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CHAPTER XXIX

‘Good afternoon, Papa.’ Mary dropped into a deep curtsey, eyes to the Aubusson. ‘Thank you for seeing me.’

‘My dear child.’ Sir Edward rose from his seat at the desk. ‘However busy one’s day and onerous one’s duties, there must still be some time for one’s children . I hope you would agree that I have not once given you cause to find me anything less than the most approachable parent?’

Mary started to tremble, kept her head still averted while her unrested mind spun out of control. For what fresh hell was this? Last night had been terrible: Sir Edward’s wrath more extreme than she had ever before known – almost enough to shake the carriage clear of its wheel shaft. The intervening hours had been spent in steeling herself against more of the same. And so now to be met by such underhand tactics! For in the hands of one so swift to anger, sweet reason was a sharp weapon indeed.

‘But of course not, Papa.’ At last, she dared lift her gaze up to his and was met by a smile, though from a face puffy and pale. ‘Indeed, quite the kindest.’

He reached out to embrace her. ‘Now, how can I help you this morning?’

All through her life, and certainly since the loss of her mother, Mary had loved this man deeply. Even when that love had been challenged – and oh! how legion the challenges brought by his behaviour and temperament – she had fought to maintain it, with a dogged persistence. As she had so often reminded herself, whom else did she have? And now, though they might stand at a precipice – for this would, in all likelihood, be the most difficult interview – still, she was determined to ward against any ill feeling.

Sir Edward returned to the authority of his desk chair and signalled that she sit low on the sofa.

‘I would be grateful, Papa, if you might find it within you to discuss the events of yesterday evening?’

‘Events?’ he asked pleasantly, as one raking his memory.

‘Yes, Papa.’ If this was his game, then she would play it. ‘Events. In fact, I request that we speak of one in particular.’ Mary was ever polite. ‘That being the moment you learned that Mr Knight has asked for my hand.’

‘Ah, that .’ Stretching out his short legs, knitting his fingers around the girth of his stomach, he added complacently: ‘High spirits, I gather – all brought about by the gaiety of the season. Though, as you would expect, I must mark the gentleman down for yet another impetuous performance, still – to respect good Lady Knatchbull’s desire for family unity – I am minded this time to ignore it.’ He turned back to his papers. ‘Pray, do not punish yourself, Mary. I am settled in my mind that you did nothing to deserve such an insult and we shall not speak of it again. The subject is closed . Now’ – he lifted a document to his face and spoke into it – ‘unless there is anything else?’

Mary drew back her shoulders and retrieved her earlier steel. Her life hung in the balance. She must not be thwarted. ‘There is, Papa, yes – if you would be so kind as to indulge it. I would like – be most grateful indeed, if – well – that is—’ She gulped. ‘I politely request that the subject stay open.’

Slowly, he turned back towards her, eyes of ice blue stretched wide in amused disbelief.

‘Furthermore’ – she gripped one hand in the other to steady them both – ‘I would be grateful if you might allow me the opportunity to declare my own feelings on the matter.’

‘Your feelings ,’ he cut in, affecting astonishment – as if they were now in some new realm of fantasy. ‘ You are proposing that I am to consider your feelings. ’

‘If you would be so kind, Papa.’ Her own nerve astonished her.

‘ MARY DOROTHEA KNATCHBULL .’ His fist slammed down on the desktop; the many gentleman’s trinkets leaped up as salmon en route to the sea. ‘What is this impudence? I have issued sound judgement – one taken with care and informed by the great wisdom of years – and you dare to contest it with your girlish feelings ?’

‘But, Papa! I beg you that you hear me.’ All air left the room. ‘It can no longer be hidden.’ She felt all over strange, and light-headed. ‘For Mr Knight and I are in love.’

And with that, Mary fell back and cowered in the depths of the sofa – arms by her head; hands to her ears – and awaited the thunderclap.

