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CHAPTER IV

The following morning, Fanny stood on the gravel in front of the house and watched the same carriage return. Though she could not have believed it possible, the agitation in her nerves was yet more acute. Admittedly, she had a mere day’s experience, but it did rather seem that being engaged was just one ordeal after another. It led her to wonder: all those other affianced young ladies she had witnessed over the years, those pictures of perfect happiness – were they all pretending? In which case, she did wish someone had let her in on the secret. For the first time in a while, Fanny felt the sharp pang of want of a mother.

At least she was going into this latest great trial with full support. Her dear papa stood beside her, as close as could be – the front of his shoulder touching the back of her own. Her sister, Marianne, guarded the other flank, squeezing her hand. And when she looked left to right, all Fanny could see were members of her own family, arranged in a line – eleven of them all told, the twelfth due for dinner. She could not imagine a more splendid welcome. Or did it look more like an enemy rank? Perhaps they should break it up, relax a little … But then, surely Sir Edward would prefer the more formal approach …

It was already too late. The coach was before them and the footman down and opening its door. There followed a brief, eternal pause during which the entire Knight family held its collective breath and then there emerged one pretty pink slipper.

Mary Dorothea Knatchbull drifted down to the drive, more feather than person. It was clear she had left Hatch with a head full of dark ringlets – there were still just a few discernible kinks – but she was now peering out through a lank pair of curtains. What a pity, thought Fanny, straight hair being such a curse with the present styles. The child’s appearance was met with a united, feminine silence, which Fanny regretted – her three youngest sisters were of the age that set far too much store by the mere superficial and nowhere near enough on spiritual depth – but could not completely condemn. Though Mary’s complexion and poise were all beyond fault, her attire was regrettable. There stood before them a girl on the cusp of young womanhood, clad in the frills and flounces of a very small child. Fanny could see she had much work to do.

‘Miss Knight.’ Mary proffered her right hand to Fanny, took her skirt with her left, arranged her small feet into a balletic position and glided down into a bob. ‘I am pleased to see you again.’

It was a most unexpected performance, of the class usually seen on stage in Drury Lane. Fanny was quite taken aback. Had the child spent hours with a dancing master practising for the moment? Knowing girls’ schools – which Fanny did not particularly, though that did not stop her forming an opinion – this was the sort of lesson they were required to teach. On Meeting Your Father’s Next Wife …

‘It is a pleasure to see you back here, my dear.’ Fanny took the little hand; Mary’s face conveyed no expression at all. ‘I do hope you enjoy your stay.’ At some point during the interminable curtsey, Sir Edward had come up behind his daughter. Fanny fixed a bright smile. ‘After all, we are all now to be family.’

Somehow, she dared not risk embracing the child, but then a curtsey seemed odd. Into the paralysis stepped Sir Edward.

‘And this …’ he proclaimed, pulling a boy from behind him and into the forefront. Had a shepherd’s crook been at hand, there could be no doubt he would have employed it. ‘… is my eldest son, Norton.’

Oh dear, thought Fanny. Poor Norton. He was an awkward youth – she gathered about twelve years of age – of sharp corners, high blushes and chronic embarrassment, who displayed no discernible immediate plans to turn into a swan. As she and the boy performed the necessary rituals, Fanny felt suddenly exhausted, not just from the morning so far – the heat was building again – but also the thought of the long days ahead of her.

It was as if her dear father could read Fanny’s mind. ‘It is a little warm out here, is it not?’ Mr Knight seized control. ‘Let us save the rest of the introductions for later. Pray – Sir Edward, children, do come in.’

Later that afternoon, Fanny stood, with her eyes closed, as the maid untied her lemon muslin and lifted it over her head.

‘Thank you, Sayce.’ She walked slowly to her bed, and gingerly sat down on the coverlet. ‘Oh, perhaps you might unpin my hair.’ Her hair was unpinned. ‘And let us shut out the light.’ The curtains were drawn; then, without being asked, Sayce lifted Fanny’s feet and laid her down for her rest.

