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CHAPTER I

Fanny Knight of Godmersham Park was in the twenty-eighth year of her settled existence when she suddenly found her life changed.

It was 30 August 1820, and she was late to breakfast that morning, having spent a hot, difficult hour in the linen cupboard with Mrs Salkeld. Fanny always aimed to do the more tiresome tasks early in the day, and there was little more tiresome than the counting of pillowslips or the company of the housekeeper. By the time she got to the table, the rest of the family had already left to pursue their various sporting interests.

Fanny made herself comfortable, poured her own tea and glanced through the long window. It was the third week of infernal hot weather and even the impeccable Godmersham lawn was baked brown as a biscuit. She surrendered to worry – on the subject of younger children, the force of the sun and the wearing of hats – and then determined to enjoy her moment of solitude before the next duties beckoned.

With one hand, she stirred; the other rifled through that morning’s post. A letter from Ned: no doubt a detailed account of some triumph against fish, fowl or Hampshire cricketer. Dear brother – few beings were safe. Fanny would save that to last. She raised the dish to her lips, saw the next was from her Aunt Cassandra, gave a tight little sigh and put that to one side. Fanny replaced dish upon saucer and, from what little had been left for her, selected something to eat.

The hand on the next packet was not immediately known to her. She turned it from front to back, decreed its author to be masculine – such strength and confidence in the stroke – and nibbled at the edge of a muffin. No doubt it would prove to be tedious; nevertheless, Fanny must own to some mild curiosity. After all, one simply never could tell. And in a deft balancing act of knife and bun, she sliced open the pages, skimmed the requisite address to her person, wishes for her health and read: You are the only person in whose society I can find happiness …

Good heavens! This seemed to be – no , it was surely impossible. And yet it was , categorically, so. Fanny held in her hand a declaration of love! The page started to tremble. Her heart thumped at her ribs. Again, doubt flooded in: oh, but she must be mistaken! Her eye raced on.

… and in whom I can trust the welfare of my children …

Fanny’s pulse found its pace; the muffin began its descent. The words ’welfare’ and ‘children’ were hardly in the lexicon of romance or high passion. And yet: Your confidence, if given to me, will not I hope be misplaced.

Was this, in fact, something yet more extraordinary? Indeed, was it not – might it possibly be – a proposal of marriage ? Fanny read it again. It felt a little oblique, and certainly cautious – cautious in the extreme. Even after a third reading – it was really no more than a very brief note – she was forced to admit that at no point was the salient question directly asked of her.

Yet it was the work of mere seconds for Fanny’s brain to declare that it was indeed a proposal and, as proposals went, this one was, quite simply, a marvel. And not just because it was the first she had received for a good many years.

Everything about it was perfect. Yes, it was more pragmatic than passionate, but then was not Fanny herself? So its language was sensible and serious, but was not the holy sacrament of marriage? One would certainly hope so. And beyond all of that, it also had one more, startling virtue: it was wildly, dramatically and utterly unexpected.

Sir Edward Knatchbull, the author of these astonishing words, was not completely unknown to her. He was now approaching his fortieth year and the families had been neighbours, in country terms – their estates were some distance apart, but no person of much consequence lived in between – for a few generations. The widower had come to dine with the Knights a few weeks before; had been, for the first time, seated beside Fanny and each had seemed pleased to discover in the other a like, sober mind. Then, the Tuesday before last, he had – rather curiously, now Fanny looked back on it: as if visiting a stables to examine a possible new pony – brought his thirteen-year-old daughter over to call.

So he was not a stranger exactly, but nor, by any stretch, could Sir Edward possibly be described as her lover, or even a friend. No touch or look or moment of even hesitant intimacy had ever passed between them. This declaration came quite out of the blue.

