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CHAPTER III

As the clock in the hall chimed eleven, Fanny tapped, the door opened and the two men were revealed to her. Both stood on the rug in the heart of the library. She moved slowly towards them, eyes to the floor. At once, her father made his excuses and withdrew.

‘Miss Knight.’ The voice was a rich baritone.

‘Sir Edward.’ Fanny curtseyed, eyes still downcast even as she rose back to full height. Her horrible shyness had her well in its grip now. Her cheeks were warming at speed. She could not move; she could not speak: she may never do either again. It was a moment of pure torment – agony! Please, she thought – God, she beseeched – deliver me!

Then, as if by divine guidance, Sir Edward reached out to take her hand in his. And by that small and ordinary gesture, as a princess in a fairy tale, Fanny was released from her misery. He had touched her and she had, most unexpectedly, survived it! The blush beat a retreat. At last, she could look up and into the face of the man she was to marry.

Though he might not be the romantic ideal exactly, Sir Edward was a pleasant-enough-looking gentleman which Fanny, in her new joy and relief, decided was anyway much preferable to heroic when it came to husbands in general. Blue eyes twinkled back at her as she took in his round face and features. Despite the white at his temples, the beholder could still see the sweet small boy he once was. As a couple, the physical qualities of each seemed to complement the other. Fanny was spare, lean, long of feature and limb; Sir Edward, with his plump torso and full, ruddy cheeks, appeared as if nature had designed him as a hymn to the circle. He did, though, have the edge on her when it came to their height. Not much, perhaps not even an inch, but still Fanny delighted to see it. As an unusually tall girl, she had always lived with that fear …

‘Miss Knight,’ he said, again.

‘Sir Edward,’ she repeated.

And then he declared. The words that he spoke were no different to the ones he had written two days before. Fanny rather admired the economy. After all, he must have thought long and hard, chosen them with care in the first place. Why not use them again? It was really rather touching. Once more, he referred to his own happiness and the welfare of his children. He offered his ‘most unremitting and constant attention’. But this time, it came with the all-important addition: ‘Miss Knight, I would be most honoured if you would consent to be my wife.’

Of course, she accepted. Sir Edward gave a brief nod, a small smile, then made to bend his head towards Fanny, his mouth to hers. The air left the room. Fanny’s heart stopped. Her whole body froze, screaming resistance. Stung, her fiancé drew back before he could touch her. The moment was lost ere it had begun. All that remained was Fanny’s deep sense of shame.

It had been Fanny’s idea to go out in the gig. Though they were now officially betrothed, her awkward shyness had not abated. Worse, it had proved contagious. The orphaned kiss lurked about them, full of reproach. Even the worldly Sir Edward seemed unsure where to look.

But that was the beauty of driving. Sir Edward himself took the reins; his fiancée sat beside him twirling her parasol: each fixed their gaze on the road ahead. It then occurred to Fanny that, thus uninhibited, any other engaged couple might thrill at the opportunities now afforded them. They would – what would they do? Gently touch, she supposed; discreetly make love; share any and all of the heart’s hidden secrets. Oh, may the Good Lord protect her from so dreadful a prospect! Surely he would not now presume …? She silently prayed: God, deliver us into good, plain conversation – on the subject of education perhaps, or the church …

Sir Edward tapped at a flank and the horses started to trot; they pulled away from the house. ‘Now,’ he began. ‘Let us discuss the children.’

Fanny’s whole being relaxed. She looked away from the driver, off to the side, and smiled at the view.

‘As my firstborn child and only daughter, Mary Dorothea is especially important to me.’ He paused to clear his throat, as if – could this be possible? – he was fighting back tears.

Fanny was moved. Such a kind and good man.

‘In my estimation, and this is supported by many positive statements from other, less interested parties, the child is particularly blessed with all the gifts and talents for which a young lady could hope.’

Having met her quite recently, Fanny found this a little surprising.

‘She has certainly suffered, though, from the absence of her dear mama. Therefore, it would please me, my dear – and I am sure it would her – if Mary Dorothea were to become your principal concern.’

