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CHAPTER XXXIII

In such an establishment as Number 20 Great George Street, there could be no secrets. So no sooner had young Mr Knight left than word quickly spread: the mistress was calm; the crisis now over. And at once, the household sank back into mundanity – placid and insular.

So great was the general relief, for the matter had cast quite a cloud, that no one even suspected Mary – cheerful, polite; prettier yet than before – was host to an interior turmoil; that while she played her part to perfection, she was, in fact, consumed with both longing and dread. They never could have imagined that she might be thinking of Ned – their impending union and all that would entail. That her flesh would then tingle with the most delicious sensation, which she could neither identify nor wanted ever to end. And they had no idea that she was, just as often, assailed by the most terrible visions: presentiments of her father’s near future, which then revealed to her the true meaning of agony.

And at last, the great moment was come. After the longest week of her young, difficult life, the night of Saturday 13th was finally upon her. In just a few hours, little Mary Dorothea – that good, Christian child – would take to the stage in a drama set to shock the whole Knatchbull world. But first – for every climax must have its foil – she must somehow endure a few hours of the entirely banal.

Mary’s last family dinner, at a quarter to six of that evening, was all set to be a modest, rather humdrum affair. Sir Edward was out at a long-arranged engagement and, as was their custom – Lady Knatchbull never ordered a hot dinner when menfolk were absent. It seemed to her quite de trop – Mary and Fanny took a simple cold supper in the parlour and talked of nothing that mattered.

‘That was a most pleasant day, Mary dear.’ The Mother dabbed at her lips with her napkin, sat back in her chair and rang for a servant. ‘Thank you for your company.’

‘Thank you, Mama,’ Mary replied, marvelling at her feigned air of serenity. How could she pretend so? Oh, but when they discovered the truth, they would think her so wicked! Mary silently pledged that – once this one, last, heinous act was behind her – she would never dissemble again.

Mary laid down her cutlery, stole a glance at the clock on the mantelshelf and brought a hand to her mouth as if to stifle a yawn.

‘If you do not mind it, Mama’ – a final, petty falsehood. Where was the harm? – ‘I am most frightfully tired. I may withdraw to my bed early—’

But Fanny paid her no heed. Instead, ‘Dear Mary,’ she began, leaning back while a servant cleared all the dishes, ‘with my husband so very busy, I am often alone and you are my great consolation . I shall miss it, my dear, once you are married and settled, and no longer to hand.’

Mary was stunned. She had always presumed herself to be an encumbrance. That Fanny should at last suggest otherwise, and on this very night! She thought of her trunk, nicely packed; Booker, no doubt with her cloak on already, fretting upstairs. She tried to picture the house in the wake of her flight, but it was almost impossible: like imagining one’s own death. ‘Thank you, Mama,’ Mary repeated. As she twisted with guilt, there came a new surge of sympathy. ‘Though if you sometimes feel lonely, then I am sorry for it.’

Fanny sipped her tisane, thought for a little; replaced her cup in its saucer and then replied. ‘Not that, exactly. Not loneliness. Of course, I am no stranger to that evil. When I lived in Godmersham, even though my dear family was always about me, I did suffer, on occasion. Curious, is it not? We were such a crowd, yet I did sometimes feel a little at odds. But since …’ She studied the ceiling and seemed to choose her next words with care.

‘It was the good fortune of my life that your father chose me, my dear. I do know – we both know – that there are many in our circle who do not find him easy. He can show – shall we say – a certain harshness of feeling. He does not suffer fools!’ Fanny gave a fond laugh. ‘And I do believe there are people – just one or two, mind – who take him at surface and feel sorry for me . Well, they could not be more wrong, Mary.’

‘Indeed, Mama,’ Mary said fervently. And as it seemed that they were now to share a new candour, she went further: ‘My papa is a very good man. And yet, from time to time—’

Fanny held up her hand. ‘As we are both well aware, and do not need to discuss.’ She returned to her theme. ‘I suppose what I am wanting to say is that no one, outside of a marriage, can judge what goes on within it. Of course, there are some who make a great show of happiness – though who can ever know what really goes on? Apart from the servants, that is.’ She gave a little laugh. ‘But in truth, I once used to look upon others with pity. Now I despair at my ignorance.

‘My own marriage is a blessing, whatever the world may think of it. To be the one, particular light in the life of another – especially one so very distinguished as my darling husband – is both a privilege and the ultimate comfort. I fervently hope that – whether it be with Dr Knatchbull or another, equally good gentleman – in but a few years, you too will know such a happiness.’