As the maid’s footsteps retreated along the hall corridor, Fanny let out a deep breath. Though it had seemed fraught with peril, the day had, in fact, proceeded remarkably well. While the children were absorbed into the household, she and Sir Edward had enjoyed a peaceable walk through the Lime Avenue, during which she had found no cause for alarm and nothing at all had gone wrong. And now her fiancé and father were cloistered together in the library, at work on the settlement that would lead her to the altar at last.

Still, she was thoroughly done in by it.

‘Darling!’

Fanny’s bedroom door was flung open.

‘Dearest!’

With some reluctance, Fanny removed the cool compress with which she had covered her eyes and propped herself up on her elbows.

‘We cannot believe you could do such a thing!’

All of the Knights were good-looking, but Lizzie was, by some distance, the beauty of the family and took with her position the licence to behave without inhibition. Marianne, the next Knight sister down and Lizzie’s soulmate, caught her as her legs buckled from under her. Gently, she led Lizzie to the bed, laid her upon it and sat at the end.

‘Such a thing as to get married?’ Fanny snuggled in beside Lizzie and took her hand. ‘Do I not have your permission, my loves?’

‘Of course, we’re so happy—’ began Marianne.

‘No we are not!’ Lizzie cut in. She sat bolt upright, her glorious face cross and scowling. ‘You do not have my permission to marry without love , now or forever . Oh, darlings .’ She laid a hand on her own heart and looked into the distance. ‘When I remember my own engagement – the romance – the passion – I knew – the whole world knew that if Mr Rice could not marry me , he would simply lie down and die .’

Fanny certainly recalled that Mr Rice had fought hard for his bride, but still she retained doubts that he would have forced the matter too far beyond the limits of personal comfort.

‘Which is what I want for you , Fan dear. What we all want for you. That is, if you must marry. We did rather – no, not hope, exactly, of course not—’

‘Just suspect, perhaps?’

‘Thank you, Marianne, yes, suspect that it might …’ She grabbed both Fanny’s shoulders. ‘Because, of course, you absolutely loathe any sort of change—’

‘And are so devoted to Godmersham—’

‘But if it must happen, why—’ She stopped herself, wriggled a little, began again. ‘Darling. We just met Ned in the hall. He said this Sir Edward of yours’ – her tone suggested some mythical being of Fanny’s own invention – ‘is positively ancient .’

‘You all talk about it behind my back?’ Fanny swallowed hard and was visited by that left-out sensation which was, to her, all too familiar.

‘Oh no, never ! Not at all !’ Marianne’s distress was quite evident. Her most heartfelt desire was complete happiness for all living beings, and the slightest dip brought her an almost physical pain. ‘The merest, tiniest mention .’

Yet another unpleasantness about being engaged was the thought of becoming the subject of gossip. Fanny flushed even to think of it. And to find one’s own siblings … The whole business was gruesome. ‘He is not quite in his fortieth—’

‘Goodness!’ Lizzie flung herself back on to the bolster. ‘Almost seventy years between you by the time you are wed. I can not find it decent .’ She covered her eyes. ‘My wedding present shall be a pair of old bath chairs and then I shall never see you again.’

Fanny gave a heavy sigh. ‘Must even the bath chairs be old?’ She laid back down, too, and studied the plasterwork on the high ceiling.

As Marianne stroked her feet, to no good effect, Lizzie wailed on. ‘We are just so very worried you have not thought the scheme through .’

‘Through?’ Fanny stretched out a hand, groped for the compress in the hope of re-covering her eyes. ‘Through to where exactly?’

‘You know perfectly well, Fan,’ Lizzie retorted. ‘But if you must make me say it …’ She lowered her voice, in case a servant was passing, and hissed, ‘ Marital love. ’

‘Oh,’ Fanny said dully. ‘ That. ’

‘Believe me, it is not a mere trifle,’ Lizzie declaimed with the full pomp of the married lady. ‘And it is not just about the quest for more babies , you know …’ She leaned in to her sisters, and whispered again. ‘ It goes on all the time , and is not – so one hears – to everyone’s taste. Though, as it happens’ – she licked at one finger and dampened a ringlet – ‘I rather like it!’

The two girls squealed their signature squeals of delight – the sharp sound of wildlife being slaughtered at night – and fell back on the bed in fits of giggles.

