aware of the facts of his situation and that would, perforce, be that.

For Miss Atkinson, however, the immediate future would not be so straightforward. And much as Fanny resented the governess’s behaviour – and in so far as she fully approved of consequences for actions – it would be a shame, and moreover of great, personal inconvenience, if the punishment were to outweigh the crime.

The next morning, Fanny sat up in bed, reached for the lavender oil and applied drops to her temples. Such a pain in her head – as if she had been drinking gallons of wine, rather than dealing with the dramas of her dearest family. And what did this new day hold? She dared not even think of it.

‘Madam.’ Sayce popped her dear head around the door, and then walked into the bedroom. ‘It’s the Miss, ma’am.’ And then she withdrew.

‘Mary, dearest.’ Fanny sat up straight and forced a huge smile, even though she could barely see straight. ‘Do come in and sit on the ’pane here.’ She tapped on the coverlet. ‘Let us be cosy together.’

Mary Dorothea approached the bed slowly, as if fearing an ambush. ‘Good morning’ – a semi-quaver’s pause – ‘Mama.’ Gingerly, she sat and passively allowed Fanny to take hold of her hand.

‘Do you remember, child, back when your dear papa and I were first engaged to be married, that we planned to take our morning tea together whenever possible?’

Mary nodded and looked into her lap.

‘We never quite got round to doing so as it turned out, did we?’

Almost imperceptibly, Mary’s head shook.

‘I fear events have rather conspired against us both, and that is unfortunate.’ Fanny reached for the tray on the bedside table, placed the strainer on the dish, lifted the pot and started to pour. ‘I am sorry that we haven’t spent as much time together as I should have liked. But now, I should like to rectify that.’ She passed Mary her tea, smiled – she hoped – winningly, and wrinkled her nose. ‘And I think we could become the firmest of friends, you and—’

Mary had reached over and was placing her cup back on the tray. ‘I am sorry. Perhaps, Mama, I should have informed you. I do not take tea, having not yet developed the taste for it.’ She then looked up at Fanny. ‘Thank you, though. Most sincerely.’

For a fraction of an instant, Fanny was quite sure that she caught an expression flash across Mary’s face: the sort of expression Cook might find useful for the chilling of cream. It was not altogether attractive. Then: ‘Ma- ma ?’ Just as suddenly, Mary’s angelic demeanour was returned. ‘Where is Miss Atkinson?’

A splash of tea suddenly left Fanny’s cup and arrived on the bedlinen. In silence, both lady and child watched the stain slowly spread. Mary was the first one to speak.

‘ Mama? ’

Fanny required a little time to collect her thoughts and prepare her answer. ‘Well …’ She isolated a few stray curls and tucked them back into her nightcap.

‘Please do tell me, for it is most worrying. Has something awful befallen her?’

Of course, any sudden disappearance could be rather unnerving. The child deserved some explanation. Fanny looked across at the splendid bay window and predicted a fair sort of day.

‘ Mama? ’ Mary’s once timid little voice had developed a sudden, new strength. ‘Cassy and I are both deeply concerned. Yesterday, the lady did not seem herself and now, today, she does not seem to be here at all. Simply vanished , and without a word to us. Dearest Mama’ – the fondest address, yet somehow laden with insolence – ‘ how can that be ?’

My dear, Fanny was tempted to say: it is perfectly straightforward. When a governess has got herself closely involved with a gentleman connected to the household, and the lady of that house has discovered the affair, and then the gentleman in question immediately lets that poor governess down … Well, then she is reduced to running to London to beg for an interview with her employer and plead that he overlook all her transgressions and keeps her in her job.

‘Mm,’ Fanny murmured as she took her first sip. ‘Nothing out of the ordinary, my dear.’ She dabbed at her lips and replaced cup upon saucer. ‘Miss Atkinson left for London first thing this morning.’

‘London,’ Mary repeated, without any discernible expression.

‘Mm.’ Fanny grabbed at her teacup again and, in her panic, began to extemporise. ‘She was needed … or wanted perhaps … by … by—’ Sadly, the sheer depth and great fervour of her Christian faith rendered her a very poor liar.

‘By whom , exactly?’ Mary held out both hands. ‘Since the death of her mother, Miss Atkinson is quite, quite alone. I am sure there is nobody in London for her to see.’

Was this turning into some sort of interrogation? Certainly, Fanny was starting to feel as if she were somehow the enemy, which was grossly unfair. The truth was that of course the governess should have been dismissed on the spot – and Lady Knatchbull was the one who should have carried it out. Instead, Fanny had written to Sir Edward, laid all the blame upon William – his reputation would survive it – and insisted – insisted – that the girls had been thoroughly shielded from all impropriety and at all times. They knew nothing of any illicit relationship! Of course, no lines had been crossed and no innocence compromised! She had then implored that her husband see his way to offering a reprieve, and find it somewhere within his generous heart to keep the governess on.

‘I cannot say, as she was not explicit.’ Fanny was starting to feel very uncomfortable. Was the child always this forthright? Fanny had not got the impression before. The shock of it reinforced the suspicion she had been harbouring that she still did not know Mary Dorothea as well as she ought.

‘Mama.’ Mary sat up at right angles to Fanny and spoke to the wall. ‘I hope you will forgive me if I ask an indelicate question.’

‘Oh. Yes. Of course. Please, dear.’ Dread flooded through her. ‘Do ask me anything .’

‘Thank you, Mama. It is just that there is this word which I have heard much of just lately.’ A turn of the head; a sweet smile. ‘Actually, I do have to confess, I do not even quite understand its full meaning.’ A blink of near-holy innocence. ‘Yet somehow, it nags at me. I sense it may hold a clue to – a key to unlocking – these mysterious events.’

‘Do go on.’

‘ Thank you, Mama. You are so very patient. My question is on the subject of your brother, Mr William Knight, and our own dear Miss Atkinson.’

‘Hmm?’

‘Well. Could it possibly be that they have somehow eloped?’

Oh, for shame and dear Lord, those poor girls had borne witness to all of it!

She must write to her husband at once.