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CHAPTER XXXII

What Fanny found so splendid about that particular spring of 1826 was that the very best of Kent appeared to be gathered in Town, so that one could almost ignore all the tiresome, latest distractions – the cream of society – and fancy oneself still in the country. Lady Banks, always a generous hostess and amusing companion, was, as usual, ensconced in Portland Place. Several other kind neighbours were scattered about, but a short walk away. And, now May was almost upon them, a portion of the Godmersham family was due to arrive and join the good Kentish throng. Mr Knight was bringing George, William and Cassy and they would put up at the Brunswick Hotel – though, of course, the families would combine whenever possible. Would they not?

For all the pleasure with which she looked forward to the rest of the season, Fanny did have to own to some minor trepidation. Though Marianne was with her – the dear girl was proving to be such a treasure – she had not seen her father or siblings since her own arrival in London. There had been letters between them all, of course, but none of an intimate nature. And, in the odd, uncertain moment, Fanny did wonder if there was not a certain froideur between the Knights and the Knatchbulls. Though still hoping to soon be proved wrong, she was already sure in her mind that, if there were indeed any unpleasantness, there was no question whatsoever upon whom the blame could be laid.

Ned was not due to appear this time, thank goodness – business in Hampshire was to keep him safely away. Nevertheless, Fanny hardly dared relax, for it seemed he had lately developed a skill for creating disturbance even from afar. What on earth had possessed him to prevail on their father to write to Sir Edward – and why the good man had even thought to comply – Fanny could not at all fathom. Her husband had only just recovered from the affront of the proposal, and then she had had to deal with all that . Oh, the slurs he had flung at her own flesh and blood! Much as she tried to pretend otherwise, they did strike at her heart. The whole episode had caused such an upset that Fanny could not forgive it – especially as Mary herself had assured her father that, in her own mind, nothing had changed.

She sighed deeply, rested her hands on her growing stomach and then suddenly smiled. Oddly enough – the thought only then just occurred – the person who gave Fanny the least worry these days was Mary Dorothea. Though the irony was glaring, it was simply a fact: since their arrival in Town, Mary’s conduct had been pleasingly faultless. And when Fanny thought of the terrible saga of Sir Edward’s own lovelorn sister, who had had to be imprisoned in her room by day and by night, she could only count her own blessings.

Of course, Fanny had made perfectly sure that Mary Dorothea was never alone for a second. Dear Booker was with her at all times, and Marianne too, when she could be spared from the nursery. But Mary could enjoy the freedom of taking a chaperone to her cousins or Lady Banks whenever she liked. And, at Fanny’s careful insistence, the girl did still pursue her ladylike interests – refine her accomplishments . So she rode almost daily; took lessons in singing at the same time every morning from Mr Crepaldi in his studio. And after a few months of a good, wholesome routine, the change wrought was remarkable. From the pale, miserable creature of the start of the year, Mary Dorothea was quite transformed. Pink, bright-eyed and strong again. And for that, Fanny felt entitled to take much of the credit.

Her ruminations were disturbed by the appearance of the footman.

‘Mr Austen Knight, madam.’

And so natural was her delight at the sound of her dear father’s name, Fanny quite forgot to prepare for any possible unpleasantness.

Their greeting was as warm as ever and – first things first – Fanny at once took him up to the uppermost floor to admire her baby. The darling was, like an angel, soundly asleep – she was an excellent sleeper. They were, truly, so blessed – and therefore unable to display her latest accomplishments. But still, they stood by the crib for some time, while the devoted mother described, in a whisper, how the baby could not only point but also clap and, according to others, was already displaying the signs of a remarkable intelligence.

But, as they walked down the stairs to the parlour, and Fanny was about to embark on a report into newly cut teeth, her papa launched his assault.

