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CHAPTER VI

It was a few weeks later, in the middle of September, that Fanny discovered she had been mistaken.

On this particular morning – though she was quite sure she had been as diligent as ever – discussions with Cook had proceeded at an excellent speed. And when the menus were settled and Fanny emerged into the hall, she saw from the clock she had won a few minutes to spare.

‘Excellent!’ She spoke over her shoulder. ‘We just have time to pop into the schoolroom.’ As she passed the hall table, Fanny noticed the second post laid out, and yet another letter from Sir Edward had arrived. Tucking it into her dress, she headed for the staircase and lifted her skirts to the ankle. ‘Marianne. Please. ’

Although Fanny knew she would not be leaving Godmersham for a long time yet, she was insistent that her younger sister, Marianne, shadow her throughout the day so as to be fully prepared when the difficult moment eventually came. ‘Do hurry along.’ If only Marianne showed just a little enthusiasm for the many tasks in hand.

‘Oh yes, Fan.’ There was a tone in Marianne’s voice which sounded horribly like something close to bored. ‘I am quite sure you are right.’ She stopped, looked out of the window and immediately brightened. ‘Do look! There goes Ned out for a canter.’

‘My dear, if we stopped to watch every time a brother took to a saddle then nothing would get done at all.’ Fanny reached back, grabbed Marianne’s arm and marched her up the next flight.

‘He has promised to take me to the Ashford Assembly while he is home,’ Marianne chattered on. ‘I thought I might wear my—’

‘You really must at least try to concentrate.’ They had now reached the attic. ‘Running this house is very important work. The whole family depends on it.’ They moved briskly down the corridor, and arrived at the door of the schoolroom.

‘Think of these young girls, for example. I know it is hard to accept when you were so recently of their number, but they are soon to be your responsibility, and when Sir Edward has engaged a new governess, she will come under your jurisdiction.’

Fanny’s hand went to turn the doorknob when Marianne’s own came down to prevent her.

‘If I may, Fanny’ – Marianne’s voice was as sweet as her dear, pretty face – ‘there is one thing I do not yet quite understand.’

‘Then do say, dear!’ Fanny was so eager to teach, the question delighted her. ‘Anything! You must always ask.’

‘It is on this very matter of girls in the schoolroom – the number of girls, that is.’ Marianne smiled prettily. ‘Of course I would be happy to look after Louisa and Cassy – that is, if I am still here myself.’

Funny girl! Where on earth did she think she might be? ‘And you shall do so splendidly, I’m sure of it.’ Fanny did like to encourage wherever possible.

‘Certainly until I am properly out – remember? – and my situation is changed,’ Marianne shot back.

‘Of course! Do not think I have forgotten my promise.’ Fanny smiled, though she had forgotten it completely.

‘Thank you, dearest. Now, to return to the girls.’ Her eyes twinkled with the hint of an affection which her voice did not betray. ‘I am happy to take them on while I can. After all, they are my sisters! Mary Dorothea, however, is not .’

Fanny jumped back as if scalded.

Marianne continued. ‘You say the three girls are to be taught together, even once you are wed. But, Fan, what does that mean exactly and have you discussed it with them ? Do you intend to remove my sisters from their family home, here?’ Her tone was one of genuine, concerned enquiry. ‘Or Mary Dorothea from her own?’

As she had not quite thought all that through – was it not, now she remembered it, all Sir Edward’s idea? – Fanny struggled to answer.

‘Perhaps you might let me know when the matter is settled, as your decision will, naturally, have a significant effect upon us all.’ Marianne opened the door then herself. ‘Let us go in.’ And swished into the schoolroom.

Fanny stood in the entrance, studied the girls at the table – heads bent over bibles – and pondered. It appeared that, unless she was madly mistaken, she had just received a significant reprimand. And from Marianne, of all people. She would like to be able to bristle with rage at the cheek of it, but the truth was it was quite well deserved.

