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CHAPTER XXI

Over the following autumn and into the long, bitter winter, Mary became increasingly conscious of change, in both herself and her life. She had dined, she had danced and, to her own great astonishment, been decreed a success – by all but one gentleman, anyway. She was out of the nursery and into her very own apartment in the main part of Hatch. And there Mary now sat, on the last day of January in the year 1825, looking into the new glass on her new walnut table, from which a new, proper, young lady smiled back.

The Mother had vanished into confinement soon after Christmas. Of course, the child was a girl (Mary knew He would punish her eventually), and also called Fanny (an absurd act of vanity even if it did follow a long Knight tradition). And though it might not look very much – not to Mary, at least – this baby had somehow contrived to upend the whole household and in myriad ways. One was that the Knight siblings suddenly flocked about Hatch to care for their sister. The place was a-buzz! Another was that Mary did not have the time to truly enjoy the pleasure of their company. Indeed, so busy were her days, there was barely a moment even to even flirt with dear George – which did seem a shame, with him so very convinced she still needed more practice.

Instead, she was now expected to take on her stepmother’s duties while the lady was absent, some of which proved to be more enjoyable than others. For instance, Mary was delighted to take charge of her own brothers and sure they were all five Knatchbulls much the better for it. She loved visiting the village children down at the school and was diligent in getting aid to the poor; could hardly believe herself trusted with that weightiest of issues: the Indigent Blind – Fanny’s particular project – and threw herself in.

But while accompanying her dear papa on business and visits should have been pleasurable, it turned out to be somewhat less so. Mary did take care to remember how her own, girlish self would have thrilled at such precious access. But as Sir Edward had disappointed her then, so he disappointed her still. Though once he had talked of his own, unending misery, now he spoke only, at some length, of his happiness: his wife’s ‘excellent feelings’; the baby’s ‘utter perfection’; his ‘extraordinary good fortune’ that the Almighty should so bless him again. And Mary – returned to her old, childhood pattern – sat, ramrod and decorous; listened politely; hoped he might notice her goodness and be minded to love her.

That sadness apart, she was, on balance, more happy than not. Her days were at least full of purpose, rather than indolence and flirting which were, anyway, only more wickedness. And at last, she could see life – real life, not that previous, poor approximation – spread out before her. A banquet yet to be tasted; the dawn of a bright, clear, new day.

‘Thank you, Booker.’ Mary looked into the glass again, and did not even pretend to be displeased with the vision before her.

The maid met the bright eyes and gave one, final pat to the hair she had just dressed. ‘Just look at those curls.’ She chuckled. ‘Not that there was much wrong before, mind, nor will I ever forgive what she did to you. Still, eel foe soof rear , that’s what my last lady used to say, though the Lord only knows what she was on about.’

‘I think it’s French, dearest.’

‘Hmph. Shame. Well, I’ll still say it anyway.’ She tucked one, last stray wisp into the chignon. ‘ Eel foe soof rear and will you not look at it. Bet Madam’s pleased with herself.’

‘Oh, Books, darling.’ Mary laughed up at her. ‘She has not said a word, of course. Doesn’t notice a thing which isn’t to do with that baby.’

‘Now, now, miss.’ Booker struck Mary’s exposed bosom with the back of the brush. ‘Off you go and behave yourself.’

Mary tripped down to dinner as the gong was being struck and that evening’s diners were already in their places. At some point in the day, dear Marianne had left – so another friend lost – and been replaced by Mrs Rice, the Married Sister – the one they called Lizzie. Mary issued a curtsey and sat down beside her. Sir Edward, who famously preferred earliness over mere punctuality, raised one baleful eye but, for once, did not issue a reprimand. All of which gave the impression of something important being under discussion. How very tantalising. What on earth could it be?

In the end, Mary’s curiosity proved too great for her manners. ‘Pray do excuse me, but of what do we speak?’ It was quite the boldest beginning, but surely they were all only family and she must be permitted the odd little query, just now and again. After all, had she not dined, had she not danced: was she not out ?

