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CHAPTER XX

Mary waited to be announced, and then slipped into the bedchamber and clung close to its threshold.

‘Ah, good morning, my dear.’ Lady Knatchbull looked up from the tray on her bed, and dabbed at her lips with a square of monogrammed linen. The bright morning sun caught the wisps of new grey coming loose from her nightcap. ‘Thank you so much for coming and – pray! – do not look so fearful. It is not my intention to bite you!’ She gave an unnatural little laugh – one she had taken to using with her stepchildren as a signal that humour had been committed, and any consequent mirth would not be discouraged. In the silence that followed, Fanny laughed long and alone.

‘Good morning,’ Mary cut in at last to save any further embarrassment. Even so, her own custom dictated there must be a significant pause, and that be left to ring long and loud around the pale blue, silk bedchamber, before she pleasantly added: ‘Ma- ma .’

Mary smiled to herself. They were entirely alone and yet still took care to put on their usual polished performance, so that even a maid would presume there was a fond friendship between them – as nearly all the world did. Over four, long, awkward years, both parties had somehow formed this unspoken agreement: the mutual froideur should remain a strictly private affair, of which Sir Edward, in particular, must never know.

Fanny let out a delicate sigh that screamed: Is there no hope for us? before collecting herself and beginning anew. ‘Pray, do come in and sit for a while. We have been so very busy this summer – August already! Where does the time go? – that you and I have had too little time on our own . And we do like our little chats, do we not?’

‘Oh, very much indeed, Mama,’ replied Mary, who had memories of few such occasions, and none of them particularly pleasant.

‘Quite so. And now here you are, suddenly seventeen years of age! I can hardly believe it. How you have come on , my dear child, since I first came to Hatch.’ Again, to any outsider Fanny’s look would appear as one of approval; only Mary saw the pity in her stepmother’s eyes. ‘From now on, you will join us to dine, and Sir Edward is agreed you shall come out at the Ashford Ball at the end of the month. There, is that not excellent news?’

Even in this company, Mary could not disguise her eager excitement. The Ashford Ball in August was said to be the best in the whole calendar. And, oh! – how she had longed for this moment.

Childhood had felt more like oppression, and did not merit a moment of mourning. Her own past was no more than a burden that had to be borne on the path to this door and, at last, here Mary stood: at the threshold of life. No one and nothing could stop her. She would throw herself forward—

‘Now,’ Fanny pressed on, as if delivering a speech already prepared. ‘I can see that you may have some reason to doubt my own commitment to your launch, as I am soon to be somewhat preoccupied …’ She started to stroke the growing curve of her stomach; at once, Mary studied the ceiling. ‘And I wanted to reassure you on the matter, as well as issuing my personal guarantee that, for the rest of this year at least, you can expect my fullest attention. To that end, I have written to Hall, my hairdresser, to order you curls .’

With some caution, Mary brought her eyes down again. ‘Curls, Mama?’ Mercifully, the hands were now holding the tea dish.

‘Yes, Mary. Curls. They are so very much of the hour, and as Nature has not —’ Fanny stopped, momentarily flustered, then cleared her throat to continue. ‘On your behalf, I have discussed it with Hall and he is of the professional opinion that your terrible illness has taken its toll . In consequence and as per the very latest in medical thinking, he recommends that we …’ At which point, her voice dipped into a mumble and the words ran out at speed.

‘Forgive me’ – a quick rest – ‘Ma- ma , I could not quite catch—’

‘Ah. Indeed.’ Fanny’s eyes froze wide in pure panic. ‘Yes. I was saying.’ The same voice now rose up to a squeak. ‘ Shaving the head … can bring on a miracle … Or so it is said.’

For a long moment, Mary stood still by the bed, stared at its occupant and thought, not for the first time, that she might be a lunatic. Then, as if back in the schoolroom trying to grasp the subjunctive, she slowly repeated that which she thought she had heard. ‘You have kindly arranged for my head to be shaved .’

