FROM THE AUTHOR OF THE HIT BBC TV SERIES
MISS AUSTEN
Also by Gill Hornby
The Hive
All Together Now
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First published 2025 001
Copyright © Gill Hornby, 2025
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For Charlie, Sam and George, with love
A Note about Names
Edward Austen, brother of Jane, was adopted in his teens by a childless couple, Thomas and Catherine Knight, and became their heir to Godmersham Park in Kent, as well as Chawton in Hampshire. When Thomas Knight died, Edward took over both estates, but it wasn’t until Catherine Knight’s death, in 1812, that he took full possession. And it was in that year, as he was obliged under the terms of the will, that he changed his name. From then on, he was known as Edward Austen Knight, and decided that his eleven children would drop the Austen altogether and became simply ‘Knight’. How I miss being dear old Austen, his eldest daughter, Fanny, wrote in her journal.
This novel is based on the true story of the Knight family after that time, a period in which, by an unfortunate coincidence, three of the main actors share the name Edward. Though there is no record of his family ever using the diminutive, I have, for simplicity’s sake, taken the liberty of renaming Edward Knight II: Ned.
I leave it to be settled, by whomsoever it may concern, whether the tendency of this work be altogether to recommend parental tyranny, or reward filial disobedience.
Jane Austen, Northanger Abbey
the families
The Knights of Godmersham Park
EDWARD AUSTEN KNIGHT, widowed father and elder brother of Jane
And his eleven children:
FANNY KNIGHT
EDWARD KNIGHT, ‘NED’, heir to the estate
GEORGE
HENRY
WILLIAM
LIZZIE
MARIANNE
CHARLES
LOUISA
CASSY
BROOK JOHN
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SAYCE, Fanny’s Maid
MR JOHNCOCK, the Butler
BOOKER, Maid to the children
MRS SALKELD, the Housekeeper
SACKREE, known to the children as ‘CAKEY’, the Head Nurse
The Knatchbulls of Mersham-le-Hatch
SIR EDWARD KNATCHBULL, widowed father
His aunt: LADY BANKS, widow of Sir Joseph Banks, the distinguished botanist
And his children:
MARY DOROTHEA
NORTON
EDWARD (died 1818)
CHARLES
WYNDHAM
JOHN
The
Austens of Chawton Cottage
MRS AUSTEN, mother of Jane
MISS CASSANDRA AUSTEN, Jane’s sister
On the morning of the 25th day of May, in the year 1826, Miss Cassandra Austen settled herself down at the corner window of her dear Chawton cottage, and waited. Though the light was just so – such pretty, spring weather they were blessed with this year! – her mind was too full for work. And, as this promised to be a significant day in her own personal history, she should preserve all her energies for later. So instead, she simply sat – this was quite out of character – with empty hands clasped in an empty lap, and eyes firmly trained on the Winchester Road. But rather like a watched kettle, the longer she stared, the sleepier it seemed to become.
The new lad from the farm, White’s youngest boy, brought up her milk; Cassandra waved, mouthed her thanks and signalled to leave the pail at the kitchen so
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that she did not have to move. Ten minutes later, there came the sound of hooves; the first stirrings of dust. She stiffened, alert. But it was only a humble pony-and-trap and, of course, that could hardly be them.
At last, she lost patience. Really, she chided herself, what on earth was the matter with her? Miss Austen was, famously, never known to be idle, and there was a mound of darning yet to be done. She rose to retrieve it, caught the sight of her latest letters piled up on the table, and smiled. These past two weeks, Cassandra had received more correspondence than she had in her youth! Even the post boy, by nature so sullen, had been provoked into raising a brow. Dear brother Edward, her many prurient sisters-in-law and Fanny, of course – poor girl, how she suffered – they had all taken the trouble to write often, at length. And though she should rightly be touched to be kept so closely informed – after all, she was hardly a principal in this particular drama – instead, Cassandra suspected their motives.