‘ In love? ’ It came out more like a jeer than the customary roar. ‘ You , still fresh from the nursery – where I had you raised to my own impeccable standards – you dare speak already of love ? Then, child, I despair. You can know nothing of love and little of this – this – person . He is no more than a stranger to you! And may I remind you that you speak of your uncle —’

‘Papa!’ Mary felt she had to cut in then, for he was now drifting, rudderless, towards the absurd. ‘We are not related by blood.’ She thought it best not to bring up Dr Knatchbull’s name here. That would only inflame him. One suitor at a time … ‘Mr Knight has been under this roof for much of the season. He has dined with us often.’

‘And thus he repays my kind hospitality?’ At last, the roar found its voice. ‘In refining his dark arts of seduction, even at my own table ?’

‘He did not, sir – as you were his witness.’ As she happened to be the one with Right on her side, Mary could keep her voice measured: ‘But, as you are also aware, our families are often together. We are the closest of neighbours. It is a connection, as I understood it, most warmly encouraged by both you and my mother, and one that has afforded us many, quite natural opportunities to deepen our friendship.’

The response was entirely impetuous. ‘Then if so, I regret them! I regret every moment of freedom we have ever allowed you. It has all come upon you too soon and, with the folly of youth, you – yes, even you of whom I was till recently proud – have conducted yourself ill. Strait is the gate, Mary! Strait is the gate—’

‘—and narrow the way,’ Mary finished for him, by rote. ‘I have not forgotten it, Father. Nor do I believe myself to have strayed very far.’

He looked at her now with contempt. ‘And yet you come here to tell me of your friendship with a gentleman , while you are a child ?’

‘A child, sir? And yet, as I remember it, one thought sufficiently competent to consider an arrangement with Dr Knatchbull …’ There. How did she dare it?

‘Bah! You make the suggestion of paradox, where in fact there is none. When I , in my role as kind parent , make the case for a suitor, then it behoves you to consider him. Our roles in that process cannot be reversed! You have not the sufficient maturity for freedom of choice. A mere eighteen years on this earth is …’ He paused, lost for words.

In furious desperation, Mary pounced to supply them, though of course only in the mildest of tones: ‘… the same age as my own mother, when she chose you, sir?’

‘And she was too young!’ Sir Edward cried out, as if in agony. He rose, crossed the room, loomed over as if he might strike her. ‘Far, far too young. Have you understood nothing? Did you merely watch on in ignorance all those years that I suffered? I loved her. Oh, how I loved her – truly, profoundly. Yet still I can only regret it.’

This was too far. He had taken them both to a moment most terrible. There was no turning away now. Half awed, half greatly outraged, Mary stood to confront it.

‘Regret, Papa?’ she asked carefully. ‘You speak of regret that you loved my mama?’

He began to shake with some violence. ‘I regret that she left me too soon.’ Purple veins stood out on his forehead. ‘I regret my own lot in having to raise our infants alone . Can you begin to imagine it? Demented with grief, yet shackled by duty?’ He choked at the memory. ‘God’s will be done, and ’tis not my place to question, but He shall not take you, Mary.’ Tears sprang from his eyes now. ‘While there is breath in my body, He shall not take you from me. Not into the arms of that scoundrel .’

But she could give no thought to his message, for now the sound of his sobbing was piercing her heart. All steel left her young body; her spirit was dust. She was six years of age again: returned to Mrs Grant’s parlour in Albion Place.

Taking him into her arms, she pressed her own face to his. ‘There, there, Papa.’ Mary could do nothing but comfort him now. She knew no other way. ‘There, there, dear Papa.’

But even as she repeated the well-practised mantra, her poor mind was consumed with the import of that which she had heard: he had regretted her whole existence; he had regretted the lives of her brothers.

Her own father wished his own children had not been born.

For the whole month of January 1826, a great cloud of bitterness hung over Mersham-le-Hatch.