‘I suppose the child shall be reared to the high, modern standards,’ he began in a benign enough manner. ‘The fashions have changed, I have noticed. It is not like one’s day, under the old King, may God rest his soul.’ They had reached the ground floor. ‘No doubt you now judge me, as a parent, to have erred on the side of the liberal . I am quite sure that Sir Edward disapproves of my approach.’

‘Good heavens, Papa!’ Fanny, leading the way, nearly missed the next step. ‘What on earth makes you say such a thing?’ It was almost uncanny – as if he had lurked in the wainscot and heard Sir Edward’s declamations on that very subject.

Her father did not acknowledge the question, but instead he went on: ‘I hope, though, that you think of and will remember me as an affectionate one.’

‘Oh, the kindest, dearest of fathers!’ Fanny exclaimed as they reached the parlour. ‘It has been our greatest good fortune—’

‘Thank you, my dear,’ Mr Austen Knight cut her off briskly, sitting down to inspect the refreshments. ‘And as such, I feel it deeply when my children are suffering unhappiness.’

‘I am sure it must be pure agony,’ Fanny agreed earnestly. Already, even the thought that her daughter might one day encounter real pain or distress could bring her to tears.

‘Hard though it may be for you to believe, caring for an infant is much the easiest stage of parenthood. And one imagines, at the time, that one will use all the powers in one’s gift to shield them from life’s many great evils.’

Fanny took this as a plea that she would hereby devote all her energies to the protection of his grandchild, and was suitably touched. ‘Oh, Papa! As long as I have breath in my body —’

‘But one simply cannot, Fan!’

This took her aback. Fanny felt rather at sea, but had to wait while he made a performance of swallowing the shortbread – which was suitably moist – before, at last, he explained.

‘It is my firm belief that the more we ban and forbid and control , the more trouble we make for ourselves and our offspring. Instead, should we not trust to their judgement? Allow them the freedom – limited, admittedly, but nonetheless – freedom to deal with their own problems as they see fit?’

Was this all an obscure attack on her husband? Fanny’s hand started to tremble to such an extent that she was in danger of spilling her cordial.

‘Of course,’ he rambled on as if entirely amiably, ‘Mary Dorothea is not my daughter … And there is no doubt in my mind that you, Fanny – her mother – have talked to her in some depth on the subject of Ned and her feelings.’

Fanny stared into her lap, held her drink tightly and felt the first flush to her throat. Of course she had done no such thing – and perfectly properly! Sir Edward dealt with his child, he reported back to his wife – and, quite frankly, that had proved wearing enough.

‘In which case, you can have no fear for the girl’s virtue, or need to lock her away from us all.’ And, at this point, as ever, her dear father softened. ‘Poor Fan!’ He reached over and patted her knee. ‘To be both Knatchbull and Knight, with all this’ – he lifted his hand, waved another sweetmeat about – ‘going on. It cannot be easy to manage.’

‘Thank you for that, Papa.’ With careful control, Fanny placed her glass back on the chinoiserie tray. ‘Both your advice, and also those last kind words. Now.’ She looked up and across at him brightly, hoping her complexion had suitably paled. ‘Do tell me: what news from Kent? It seems an age since we first came away.’

While Fanny would prefer to forget her father’s words, they rather stayed with her and, when alone with the space for reflection, she found it hard to deny that there might be contained within them a kernel of wisdom.

She was a Knight after all, and could testify that their father had never once failed to hear his children’s opinions or treat them with kindness. On the other hand, it was hardly unfair to point out that the Knatchbulls tended to be rather more strict . And, though Fanny did try to turn a blind eye, one could hardly not notice. So did their way work well? She counted the many expulsions from school, the endless disputes – the brother in gaol ! – and concluded that there may well be room for some doubt.

And, once she had thought all this through to her own satisfaction, Fanny determined to allow herself one small – entirely private and safe – act of rebellion.

The following week, the Knights had an outing planned to Lambeth Gardens. Having previously decreed that Mary should be kept away from any such nonsense – surely the girl should be better employed in something worthwhile ? – now Fanny relented. Of course one should have fun in one’s youth! And it was perfectly natural that Mary should spend time with her own mother’s family. With Ned out of the way, what possible harm could befall her?