For were they not, in fact, trying to set the agenda? After an event such as this, a narrative quickly takes hold and turns into popular legend. Some wanted to see tragedy; a few preferred scandal, though was that not typical? The more sensible took the view that the best should be made of it. Well, she had no need of their guidance, though she thanked them very much. Cassandra Austen was perfectly able to make up her own mind. Indeed, she already had.
She marched to the work basket, took it back to the window, and let out a chuckle. Oh – was there ever a family such as her own! Though her life had not been without its misfortunes, in that particular moment Cassandra could see only the privileges. She held a stocking to the light, decreed it past saving, set it aside – it was bound to come in for some other purpose – and reached for the next. Certainly, her seat at the edge of this great, never-ending saga was never known to be boring: this was merely the latest instalment. The things this new generation got up to! One could scarcely have imagined it, back in that closed little world of the Steventon Rectory in which the Austens began . . .
As she chose the best thread for a jerkin, there came a sudden commotion. Cassandra tightened her grip; leaned forward: face pressed to the window. And yes! The coach-and-four in its unmistakeable livery. She must leave now – at once!
First, of course, she packed up the basket – any mess was abhorrent – then she went up the stairs to check on her mother. As ever, the poor lady was sleeping, but peaceful. Her moments of clarity were increasingly rare, but she knew no discomfort, which was a blessing, and the maid could be trusted to keep an eye. Those duties dispatched, Cassandra headed back down to the front door, grabbed a shawl and a bonnet and only then thought to remember her cane. She selected a good stick. One did not need a fall, on that day of all days. With a
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quick firm stride, she went out into the sunshine, turned right and set off for the Great House.
The route did have its challenges. There were significant hills to be taken both down and up and, lately, Cassandra found it a struggle. Of course, she could always find some good man in the village willing to take her by cart, but, on the whole, she preferred to stretch her old legs while she still could.
When her sister was alive, they had together been the most desperate walkers – that was their phrase. She passed the thatched cottages, crossed the lane, came to the top of the long drive – the first view of the mansion –and then paused. The blossom was heavy; the air purest green. The glorious vistas of Chawton, particularly at this time of the year – the cusp of the seasons – always brought Jane back to life in her mind.
And how she missed the dear one in that moment! They would have so much to discuss and would no doubt have done so late into the night. Feeling again the sharp pain of her absence – the loss was a wound that could never quite heal – Cassandra could not help but wonder: what would Jane have made of it all?
Fanny Knight of Godmersham Park was in the twentyeighth year of her settled existence when she suddenly found her life changed.
It was 30 August 1820, and she was late to breakfast that morning, having spent a hot, difficult hour in the linen cupboard with Mrs Salkeld. Fanny always aimed to do the more tiresome tasks early in the day, and there was little more tiresome than the counting of pillowslips or the company of the housekeeper. By the time she got to the table, the rest of the family had already left to pursue their various sporting interests.
Fanny made herself comfortable, poured her own tea and glanced through the long window. It was the third week of infernal hot weather and even the impeccable Godmersham lawn was baked brown as a biscuit. She
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surrendered to worry – on the subject of younger children, the force of the sun and the wearing of hats – and then determined to enjoy her moment of solitude before the next duties beckoned.
With one hand, she stirred; the other rifled through that morning’s post. A letter from Ned: no doubt a detailed account of some triumph against fish, fowl or Hampshire cricketer. Dear brother – few beings were safe. Fanny would save that to last. She raised the dish to her lips, saw the next was from her Aunt Cassandra, gave a tight little sigh and put that to one side. Fanny replaced dish upon saucer and, from what little had been left for her, selected something to eat.
The hand on the next packet was not immediately known to her. She turned it from front to back, decreed its author to be masculine – such strength and confidence in the stroke – and nibbled at the edge of a muffin. No doubt it would prove to be tedious; nevertheless, Fanny must own to some mild curiosity. After all, one simply never could tell. And in a deft balancing act of knife and bun, she sliced open the pages, skimmed the requisite address to her person, wishes for her health and read: You are the only person in whose society I can find happiness . . .