Yet at once, Fanny knew in her heart that it was a serious proposal, for Sir Edward was well known to be a deeply serious man: one of sound Christian faith and profound moral certainty. Though it was possible there was a more frivolous side to him, she very much doubted it. His name was never mentioned in connection with any sport or games or amusements – or any sort of fun whatsoever. Sir Edward Knatchbull, the world was agreed, did not do things lightly.

Which was why Fanny found this development so very touching. Perhaps another young lady might have thought it too abrupt or too formal; not this one. If Fanny Knight were the type for swooning – as it happened, she was very much not – but if she could, she would swoon right there in the breakfast room.

For the last three months, her mind had been consumed by nothing above or beyond the Godmersham summer. The season had tripped on with its cricket and boating and bathing and races; visits had been received and return visits made. All that time, Fanny had spent thinking about and working hard towards the provision of pleasure to others. And only now was it revealed: all that time – well, some of it, certainly – Sir Edward Knatchbull had been thinking about her .

Since the death of her mother twelve long years ago, Fanny – then just a girl, a mere fifteen years of age – had been in charge of the Godmersham world. She was the one plotting and scheming: the holidays, the schools; the doctors, the dentists; the guest lists, the menus. She was the secret intelligence that throbbed at the heart of every family, quite often unnoticed until it was gone. Half her young adult life had been spent behind the domestic scenery, every hour consumed with making other lives run smoothly. The welfare of her dearest papa, ten younger siblings and their nineteen servants was always uppermost in her mind. Try as she might, she could never rid herself of the notion that any insecurity they might feel was down to her laxness; the miseries they might suffer due only to her silly mistakes.

And now – it was quite dizzying to think of it – here was a whole other, previously un-thought-about person who seemed to harbour the desire to look after her ! The secret intelligence of Sir Edward Knatchbull had formed an idea, taken a decision and propelled his physical self into action without her knowledge or say-so. He was offering to remove the heavy saddle of responsibility from Fanny’s back and take control of the reins. So what did it matter that the couple had never been lovers? So what if they had never shared a dance or held hands?

This was, to Fanny, the most romantic thing in the world.

Fanny’s first instinct was to find her father. Clutching the letter to her breast, she rushed from the breakfast room, across the hall and tapped at the door of the library.

‘Ah yes,’ came the voice from within. So he was already expecting her. ‘Enter, dearest – do!’

Mr Austen Knight was seated at his desk, face to the door, back to the window, also holding a piece of paper. And as she hurried towards him, Fanny saw that this, too, had been blessed by the hand of Sir Edward Knatchbull.

Her father peered over the pages – his letter was the longer – and lifted one eyebrow. ‘Well, Fanny?’

‘Oh, Papa!’ Fanny gasped and fell into the nearest armchair. ‘I have never been so astonished by a thing in my life! Are you not astonished?’

Her father smiled benignly. If he felt any sort of surprise whatsoever, he was keeping it well under control.

‘Papa, you already knew ?’ Fanny pressed her palms into the pillows and sat up, ramrod. ‘This is not the first you have heard of the matter?’

Her father coughed, stood, made as if to perambulate, before losing confidence in the whole scheme and sitting quickly back down again. Fanny sensed he was nervous.

‘Perhaps, Fanny, if you cast your mind back’ – he was now focused intently on straightening his blotter – ‘you might remember the pleasant occasion upon which Sir Edward Knatchbull recently came here to dine?’

‘But of course, Papa. It was only last month!’ As if she wasn’t stirred up enough, Fanny felt the stirrings of impatience.

‘Quite so.’ It was suddenly imperative that the left side of the blotter be exactly perpendicular to the inkwell. ‘Then I can now explain that the arrangement followed a pleasant meeting between myself and the, er, the, um, gentleman in question.’

‘Indeed?’ Fanny felt rather affronted. She was, after all, the family’s intelligence. ‘And might I enquire where this meeting took place?’