‘Correct!’ Fanny exclaimed, in seeming relief that her message had landed so well. ‘My dear, please believe that your father and I want only the best for you. Since the moment we met, my dedication to your improvement has been unfaltering, as I am sure you have noticed?’

‘Thank you, Mama.’

‘The dancing masters, the music teachers – the pony I personally found: all these things were arranged by your loving mama in the interest of your future; the improvement of your chances . My dear, do believe me when I say that – though you may well struggle to believe it – you are, actually, really, one of the fortunate. But if I may – there has always been this one tiny matter crying out for improvement.’

‘And here you speak of my hair.’ Mary had a momentary vision of Booker’s likely reaction.

‘Precisely. You know, Mary, your papa does have the very highest hopes of your eventual success. Dear man.’ She smiled and shook her head as if almost in sorrow. ‘Such a fond parent … Surely it is in both of our interests to at least try to ensure his wishes are met?’

‘Forgive me, Mama.’ Mary’s icy calm tone belied the wild storm in her breast, ‘but I feel it important to establish I have quite understood. So my first ball is in a fortnight, I shall present with no hair and you do not expect any adverse effect on my “chances”?’

‘Well, I too had worried a little, but am newly convinced that all will be well!’ Fanny returned, smiling brightly. ‘We have two weeks after all, during which we may see some growth and – let us hope! – a new, shall we say, richness in texture. Furthermore …’ She leaned forward then, and put on the expression of a happy conspirator. ‘I have consumed all the reports of the London season and can you guess what I learned?’

Mary looked back at her blankly.

‘Our luck is in, Mary! Turbans are quite à la mode .’

A half-hour had passed since the hairdresser’s departure. The sun was now meeting its zenith; the swallows were diving; somewhere out on the lawn, willow struck leather with metronomic precision. But still, Mary sat where Hall had left her: in her room, at her dressing table, in front of the glass, where she came slowly to terms with her new reflection.

Actually, Mary remembered it now: had she not grown up assuming herself to be plain? After all, no one about her had ever said otherwise and she had somehow gathered, from novels and so on, that when Beauty was evident people did tend to remark it. And so imbued had she been with religious principle – the rigorous catechism and bible study; church twice on a Sunday – that she had learned not to much mind. Was not the soul worth more than the flesh? Of course, the recent talk of her ‘bloom’ had been rather pleasant, but then she had never quite believed it: just one look from her stepmother had been quite sufficient to return her to earth. No, plain had she been; it now seemed plain she would always be. One must simply get used to it.

Mary blinked slowly and looked back into her own eyes. The naked scalp was now hidden by her white cotton cap. Beneath it was hidden a band, to which the new hair was attached, but that was a secret known only to her and her maid. All the world could see was that around her face hung a crop of rich, chestnut ringlets which rightly belonged to some other girl. She sighed. Imagine being so poor as to be forced to sell one’s own hair. Mary fell into wondering how she might cope with such a forced deprivation, before realising that she would not have that option. Who on earth would buy hers when it ‘cried out for improvement’? It was a testament to her good, Christian optimism that the thought made her burst into laughter.

‘Have you gone mad, child?’ Booker lifted her face from the handkerchief in which she had buried it. ‘You’ve got nothing to laugh at, believe you me.’ The sobbing resumed. ‘We won’t forgive her for this in a hurry and that much is certain.’ She gulped, somewhat damply. ‘Quite tempted to—’

A maid popped her head around the door. ‘Lady Banks waiting down in the drawing room, miss.’

‘And here, let me correct you. Lady Banks is very much not.’ The familiar, short, untidy figure pushed through and barrelled into the bedroom. ‘My opinions on waiting are more than well known.’ Shooing Booker out of the armchair, she sat down with some heaviness. ‘My dear, I am come to celebrate your significant— Oh my good Lord, what on earth have they done to you?’

Mary recited the facts of the morning, while expressing no comment.