Good heavens! This seemed to be – no, it was surely impossible. And yet it was, categorically, so. Fanny held in her hand a declaration of love! The page started to tremble. Her heart thumped at her ribs. Again, doubt flooded in: oh, but she must be mistaken! Her eye raced on.
. . . and in whom I can trust the welfare of my children . . .
Fanny’s pulse found its pace; the muffin began its descent. The words ’welfare’ and ‘children’ were hardly in the lexicon of romance or high passion. And yet: Your confidence, if given to me, will not I hope be misplaced.
Was this, in fact, something yet more extraordinary? Indeed, was it not – might it possibly be – a proposal of marriage? Fanny read it again. It felt a little oblique, and certainly cautious – cautious in the extreme. Even after a third reading – it was really no more than a very brief note – she was forced to admit that at no point was the salient question directly asked of her.
Yet it was the work of mere seconds for Fanny’s brain to declare that it was indeed a proposal and, as proposals went, this one was, quite simply, a marvel. And not just because it was the first she had received for a good many years.
Everything about it was perfect. Yes, it was more pragmatic than passionate, but then was not Fanny herself? So its language was sensible and serious, but was not the holy sacrament of marriage? One would certainly hope so. And beyond all of that, it also had one more, startling virtue: it was wildly, dramatically and utterly unexpected.
Sir Edward Knatchbull, the author of these astonishing words, was not completely unknown to her. He was now approaching his fortieth year and the families had been neighbours, in country terms – their estates were some distance apart, but no person of much consequence lived
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in between – for a few generations. The widower had come to dine with the Knights a few weeks before; had been, for the first time, seated beside Fanny and each had seemed pleased to discover in the other a like, sober mind. Then, the Tuesday before last, he had – rather curiously, now Fanny looked back on it: as if visiting a stables to examine a possible new pony – brought his thirteen-year-old daughter over to call.
So he was not a stranger exactly, but nor, by any stretch, could Sir Edward possibly be described as her lover, or even a friend. No touch or look or moment of even hesitant intimacy had ever passed between them. This declaration came quite out of the blue.
Yet at once, Fanny knew in her heart that it was a serious proposal, for Sir Edward was well known to be a deeply serious man: one of sound Christian faith and profound moral certainty. Though it was possible there was a more frivolous side to him, she very much doubted it. His name was never mentioned in connection with any sport or games or amusements – or any sort of fun whatsoever. Sir Edward Knatchbull, the world was agreed, did not do things lightly.
Which was why Fanny found this development so very touching. Perhaps another young lady might have thought it too abrupt or too formal; not this one. If Fanny Knight were the type for swooning – as it happened, she was very much not – but if she could, she would swoon right there in the breakfast room.
For the last three months, her mind had been consumed by nothing above or beyond the Godmersham summer. The season had tripped on with its cricket and boating and bathing and races; visits had been received and return visits made. All that time, Fanny had spent thinking about and working hard towards the provision of pleasure to others. And only now was it revealed: all that time – well, some of it, certainly – Sir Edward Knatchbull had been thinking about her
Since the death of her mother twelve long years ago, Fanny – then just a girl, a mere fifteen years of age – had been in charge of the Godmersham world. She was the one plotting and scheming: the holidays, the schools; the doctors, the dentists; the guest lists, the menus. She was the secret intelligence that throbbed at the heart of every family, quite often unnoticed until it was gone. Half her young adult life had been spent behind the domestic scenery, every hour consumed with making other lives run smoothly. The welfare of her dearest papa, ten younger siblings and their nineteen servants was always uppermost in her mind. Try as she might, she could never rid herself of the notion that any insecurity they might feel was down to her laxness; the miseries they might suffer due only to her silly mistakes.
And now – it was quite dizzying to think of it – here was a whole other, previously un-thought-about person who seemed to harbour the desire to look after her! The secret intelligence of Sir Edward Knatchbull had formed
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an idea, taken a decision and propelled his physical self into action without her knowledge or say-so. He was offering to remove the heavy saddle of responsibility from Fanny’s back and take control of the reins. So what did it matter that the couple had never been lovers? So what if they had never shared a dance or held hands?
