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CHAPTER XVI

The Atkinson Affair – as she would always privately refer to it – presented Fanny with the first major diplomatic and domestic challenge of her married life and, though it could not have been handled in any other way possible, there came in its wake a great deal of unpleasantness. For the following few weeks, everyone she cared about was thoroughly miserable, and they all laid the blame at her door.

Of course, the greatest casualty of all was poor Miss Atkinson herself, whose frequent letters, telling of heartbreak and wretchedness, punctuated Fanny’s difficult days. It would be impossible not to have sympathy with the lady – her prospects were bleak in every direction. But on the other hand, it was not easy to quell one’s profound irritation that she had been so weak as to get them all into this mess.

Sir Edward would insist on using the word ‘scandal’ – even though nobody knew of it apart from themselves. And even though it was he who had employed the governess in the first place, he was deeply displeased with everybody else. In particular, he seemed to be forming a strong aversion to the Knight boys in general, about whose moral rectitude he was developing doubts.

This grieved Fanny most terribly. Sir Edward had a brother in gaol , and yet he dared to find fault with her darling brothers? She might almost be minded to change the habits of her marriage, and speak up to her husband in their defence. However, her siblings had all taken William’s side in the matter, and no one at Godmersham, apart from her father, would even see her. And from that she deduced all those many, past visits from her boys – the ‘flocking’ of which Fanny had been so very proud – had not been to see her but, in fact, the governess. That did rather hurt.

But worse than all that was the situation with Mary Dorothea. Before this unpleasantness, Fanny would have described her stepdaughter as an odd child, of almost tepid emotions. It was clear she was devoted to her father, and of Lady Banks she was, strangely, fond; then there was Mary’s deep friendship with Cassy and her unlikely sympathy for her poor brother, Norton. Beyond all that, though, there had never been any discernible evidence of particular feeling. But when Miss A was dismissed, the shock of it seemed to unleash something within her. Mary Dorothea was suddenly become a creature of raging, ungovernable passion. Or so one was told. As the girl refused to come out of her room, Fanny could not confirm it.

Twice a day, this most diligent stepmother took herself off all that way to the children’s wing, knocked on the door and begged – pleaded – for entry. Twice a day, Mary could be heard moving, sobbing – even issuing the occasional howl – but would not reply. Sir Edward was still in Town and the boys were all back at their schools by then, leaving only two people who were allowed in: Booker, the maid, and Cassy Knight.

Fanny let the situation continue for a while until one afternoon, at work in the sage-green peace of her dressing room, she took the opportunity to interrogate her younger sister.

‘So,’ she began brightly as she sat in the (unused) nursing chair and delved into the seemingly bottomless basket of mending. ‘How is Mary today – any better? It has been a week …’

‘Really, Fan!’ Cassy looked up from the sock she was darning with a disappointed expression. ‘Of course she is nowhere near better . What is a week in the context of agony ? We have suffered the most terrible shock, Mary and I.’

Was the child becoming rather earnest? That did seem a shame.

‘I, for one, am still reeling , and my grief is not even close to poor Mary’s. She’ – too emotional to work now, Cassy dropped the wool into her lap – ‘ she says it has been as bad as losing her mother .’

Was that intended to wound her? Fanny dared not allow it. Desperately, she tried to move the conversation on. ‘Well,’ she said brightly, ‘it might please you girls to know that, in Town, Sir Edward is even now looking for a replacement—’

‘ A replacement? ’ Cassy exclaimed in horror. ‘Dear Fan, I do wish you would listen. Truly, you dare talk of replacement ? I suppose you might equally talk so casually of replacing a mother ?’

A chill fell on to the dressing room. The two sisters glared at one another.

At last, Fanny spoke: ‘Then, perhaps,’ she began, ‘it might be a better idea to go forward without a new governess.’

The thought had not occurred to her before that moment, but she suddenly saw that there was no alternative. Indeed, that this was the only right course of action. While in London with Sir Edward, Fanny had suffered yet another of her unfortunate events, and Dr Maton had confessed that, in his medical view, a success now looked unlikely. Somehow – though, oh! how it grieved her to think it – she must accept the Lord’s will and surrender the dream of her own darling baby. And to take her mind off the misery, she could now devote her life to the many motherless children already under her care.

‘And I shall look after you both from now on.’ There must be worse fates, she supposed – though the heart might not thrill at the prospect.

‘Ah.’ Cassy’s eyes narrowed and her mouth set. ‘So am I right in thinking that what you are saying is, in effect: we can now leave the schoolroom?’ To Fanny’s ears, she came across as a horse trader at the close of a deal.

‘I do not see why not.’ Fanny was starting to form the suspicion that she had walked into a trap. ‘Indeed. Leave the schoolroom – do! – and start to accompany me around and about the place, and then deputise on all my various duties and calls … After all, you are both of an age … Then next year, we can start the whole process of you “coming out”.’

‘Fan, you do mean it? We can count on your word?’ Cassy leaned forward. ‘And you are definitely authorised to speak on Sir Edward’s behalf?’ Her blue eyes were alight, ringlets trembling with tension. ‘We must not get left behind, Mary and I. Not like poor dear—’

Oh, really ! All the younger girls seemed quite obsessed with Marianne, as if she were some victim rather than a lucky young lady with an extremely comfortable life. ‘I shall write to Sir Edward this very afternoon and explain my decision.’ She put her hand inside a sock and, addressing the hole in the toe, asked, ‘Might this news please Mary, do you think? At least just a little.’

‘Very much so,’ Cassy began cheerfully, before she got that horse-trader look back and piped up again. ‘But oh! I nearly forgot. There is one other matter which causes her much terrible sadness.’

‘I am sorry to hear that.’ Fanny stifled a sigh. ‘Pray, do go on.’

‘Well, dear Miss Atkinson had promised to teach Mary to ride in their free time.’ She looked up at Fanny. ‘Do you know, up to now nobody ever has? Poor Mary, sometimes it is as if she just gets forgotten —’

‘I see,’ Fanny cut in. She was getting the hang of these negotiations: it was clear the girls had thrashed this all out between them, and now Cassy had come in with their list of demands. ‘So she might also like her own pony, is that it?’

‘Yes!’ Cassy had the pleasure of a teacher whose struggling pupil had worked out a sum. ‘I do believe she would like that, very much indeed.’

‘It can be arranged, and I can ask one of the lads in the stables to offer instruction.’

‘No need!’ Cassy almost sang happily. ‘The groom has already agreed it, and Papa has a horse for her over in Godmersham. Oh—’ She realised her error.

Fanny started to pack up the work bag. ‘Then that is most kind of him.’ So yet again, they had all been talking behind her back. She felt a sharp twinge in the heart area. ‘I do wish her the best with it.’

She rose, indicated the door and Cassy walked half through, then one more thought seemed to occur and she poked her head back around. ‘It will be all right, Fan, if we both continue to write to Miss Atkinson? I am sure you cannot mind it? We have been so close, after all.’

‘You may,’ Fanny said wearily.

‘Sir Edward will not object, I hope?’

‘I am quite sure he will not.’ Though it might be for the best if Sir Edward was not informed. ‘And before you go, Cassy, I would like to make it quite plain that I thoroughly expect to see you both at breakfast tomorrow. Please do make sure that you pass that on to Mary.’

‘But of course, Fanny dear!’ Cassy tripped, cheerful now, towards the top of the stairs. ‘Do you know, I think she may well feel better already.’