Fanny felt faintly queasy, and turned on her side. ‘Thank you for that, dear. Perhaps now I might rest?’

‘Of course, darling!’ Marianne stood up at once and, with a glance of warning, dragged Lizzie up to her feet. ‘We will see you at dinner.’

‘There is one other thing, though,’ Lizzie insisted. ‘We just wanted to make absolutely sure that you intend to do your duty by Marianne before you go?’

‘My duty?’ Fanny asked blankly.

‘Indeed! Why, oh why , is she not officially out yet? It is the most baffling business. We talk about it between us all of the time. You did buy her the loveliest white dancing shoes—’

‘I do love my dancing shoes,’ Marianne put in. ‘ So kind, Fan.’

‘But a meagre two dances and that was that! Not even the races and why ever not? No one can understand it! Especially as we all remember the great fuss you made over moi , which I must say’ – she held out a flattened palm – ‘one neither wanted, nor did one require.’

‘Oh, hardly at all .’ Marianne was earnest.

‘But then comes her turn, and almost nothing occurs. And will you look at the girl?’ Lizzie placed a hand on each of Marianne’s cheeks. ‘The face of an angel . It’s simply too cruel. But if you are not abandoning us all yet , you have plenty of time to bring her out and get her matched before it’s too late. Do you not?’

Fanny seemed to remember Lizzie’s engagement as one long holiday of trousseaus, dances and presents. Clearly, her own would be more on the arduous side. ‘I am sure that will be possible.’

And after one more short burst of screaming – rabbit meets fox – they issued a joint promise to be on their absolute best for the dinner, and left Fanny in peace.

The delicate green of the drawing room was burnished with gold by the evening sun; the long windows were open, and the babble of happy conversations floated through on the evening air. Fanny stepped out to join the rest of the party – the shadows were lengthening, the air starting to cool – and looked for the Knatchbulls.

There was Mary Dorothea, standing, awkward, beside the white wrought-iron bench, upon which sat the two youngest Knight girls, fresh as sweet peas in their simple pale dresses. Fanny could not help but let out a satisfied sigh. What a fetching pair they were, so decorously placed with the white rambling rose as their backdrop – as if Reynolds himself had arranged them. She paused for a moment to enjoy the tableau.

Louisa and Cassy held hands and laughed together – they could amuse each other endlessly, those particular two. Mary Dorothea lurked, with one ear bent down as if she were struggling to catch what the others were saying. Fanny thought that a little odd. She could not quite judge at that distance, but was quite sure her girls would not have been mumbling in an excluding sort of a fashion. That wouldn’t be like them at all, although perhaps she ought to pop over just to check there’d been no sort of misunderstanding. But just as she began to approach, Ned burst through the garden door and strode to her side.

‘My little friends not down yet?’ He grabbed a glass from a tray and took a good draught of sherry. ‘Not too surprised. Quite the day of it. Knocked out, shouldn’t wonder. Ha!’ He breathed out, tipped up his glass and drained it.

‘Little friends?’ Fanny asked, distracted – her eyes were still on Louisa and Cassy.

‘The boys!’ Ned put his empty glass down on one passing tray. ‘Tickling trout, most of the day. Never tickled, poor little chap—’ Then he grabbed a new drink from another. ‘Time for some excellent bathing, too. Will did all his tricks and the poor fellow’s eyes half popped from his head when he—’

Fanny blinked, came to, turned and focused on Ned for the first time. ‘Sorry, dearest. I don’t think I was quite listening. Forgive me. Who are we talking about exactly? William did his tricks ’ – she chose not to enquire what these tricks might be. That was best left until later – ‘for whom ?’

Ned made a barking noise. ‘What on earth is the matter, Fan? Standing there looking at me like I’m a turnip.’ He waved one hand in front of her eyes, as if returning her from a trance. ‘Your young Norton, of course!’ He took another huge gulp. ‘We all spent the whole day with him, showed him some fun. Must say, he seemed rather a stranger to it.’ Fanny looked at him, baffled. ‘Fun, I mean. As in: never had any. Warmed up eventually. I say.’ He lowered his voice and tilted his head towards his big sister. ‘That was the right thing, surely? Make the boy feel at home?’