‘Oh, but of course,’ Fanny replied earnestly. Nothing could delight her more. Girls she was sure she could do. She had brought out one sister and married her brilliantly; the other three were all set fair to follow and Sir Edward’s daughter was quite obviously the easiest and most biddable – even gifted, apparently – of them all. The carriage was now passing the stables. Fanny gave a happy wave to the groom. ‘I must say Mary Dorothea struck me as a particularly’ – she searched for a compliment which might also be genuine – ‘ dear child.’

‘But one never can count on it!’ Sir Edward exclaimed with some passion. ‘It is my firm belief – intractable, indeed – that when it comes to the children, one can never let up. They require constant reminders of their role.’

‘Their role?’ Fanny risked a glance at her fiancé’s profile, while reaching up for the rim of her hat. They were out on the lane now, and the going was bumpy.

‘To be a comfort and support to their parents.’ Sir Edward’s tone was that commonly used by those stating the obvious. ‘The worry with dear Mary, though, is that with her living almost entirely at school in Ramsgate, the opportunities are rare.’

‘Ah.’ Fanny was almost too frightened to ask, but she did have to know. ‘And at what age did the child first go to Ramsgate?’

‘Let me see. Was it on the death of her mother, or just before?’ He pulled at the reins and the carriage turned right to the bridge. ‘I should say seven years of age. Possibly six.’ The doves in the dovecote took sudden flight. ‘I suppose it could have been five?’

No wonder poor Mary seemed so … unnatural! ‘Sir Edward,’ Fanny began, gingerly. ‘Might I suggest—’ She broke off. It was crucial she did not cross the line. ‘Well, it suddenly occurred: should Mary come home … after … soon?’ She was simply too bashful to say the words when we are married , though that was her meaning. ‘Of course, there is no need to decide now. However, my younger sisters are delightful young girls and—’

But Sir Edward seemed to have decided already. ‘Capital idea!’ In fact, had he decided some time ago? ‘I took the liberty of enquiring and was told you have a sound schoolroom at Godmersham. The girls can all be taught and raised together. Mary will be delighted.’

So Fanny had said the right thing! The couple were of the same mind! She looked across to the parched Kentish hills and, for the first time, felt the small frisson that comes with wifely satisfaction. It was rather agreeable.

‘As for the boys, madam, they should not trouble you much.’ They were out now and on to the Ashford road. Due to the heat, there were no others around. ‘For they must be educated out of the home. There is no other option.’

‘Poor dears!’ Fanny let go with her instant reaction; then, seeing the expression on the profile of her betrothed, she added: ‘Of course, I have no quarrel with the decision, sir. It is just that I should have hated to go myself, and I can only feel for my brothers as we are packing their trunks.’

Sir Edward relaxed a little, smiled and patted the back of her gloved hand. ‘That reveals within you a great reserve of kindness, Miss Knight, which is a pleasure to witness. And of course you are right. School can be a harsh environment for a boy and I know very well that my eldest son, Norton, suffers tremendously.’

‘Then I am sorry for him,’ said Fanny, with feeling.

‘Now, now, my dear,’ he admonished. ‘’Tis best not to feel sorry for boys . Does them no good at all. I was three years of age when my own mother died and, from that day on, knew not a moment of sympathy. Civility, yes; sympathy, no. And, madam, I am here to tell you that now I am glad of it! Grateful indeed. For it can hardly be said that it has held me back in life.’

Fanny struggled for a moment, and then took refuge in another question. ‘So your own schooldays were not happy ones, sir?’

‘Happy?’ Sir Edward repeated the word as if he were sampling a new dish. ‘No, I hardly think so but nor was that their aim, surely? I do, however, carry the burden of profound regret for the unfortunate manner of their ending.’

‘It distressed you to leave, then?’

Again, he seemed to be at a loss. ‘I have no memory of such a feeling.’ He shrugged the enquiry away. ‘But I did leave on extremely bad terms with the Master and that I would change if I could.’