Fanny went too, of course – she was nothing if not vigilant. The gardens were verdant: the air heavy with scent rising up from the flower beds. It was a perfect day in late spring. And when they encountered the rest of the party, the reunion was joyful.

Cassy was the first to see them approach and, with a skip and a squeal, she came trotting over.

‘Dearest!’ Her younger sister first issued a brisk kiss to Fanny’s cheek and then swept Mary into her arms. ‘Oh, darling,’ she cried in her unrestrained fashion.

Fanny prickled. It was high time that Cassy adopted a more ladylike air.

‘I have missed you so much that it gave me a pain . Cakey had to take me into her lap while I sucked my own thumb, which, of course, we both loved to absolute bits. Why must one ever leave the nursery?’ They linked arms and walked a little ahead. ‘Being a grown-up is so frightfully hard.’

And when the breeze carried back Mary’s earnest reply – ‘This year, in particular’ – Fanny felt a frisson of guilt. The poor girl had lived the whole of the year with only her parents for company. How lonely she must have found it! And why had Fanny and Sir Edward chosen to punish her so?

After all, it was perfectly obvious that Mary had no feelings for Ned. When the girl was upset, she did not bother to hide it, as Fanny had learned to her cost during that other ghastly affair with the governess. No, Fanny was clear in her mind: there was no further evidence that Mary had done much beyond drive Ned stark, staring mad. And that was hardly her fault …

‘Oh, do look!’ Cassy was now squealing. ‘A dear little man with a shy! Boys,’ she shouted out to her brothers, ‘do win us a coconut! Mary needs all the strength she can get.’

‘Papa,’ Fanny said then, ‘I have been thinking …’ She took his arm and guided him away from her siblings. ‘About your advice of last week, that is.’

Mr Austen Knight slowed his pace, turned to the side and studied her, expectant.

‘And perhaps there is some sense in your methods,’ she said with a shrug. ‘I can see that Ned, in his current, regrettable condition, is unlikely to take Sir Edward’s word on this difficult matter – or any other, come to think of it.’

Fanny had not acknowledged it before, but now she could see that not one of her siblings had ever been prepared to give her husband a fair hearing. The realisation brought with it a great sense of injustice.

She stopped walking, stood with her father and watched her brothers in their latest antics. They had now taken a boat out on the pond. William was standing and rocking it sideways, threatening George with a dunking. The girls on the bank, clutching their coconuts – the Knight boys were all excellent shots – were both hooting with laughter. They must be the noisiest family in the whole park.

What fun they all used to have, Fanny thought, with a pang. And what fun they all still had, without her. Why had she let herself become so very separate?

‘And so …?’ Her father gave a gentle nudge to her arm and brought Fanny back to the moment.

They started walking again while she got up her nerve.

‘And so I am willing to allow them a short interview alone.’ Fanny gulped and felt rather faint. What on earth was she doing?

‘My dear, you are sure?’ Mr Austen Knight could not hide his surprise.

‘No more than ten minutes, mind!’ she added in a panic. ‘And I shall be in the next room throughout it. Pray, make that clear.’

But, as soon as the promise was made, Fanny felt unusually resolute. After all, her logic was faultless. Had not Sir Edward assured her, on numerous occasions, of Mary’s disinterest? Would not this concession play well with the Knights? They must surely appreciate that she had now done something for Ned, and was no longer the enemy .

‘It is the only way I can see that we bring this whole thing to a close, and return to normality. I just want our families to return to the way we once were!’ Oh, how she yearned for that! She led her father back to the party. ‘So yes, Papa. I am perfectly sure.’

And, though it sounded somewhat absurd even to her own ears, she then whispered: ‘I shall send word when the plans have been laid.’

