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CHAPTER VII

On the 24th day of October 1820 – seven short weeks from the surprising proposal – Fanny Knight suddenly found herself wed.

Unfortunately, her wish to delay the occasion for months – even years – did not coincide with Sir Edward’s own plans. It seemed he expected to be busy in Parliament in January and therefore required that Fanny be installed before then to look after his children and his home. And if she were to insist on one last Godmersham Christmas, then he would have no choice but to go abroad for at least two years.

Fanny found the logic of this last a little confusing – surely if he did go abroad, he could hardly leave children, home or indeed Parliament to their own devices. But such was his passion on the matter – she had never before heard him quite so aroused – that she gave in almost at once. After all, announcing the engagement had been traumatic enough; the idea of calling it off was too much to bear.

It was a brief, plain service in her beloved little Godmersham church, quite as solemn and serious as its participants could have possibly desired. And though she might have hoped – in fact, quite often dreamed of – a glorious moment afterwards, in the pretty churchyard with bells and villagers and all eyes upon her, that was not to be.

Fanny was forced to wait in the porch while her brothers constructed a canopy with which to protect her. Then, hunching beneath it – clutching her dress to keep hem from mud – she was forced to make a mad dash. There were certainly cries of great jubilation, she was sure of it, though they were all but extinguished by the noise of the rain. Rose petals were definitely thrown – she had organised that herself – even if they did plunge straight to earth and melt into the puddles. Fanny was touched by the sight of the well-wishers crowding the path from church to gate, but her progress was too swift to be considered triumphal. Before she could even try to enjoy it, she was enclosed in the deafening quiet of the coach, her new husband beside her.

‘That seemed to pass off very well.’ Sir Edward leaned forward to rap on the front wall of the coach and, with a lurch and a sway, they started, very slowly, to move.

Fanny looked out of the window – through the rivulets that coursed down the glass – and captured one final image of the witnesses. None of the Knatchbull children were present – for some reason, Sir Edward had thought it best that they were elsewhere. But the dear Godmersham family was, of course, all on parade. Ned and George – tall, broad and strong – wrapped their arms around each other and held up their handsome, laughing faces to drink in the rain. William leaped up and thrust through between them, and they both boxed his ears. Lizzie and her husband sheltered beneath the old elm, sharing some sweet conversation. Two of her three bridesmaids, Louisa and Cassy, picked up their skirts and ran to the gate, waving and calling her name. If Fanny was at all concerned for the future welfare of her Knight siblings, then this was a comforting sight. Each had his or her favourite; each was safe, folded into – forever protected by – a particular group. She could see, with a pang, that they did not desperately need her.

Only the third bridesmaid, Marianne, came alone, some distance behind them. Her tread was more careful – she was jumping from one island of grass to the next, and walking on tiptoe. What a curious performance, thought Fanny with slight irritation. Until she was close enough for Fanny to identify the chosen footwear.

She was wearing her lovely white dancing shoes! Oh, for heaven’s sake. Only Marianne Knight could be so foolish as to wear silk in such weather. Fanny was half-minded to rap on the glass and tick her off. After all, now what would the girl put on her feet next time she went to a ball? And only then did she remember. The past month had been such a terrible rush. And really and truly her hands had been full. But still, she had promised and now did feel a slight stab of guilt. In all the bother, she had totally forgotten. Not that it mattered really, any more, given how things had turned out for her. But in the end, Marianne never had been officially brought ‘out’.

Beside the happy couple waited a smaller coach, carrying the servants who were accompanying Fanny into her new life: Sayce – dear Sayce! What a comfort it would be to have her – and Booker, who took no persuasion to continue with Mary, once the girl returned to live at Hatch. She craned her neck to meet their eyes, and issued a small, encouraging wave. After all, Fanny understood how hard it could be for staff to change households; she knew how hard it was for herself.

Her husband leaned over her shoulder, rubbed at the steam on the window, created a spyhole and said: ‘There, my dear. One last look at your family.’ He patted her knee. ‘Do they not look happy?’

And with that, Sir Edward and Lady Knatchbull set off for their new life at Mersham-le-Hatch.

The first months of married life passed with something quite close to ease. Fanny felt she had coped well enough with all of the various novelties that came with her new situation. Well, almost all – there was one in particular which still seemed a little unnatural. Still, even that turned out to be not quite as bad as one feared. And, for the rest, it was all starting to seem almost normal.

But there now rose up before her a whole new raft of challenges. In a matter of days would come Fanny’s first Christmas at Hatch. The children were all home – or, at least, in the nursery – and her husband had invited the most august of visitors to join them for the season.