‘Oh, heavens! Yes, of course!’ Fanny put her arm through his and laid her head on his shoulder. ’You are such a dear, kind soul.’ This was getting rather awkward. Even Ned had devoted his day to the comfort of the Knatchbulls. It seemed everyone had, except Fanny.

‘He was saying he has three younger brothers, too,’ Ned rattled on cheerfully. ‘They were not able to come today?’

‘Sadly not,’ replied Fanny, who, to her shame, had not even noticed their absence.

‘You have met them elsewhere, I take it?’ Ned raised an eyebrow, then shook his head. ‘But of course! Sir Edward is hardly going to engage himself to a lady without his children’s approval!’

Rather than admit the terrible truth – not only did Fanny not know the children, she was not even sure of their names – she simply smiled and said, ‘Forgive me, I must just speak to little Mary.’

Now in a fog of great mortification, she moved towards the three girls. But at that very same moment, Sir Edward and her father stepped out on to the terrace, blocking her path. She looked around wildly for poor Norton, just as the second gong struck. She resolved to sit by them at dinner, but her papa insisted on placing her between him and her fiancé. Fanny could only sit down and hope for the best.

The Godmersham table was well known and generally loved for its gentle informality. Though the house was equipped well enough for grand entertainment – the hall was magnificent; the reception rooms plentiful; the dining room splendid – nothing of that kind ever occurred, for the simple reason that Mr Austen Knight did not want or require it. There were no dances, no balls, and should some dignitary pass through the locality, he would not be invited to dine. Their visitors were almost always just family or neighbours, and the resident children, generally being enough to form the majority of diners, were allowed to set the conversational tone.

Fanny not only loved the atmosphere of the family home, she also took pride in it, which she was entitled to do. After all, it was, in the most part, her own creation, she having been the de facto lady of the house for so many years. This first dinner was, to her mind, her great opportunity to display the sort of relaxed conviviality that was her hallmark. Sir Edward would love her, his children might warm to her and, it was hoped, the bond between the two families would start to grow.

As the footmen moved around the table with the meat and fish, Fanny waited for one of her siblings to start up with some harmless prattle. Who would be first, she wondered, while selecting a delicate pink slice of salmon. Her brother, George, with some apocryphal Oxford lark, or Lizzie on the genius of her firstborn?

In fact, it was Sir Edward: ‘An affectionate, large family around a large table is an excellent sight, I must say. One I hope we will recreate when we are established, my dear?’

Fanny preened and nodded. Not only had he noticed, he had appreciated! Her fiancé was a fine man indeed.

Her father, though, looked a little confused. ‘You come from a great family yourself, Sir Edward, do you not?’

‘We have the numbers, that is certainly true,’ Sir Edward conceded. ‘Harmony, however, has proven to be quite elusive.’ He speared a great side of beef. ‘Sadly, I did not enjoy good terms with my father, nor with the lady who is now his widow. And alas, also one or two of my brothers – four at a pinch – are not always the easiest company.’ He picked up his cutlery and set to his plate. ‘I find it simplest to have nothing to do with them.’ Despite so much misfortune, Fanny could not help but notice his appetite was robust.

‘Then I am sorry for it,’ said Mr Austen Knight, with great feeling, ‘and for the great unease such a fissure must cause you.’ At the very thought of it, his kind face was cross-stitched with pain. ‘Were I so afflicted, I cannot imagine ever enjoying even a moment’s contentment.’

Sir Edward held up a finger while he cleared a particularly large mouthful. ‘It could be distressing, if I so let it.’ He swallowed. ‘But having thought long and hard about each particular circumstance’ – he dabbed napkin to chin – ‘I can feel secure in the knowledge that, in every instance, Right has been on my own side.’

Despite the heat of the day, Fanny felt a sudden chill in the dining room. Goosebumps appeared on her bare arms. She beckoned a servant and bade him close all the windows, by which time Sir Edward had changed the conversational subject. Rather like a general inspecting his troops, he had begun to make his way around the table, with the clear intention of slowly – very, very slowly – interviewing each diner.