‘Well, I have not heard such nonsense in all of my days. And where is her ladyship now, pray?’ She thumped her cane on the carpet. ‘I demand her presence at once!’

‘Pray, Aunt, I beg you do not.’ Mary rose and went to her side, bent to kiss her dry cheek. ‘’Tis done now and I believe her intentions were perfectly good.’ The last thing they needed was a conflict over which her papa was made to rule, for he would never upset the Wife in her interesting condition. ‘And, anyway, what does it matter?’

‘Oh, you na?ve little creature.’ Such a fine day, yet Lady Banks’s voice rolled like incoming thunder. ‘It matters a great deal, or why would it have happened? I must express my pr-r-rofound disappointment, after all that I said to her. And when you were becoming so lovely … Bah! Second wives, Mary.’ Her jowls shook with dismay. ‘ Second wives. Will the good Lord not spare us from …’

She let the mysterious thought hang, then rose to her full height, which these days did not quite meet Mary’s shoulder. ‘Ah, I must away to your father before he takes offence – never takes much with him , as we have all found to our cost. But first let me say this.’ She took both hands in hers. ‘If there is ever – and I stress ever – a time when you need my support, then please promise you come to me. No matter how major, or trivial. I married a Man of Science, remember. Nothing can shock me. I remain where I have always been: right on your side.’ Lady Banks shot a look towards Booker. ‘ Somebody has to be, is that not so?’

She moved to the exit but, on reaching the door, something else struck her. ‘Why on earth do they still stick you out here in the nursery? Yet another indignity! You are now a young lady and I expect you to be treated as such. Where is Sir Edward?

‘He shall get a piece of my mind.’

Mary and Cassy sat down on the bench at the edge of the field and prepared to watch play.

‘How lucky you are.’ Cassy sighed heavily. ‘Your very own cricket pitch! My dear brothers are near demented with envy.’

‘Ah, the poor Knights of Godmersham.’ When Mary laughed, the ridiculous ringlets bounced on her face. She brushed them away. ‘So deprived of amenities. Can we not start a fund?’

But Cassy’s interest had now swung to the Greek gods striding out in their whites. ‘Here they come! Now, who have we here?’ Under cover of their charming, straw brims the girls studied the players. ‘I say , what a spread. A Finch-Hatton, a couple of Darnleys – don’t get your hopes up. Too grand for our sort – and all those Wykeham-Martins. Six sons in that family, plenty to choose from. Any take your fancy?’

Mary smiled in reply. Perhaps it was down to the year’s difference between them, but she did not yet share Cassy’s obsession with gentlemen. And, anyway, there was nothing like a shaved head for the quelling of romantic notions. With all that now behind her, Mary could only look on objectively; cast a purely dispassionate eye. In which case, it then became perfectly obvious all were mere shadows set next to Ned Knight. That charming chaos of hair, the joy on that face – even those close-cut, white britches were oddly … Mary turned quickly away, twisted her parasol and, instead, took to the study of the other spectators.

‘And whom do we have here?’ Mary tilted her head to an unknown group near the pavilion and, in particular, the cynosure in pale lemon muslin. The lady was vibrant; her many gentlemen friends were enraptured. Even with the distance between them, Mary could still come to judgement. ‘She has one of those musical laughs, don’t you think? You don’t even have to hear it, to tell.’

‘Without doubt. How does one learn it, I wonder? It’s definitely the type of thing we ought to be practising … Watch them all dance on attendance.’

‘Slaves, to a man.’ Mary was riveted. ‘Another capital flirt, I should say.’

‘Lucky her. I bet she will never have her heart broken. Gosh, I do still mourn Miss Atkinson, don’t you?’

Mary sighed. ‘Poor, dear Miss A. Nothing’s the same, now she has left us.’

‘ She would have shown us the ropes. I doubt poor Fan knows the first thing about it. Dear sister and all that, could not be sweeter , yet I fear there are some crucial areas in which we are being most frightfully let down.’

At that moment, one of the slaves stood, waved to the girls and strode over to join them.