‘Lady Banks.’ Sir Edward Knatchbull stepped out of the receiving line crowded around the top of the stairs from the north entrance, took her ladyship’s hand and bowed deeply. ‘Welcome to—’

‘Oh, r-r-really , Edward.’ His aunt, puffing a little at the exertion, steadied herself on the banister, patted his bent head and then, signalling impatience, beckoned him up. ‘I am your dearest aunt.’ She placed one gloved finger upon her highly painted cheek; Sir Edward planted the kiss in the position suggested. ‘Or I certainly should be, as you are my heir, eh?’ Lady Banks peered over his shoulder and gave Fanny a somewhat vulgar wink. ‘So, madam.’ She looked Fanny up and down as she hobbled towards her with an amused sort of eye. ‘I take it you are the Bride ?’

This Lady Banks who stood before her was some distance from the Lady Banks whom Fanny had been expecting. She had been prepared for someone slightly grander, more forbidding than Marie-Antoinette. This person was – well – considerably less so. Her unusually short stature and uncommonly round form were both accentuated by a singular dress style. But no doubt the thick tweed, tied around the middle by something somewhat reminiscent of string, was selected for warmth. Fanny fell into a curtsey, too confounded to speak.

‘Lovely, dear. Very pleasant, I’m sure.’ Lady Banks was now tottering down the line of servants, flicking her hand in dismissal – ‘Yes, yes. Very good. No doubt there is work to do. Off you go! Shoo!’ – until she came to the end, whereupon she turned on her heel and barked at Sir Edward: ‘And where is my cher-r-rub ?’

‘Ah. Perhaps in the nursery wing?’ Fanny had never seen her husband look quite so discomfited. ‘Possibly with her brother?’

‘Norton?’ Lady Banks gave a grunt. ‘My need of Norton is less than urgent.’

Poor Norton, thought Fanny.

‘However, my little girl: I suggest you r-r-root her out and bring her to me at once.’ Lady Banks unpinned her hat. Wild white hair stood out on all sides like a dandelion meadow in seed. ‘Mary Dorothea is why I am here , after all.’ She peeled off her gloves. ‘And in my view, it is as well, Edward’ – she tossed a shawl from her shoulders and into the hands of a waiting maid – ‘to have some vague idea of one’s own children’s whereabouts.’ Leaning on her cane, she headed straight for the drawing room without being guided.

Fanny and Sir Edward exchanged glances of terror, before he took to the stairs and she picked up her skirts and trotted off in pursuit of their guest.

‘Dear, oh dear.’ Lady Banks limped towards the ‘best’ chair – Sir Edward’s, indeed – and installed herself within it. ‘Poor old Hatch. I have not been here since my late sister’s day. Those ghastly subsequent wives did make a mess of it, did they not?’ Her eye was caught by a length of silk peeling back from the wall. ‘Do look!’ She shook her head sadly. ‘I regret to inform you, my dear Lady Knatchbull, that your late father-in-law – may God rest his soul, though He may have other priorities and no mortal could blame Him – was the most terrible rogue.

‘Still, I have discussed it with your husband. What is wealth, after all, if one cannot help one’s young when help is required?’

Was she referring to Fanny and Sir Edward? How very refreshing to be thought of as young.

‘I suggest you sit there.’ Lady Banks pointed her cane at a harder chair, a little further from the fire. ‘You might find it a trifle more sanitary than the rest.

‘Now. I have been very much looking forward to this little interview. I am sorry we have not met before now. It was sweet of you to ask me and my fault entirely, but on this matter my views are well known: there is only one thing worse than a funeral, and that is a wedding. Tell me, my dear, was it completely unbearable?’ Her face twisted with sympathy. ‘In my view, it is generally the poor bride who suffers the most.’

While Fanny merely stared at her blankly, her ladyship glanced around, saw the hovering footman and spoke up: ‘Shall we take tea?

‘And here we are,’ Lady Banks began as footmen and maids went into a flurry, ‘gathering for Christmas: a time to r-r-reflect.’ She gazed into the flames of the fire. ‘We have had very different years, you and I – you having gained a husband, and I having lost one.’

‘May I offer my deepest condolences,’ Fanny began. These were the first words she had spoken since the great guest’s arrival. ‘I am so sorry to miss the honour of meeting Sir Joseph. He was a great man, so very distinguished—’

‘Indeed, indeed.’ When she nodded, Lady Banks’s heavy jowls shook like blancmange. ‘And the easiest of husbands, of course, for he was so often away , and for excessively long periods. Captain Cook could be very demanding, you know. And Australia’ – Lady Banks leaned in, dropping her voice as if sharing a rare jewel of marital advice – ‘really is the most exceptional distance from our own shores.’

Fanny played safe with an ‘Ah’.