Since the day she arrived in Godmersham, Mary Dorothea had received exquisite care – cook, governess and, she had to presume, all the Knight girls had made every effort to put the child at her ease. And with one maid in particular – dear Booker: a nice enough girl – Mary had formed a very strong bond, or so it was said. Yet, for some reason, Fanny – so famously good with children of all types and ages – felt some resistance to this girl in particular, which she was struggling to overcome.

What was it about her exactly? Mary Dorothea presented no difficulties and her behaviour was never less than impeccable. Fanny had been given no reason at all to dislike the poor child, but still she found herself going to some lengths to avoid her.

Would Mary like to continue living at Godmersham, or did she long to return to her own home? Fanny did not know her well enough to even guess at the answer. What she ought to do, she knew, was lead the girl out of the schoolroom and spend the morning with her quite alone. And she determined to do so, but before that, there was the small matter of the new letter from dear Sir Edward.

As was so often the way in life, for the Lord is kind, the unfortunate timing of Sir Edward’s long business trip had turned out to be a great blessing. The terrible shyness which bedevilled Fanny when the couple met in person was no problem at all when she could hide behind her pen. Their correspondence had been honest from the beginning, and was now developing into something quite close to intimacy – romance, indeed. Her fiancé’s letters were now the highlight of Fanny’s long, busy days. She was beginning to approach something quite close to a version of a woman in love.

Fanny drifted into the familiar, friendly schoolroom, settled down in the nursing chair beneath the chart of the Kings and Queens of England and, with a warm glow of almost sensual anticipation, opened up the latest. The shock of its contents was such that she could not help but gasp out loud.

‘Fan! What on earth?’ It was Marianne who spoke, but all five pairs of startled, feminine eyes were upon her.

‘Sir Edward!’ gasped Fanny. ‘He says—’ She read it again. ‘No, he cannot possibly mean it!’

‘Has something happened to my papa?’ Mary Dorothea enquired in her expressionless way. Her interest in the matter seemed nothing beyond the mild or polite.

‘Oh my dear! Not at all. Pray, forgive me. I am overreacting. It is simply that’ – she spoke to the room – ‘Sir Edward has expressed his wish to be married as soon as possible.’

‘No!’ shrieked Marianne. ‘But how soon?’

Fanny went back to the letter, hands shaking as she read on. ‘Before Christmas, indeed.’ She turned over the page. ‘Oh, possibly even next month!’

Fanny suddenly felt just a little unwell, as if she had eaten something which now disagreed with her. Through the new buzzing in her ears, she picked up the distant sound of Louisa shouting: ‘Smelling salts! Now!’

And Cassy calling: ‘Nurse, someone fetch Nurse!’

And Fanny was about to protest that – No, no! – it was nothing serious. She was just being silly. Truly, she was perfectly fine.

Then she looked up and across. And saw Marianne, completely passed out on the floor.

Fanny was sitting in the calming, pale blue silk surroundings of her own private dressing room, sewing his monogram on to a cravat for Sir Edward, when Sayce stuck her head around the door and announced, ‘Madam, Miss Knatchbull.’

‘Ah, yes.’ Fanny tucked in the needle, placed the silk down on the sofa beside her, rose, extended both hands and smiled her sweetest of smiles. ‘Mary Dorothea.’

Mary curtseyed and stood, clutching her bag. Someone – perhaps Marianne? Fanny knew not – had provided a lawn day dress with a subtle sprig pattern of elegant simplicity, which rather suited the girl. Certainly, she appeared a little less plain.

‘I thought we might work together this afternoon?’ Fanny gestured towards the little pink plush armchair. ‘I hope you would like that, my dear?’

‘Thank you, madam.’ Mary sat.

‘Dear child!’ Fanny sank back on to the chaise longue and smoothed down her day dress. ‘Not madam, I beg of you! There is no need for such formality with me .’

‘Then pray do forgive me.’ Mary bit her lip, thought and then added, with a tentative up-lift: ‘ Step mother?’

‘Goodness.’ The child might as well have run her through with a rapier. ‘Stepmother is such a formal type of address, do you not think?’ Fanny let out a light little laugh.

