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CHAPTER XVII

Mary stood alone at the window of Number 20 Great George Street, watched the sun trace its path above the grey houses opposite, and let out a sigh. It was the year 1824 and the start of yet another fine spring London day – set fair for a promenade, perhaps, or trip to the gallery. But, yet again, she would play little part in it.

She drifted back to the sofa, selected a stocking from the basket and then put it back. It was quite beyond all darning and, anyway, where was the virtue in work if ‘the Mama’ did not witness her doing it? So she reached behind the pillow, retrieved the Fanny Burney she had stashed away, and fell into the pages. But these days, the very act of reading took her mind not into the story, but instead into another world entirely: one in which Miss Atkinson had never been banished; a place of laughter and interest, possibility and promise. Wrenching herself back to disappointing reality, Mary instead reached back into the basket, and gave in to that which was expected.

The noise from the street – drivers and cabs; sellers competing; a riot of bells now chiming ten – came in sharp contrast to the quiet of the drawing room. Still – she found a suitable thread and cut it to length – Mary found she did not much mind the silence of solitude; indeed, she was getting quite used to it. And rather that than the silences which arose when one was in company: those she could hardly bear.

By ‘company’ of course, she was here referring to the Mother, Lady Knatchbull. With no more governess or lessons, Mary had been returned to her own family, and ‘mama’ and ‘daughter’ were now constant companions. This should have afforded them new opportunities to create some sort of alliance – nay, even friendship. No such miracle occurred.

It was now nearly four years since the fates had brought them together, but still they had not found a means by which to communicate. It was hardly as if Mary was taciturn by nature – with her friends, she was almost loquacious. Yet, somehow, when it came to her stepmother, she was selectively mute.

Being quite so disobliging did not bring her any particular pleasure – indeed, Mary was starting to dislike the person she became when the Mother was around, though she could see how her non-cooperation had come about. First born out of shyness, then – it was true – turned into protest, it was now no more than an unfortunate habit.

And yet Fanny made no sort of effort to make Mary break out of it. This supposed mama never dared stray on to any matter that might provoke true conversation. Instead, she merely stated the factual – the weather was fine, say, or Sir Edward stayed too long at the House – thus demanding only a nodding consent rather than commentary. It left Mary puzzled, and somewhat frustrated. After all, curing one’s children of their very bad habits: was that not what parents were for ? Truly, she thought, for the ten-thousandth time: her papa had chosen to marry the most curious creature that Kent had to offer.

But before her mood could descend any further, the door opened and there came into the drawing room a great draught of fresh air.

‘Miss Cassy Knight,’ the footman announced, and, after a moment’s enquiry: ‘With Miss Austen .’

‘What happy chance that we should come to call, Miss Knatchbull.’ With a strong stride and air of great purpose, Miss Cassandra Austen led them across Grosvenor Square and on to New Bond Street. ‘We dared hardly hope to find you, presuming you out with your fondest mama.’ She held the girls back while a gig passed by, then hurried them over to the other side of the road. ‘I am very sorry to hear our dear Lady Knatchbull is ailing .’

‘Perhaps not ailing, exactly.’ Mary almost ran to keep up. ‘Sayce described her as “indifferent”, if I remember correctly.’

‘ Indifferent? ’ Miss Austen stopped still on the pavement and issued Mary with a look of the beady variety. ‘Indifferent, indeed.’ The word seemed to ring with significance. ‘Then that is most interesting.’ She began striding again. ‘In which case, you may well be in need of an alternative chaperone for the length of your stay.’

Giving no thought to the reasoning, only delighted with the outcome, Mary and Cassy beamed at each other and linked arms.

‘Then how perfectly lovely it is, Aunt, to have you with us.’ Cassy took a discreet little skip. ‘I have been longing for you and Mary to meet. I am so pleased with Papa for bringing you here. It is a great sorrow to us all that we see you so rarely in Kent.’

