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CHAPTER XXIII

‘Miss Knatchbull, by what happy chance.’ Young Mr Knight lifted his hat; sunbeams danced through that hair as they might dance through a light summer cloud. ‘For I was coming for you.’ The dear dog bounded around her, expressing his joy.

‘Sir.’ Mary, close to breathless from the speed of her journey, gasped as she drew up beside him. ‘Your sister – how fares your—’ With one, practised, dainty manoeuvre designed to protect her own modesty, she swung a leg over the saddle while gripping her skirt and came gently to earth.

‘Then I can take it the news has already reached Hatch.’

Even as torment raged through her breast, Mary found, to her shame, that she could still enjoy the display of balletic grace with which he dismounted. In those britches— She cleared her throat, fixed her eyes firmly forward. Each with one hand on their reins, they fell into step and started to walk in the direction of the house. ‘Sad to report, Cassy has not left her room since the letter arrived late yesterday evening.’ Ned’s shoulders drooped, as if he alone bore the weight of the Godmersham world.

‘Oh, Mr Knight.’ In that moment, his sympathy appeared to her so deep, so true, so tangible almost, that Mary was moved to reach out and stroke it. She took the reins into both hands with a furious grip. ‘And when they were both so exceedingly happy …’

Ned’s demeanour was grim. ‘Lord George Hill’s fond mother has, I am sure, acted with great sense and pragmatism, but I suspect rather overreacted. While the couple might not have much in the immediate, still they did not face starvation and there remains every reasonable hope that, once the gentleman does inherit, they should live in some style.’ He looked up and into the rich blue above, traced the swoop of a hawk on a field yellow with corn. ‘Tale old as time. A good parent cares only for status and comfort, with the result that two dearly loved children are condemned into suffering.’ He shook his fine head. ‘’Tis cruel, Miss Knatchbull. Unnecessarily cruel, and I am sorry for it.’

This passionate outburst left Mary astonished, so marked was the contrast with Fanny’s response. She was all irritation, he only excellent feeling: so a very good sort of gentleman, then. Ah, but had he not also been the victim of an equivalent rejection, and so very recently? Perhaps it was more that the wound smarted him still. She must take pains to remember it.

‘And so we find ourselves back once again in the sad but inevitable process of supporting another unfortunate sibling.’

They had arrived at the temple, high on the hill. Beneath was the Godmersham house in its own parkland. In more ordinary times, Mary saw it as a symbol of safety and solidity; now she could think only of the distressed women within it, and was desperate to get to them. But here, quite unaccountably, Ned chose to stop.

‘Miss Knatchbull, do look!’ he exclaimed in a quite different tone. ‘And is that not wonderful? I was here but a half-hour ago, and am sure there was no sign at all. Now—’

Mary followed the lead of his gaze, and saw they were standing hard on the edge of a riot of poppies. ‘… a whole new world of red!’ she supplied, though of course he could not know the reference. ‘They are right by us, yet I had not even noticed.’

‘To them, ’tis but the work of a morning. Madam, one can only marvel at what Nature achieves in the time that Man wantonly squanders.’ He took a step forward, bent to peer into a bloom the colour of fresh blood. ‘And as you so cleverly put it, the world is painted anew.’ A bee hummed as it foraged deep in the petals. ‘You immediately came into our minds’ – he gave every appearance of addressing the insect – ‘as the best person to call on.’

With a start, Mary realised the words might be for her. ‘That I , sir—’

‘Yes, madam.’ Coming back to his full height, Ned turned the full force of his blue eyes upon her. ‘My father, Marianne and I are all in agreement on the matter. Without your support – your kind friendship – we should find it hard to continue.’

‘Indeed?’ That Marianne might suggest it came as no sort of surprise; that either Ned or his father would ever think of Mary at all, in any possible connection, was astonishing. ‘Well, of course you can count on it. Though it cannot compare to the love of an excellent family, I do like to think of your sister Cassy as my particular friend.’ Her tone was casual – dismissive – and deliberately so.

For this encounter had come about with such ease, only now could she grasp its full import. The simple fact was that Mary had never – not once in her life – been alone with a gentleman . And for it to happen right there – on the top of a hill, no other being in sight … Her papa would go into conniptions.

