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CHAPTER II

On 1 September, Fanny sat at her dressing table and stared into the glass while Sayce, her maid, dressed her hair. It seemed extraordinary that, on this historic occasion, her reflection appeared to be completely unaltered. How could this be? Inside she was turmoil, yet there was her same physical self: eyes still shaped like an almond in the identical blue; nose long and yet slender; brow high and wide; hair of rich brown. The only evidence of change in her appearance was her colour. For the past twenty minutes, she had watched the blush on her face as she might watch the ebb and flow of the tide on their holidays in Sandgate.

Though she would always rather be pale, the first bloom to her cheeks she thought not unbecoming. But – alas – it did not stop there. The pink then built to a puce, spread to her neck and, all of a sudden, she appeared like a turkey in fear for its life. That was when Sayce came to the rescue with iced compress and lavender oil, which was all very well. But what, Fanny wanted to know, would happen at eleven o’clock in – oh goodness! – a mere half an hour, when she was due to be alone – entirely alone! – with Sir Edward in the library? There would be no Sayce then. With the dreadful weather – oh, when might it break? – she could hardly hope for even the slightest of breezes. Poor, kind Sir Edward: what would he make of his florid, hot, rather damp future bride?

Two long days had now passed since the interview in the library with her father, and Fanny felt she could look back with some pride on the composure she had mustered then. But, in truth, from the moment she left him – condemned to her own company; forced to confront her own future – she had fallen into the most terrible stew. And she so pragmatic and practical! The whole business was mortifying.

It was not even as if the decision to marry Sir Edward was anything other than straightforward. The proposal might have come as a shock, but it had also come at just the right moment. The catastrophe of her thirtieth birthday was not so very distant; one could hardly rely on another suitor discovering one before the event, and then after it … well, one might as well surrender all hope. Contented though she was, and much as she loathed all changes, Fanny would like one day to know what it was to be a wife and a mother in control of her own home, and not only and forever the single daughter of one’s dear papa.

Furthermore, as an arrangement it was, if not a complete triumph, at least socially and economically sound. Fanny would be Lady Knatchbull – a promotion not to be sneezed at – in a mansion superior to her family’s own. So the case for the union was really quite overwhelming.

Be that as it may, she was also keen to create the impression that the match was something more than the dramatic, last-minute rescue of a desperate spinster who could hardly say no. The world was already more than aware that there had been no courtship to speak of. If it were also to learn that she accepted at once, then face might be lost. Before the happy ending was announced, she had felt the need to put on an extravagant display of great indecision. Those around must be seen to persuade her. Fanny Knight was – at last – a young lady with a new proposal in her hand and she meant to enjoy it.

It had been a long while since she had found herself in this situation. Indeed, dear Aunt Jane had still been alive then, and they had worried away at the issues together. Such a happy time! The letters had flown between them: Fanny begging for guidance (should she or shouldn’t she?); Aunt Jane returning with wise, loving counsel (but did he deserve her?). When it became clear that the young man in question had some other girl in his sights – was never, it transpired, even that keen on Fanny – the correspondence had rather petered out. Such a pity, when aunt and niece had been having such fun.

But she still remembered those few weeks of earnest romantic discussions with great fondness and it was perhaps in an attempt to recapture that earlier pleasure that Fanny fancied, for once in her life, to create a little drama. After all, once one was married, it seemed, one rarely got any attention ever again. So she had chosen a large straw hat from the shelf in the boot room and set out into the garden, where she intended to walk up and down with an anguished expression until somebody noticed her.

The back lawn was, traditionally, Fanny’s favourite place for a perambulation, but as it happened to be three after noon and the heat close to unbearable, to venture out there would be foolish. So instead, she headed for the front of the house, between the drive and the ha-ha, where she might at least enjoy the shade of the cypress, beneath which she could play out her charade of heartsick indecision. She did not have to wait long to be seen.

‘Sister of mine!’ Ned blew across the grass as if propelled by a zephyr while a huge, scruffy hound bounded about him. ‘Why on earth are you loitering out here?’ He grabbed Fanny by the waist and spun her around. ‘Lost your sheep, old girl?’