At a quarter to eleven on the morning of the following Sunday, Fanny paced the long, narrow hallway and rubbed at her side. She had a strange sort of pain in the rib area. Was it caused by the baby? Or the fact that she was about to commit a transgression for the first time in her married life – and possibly ever?

Her spirit started to tremble. She could not do it! She would not do it! But then the party descended the stairs, dressed and ready for church and, somehow, she did.

‘Not this morning, my dear.’ Fanny put a hand on Mary’s shoulder, like a constable. ‘Sir Edward, would you mind terribly if Mary and I stayed back this morning? There is so much to do – the Indigent Blind, for my sins. The demands are unending!’

Mary stared at her with a puzzled expression, as well she might. Fanny had not mentioned the poor blind, nor given them a thought, since her baby was born.

‘We shall go to the service this evening,’ she ran on before the blush took her into its grip. ‘Marianne will accompany you now. Thank you so much, my dear.’

And when her sweet, caring husband – whom the world thought so difficult – went off like a lamb, Fanny could almost feel the fresh stain seep into her soul.

She ushered Mary into the parlour, retrieved the work basket which she had so long ignored and together the two ladies sat and arranged their materials. The atmosphere between them was unchanged from that when they first met. Not icy, exactly – to be fair to the girl, never that – but a cool sort of politeness which Fanny loathed. She listened to herself gabble – the weather; the likely congregation at church; her own father’s gout – and despaired as conversation eluded them both. Once the morning’s ordeal was behind them, she must somehow establish an intimacy.

At last, as arranged, at one minute past the hour – just as the vicar ascended the pulpit and worship began – there came a sharp rap of the knocker, the creak of the heavy front door. Voices in the hallway.

And Ned strode in.

‘Dear Fan,’ he declared as he kissed her cheek with a warmth he had not shown for some years. ‘I will forever be grateful.’

‘Ten minutes, mind.’ Fanny felt rather like Nanny. ‘Dear boy,’ she whispered only to him, ‘I implore you to not make a scene.’ And with that, she withdrew to the breakfast room and left them alone.

Fanny did not try to return to her work; she could hardly sit still. Those minutes lay out before her as an eternity. For, having been so sure in her mind that she was doing the right thing, doubt now assaulted her. She was hardly a natural conspirator – her devotions to the Good Lord had, happily, bent her mind towards Truth and Honesty. But now she must admit to a possible flaw in her plan. For could she trust that Ned was equally truthful? She had to hope so. But what about Mary? She had not the first clue as to what went on in the girl’s head. Surely, Fanny should have spoken to her first? Mary might be terrified – trapped, as she was, with a possible madman. Or equally she could be unleashed, and … Oh, dear Heavenly Father!

Fanny sat down on the nearest chair with an unladylike thump. Images came to her mind of what the couple might now be doing, cloistered in there alone. She rose and found herself leaning against the wall – ear pressed to silk. And only when she heard the unmistakeable hum of rational, businesslike conversation was she, at last, calm.

And with one minute to spare before their time was up – an encouraging sign in itself – the couple emerged from the parlour and Fanny joined them in the hall. She watched as they bade each other farewell in a respectable fashion: judged Mary demure and Ned, curiously, unruffled.

And, just to make sure, when he finally left, Fanny stood at the window and studied her brother as he walked down the street. Ned moved at a speed and had a bounce in his step, but that was no cause for concern. For did he not always, and was that not men in a nutshell? Though they might claim to know heartbreak, the masculine heart seemed to mend with remarkable ease.

There, Fanny thought to herself and returned to her work and her chair – this time sedately – where she proceeded to reflect on an extraordinary morning. So she had put all her faith in the word of her husband, and been proved right so to do. Was that not a fine lesson for every good, Christian wife?

It was most satisfactory all round. They could finally put the whole troublesome affair behind them, and no Knight had cause to resent Fanny, or attach any blame to her darling husband. And, as he had done already before and no doubt would soon do again, Ned was already moving on to his next entertainment.