‘Ah.’ Miss Austen spoke over her shoulder. ‘My dear, I am rarely seen anywhere beyond Chawton these days. You see, Miss Knatchbull, I live with my mother and she does like to have me around the place.’ With that, she stopped again. ‘Pray, do not suspect me of any resentment. Far from it! She has been an exemplary parent, and though it may be a duty, it is also my pleasure.’

‘Since my other aunt, Jane, so sadly died—’ Cassy began.

Miss Austen cut in with brisk force. ‘My brothers are all busy men. Nevertheless, I remain secure in the belief that, were I to ask, they would make sure to assist.’ She looked up then, and around her. ‘Here we are. The Strand. Keep together as we cross, girls. Unless they have moved it since my last visit – and with the great Engine of Change, all things are possible – we will find our destination just to the south.’

Mary followed closely, and pondered. Since her father’s marriage, she had discovered so many new people to whom she was now considered to be, in some vague way, related. This latest arrival merited some consideration. Miss Austen was tall, vigorous and still, somehow, erect. Though the poor creature seemed to have strayed into her sixth decade – was it not odd how single ladies seemed to live so very long, when the mamas rarely did? – there yet remained a few traces of earlier beauty. Her best features could be seen on others in the family: the high brow, for example, and aquiline nose. And like some, though not all by any means, a keen intelligence shone out from her eyes.

Theirs was but the briefest acquaintance, but Mary’s mind was already made up. She decided she liked this Miss Austen very much indeed.

Once at Somerset House, the two girls were astonished to find yet another delight waiting there.

‘Good day, ladies.’ George Knight was leaning against the wall. ‘May I have the pleasure?’

‘George, darling!’ Cassy called, running to embrace him.

But, just like his brothers, this Mr Knight set great store by his manners. ‘My dear Aunt.’ He bowed, tipped his hat and then, with great fondness, kissed her.

‘So you could find the time, dear. How splendid.’ Though clearly thrilled to see him, Miss Austen’s tone was quite dry. ‘I wonder that more young men do not read for the law, affording as it does such a wide opportunity for the pursuit of pure leisure .’

Laughing, he greeted the girls. ‘A fellow cannot win! A note came to chambers, and such was the command in the tone, I had not a thought but to obey it. What counts the law’ – he took his aunt’s arm – ‘when compared to an outing with you, madam.’

Mary’s new and high spirits rose further. She had enjoyed few previous dealings with this Mr Knight; until now, had only known him as one of the gaggle. Though he was not much younger than Ned – perhaps no more than a year – the difference was crucial. George could not expect to inherit but instead must make his own way in life, and so was most often in Town.

In pairs, they proceeded through the business of entry into the gallery, and without meaning to eavesdrop – such a thing was abhorrent! – Mary could not help overhearing the conversation ahead.

‘I say, Aunt,’ George was confiding, ‘Miss Knatchbull is somewhat altered since the last time I saw her. I must confess to feeling quite disconcerted.’

‘Ah, yes.’ Miss Austen gave a light laugh. ‘’Tis always the height of a young lady’s powers: when Beauty appears, but she has not known to expect it and is yet to hear it is come.’

They had come for the Stubbs room, but did not stay very long.

‘What a relief,’ Cassy declared as they emerged into the sunshine. ‘I am quite done with horses and as for execution and brush , who gives a fig? All I could think of was the wretched beast, forced to stand still for hour upon hour . You don’t have to live in a field to grasp how much the poor, noble darlings loathe such—’

‘Knight!’ The cry came from the street. ‘Knight, my dear fellow.’

‘I say, sir!’ Mr Knight’s fine blue eyes danced with delight. ‘I must declare this a coincidence.’

The stranger – tall, dark and, Mary could hardly deny it, exceedingly handsome – crossed over to meet them with a quick, graceful step. The necessary introductions were made.

‘… and, lastly, may I present my sister, Miss Knight.’

Naturally, Lord George Hill, for this was the stranger, acquitted himself admirably while addressing each of the ladies. Although was it Mary’s imagining or did he indeed rather linger about Cassy?