Mary smiled, and affected an innocent air. Journey permitting, she could expect to know happiness by some time on Monday. Her flesh tingled again.

‘My dear child,’ Fanny continued. Having finally embarked on the act of confiding, she seemed unable to stop. ‘It has not escaped my notice that you have endured a … troubling few months, and I would like to take this opportunity to give credit for the manner with which you have conducted yourself. Though it cannot have been without its challenges, you have behaved perfectly properly throughout.’

‘Thank you, Mama.’ Fanny might have embarked on a mystifying new intimacy, but Mary’s own script was unchanged.

‘It has been an unpleasant business. Such a pity that my dear brother had to take on so, but there – we can now put it behind us. Though you have been the primary victim, I must say that it has not been easy for me. I have been—’

‘—in a difficult position, Mama,’ Mary finished for her. ‘Oh, I have seen that.’

‘That is most kind. Entirely between us, I am not sure your father has fully appreciated the fact. But I am slightly concerned that while my energies have lately been taken up with his feelings, I may have neglected your own.’

‘I bear you no resentment, Mama,’ Mary replied, at last in all honesty.

Fanny acknowledged her with a tilt of the head. ‘But I fear it was remiss not to talk to you directly and that troubles me still.’ She lapsed into silence for a moment, studied the flames in the fire, stroked her expanding girth and then went further. ‘For the record, I would like it to be known that – once I had got over the shock , that is – I was never overtly hostile.’ Fanny gave a sad sort of smile. ‘Actually, it might have been rather cosy – another secure tie between our two families.’

Sudden hope rose in Mary’s breast. She turned her head, studied her mother. Could she be brought on side after all? Should Mary confess even now, plead for a blessing? She chose her next words with care. ‘It is a pretty thought, Mama …’

But, of course, Fanny took it no further. ‘Sadly, your father could not be convinced of the same.’ She sighed. ‘And once he had hit on the idea of my brother being your uncle—’

Mary had to speak up then, and did so in earnest. ‘I never have seen him that way, Mama.’ It was important that she, too, went on the record. ‘As you know, I have become deeply fond of all the Godmersham family, and to my mind they are not quite relations, but rather dear friends.’

‘Speaking perfectly frankly, Mary, I am delighted to hear it, and completely agree. But when your father’s mind is set … Ah, well.’

For where was the merit in discussing Sir Edward’s opinions when they could not be altered? Neither lady could ever hope to know that sort of power. And so, they instead both surrendered and lapsed into a silence that came close to companionable.

After some minutes, Fanny finally rose, a little unsteadily. ‘Now, if you will excuse me, I am all over fatigue.’

She then bent to kiss Mary’s cheek with a tenderness she had never before shown. ‘I do not expect your papa home until the small hours. I pray he does not disturb you on his return.

‘Good night, my dear child,’ Fanny said softly. ‘May the Lord bless you.’

And then she withdrew.

Mary reeled in her wake. She could not have imagined her mother would ever reveal herself so – and that she should do so just now … Already this was proving to be the most astonishing evening, and the real drama was yet to begin. She waited a while, listening; caught the sound of the latch on Fanny’s door, and began her own, slow ascent up the stairs.

But despite the self-possession she had shown over dinner – and, indeed, throughout the previous week – Mary was surprised to find that she was shaking all over. And more troubling still, she knew why. This was not doubt . She could not change course now. No, this was her conscience – wounded enough by the treachery she was to inflict upon one parent, under new attack from the other.

All these past weeks, Mary had lived under the shadow of her father’s imminent misery. And had she thought to consider the effect upon anyone else? Not once. As Sir Edward dominated the lives of all in the family, so he dominated all of their thoughts and concerns. Such was his tyranny, only now could she see it. Mary paused, tried to grip on the banister with a trembling hand; started to climb again; tripped on the step and was forced to stop by the window at the first landing.

And there – the point at which she could see both upstairs and down – her mind was assaulted by images of what was to come. She pictured the morrow: the discovery of her own disappearance. The household in uproar. Doors flying open; servants searching the house. Sir Edward’s inevitable, stupendous fury that could rock the foundations.

But though she would be its cause, Mary would not be its witness. By then, she would be well clear of London, halfway to the North. It would be down to Fanny – good, decent Fanny, who preferred peace over passion – to deal with the fallout. And oh! – that poor lady. She did not deserve any of it.