‘Ned, really !’ Fanny shrieked. ‘Do put me down.’ He all but dropped her. ‘Why on earth are you here? You’re supposed to be in Chawton.’ Fanny straightened her skirts, patted her chignon and looked round to see him already heading back to the house. ‘And now where are you going?’ Her little tableau was not going to plan. ‘Ned! You are impossible !’

The siblings had been born very closely together – she was the elder by just sixteen months – but ever since, experience had conspired to drive them some distance apart. Indeed, so wide was the gulf between their two lives that Fanny sometimes struggled to believe they were even from the same family. Ned lived in almost permanent motion – between Kent, London and Hampshire, plus the odd European capital – while Fanny remained rooted in Godmersham. His life was ruled by the sporting and social calendars; hers by duty and decorum. He was ravishingly handsome, madly athletic and a famous delight. Fanny was cross. ‘Come here at once !’

Ned swivelled on his heels and bounced back towards her. The dog followed suit. ‘Did write, old girl.’ He returned to her side. ‘Don’t expect you to treasure my notes, but you could at least read them.’

Fanny had completely forgotten there had been other post that morning. It seemed a lifetime ago.

‘Match. Dance.’ He flicked the hair from his face with the palm of his hand. ‘Rabbits. Shooting. Weather. I say, old girl—’

‘I have asked you before: pray , do not call me that!’ Fanny suddenly felt so drained she could cry. ‘And what is that thing you have somehow acquired?’ The dog approached her quite amiably, but Fanny recoiled.

‘I say, how dare you?’ Ned knelt down on the grass and, with devoted delight, buried his head in a coat that was possibly manged. ‘This is Lord Byron, I’ll have you know – so called for his looks, brilliance and breeding. You must see the resemblance?’

‘And just like his namesake, he will not be crossing the Godmersham threshold.’ Fanny shuddered. ‘Pray, kindly lock him away.’

‘Bit much, old girl.’ Ned looked up with a mild frown. ‘You’re in a fine mood …’ He drew back up to full height. ‘Indeed, you look rather rum.’ For the first time, he peered into her face and studied her. ‘What is it, Fan? Don’t tell me somebody died …’

Fanny pulled herself together, stood firm and upright. She simply could not cry now. It would send out quite the wrong signals. ‘No. Actually, rather the opposite.’ She cleared her throat and tilted her chin. ‘In fact, it seems I may soon be engaged to be married.’

‘And I’ve been away but a week! You are the sly one. Still, not before time, eh? I say, Fan: well done !’ He pecked his sister’s cheek, patted her head; turned to leave and only then thought to ask: ‘Anyone one knows?’

‘Yes, in fact. Well, a little . I believe you have made his acquaintance. It is …’ Suddenly fearful of Ned’s reaction, she declared the identity with a great, positive flourish: ‘Sir Edward Knatchbull of Mersham-le-Hatch.’

Ned met the news with a level gaze. ‘Ah, yes.’ He nodded, suddenly quite still and thoughtful. ‘Hatch.’ He nodded, again. ‘Fine place, Hatch.’

‘I have heard.’

‘Robert Adam, you know.’

‘I gather.’

‘Excellent cricket pitch.’

‘So I believe.’ Even to her own ears, she sounded half strangled.

‘Bowled Bligh out there, last summer.’ He put a strong arm around Fanny’s shoulder and began to guide her back to the house, as if she were an invalid.

‘Indeed.’

‘Top strawberry sponge.’ They reached the front door, which opened by the hand of an invisible footman. ‘But then cricket’s not your thing.’ He guided her through.

‘Not especially, no.’

‘Such a shame.’ Was that a reference to cricket or her engagement?

He turned her around to face him. ‘You mean to accept him, of course?’ The afternoon sun caught the gold in his hair.

Fanny nodded, biting her lip.

‘Dear old Fan.’ Ned took her face in both hands and planted a kiss on her forehead. ‘What it is to be good.’