‘To sum up: it was the very best sort of marriage, the like of which, I r-r-regret’ – she looked up at Fanny, square in the eye – ‘you are unlikely ever to know.’ Her tone suggested something close to a death in the family. ‘Unfortunately, we cannot hope that my nephew will be travelling much without you beside him. I know from the last marriage to dear Annabella – forgive the indelicate mention, my dear, but a spade simply will be a spade – it is not his way . Perhaps a few days in London, I suppose, when the House is sitting; the odd journey to Lincoln on my behalf – and if you ever want me to increase these, do’ – she held up a gnarled hand – ‘just say the word. It is hardly Australia; nonetheless, it is something … Otherwise …’ She closed her eyes as she sighed: ‘I fear he will be most often around.’ Her whole head shook with pity. ‘I do hope you are up to it? Not everyone would be, my dear. Not by a long chalk.’

Fanny, mute, fumbled with the cake stand.

‘All of which brings me on to my next point.’ Lady Banks sipped her tea and examined the pattern on the china with a small moue of disappointment. ‘And that is your husband’s character.’

She dismissed the sad dish back to its saucer, and lifted her gimlet eyes back to Fanny.

‘Do not look so alarmed! Sir Edward is essentially a good man, of whom I am fond. But you should be aware that a hot streak of temper runs through that family. You are no doubt already aware of the brother in gaol —’

Fanny had heard, of course, but from other sources. The fact that Sir Edward himself never mentioned the man, she had chosen to take as a comfort. Surely it was just a trifling matter?

‘The sooner they hang him the better, in my view.’

Oh good heavens! Fanny felt rather faint.

‘Naturally, your dear husband is made of much finer stuff, and must not be tarred with the fraternal br-r-ush . Nevertheless, he will still require your control . Dear Annabella – God rest her soul – managed him very well, but then she was a first wife. They grew up together. She had some power .’

Fanny was not sure that she could bear much more of this. She glanced over at the door, and silently begged it to open. Meanwhile, Lady Banks settled further into her chair, with the air of one at last arriving at her salient point.

‘My dear, I must declare my concern that you and Sir Edward may not proceed in the spirit of equality . While I am not entirely against second marriages, there is an art to them. You are the younger; he is established. He will expect your support, and you will no doubt provide it. Yet it is imperative that you do not surrender all sense. He will make mistakes; you must guide him to righteousness. He will let his passions o’errule his head; you must be the one to pour on the oil. And should you fail – oh, mark my words! – the r-r-result will be r-r-regrettable for all concerned.’

‘Thank you for your advice, Lady Banks.’ Though Fanny, who had so far been enjoying her new life of complete acquiescence, had no intention of heeding it. ‘Now, perhaps if you will excuse me?’ She started to rise, suddenly overwhelmed with the need for a little lie-down.

But it seemed Lady Banks was not finished with her yet. ‘One other thing.’ She held up her hand and flexed at the wrist to bid Fanny sit again, as if she were a poodle. ‘All that being said, of course your husband should be merely your secondary concern. The children – poor, motherless darlings – must always be your absolute highest priority. Do you pledge to me, now that – Ah!’ The door had finally opened. Lady Banks smiled for the first time. ‘There she is!’

And Mary Dorothea almost skipped across the great threadbare carpet and stood, arms outstretched, before her great-aunt.

‘Oh, what a joy!’ exclaimed Lady Banks, pressing her head into Mary’s neck and inhaling deeply. ‘Is she not a joy, Edward?’

Sir Edward, who had brought his daughter in, could only watch on, too moved to speak.

Fanny could hardly believe it. She had been married for two months now, had known Mary since the summer, and had never before seen her show any affection. Now here she was, in an embrace with this quite – well – unexpected person, and seemed, of all things, to be giggling.

Lady Banks held out the child and smiled at her fondly. ‘I think it is your prattle I miss most, my little darling. All your delicious little nothings. Do you not agree, Lady Knatchbull?’

Fanny, who was struggling to keep pace with events as they unfolded and was yet to get used to her new, married moniker, failed to respond.

‘Lady Knatchbull?’ The jowls began to vibrate with impatience. ‘Do you not find it unnaturally quiet when Mary is away?’

‘Ah. Indeed!’ The very idea of Mary Dorothea ‘prattling’ seemed to Fanny almost absurdly far-fetched. Indeed, she found it unnaturally quiet when the girl was around, as Mary spoke barely at all. But then, perhaps Fanny’s experience was somewhat limited.

The awkward truth was that, by some stroke of misfortune, Fanny and Mary had been very little in each other’s company. It seemed to be the child who was the busiest. She had been sent off, somewhere or other, while the wedding took place. And since then, of course, now Mary’s lessons were at Godmersham, it made sense for her to sleep there, while Fanny’s new life was with her husband in Hatch. In fact, with the four boys away, too, the young Knatchbulls were still, to Fanny, almost strangers.

‘It is a pleasure to have all them at home for our first Christmas together,’ Fanny said warmly. ‘I am looking forward to spending more time with the dear little things.’