This was, to Fanny, the most romantic thing in the world.
Fanny’s first instinct was to find her father. Clutching the letter to her breast, she rushed from the breakfast room, across the hall and tapped at the door of the library.
‘Ah yes,’ came the voice from within. So he was already expecting her. ‘Enter, dearest – do!’
Mr Austen Knight was seated at his desk, face to the door, back to the window, also holding a piece of paper. And as she hurried towards him, Fanny saw that this, too, had been blessed by the hand of Sir Edward Knatchbull. Her father peered over the pages – his letter was the longer – and lifted one eyebrow. ‘Well, Fanny?’
‘Oh, Papa!’ Fanny gasped and fell into the nearest armchair. ‘I have never been so astonished by a thing in my life! Are you not astonished?’
Her father smiled benignly. If he felt any sort of surprise whatsoever, he was keeping it well under control.
‘Papa, you already knew?’ Fanny pressed her palms into
the pillows and sat up, ramrod. ‘This is not the first you have heard of the matter?’
Her father coughed, stood, made as if to perambulate, before losing confidence in the whole scheme and sitting quickly back down again. Fanny sensed he was nervous.
‘Perhaps, Fanny, if you cast your mind back’ – he was now focused intently on straightening his blotter – ‘you might remember the pleasant occasion upon which Sir Edward Knatchbull recently came here to dine?’
‘But of course, Papa. It was only last month!’ As if she wasn’t stirred up enough, Fanny felt the stirrings of impatience.
‘Quite so.’ It was suddenly imperative that the left side of the blotter be exactly perpendicular to the inkwell. ‘Then I can now explain that the arrangement followed a pleasant meeting between myself and the, er, the, um, gentleman in question.’
‘Indeed?’ Fanny felt rather affronted. She was, after all, the family’s intelligence. ‘And might I enquire where this meeting took place?’
Mr Knight looked up with the hangdog expression of a small boy admitting a crime. ‘In Canterbury,’ he replied miserably. ‘At the last Quarter Sessions.’ He cleared his throat. ‘As you may know, it is now six years since Sir Edward was widowed and his aim was to bravely continue as the dutiful, only parent to his much loved children. Having followed the same pattern myself, I know
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only too well how lonely and difficult such a situation can sometimes prove to be.’
Fanny stiffened. She had presumed that the immaculate care and concern which she had quite showered upon her father had been enough – more than enough –for him. That he should now suggest otherwise, after so many years of devotion: it was too much! Tears sprang to the daughter’s eyes. His confession struck Fanny as both terribly sad and a great personal slight. As they once used to say in the nursery: she had tried her absolute best.
Her father dropped his gaze. Perhaps after all it was the inkwell itself that was out of place? ‘Of course, with the death of his father, his situation is changed. Sir Edward has assumed the baronetcy, is now due to move into the family seat over at Mersham-le-Hatch and, when the House sits again, he will – by rights, perforce, as is quite natural – become the next Member of Parliament for East Kent.’
Ah. As the causes of the proposal were clarified, so the romance began swiftly to dim. Fanny could hardly help feeling a little humiliated. She retrieved from within her habitual, practical self; regathered her poise; rose from the armchair and started a stroll about the library.
‘So the responsibilities of his estate will be much more than those to which Sir Edward is so far accustomed.’ Fanny was aware of a certain archness of tone, but rather thought the situation required it. ‘I hear Hatch is a fine house indeed. The first private commission Robert Adam
ever completed, I believe.’ She turned to the bookshelves, grazed a long, delicate finger along the spines and casually flicked ‘Much land?’ over her shoulder, as if it were a fur tippet.
Her father seemed a little taken aback by this sudden change of approach. ‘It is certainly substantial though I fear I cannot, at this very moment, provide the exact acreage.’
