Page 28

CHAPTER XXVII

Fanny sat, content and alone, in the Godmersham library, secure in the knowledge that all of her loved ones were in pursuit of good, wholesome interests elsewhere. Sir Edward and Mr Austen Knight were in Canterbury for a Church meeting, the boys off with their guns and the girls at work on their costumes. What a splendid feeling it was to have all of one’s ducks in a row, for a change! Oh, no doubt they would all reappear soon, as the light started to wane and the temperature dropped, and bring in their noise and their antics. But for now, she intended to relish her peace and indulge in a moment’s reflection on the year they were now leaving behind them.

All told, 1825 had been rather an odd one, bringing as it had both extraordinary joy as well as worry and considerable unease. And now, as she looked back, Fanny could not say she had borne it all as well as she might have. Of course, most of her energies had been consumed by her first, darling baby – the light of her life; the saving grace. Perhaps it was simply the inevitable exhaustion that made her so cross about everything else?

For instance, that ghastly business of Lady Elizabeth Bligh refusing dear Ned: why had Fanny made such a fuss about that? It was her brother’s embarrassment, surely, not hers. But of course, as was her way, she had felt somehow responsible, and let herself in for unnecessary upset.

And then William’s marriage to the Portal girl – that too had gone badly, but why? After all, the boy was told to drop the governess and go off and find a rich girl. Yet, as soon as he did so, the Knatchbulls suddenly decided they could not approve her. Had she and Sir Edward behaved poorly? Might others perhaps have seen them as snobbish? After all, the Knights found no quarrel with the lady. Fanny paused for a moment to allow a brisk frisson of guilt.

Furthermore, in the privacy of that armchair, Fanny did have to admit that, while embracing her new role as a mother, she might have slightly neglected her younger stepsons. Were they happy at school? Did they mind frightfully when, in the holidays, they were packed off to relations? She could not rightly say, but made a mental note to kindly enquire the next time she saw them.

Fortunately, when it came to Mary Dorothea, Fanny need have no such concerns. The girl had been with them in Hatch for some months and conducted herself well: calling on all the right people, doing good works in the village … Although Fanny must admit her monitoring might not err on the side of obsessive , she had the comfort of knowing there was no need for it. Whatever others might say to the contrary, Fanny knew, in her heart, that poor Mary was essentially a bland, good little creature. And one who would be, soon enough, tucked away with Dr Knatchbull in Smeeth – an excellent arrangement that would, in time, relieve Fanny of much effort and worry.

The sound of a carriage at the front door interrupted her thoughts. Ah, that must be the menfolk returning from their meeting. Give them a moment to change out of their things before calling for tea … Until then, Fanny would resume her review.

After one health issue, then another – the boy was uncommonly prone to accidents – poor Norton had left school altogether, returning to Hatch and his role as yet another cross for Fanny to bear. Dear oh dear, where would that saga end? she wondered. He was simply one of those difficult creatures. Might he take after Sir Edward’s father? She shuddered, sighed and treated herself to a change of subject.

The weather in the autumn had been uncommonly wet—

There suddenly came the most terrible roar. Fanny tilted her head. Could that be Sir Edward ? She supposed that it must. Her papa almost never raised his dear voice. Now what had happened? She sat up, preparing to rise and go and investigate. Then, with equal suddenness, peace reigned once more.

Fanny sat back, and considered the unfortunate mortality rate among sheep and oxen. And it had been a bad year for hops too, had it not? As for the banking system—

The door was flung open and banged back against the wall.

‘ Lady Knatchbull! ’ This was loud even by Sir Edward’s own, very high standards.

‘My dear?’ Fanny was up and out of her seat. ‘You are upset! What on earth is the matter?’

‘Collect your things and bring Mary Dorothea. We are returning to Hatch this very instant. Daniel is waiting. There is not a minute to waste.’

‘But why, dearest …?’ She rushed to his side and took his hand. ‘Pray, surely, you owe me a reason …’ And she had been so looking forward to a Godmersham family dinner.

Sir Edward staggered to the nearest chair, fell into it and buried his face in his arms. All strength seemed to have left his excellent body.

‘My dear.’ Sir Edward looked up at his wife. ‘I beg you.’ His dear face was collapsed into itself with sorrow. ‘Now. Let us go.’

By the time their wheels cut the gravel, the day was well into its twilight. With a gloved finger, Fanny peeled back a corner of damask curtain and saw fields glistening with cold; a new surface of ice at the edge of the river; a white moon rising in a navy blue sky. The atmosphere inside the carriage was colder still.

Fanny studied the girl sitting opposite. Although Mary had a right to feel put out, or shocked, at being forced to leave Godmersham early – she should even now be preparing for yet another party that evening; Fanny could see through the gap in her cloak that she was already dressed in her gown – in fact Mary seemed not entirely unhappy. Was she blushing indeed? Surely not. Anyway the light was going, so Fanny could not rightly decide.