Fanny, with her vacant new-mother air, looked over, blinked, seemed to consider a frown, but then only sighed. ‘We are today in receipt of the most terrible news.’

‘Come, come, my dear.’ Her father, hard at work on a dark slab of liver, seemed significantly more cheerful than the ladies. ‘It is hardly that, to my mind.’ He settled to chewing.

‘Sir Edward!’ Lizzie dropped her fork to her plate. ‘ Really , how could you?’ She was always the most forthright in her address to all gentlemen. Mary could only put it down to her extraordinary beauty. ‘Everyone knows he had proposed to that wretched creature. The entire world is simply consumed .’

There came a mirthless laugh from the head of the table. ‘My dear madam. Speaking as a Member of His Majesty’s Parliament …’ He paused while a footman charged his glass with good claret. ‘… I can assure you that the world is, in fact, consumed by the Catholic Question; not your brother or Lady Elizabeth Bligh.’

‘Pray, husband.’ Fanny began to tremble with some violence, and raised a handkerchief to a damp eye. ‘I beg you, never mention that name again in my presence.’

‘Nor politics at the table, if you so please. One has no wish to hear another thing about Catholics , whatever their query .’ Lizzie put down her spoon. ‘They quite ruin the appetite. Of a piece with the daughters of earls , if you want my opinion. All simply live to upset one.’

Mary felt suddenly cheerful. Since her launch, every dinner she had attended was, frankly, dull – much dressing required for very little amusement – so that she had rather given up looking forward to them. This , though, was splendid! Frank conversation, open dispute – discreetly, she tucked into the pudding – even the food was particularly pleasant. While she ate, Mary longed to hear more. For why had Lady Elizabeth – why would any lady, indeed – refuse young Mr Knight? And when there had been such a clear attraction between the couple. Of course, having pushed her luck once, Mary dared not ask anything of anyone ever again. Thanks to the Married One, there was no need.

‘So it transpires’ – Lizzie turned and bestowed upon Mary the honour of speaking as if to an equal – ‘while she had accepted him in the moment, the parents then swanned in and squashed it. As if Ned was not good enough! The heir – the sole heir – of Chawton and Godmersham did not meet their requirements ?’ She placed a hand on her pretty bosom. ‘I have thought so for some time, though good manners prevented me mentioning: the Blighs, as a family, are quite perfectly ghastly .’

‘Enough, madam!’ Sir Edward slapped his hand down on the table and wrenched the napkin out from his dress shirt. ‘I shall not have a peer of the realm maligned in my house. His lordship acted perfectly properly and arrived at the only possible outcome. We have a hierarchy in this country, Mrs Rice , and we must take care to protect it. A title – even the humblest baronetcy such as my own – is a matter of some consequence.’

Mary could sense that her papa was building up to a roar. The earlier mild disposition was gone; a storm was incoming. She studied her plate and braced for it.

‘ Furthermore. ’ Half the candles spluttered then died. The table grew dim. ‘Thus far, I have restrained myself but can do so no longer.’ A servant rushed in with a taper. ‘It falls to me to point out that your brother has – as per his regrettable nature – behaved in the most reckless manner. To propose to the lady at all was quite foolish. To ask the woman herself before approaching the father – whose business this is, may I point out – is the act of a scoundrel .’

Fanny let out a cry of almost physical pain.

‘Forgive me, my dear.’ He placed a hand upon his wife’s shoulder and tempered his tone. ‘But henceforth, it is vital that we all be more vigilant. In some ways, I must confess to having harboured a certain admiration for young Mr Knight’s extraordinary self-confidence. No doubt he enjoys it as a God-given blessing, but is it not in fact more of a curse? Surely it has brought him considerable embarrassment in this matter and I fear it could yet again. I must say’ – he shook his heavy head and picked up his glass – ‘I dread it, for then what will become of us? And to that end, I must issue this warning – here and right now, before his two loving sisters.

‘I will not – I repeat not – have one whiff of scandal attached to my excellent name.’