The gentlemen proceeded to regale them then with the story of their acquaintance. Mary heard something about a regiment, a brother and a party; the inevitable slaughter of some unfortunate wild animals and the amusement it brought. But in truth, Mary’s attention was a little diverted. For she could not help but notice that their party had undergone a slight, subtle change.

The compact, happy foursome which had emerged from the gallery was now broken up. During the course of telling their story, it appeared that both gentlemen had been on quiet manoeuvres, with the result that his lordship was now standing with Cassy, and Mr Knight by Mary’s side.

Miss Austen, somewhere between the two couples but also distinctly alone, sucked at her cheeks, before raising an eyebrow and, finally, a smile.

‘Well now,’ she declared, ‘is this not most pleasant?’ She turned to the street then, and gasped. ‘And do look: the first of the daffodils! What a glorious vision!

‘When I left Hampshire, you know, the trees were quite brown and bare. One or two more weeks in the company of you dear young people, and I shall return to a new world of green.’

With hindsight, Mary’s London spell of the year ’24 now seemed no more than a dream.

After their trip to the gallery, George Knight had taken the girls under his wing. Miss Austen was correct: the law did provide him with ample free time. In consequence, Mary’s own life became one long excitement. And during their subsequent outings to the opera and around the bazaars – their walks in the park – she had felt herself change. Of course, it would be quite wrong for Mary to describe her own bloom – may God strike her down! But it was the word Cassy used and, though Booker was very much not given to compliments, Mary could not miss the new look of approval when their eyes met in the glass.

So the traditional Easter return to Hatch, with only her parents for company, was for Mary a dismal enough prospect.

And when, in the wake of all that fun, she suddenly fell quite catastrophically ill, it was enough to crush her completely.

The first sign of her apocalypse came in mid-April. From the point of contracting only the mildest of colds, she was suddenly assaulted by symptoms, at once both confusing and yet clearly severe. A violent bleeding from the nose brought with it a fever which, in turn, set off an all-over agony. By the following morning, she was swinging – as if strung to the pendulum in a clock tower – between the horror of consciousness and hallucinatory ravings.

She was vaguely aware that the Mama found the nursing a strain – ‘It is a terrible pity, but I am perfectly shattered ’ – and that poor Marianne Knight was brought in to take over. Mr Whitfield was called, prescribed leeches at her temples and all over arms. But then he came again, and again – morning and evening? And from that Mary knew that this was true danger. Determined, she fought; in terror, she struggled. But after three days, or four – she had lost all sense of time, now – Mary could bear it no longer. Her grip on reality started to slacken.

The tunnel was long, at its end was a light and within that, was a figure. ‘ Mama? ’ In disbelief, she looked away; in new hope, she turned back. And – ah! – it was true! Her mother had come for her!

‘I am ready!’ Mary cried out. ‘My few possessions are neatly assembled! Do call me, Mama, call me now! For I can quit in an instant.’ But the vision turned its back then, started to fade and soon was quite vanished. In its place came an earthly commotion, and a voice in her ear.

‘I have cancelled the Yeomanry .’ The room shook as Sir Edward fell to his knees. ‘Dear Lord,’ she heard him intone. ‘Thy will be done … Deliver her, I pray … My precious … my light … in Thy mercy … such a good Christian girl … If she has … then I beseech … and by Thy forgiveness … The best that I have .’

And who could resist such a declaration of love? Mary opened her eyes – reached out her hand – before, remembering her role, she strained for the means to offer him comfort. ‘Poor, dear Papa.’ Somehow, she summoned the strength for a whisper. ‘Poor, dear Papa.’

‘My dear, darling child.’ He took her small hand in his, pressed it to his wet cheek. ‘He heard me, He heard me. God’s will be done.’

He lifted her from the pillow; caught her up in the most affectionate embrace that they had enjoyed for some long years. Mary breathed in the scent of cologne at his neck, thought: Here – here – is my distinguishing feature. My father loves me above any other.

She lifted her eyes to the room and noticed Fanny, standing close to the door – looking on, biting her lip – silently weeping.