And yet, as Ned continued to gaze at her in an intense sort of fashion, Mary felt a strange calm. She had not even blushed, though, of course, she might yet. In the interests of safety, she turned towards Godmersham, clicked her tongue at the horse and resumed her journey.

Later that afternoon, Mary rode gently back home, past the castle at Chilham. Though the sun was now slipping and Mary would be expected at Hatch, the air was too stifling for any great exertion. Anyway, there was much to reflect on and reflection required peace, and she could expect none of that once she was home with the Mother.

Poor Lady Knatchbull. Fanny had been rather satisfied with Cassy’s match – to the degree that she could almost ignore the fact that Lord George Hill was Irish. Well, she might have sighed once or twice in Mary’s hearing. But it was quite clear that the title more than made up for it. This fresh disappointment was bound to have an adverse effect upon the maternal nerves. Mary’s smile turned to a grimace. For when Fanny’s equilibrium was disturbed, the whole household knew of it. She slowed the horse even more, and turned her thoughts back to her sad Godmersham friend.

Cassy had still been in her bed when Mary arrived. Pale, of course; pink at the eyes, puffy of cheek. But even while sobbing, she could give a flash of that spirit. ‘At least we now know I have charms, darling.’ She choked into a wet handkerchief. ‘Put that on my gravestone once I’ve died of my poverty .’

Curiously, it was her sister’s suffering that seemed to be greater. Marianne’s own failed engagement, those long years ago, she had come to accept with a quiet, noble calm. From that day on, she had given every appearance of contentment with her role of dear daughter, sister and aunt upon whom all could rely. So that she should only now show the signs of a true, deep distress—

‘Miss Knatchbull!’ The deep voice came from behind her. Lord Byron bounced up to her side.

‘Oh!’ Mary jumped, and then turned. ‘Oh, Mr Knight! Oh, do forgive me.’ She laid a hand to her breast, hoping to steady her heart. ‘You gave me a shock.’

‘Then, madam, ’tis for you to forgive me .’ Ned drew up beside her, saw that she trembled and took hold of her reins. ‘How foolish – to startle a rider – what on earth was I thinking?’ His habitually blithe countenance was shot through with alarm. ‘That I might ever put you in danger – the idea—’

Such was his agony, Mary cried out to appease him: ‘Pray, sir, you are blameless.’ Calmer, she smiled. ‘I was in my own thoughts – “away in my head” as my great-aunt likes to put it. A bad habit, I fear, formed back in my schooldays.’

‘Interesting,’ he murmured. ‘I did not know—’ as if this small fact could be a missing part of some greater collection. He then returned to the moment. ‘If you would prefer to be alone on your way back to Hatch, then of course—’

‘Mr Knight.’ Mary tilted the brim of her straw. ‘I would welcome the company.’

And so they proceeded. He maintained control of her horse as well as his own and, with meticulous steering, enabled their riders to travel but inches apart. Such proximity was irregular – Mary had not been led in this fashion since the days of her girlhood – but somehow not exactly objectionable.

An easy silence settled between them. He did not ask for a report on the state of his sisters, nor did she supply one. To even suggest at some superior intimacy would be to stray over her remit. A Knatchbull could never be considered the equal of a Knight, however much their stories might be entwined. At the same time, it would be heartless to speak of anything else. So they simply sank into the heady beauty of a fine summer’s evening – drank in the pungent flavours of the nicely warmed hedgerows – and said nothing at all.

They reached the great yew that stood at the edge of the Knatchbull estate and slowed down by the hawthorn.

‘And here, madam, we must part.’ Mr Knight stopped, as if at the gates of some Forbidden City.

The ride was so lovely that she was already close to intoxicated. Then Ned passed over the reins. His hand touched hers – skin colliding with skin; nerve striking a nerve – and in less than an instant, Mary was completely undone. The spark of connection fired deep in her core. Sensation – strange and unnatural – coursed through her being and beyond all control.

Powerless, she clung to her horse and cast her eyes to the path. Mr Knight spoke again, though the words came to her as from some distant planet. He announced he would leave in the morning, not return before autumn, beseeched that she look after his sister.

In her turn, Mary made a mumbled farewell, tapped the flank of her horse. And cantered towards the safety of home.