Sir Edward’s fury showed no sign of abatement. Though he had broken two hearts, crushed two lovers’ dreams and triumphed completely, he could only brood over the fact that he had been wronged in the first place. Even the ludicrous conviction that he had Right on his side – mentioned daily at breakfast and over dinner – did not seem enough to placate him.

Lady Knatchbull, the most obedient of wives and yet devoted of sisters, seemed to be in dismay at the position in which she now found herself. She would not quarrel with Sir Edward, of course, but nor could she join in his hatred of her own brother, so instead she blamed Mary. Any maternal warmth she had previously mustered – and it had never reached higher than tepid – was turned unto frost.

And clearly, one parent or other must have conducted an enquiry into Mary’s past movements for – to her absolute horror – Daniel the coachman was suddenly dismissed! Without even a day’s notice! The guilt of it almost defeated her; so deep was her despair that Mary would not even contest her father’s new strictures. How could she care about being forbidden from riding alone, from mixing with Godmersham – or missing out on Twelfth Night – when she had ruined the livelihood of an excellent man? While the parties went on without her, Mary stayed in her room and wept at her wickedness.

But on the 23rd day of January, she had no choice but to emerge. It was the Mother’s birthday, and Lady Knatchbull was very much one of those people who liked the day to be marked. So she went in to breakfast, extended her wishes – was met with little beyond the tilt of a head – and after a silent half-hour, took her leave.

Though she had checked once already, again Mary went through the letters on the hall table … Of course there was nothing. She was no longer surprised by it, but could not help but be pained. Three weeks since the proposal, yet already she was forsaken. Of course, Ned’s life would go on without her. He was not made to look back, only forward; he was never known to be still. A solitary tear splashed on to the pewter.

She was halfway up the stairs to her room, where she might cry unobserved, when a large, hairy boulder crashed into her legs and nearly felled her.

‘Lord Byron?’ she cried as she clung to the banister. ‘Lord Byron, you dear !’ Two great paws were pinned to her shoulders; his tongue licked the tears from her cheeks. ‘How – Where – Then is your master—?’ Heart now flooding with hope, she spun wildly about. Her eyes were met, as they were met once before, by a great halo of light. The sharp white winter’s morning came in at the doorway. A tall, dark figure strode through it with purpose.

‘Darling!’ he cried out at the sight of her. This was not a gentleman to be constrained by the presence of a footman. ‘Oh, to get even a glimpse!’ The commotion brought out the butler; Ned paid him no heed. ‘I have suffered such agonies! Pray will you come to me—’ He moved fast, intent on embracing her! Already, he was at the foot of the stairway!

‘No further!’ Mary called out in alarm. ‘My parents are there ,’ she hissed, signalling at a solid oak door, ‘still at breakfast.’

He stopped as she bade. ‘Then let me speak quickly.’ At least he too now lowered his voice. ‘I am come here to speak to your father, in the belief that he must now be calmer, more rational. This time, he will hear me.’

‘So you have not given me up?’ Mary sank to the floor, weak with relief. The dog climbed into her lap.

‘Give up ?’ He rubbed both hands through his hair and stared, all astonishment. ‘What can you mean? Every day, all hours, I have been out in search – Lord Byron is run ragged – I thought – I feared—’

‘Oh, dearest. They have not treated me ill.’ She froze as the door to the breakfast room opened; breathed again at the sight of a maid. ‘But they are taking me to London next week, intent on keeping us apart. I fear you will find my father’s mind is unchanged.’

‘Then it must fall to me to persuade that mind otherwise.’ The lopsided grin proved he still brimmed with self-confidence. He began to bounce on his heels, buoyant as if at the start of a game or a hunt. The very idea of defeat was to him an anathema. That he might find his match in the short, stocky person of Sir Edward Knatchbull was not a thought one such as Ned could begin to entertain.

Mary gazed down upon him – drank in his presence while she still had it before her – marvelled at his spirit, and loved him completely.