‘You quarrelled with the Master of Winchester College, sir?’ That was akin to declaring war on the House of Hanover! Fanny could hardly contain her astonishment.

‘We never quite saw eye to eye, throughout my entire school career. Then, in a final fit of undignified behaviour, he wrote such a letter to my father as to be almost defamatory.’

Fanny gasped in alarm; Sir Edward chuckled. ‘Do not panic, my dear. He was a ridiculous creature who, mercifully, left College soon after I did. There is no need to go into the details but please rest assured that I can look back on the drama secure in the knowledge that Right was entirely on my own side.’

There were elements of his speech that disturbed her a little. A master being expected to see ‘eye to eye’ with a boy? Can he truly have meant what he said? But then she remembered: it no longer mattered. Any critical judgement could now be suspended. This was her future husband! She must believe and support him! From now on, Fanny, too, would always be there, with Right, on his side. She was visited by the sensation of a sudden lightness of being: how much less thinking would be required of her in this new future. How much easier , more straightforward life promised to be.

Sir Edward was dining at Hatch, so he turned the gig around and, sharing a companionable silence, they headed back to the Park.

Finally, he spoke: ‘There is something I must confess,’ he began. ‘The timing is unfortunate and, madam, I beg you to believe that I would never have arranged things thus had I known that agreement between us would be made so very quickly.’

‘Oh?’ Fanny was instantly uneasy.

‘I am mortified to announce that, in a matter of days, I must leave Kent on business for several weeks.’

She felt even lighter. ‘Oh, sir! Please do not worry on my account.’

‘But I must, my dear madam.’ He gave a flick of the whip. ‘You had the right to expect me to be by your side for the first weeks of our engagement. We should be going out in society; deepening our friendship. I am depriving you of all the excitement which is your rightful due, and I am sorry for it.’

‘It is quite all right, sir.’ Fanny tried to feel deprived as expected but simply could not. ‘We will have plenty of time for all that in the future, God willing. It is to be a long engagement after all, is it not?’ Her father had certainly reported that it was all agreed. Nevertheless, she saw no harm in mentioning it, just to make sure. ‘Will this business be of interest, or pleasure?’

‘I hope a little of both. First, I need to deliver my son to his first term at Winchester—’

‘Indeed!’ Fanny exclaimed. ‘My younger brother is set to start there, too. And my eldest, Mr Ned Knight, is close to the College, at our estate in Chawton. I am sure, if I ask, he will keep an eye on your boy.’

The very idea brought her such happiness. Those two formidable tribes, the Knatchbulls and Knights, coming together, bringing added strength and security, increased opportunity, to each and every member – and all because of Fanny! Was that not the very definition of an excellent marriage? Would not the whole clan be grateful? She glowed with the anticipation of glory.

‘That is an excellent offer, which I am delighted to accept.’ Sir Edward gave a flick of the reins and continued. ‘For the rest, I shall be acting on behalf of my dear aunt, who was recently widowed. Lady Banks has been important to me all my life, and takes a great interest in my dear family. She was aware that I intended to make you this offer and will, I believe, be pleased to hear of your acceptance. It is her wish that you call on her as soon as is reasonably possible.’

‘I would be delighted,’ she gushed, dreading it already. And with that they were home.

‘Miss Knight,’ Sir Edward began as he handed her down from the gig, ‘that was a delightful day and, I believe, for us, an important one. While I am off on my travels, it will be of great comfort to know—’

Fanny alighted on the drive and stood quietly, waiting for the rest of what promised to be a romantic address.

‘—that Mary will be living under your care, and being taught with your sisters. I shall inform her tonight and, if I may, deposit her with you tomorrow? And I might bring my boy Norton along also, to meet his new mama. Shall we say late morning again? Excellent.’

Fanny stood at the front door, watched the carriage retreat and pondered its passenger: a gentleman whom, it appeared, she knew well enough to marry and yet not to kiss. It was an odd situation and she determined to right it. If she did not love Sir Edward already, and all the evidence rather suggested that was, sadly, the case, then she must endeavour to do so as deeply and soon as she possibly could.