Cassy sang out: ‘George, darling! Are you not playing?’

‘Waiting to go in,’ George Knight replied, with a quick swing of his bat. ‘Something up with your voice, Cass? You sound awful peculiar.’

Both girls fell into unladylike giggles. ‘Oh, Georgy . We so long to flirt, but we don’t have a clue ! Will you be our teacher? One couldn’t help but notice you there, at the feet of an expert . Who is she, by the way? Do we know her at all?’

‘That’ – he flicked one eye back to the pavilion – ‘is Lady Elizabeth Bligh, Lord Darnley’s girl. The family keeps her well under wraps as a rule.’

‘Hard to blame them,’ Cassy retorted.

‘Now, now.’ George sounded quite stern. ‘First rule of flirting: don’t be a cat about your own sex. A fellow can’t bear all that stuff.’

‘ Really? How more than extraordinary. Are not men odd, Mary?’

‘For what is left then to talk about?’ Mary replied.

‘There!’ George smiled down at Mary. ‘More like it – the old witty riposte, eh? Good dash of humour. Nothing outrageous, mind.’ He shot Cassy a look. ‘Just a quick line, the odd joke: raise a smile. Chaps rather go for it.’

‘Not all of them, surely, Mr Knight?’ Mary was considering her father. Did he laugh? She could not now recall.

‘The modern chap, I mean.’ He leaned on his bat as if upon a lectern, clearly enjoying the professorial role. ‘We’re a quite different breed from our forebears, you know. And it’s us you should be aiming for, after all.’

‘Oh, darling, you are marvellous!’ Cassy clapped her hands with great glee. ‘What else, what more ?’

‘Heaven’s sake, you are my sister! Flirting with you – ugh! It’s almost unseemly.’ George sounded quite cross. ‘But if you insist upon forcing my hand, I shall flirt with Miss Knatchbull and you shall watch on.’ He cleared his throat, dropped his eyes, pressed bat into turf and looked up with a smile. ‘And what brings you to our little match today, madam?’

‘She lives here, you fool!’

‘Cassandra!’ George admonished her, then turned back to Mary.

‘Oh, sir ,’ Mary said sweetly, getting into her part. ‘To my enormous regret, I must confess that my knowledge of cricket is quite pitiful. And yet, and yet’ – she looked into his eyes – ‘I find myself deeply intrigued. What I lack is a master – one with the patience to explain all and in full. I wonder, can I ever hope to find such a one?’

In an instant, George appeared to forget their charade, sat down by her side, and began to explain. ‘So we call that the wicket .’

‘How perfectly charming!’ Mary cried. ‘Is that with an “h” or without it? I shall write it all down in my journal this evening.’

Thus encouraged, he continued to outline the details for some minutes more. Mary was increasingly baffled. There seemed to be a great stress on refreshments for something she had thought of as sport. Was that why they liked it? ‘Chaps’ were fond of their food, that much she did know.

A call came from the field, and he suddenly stood. ‘I’m in.’ With new purpose, he strode towards the field, then stopped and turned. ‘You will watch, madam?’

‘Oh, Mr Knight!’ She made a stab at a musical laugh. ‘I am already entranced.’

With a broad smile aimed solely at Mary, he walked backwards the rest of the way.

It was a good ball at Ashford that August. A crowd of 250 gathered to mark the end of the summer and, did they but know it, the debut of Miss Mary Dorothea Knatchbull.

A large party, made up of her own family, the Knights and a few respectable neighbours, had gathered at Hatch before it. With so many in the house, the mad hour of preparations had come close to a riot: maids running hither and thither with hot water for bathing and irons for pressing; doors slamming, men shouting, ladies shrieking. And then, at last, all were assembled, each in their splendour, awaiting their carriages and, at once, the panic became joy and excitement. Mary thrilled at it – was this really her own sombre home? So delightful was the moment, she had concerns that it might prove the best part of the evening.

But now here she stood, at the edge of the dance floor, one of the crowd and her heart nearly burst with delight.