For over a decade, the word had been laden with doom for the Knight siblings – a fear; a threat; an object of dread. When employed either in fiction or anecdote, it – or she – was always a negative. Had Fanny ever heard tell of a kind stepmother? The idea was quite paradoxical. Monstrous was the default.

So how very odd of Mary Dorothea to use the term! Of course, Fanny saw that their relationship could be described thus – officially , as it were. But surely it was impossible for anyone to really use the hideous word against her ? She was so good with children – ask anyone who knew her. Thoughtful, kind, diligent to a perfectly ridiculous degree. Look at the way she had raised her own siblings! They were all quite devoted . And while she and the child had not yet got off to the strongest of starts, there could be no doubt whatsoever that their future relationship would be anything less than exemplary. So to think of Fanny – of all people! – as a typical stepmother: well, it was patently absurd.

‘My dear, it would please me if, from now on, you would call me “Mama”.’ So keen was Fanny to come across as warm and encouraging that she was starting to develop the face-ache. ‘Do you think you might like that?’

Mary, who had chosen that very moment to rummage in her work bag with purpose, looked up. ‘Thank you.’ She held Fanny’s gaze for a little longer than might be considered quite natural. ‘ Mama. ’

‘There. It is good, is it not, to have that behind us?’

To demonstrate exactly how adept she was at conversing at a thirteen-year old level, Fanny then showed a keen interest in that which Mary was making – took a moment to advise on the perfection of satin stitch – before returning to the cravat and getting to the point.

‘It has occurred to me that the suddenness of my engagement to your beloved papa might have come to you as something like, well, a shock, I suppose.’ Already Fanny erred on the side of dishonesty, for it had not occurred to her at all, until Marianne raised the matter.

Mary looked up from her work, betrayed no expression, then bent her head down again.

‘And now, perhaps, the – well – again all the talk of the possible immediacy of a wedding might have compounded that feeling?’

It seemed Fanny had posed a question to which there was no possible right answer. ‘I hope you are happy …’ Mary paused, as if her words were a difficult melody and the next bar was a rest. ‘… Mama?’

It was all so horribly awkward that, on the spur of the moment, Fanny decided to take a huge risk. She dropped the silk into her lap. ‘If I am to be completely honest – and as we are one day to live together, then I think that is what we should both try to be – it is not the way I would prefer it at all, and I have written to your father to say so.’

Fanny sighed. ‘Getting married is a very big step for a lady, as you, my dear, will learn in good time.’

It was not always easy to see the adult in a child and in Mary Dorothea it was nigh impossible. The idea that she might one day be courted or wed seemed more than unusually far-fetched, but stranger things had been known. And, anyway, it felt to Fanny like a kindness to talk to the girl as if she might have some sort of potential romantic future.

‘I do not take easily to change. It unsettles me rather – well, greatly indeed. And as we are not so very well acquainted, I would prefer more time for your father and me to get to know one another better.’

Mary gazed back at her, and slowly blinked.

‘Furthermore, Hatch is not quite ready for—’

Mary, who had spent some months living there with her father and brothers and clearly survived it, cocked her head to one side.

‘Altogether,’ Fanny rushed on, ‘it would be best for everybody if I could be present for one last Christmas in Godmersham. Marianne is not yet prepared, and—’

And when Fanny thought of her whole family coming together without her, she wanted to lie down and cry.

‘—and so on. I am sure your kind father will quite understand my position.’ Her voice was firm, to illustrate her confidence. ‘Besides which, I am of the view that it would be advantageous if you and I also had the opportunity to deepen our relationship. To which end, I have had a little idea.’

Mary began a great display of checking her stitches. Fanny found she was directing her most winning of smiles on the parting to Mary’s unfortunate hair.

‘How would you like it if, before breakfast every morning – before I am dressed, even – you come to my room and we take tea in bed together? Just the two of us! I do think that would be rather cosy, don’t you?’

Mary looked up. ‘Oh.’ Her attempt at a smile was less than half-hearted. ‘Yes. Thank you.’ A particularly long minim. ‘Mama.’