‘Never mind.’ With a quick swish of muslin, Fanny returned to the armchair. ‘Now, the children.’ She rested her hands in her lap and gazed steadily at her father. When first she came in, her cheeks had been warm; they were now returned to their more natural coolness. ‘I had the pleasure of meeting his eldest, Mary Dorothea – a remarkably sweet child. Indeed, I have never before met one quite so keen to please.’
It had puzzled Fanny at the time. Of course, one wants the children to be biddable and courteous and so on and she was quite confident that she had raised her own siblings to be so. However, a little personality – individuality, certainly; even impudence, within reason – did add to their charms. But there had been something about Mary Dorothea’s behavioural perfection that had caused some unease . . . Studying the plain, colourless creature, looking into her eyes perhaps hoping to see into her soul, Fanny had found nothing beyond her own self reflected back. But of course, she was being silly. The child had been nervous, no doubt, and might improve over time. ‘And the rest are boys, if I am correct?’
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‘There were five sons when his wife died; four now remain.’
‘That is unfortunate.’ Fanny acknowledged the loss with a slight sombre nod, before moving on briskly: ‘Then I quite understand that, all things considered, Sir Edward Knatchbull is, indeed’ – she arched one fine eyebrow – ‘very much in want of a wife.’
‘Oh, my dear child!’ Her father rose, came round to the chair, half sat on its arm and took both Fanny’s hands. ‘I fear I have got this all wrong and done both you and Sir Edward a terrible disservice. Yes, it would be as well for him and his family if he were to marry again now. But at the same time – coincidentally—’
‘And conveniently!’ Fanny cut in.
‘It is, indisputably, convenient,’ her papa conceded. ‘But we must not let that distract from the fact that you, Miss Frances Knight, have captured his heart. Sir Edward spied you first last summer, at the Canterbury Races; then at the Fountain in the New Year. Our dinner here in July was more successful than you could possibly know. Yes, Sir Edward wants to get married, but he also very much desires to make you his wife. Both those things are true, and here’ – he tapped the letter still clutched in her hand – ‘on the record.
‘The only unknown now, my dear, is’ – he tipped Fanny’s chin and looked into her eyes – ‘what is your answer?’
On 1 September, Fanny sat at her dressing table and stared into the glass while Sayce, her maid, dressed her hair. It seemed extraordinary that, on this historic occasion, her reflection appeared to be completely unaltered. How could this be? Inside she was turmoil, yet there was her same physical self: eyes still shaped like an almond in the identical blue; nose long and yet slender; brow high and wide; hair of rich brown. The only evidence of change in her appearance was her colour. For the past twenty minutes, she had watched the blush on her face as she might watch the ebb and flow of the tide on their holidays in Sandgate.
Though she would always rather be pale, the first bloom to her cheeks she thought not unbecoming. But –alas – it did not stop there. The pink then built to a puce,
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spread to her neck and, all of a sudden, she appeared like a turkey in fear for its life. That was when Sayce came to the rescue with iced compress and lavender oil, which was all very well. But what, Fanny wanted to know, would happen at eleven o’clock in – oh goodness! – a mere half an hour, when she was due to be alone – entirely alone! –with Sir Edward in the library? There would be no Sayce then. With the dreadful weather – oh, when might it break? – she could hardly hope for even the slightest of breezes. Poor, kind Sir Edward: what would he make of his florid, hot, rather damp future bride?
Two long days had now passed since the interview in the library with her father, and Fanny felt she could look back with some pride on the composure she had mustered then. But, in truth, from the moment she left him –condemned to her own company; forced to confront her own future – she had fallen into the most terrible stew. And she so pragmatic and practical! The whole business was mortifying.
It was not even as if the decision to marry Sir Edward was anything other than straightforward. The proposal might have come as a shock, but it had also come at just the right moment. The catastrophe of her thirtieth birthday was not so very distant; one could hardly rely on another suitor discovering one before the event, and then after it . . . well,
one might as well surrender all hope. Contented though she was, and much as she loathed all changes, Fanny would like one day to know what it was to be a wife and a mother in control of her own home, and not only and forever the single daughter of one’s dear papa.