‘Darling!’ Cassy came from behind her and shrieked into her ear. ‘You are simply superb !’ She fingered a corner of Mary’s dress – blonde net over satin – and mock-swooned at the turban of silver and pink. ‘The success of the night! See how they stare.’

The girls got quickly to work: those long, youthful hours spent in social dissection now serving them well. Two pairs of expert eyes swept rapidly around the candlelit ballroom and considered the assembly. Mary gasped. Was not every lady simply magnificent? Of course, she herself could not even begin to compete – still, no matter. She was just grateful to be here, and that was enough.

But, to her utmost astonishment, George Knight approached, putting himself down for two dances, which struck Mary as uncommonly kind of him. Then, Dr Knatchbull, apparently one of her uncles, booked her for three – sadly, she could hardly refuse. A Finch-Hatton, no less, asked for a waltz; even a Darnley requested! And within minutes, her card was filled right through to supper.

‘At last!’ Mary smiled to herself as she spun round the floor. ‘I am living at last and no one can stop me!’ Not even a sad, shaven head could hold her back now. Was it not odd, but all that doom when it happened, and yet no one remarked that she had sprouted a thick fringe of curls out of nowhere. It was almost as if humans only truly examined their own selves, and took little to no notice of others.

She left one set of arms and was claimed by another. The bonnets had stayed on since the shaving and as for this turban, well: it was, in fact, rather fetching. So much so that the Mother, whose idea it had been after all, seemed almost shocked when first she beheld it. ‘Well, well!’ She had affected a slightly pained smile, and: ‘Are we not the vision?’

While she danced, Mary practised her flirting. She made George Knight laugh – it did not take very much; let Mr Finch-Hatton discover her deep passion for cricket; and, in response to her avowed fascination, Dr Knatchbull could have lectured on Arabic for some hours, had he not stood on her foot and so disrupted his monologue. Such was her success, her card was soon booked after supper and beyond to the end of the night.

Several friends were kind enough to say that Mary was glowing as George Knight escorted her through to take soup. The sitting-out room was heaving, and they were late to get a good table. For a moment they stood, trying to see a spare place. And then they were hailed.

‘Brother!’

Mary swung round and was astonished to see Ned Knight – in the best possible position – rising out of his seat. But he was not of their party! She had not seen him all evening. With whom had he come? While he crossed over towards them, she caught a glimpse of the partner he had left at the table; blonde net over satin, a head full of curls. Was that not Lady Elizabeth Bligh?

‘Dear boy.’ He pumped George’s hand, gave a few pats to the shoulder, then turned to Mary. ‘Madam.’ Mr Knight bowed, smiled and waited – as if to be introduced – before looking again, with a queer sort of expression. ‘Is it – is it – Miss Knatchbull ?’

Mary fell into a deep curtsey, all over confusion. Such an extraordinary reaction! What on earth could account for it? And how could she rise now and face him anew? But one could hardly stay down there forever, eyes to the floor … And so, with great dread and reluctance, Mary finally stood. To find that he stared at her still.

The Knight brothers fell into discussing arrangements. Mary pretended to listen, head tilted towards George, but she could sense, throughout it, Ned studying her profile. Again, what on earth —? And then – oh the horror! The thought struck like electricity. There could be but one explanation: he had noticed the hair . Of all of the people she had mixed with this whole glorious summer … he alone … only he …

Mary blushed to the edge of her turban.

It was agreed that the carriages should come after two, and Ned finally left them. Mary kept her eyes keen on his back as he returned to his place, to ensure that he would not return. She watched as he sat, discerned him regale his friends with something amusing.

George looked on too, then whispered to Mary: ‘Ned has asked for her hand, don’t you know? Lady Elizabeth, that is. Can’t fault my brother’s ambition!’

At which moment, Mary found the heat of the room had become a little too much for her. She begged George take her outside for a breath of fresh air, turned for the door and heard a musical laugh cut through the air.