William Knight was the first to come under scrutiny, which was a relief: no one on earth could object to sweet William. Also, he was destined for the Church – what could be more satisfactory than that? But next up was Ned, and Fanny’s heart sank. It was not that she was embarrassed by her brother or her husband-to-be – each man was excellent, in his own way . They were simply different, that was all. But still, surely for her sake, some commonality might somewhere be found …

‘And what occupies you , Knight?’ Sir Edward’s voice seemed a little louder than usual. One might even call it a boom. She could hear the low, stifled giggles of her sisters.

Ned beamed. ‘An excellent question, sir, at this time of year. On the cusp of the seasons, one never knows quite which way to turn, eh?’ He put down his fork and leaned back in his chair. ‘Still the weather for cricket, of course. Spot of bathing? Not yet out of the question, as this afternoon proved.’ A hand through the hair. ‘But then along come those infernal birds …’ He brought a phantom gun to his shoulder, narrowed one eye, groped for an imaginary trigger. ‘Irresistible, obviously . So …’ He spread out his hands in an invitation of sympathy. ‘Truly hard to commit , one way or the other.’

Sir Edward sat, flushed and speechless; Ned smiled his winning smile; Mr Austen Knight interceded as an innkeeper might at a brawl.

‘On the business side,’ Mr Austen Knight rushed to explain, ‘my son has recently begun living on our Hampshire estate, over at Chawton. It is a happy arrangement that suits us both very well. Does it not, Ned?

Ned, at last aware that he had somehow committed a rare social failure without quite putting his finger on how, nodded.

‘I continue to run things here, while he learns the business of estate management over there, beneath my watchful eye. I must say’– Mr Austen Knight smiled – ‘that, so far, I am delighted with the aptitude, diligence and skill he has shown. I am already confident that, in time, Ned will prove a worthy heir and head of the Knight family.’

Sir Edward gave a still-sceptical grunt.

‘And of course’ – Mr Austen Knight clearly felt yet more might be helpful – ‘other options are being considered.’

Ned, mildly panicked, looked at his father, seemingly requiring a reminder as to what these options might be.

‘Last evening,’ Mr Austen Knight said, his eyes on his son, in the tones of a tutor coaching a pupil, ‘we were discussing the seat in Hampshire and the possibility that Ned might stand for Parliament, were we not?’

Ned’s face cleared. ‘So we were, Father!’ He was now happily reconnected with his strong social self-confidence. ‘Splendid part of the world – know it at all? Excellent people – kind enough to suggest I might give it a whirl – thought it could be amusing – hustings do look rather fun. I say, sir, you are now in the same line, are you not? We could end up in Westminster together! Happy this, happy that, band of brothers, so on, so forth …’ He was quite liberally spraying his unique charm around the Godmersham dining room.

Yet Sir Edward remained uncharmed. ‘My dear young Knight,’ he intoned. ‘Representing one’s own community …’

There followed a short treatise on parliamentary democracy. Fanny put down her spoon. She had rather lost her appetite.

‘And I wonder if you have even yet considered the huge cost of the endeavour?’ Sir Edward went on.

There then came a merciful pause, during which Sir Edward recharged both his plate and his wine glass and Fanny dared hope he might drop the subject. But with strength reinforced, he returned to the fray.

‘POLITICS’ – his voice was pitched more for a countywide open-air meeting than a family dinner – ‘is neither a SPORT, nor a GAME, sir!’

And at that, Ned suddenly met with the end of his tether. ‘And more is the pity!’ His fist thumped down on to the table. ‘The country might be a much better place if it were!’

As her brothers gave voice to their approval, Fanny’s heart sank.

Tilting her head towards her plate, she peered around the table from under her lashes. She had so wanted Sir Edward to make a good first impression on her big family. Sadly, this was not a promising start. She knew Lizzie’s hostility was set in well before dinner. One course down and it was clearly solidified. Even Marianne – the famous friend of all living things – looked a little concerned.

Curiously, the only person who seemed to be enjoying the evening was Mary Dorothea. The dead eyes now sparkled; those pale, invisible lips were rosy and host to a smile. Her pallid face was lit up with amusement and rapt admiration.

The child must love her father very much indeed, Fanny thought. And her anxiety duly increased.