And with that, taking the stairs two at a time – the forbidden dog at his heels – he was gone.

Fanny staggered into the drawing room, closed the blind on the corner window without calling for a maid, and collapsed into an armchair and deep despair.

It was all her own fault. Of all people to tell first, she could not have picked worse. Ned was the heir to the entire estate. Ned was due to get everything . Unsurprisingly, Ned loved the world and so in turn, perfectly reasonably, the world loved Ned back. He was the only Knight child who could ever really be sure of a life-long financial security; the only one who could marry whomsoever he liked. How on earth could he ever understand Fanny?

He had, at least, been far too sensitive and polite to acknowledge what he might see as any drawbacks to the match. But his shortlist of advantages spoke volumes. A house, a pitch and a half-decent cook: a harsh summary. Was it a fair one?

The truth was, there were disadvantages. Ned knew them at once; it was time for Fanny to acknowledge them, too. First, she had always been an inveterate enemy of second marriages: it was surely impossible to love truly, deeply and twice . Sir Edward claimed to believe that he did, or could, love her and, of course, she might one day love him back. But the idea brought with it no guarantee. And was Sir Edward even attractive? In her panic, she could not quite recall. All told, as a match, this fell far below her romantic ideal.

More worrying still was the matter of her replacement. Godmersham could not run itself; her siblings needed some sort of mother figure; her papa must be supported. What if his solution was to marry again, too – hand the house to a stranger , her beloved siblings to a stepmother , which was famously a fate worse than death?

As the sun started to sink on her momentous day, Fanny decided to brave the outdoors once again. She marched to the Gothic Seat in search of some sign; hid in the Temple, awaiting divine guidance.

At last, and as ever, Fanny sought out her father. They took a seat on the terraces and called for refreshment.

‘Your romantic ideal ?’ Mr Knight’s dish clattered back into its saucer as his hand shook. ‘Oh, my dear.’ He coughed gently, then patted her hair. ‘Were you a girl of eighteen – as was your sister Lizzie on her engagement – then perhaps that might concern me more, but—’

‘Oh, but of course!’ Fanny exclaimed. The danger of their possible conversational direction suddenly lit up before her. She must arrest it – ‘Forgive me! Foolish!’ – and create a diversion. Some variant on the moral of beggars and choosers, however veiled, would not boost one’s spirits. She moved the conversation briskly on to her principal worry: how would her papa cope without her? To her surprise, on this she found him complacent.

‘My dear, we shall all be perfectly fine.’ Her father patted her hand. ‘How many sisters do you have, after all? Surely one of them will be only too happy to take over as my strength and stay. Perhaps I flatter myself to think it not so very arduous a position, possibly even a pleasure at times?’ He issued a soothing smile. ‘Indeed. Quite so. And you will have the whole period of your engagement to show her the way.’

‘Ah yes. On that matter I think, Papa’ – Fanny paused to bite on her lip – ‘a long engagement might be the thing, in this instance, don’t you?’ Things were happening at a speed that did not quite suit her particular character. Fanny loathed all change, in particular change of the sudden variety. She simply must be given time to adapt.

‘Hmm?’ The cake was a fine date and walnut and Mr Austen Knight was selecting his slice with great care. ‘Indeed, if you so wish.’

‘And, sir, you would be so kind as to negotiate that when the whole business is—’

‘Of course. And rest assured, sweet Fanny …’ He sat back in his chair, brought his plate to his chest and lifted the cake to his lips. ‘Once all is accomplished’ – he was surely attempting to comfort, rather than wound – ‘we shall barely notice you gone.’

And with that, the decision was taken. Fanny’s nerves were by now shot completely to pieces. She could not possibly write to Sir Edward herself; her father kindly elected to do so on her behalf. This brought with it the added advantage that she could never now change her mind.

By the following day, the deal had been done.

And now, as appointed, Sir Edward was waiting downstairs to make his offer to Fanny in person.

‘Thank you, Sayce.’ She spoke firmly into the looking glass. She could delay things no longer. Her hair had been fussed at enough. ‘I think that’s the best we can do.’