Her husband’s mood, on the other hand, was quite easy to read. He was breathing loudly and heavily, shoulders rising and falling with each long respiration: a bull in the ring. Occasionally, a growl was emitted, with the shake of a head. To sum up, the demeanours of her fellow passengers could not be more different. But still, neither was speaking. Fanny could bear it no longer.

‘My dears,’ she began. ‘I fear I am at a considerable disadvantage. Clearly something has occurred, and only I know not what. Might one of you be so kind as to shed light on the mystery?’

‘Your brother .’ Sir Edward almost spat the word – sent it out drenched with contempt.

‘Oh dear.’ Fanny felt suddenly sick. ‘Which …?’ she asked, nervously. There were six, after all, and, in truth, her kindest of husbands did not have a good word for any.

Sir Edward tried to reply, but Fanny could not quite hear him. He tried again: still indistinct. So she put her head close to his mouth – as if hoping for the last words from one on his deathbed – and caught something that sounded a little like ‘ Ned ’.

But that could not be correct …

‘Husband.’ She put a hand on his forehead to check for a fever, and spoke with a soothing tone. ‘ Ned cannot have been getting into mischief ! He has been the whole day with the shoot.’

At that, Sir Edward lifted his face and looked at his wife with an expression of pure misery. ‘No. No, he has not, my dear, I am sorry to tell you. The shoot was no more than a vile deceit.

‘Your other brothers were out, certainly. They can be trusted, on this matter at least. But that rogue’ – he clenched both his fists – ‘the absolute villain …’ He was looking out of the window now, and into the distance. ‘Oh, yes. He had lined up for himself another, better amusement …

‘… in the orangery, if you please.’ His voice rose up to its strongest roar possible. ‘ Asking Mary Dorothea for her hand. ’

Fanny stared at her husband: open-mouthed; stunned. She knew nothing – absolutely nothing at all – of even a friendship between them.

She turned to face Mary. ‘And, pray, what was your answer?’

The girl merely sat, immobile, and stared into her lap.

‘ What was her answer? ’ Sir Edward repeated, contemptuous. Both ladies flinched. Fanny had never previously known him quite so excitable. ‘What does that matter? Her answer, indeed. It is what I say that counts. And I say—’

Fanny put a hand on his arm to stop him. ‘I think we can all gather, my dear. But still, if you don’t mind – and though they may be purely academic – I would like to hear our daughter’s thoughts, too.’

Mary did lift her eyes then and seemed to be forming some sort of reply, but Sir Edward was having none of it.

‘Lady Knatchbull!’ her husband demanded. ‘I pray you desist !’

And they were all silent for the rest of the journey.

Once back at Hatch, Fanny rushed like a madwoman straight to the children’s wing; ran down the passage to the door of the nursery; then slowed and, holding her breath, approached the cradle and feasted her eyes.

As ever, her darling Fanny Elizabeth – the name was Sir Edward’s suggestion; she had been so very touched – slept like an angel: a perfect rosebud embedded in lace. Just the sight of her, after one night away, was enough to bring tears to the bewitched mother’s eyes. Lady Knatchbull was fond of all of her stepchildren, of course she was. Even though they brought with them no end of problems and caused so much concern, she loved them. She was sure of it.

But somehow, she could not help but love her own just that little bit more.

It was not until late in the evening that Sir Edward was, at last, able to speak and inform Fanny of what had transpired. Though it hardly seemed credible, it appeared that her dear husband had returned from his meeting, no doubt exhausted – his many great duties did drain the poor man to the most dreadful degree. And, at the very moment of his return, he had been met by a clearly deranged Ned and his extraordinary request.

Although her husband had already turned her brother down flat and the matter was over, still he wanted to discuss it with – or rather vent his feelings to – Fanny on their return home. So, of course, it was late when at last he took to his own room, in which he continued to audibly rage through what remained of the night. And by that point, Fanny’s distress was so great that there was not a wink of sleep to be had.

Once alone and able to think a little more clearly, Fanny had come to the uncomfortable conclusion that there were but two explanations for this highest of dramas: either her brother was, as Sir Edward suggested, stark, staring mad, or she – who had certainly endeavoured to be the most assiduous of mothers – had somehow managed to miss a brewing affair. And, though one should generally guard against being too solipsistic, it must still be acknowledged that neither boded well for Fanny herself.

After all, her whole world revolved around two immoveable features: the Knights and the Knatchbulls; her two guiding stars. It was essential to her own happiness that harmony between them was maintained. But could that now be flung into jeopardy?

On the one hand, Sir Edward, though so loving to his own wife, certainly – and regrettably – had doubts about her many siblings and might easily blame them for this unaccountable change in his own daughter’s character. On the other, whether Ned was a lunatic or pursuing a love match, she could quite see her brothers taking his side. In which case, the relationship between the families would quickly degenerate, leaving Fanny on bad terms with each. It really did have the potential to be most disagreeable.

What an unfortunate start to the New Year. She could only pray that the worst was behind her.