Mr Knight looked up with the hangdog expression of a small boy admitting a crime. ‘In Canterbury,’ he replied miserably. ‘At the last Quarter Sessions.’ He cleared his throat. ‘As you may know, it is now six years since Sir Edward was widowed and his aim was to bravely continue as the dutiful, only parent to his much loved children. Having followed the same pattern myself, I know only too well how lonely and difficult such a situation can sometimes prove to be.’

Fanny stiffened. She had presumed that the immaculate care and concern which she had quite showered upon her father had been enough – more than enough – for him. That he should now suggest otherwise, after so many years of devotion: it was too much! Tears sprang to the daughter’s eyes. His confession struck Fanny as both terribly sad and a great personal slight. As they once used to say in the nursery: she had tried her absolute best.

Her father dropped his gaze. Perhaps after all it was the inkwell itself that was out of place? ‘Of course, with the death of his father, his situation is changed. Sir Edward has assumed the baronetcy, is now due to move into the family seat over at Mersham-le-Hatch and, when the House sits again, he will – by rights, perforce, as is quite natural – become the next Member of Parliament for East Kent.’

Ah. As the causes of the proposal were clarified, so the romance began swiftly to dim. Fanny could hardly help feeling a little humiliated. She retrieved from within her habitual, practical self; regathered her poise; rose from the armchair and started a stroll about the library.

‘So the responsibilities of his estate will be much more than those to which Sir Edward is so far accustomed.’ Fanny was aware of a certain archness of tone, but rather thought the situation required it. ‘I hear Hatch is a fine house indeed. The first private commission Robert Adam ever completed, I believe.’ She turned to the bookshelves, grazed a long, delicate finger along the spines and casually flicked ‘Much land?’ over her shoulder, as if it were a fur tippet.

Her father seemed a little taken aback by this sudden change of approach. ‘It is certainly substantial though I fear I cannot, at this very moment, provide the exact acreage.’

‘Never mind.’ With a quick swish of muslin, Fanny returned to the armchair. ‘Now, the children.’ She rested her hands in her lap and gazed steadily at her father. When first she came in, her cheeks had been warm; they were now returned to their more natural coolness. ‘I had the pleasure of meeting his eldest, Mary Dorothea – a remarkably sweet child. Indeed, I have never before met one quite so keen to please.’

It had puzzled Fanny at the time. Of course, one wants the children to be biddable and courteous and so on and she was quite confident that she had raised her own siblings to be so. However, a little personality – individuality, certainly; even impudence, within reason – did add to their charms. But there had been something about Mary Dorothea’s behavioural perfection that had caused some unease … Studying the plain, colourless creature, looking into her eyes perhaps hoping to see into her soul, Fanny had found nothing beyond her own self reflected back. But of course, she was being silly. The child had been nervous, no doubt, and might improve over time. ‘And the rest are boys, if I am correct?’

‘There were five sons when his wife died; four now remain.’

‘That is unfortunate.’ Fanny acknowledged the loss with a slight sombre nod, before moving on briskly: ‘Then I quite understand that, all things considered, Sir Edward Knatchbull is, indeed’ – she arched one fine eyebrow – ‘very much in want of a wife.’

‘Oh, my dear child!’ Her father rose, came round to the chair, half sat on its arm and took both Fanny’s hands. ‘I fear I have got this all wrong and done both you and Sir Edward a terrible disservice. Yes, it would be as well for him and his family if he were to marry again now. But at the same time – coincidentally—’

‘And conveniently!’ Fanny cut in.

‘It is, indisputably, convenient,’ her papa conceded. ‘But we must not let that distract from the fact that you, Miss Frances Knight, have captured his heart. Sir Edward spied you first last summer, at the Canterbury Races; then at the Fountain in the New Year. Our dinner here in July was more successful than you could possibly know. Yes, Sir Edward wants to get married, but he also very much desires to make you his wife. Both those things are true, and here’ – he tapped the letter still clutched in her hand – ‘on the record.

‘The only unknown now, my dear, is’ – he tipped Fanny’s chin and looked into her eyes – ‘what is your answer?’