Furthermore, as an arrangement it was, if not a complete triumph, at least socially and economically sound. Fanny would be Lady Knatchbull – a promotion not to be sneezed at – in a mansion superior to her family’s own. So the case for the union was really quite overwhelming.
Be that as it may, she was also keen to create the impression that the match was something more than the dramatic, last-minute rescue of a desperate spinster who could hardly say no. The world was already more than aware that there had been no courtship to speak of. If it were also to learn that she accepted at once, then face might be lost. Before the happy ending was announced, she had felt the need to put on an extravagant display of great indecision. Those around must be seen to persuade her. Fanny Knight was – at last – a young lady with a new proposal in her hand and she meant to enjoy it.
It had been a long while since she had found herself in this situation. Indeed, dear Aunt Jane had still been alive then, and they had worried away at the issues together. Such a happy time! The letters had flown between them: Fanny begging for guidance (should she or shouldn’t she?); Aunt Jane returning with wise, loving counsel (but did he deserve her?). When it became clear that the young
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man in question had some other girl in his sights – was never, it transpired, even that keen on Fanny – the correspondence had rather petered out. Such a pity, when aunt and niece had been having such fun.
But she still remembered those few weeks of earnest romantic discussions with great fondness and it was perhaps in an attempt to recapture that earlier pleasure that Fanny fancied, for once in her life, to create a little drama. After all, once one was married, it seemed, one rarely got any attention ever again. So she had chosen a large straw hat from the shelf in the boot room and set out into the garden, where she intended to walk up and down with an anguished expression until somebody noticed her.
The back lawn was, traditionally, Fanny’s favourite place for a perambulation, but as it happened to be three after noon and the heat close to unbearable, to venture out there would be foolish. So instead, she headed for the front of the house, between the drive and the ha-ha, where she might at least enjoy the shade of the cypress, beneath which she could play out her charade of heartsick indecision. She did not have to wait long to be seen.
‘Sister of mine!’ Ned blew across the grass as if propelled by a zephyr while a huge, scruffy hound bounded about him. ‘Why on earth are you loitering out here?’ He grabbed Fanny by the waist and spun her around. ‘Lost your sheep, old girl?’
‘Ned, really!’ Fanny shrieked. ‘Do put me down.’ He all but dropped her. ‘Why on earth are you here? You’re
supposed to be in Chawton.’ Fanny straightened her skirts, patted her chignon and looked round to see him already heading back to the house. ‘And now where are you going?’ Her little tableau was not going to plan. ‘Ned! You are impossible!’
The siblings had been born very closely together – she was the elder by just sixteen months – but ever since, experience had conspired to drive them some distance apart. Indeed, so wide was the gulf between their two lives that Fanny sometimes struggled to believe they were even from the same family. Ned lived in almost permanent motion – between Kent, London and Hampshire, plus the odd European capital – while Fanny remained rooted in Godmersham. His life was ruled by the sporting and social calendars; hers by duty and decorum. He was ravishingly handsome, madly athletic and a famous delight. Fanny was cross. ‘Come here at once!’
Ned swivelled on his heels and bounced back towards her. The dog followed suit. ‘Did write, old girl.’ He returned to her side. ‘Don’t expect you to treasure my notes, but you could at least read them.’
Fanny had completely forgotten there had been other post that morning. It seemed a lifetime ago.
‘Match. Dance.’ He flicked the hair from his face with the palm of his hand. ‘Rabbits. Shooting. Weather. I say, old girl—’
‘I have asked you before: pray, do not call me that!’ Fanny suddenly felt so drained she could cry. ‘And what
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is that thing you have somehow acquired?’ The dog approached her quite amiably, but Fanny recoiled.
‘I say, how dare you?’ Ned knelt down on the grass and, with devoted delight, buried his head in a coat that was possibly manged. ‘This is Lord Byron, I’ll have you know – so called for his looks, brilliance and breeding. You must see the resemblance?’
‘And just like his namesake, he will not be crossing the Godmersham threshold.’ Fanny shuddered. ‘Pray, kindly lock him away.’
‘Bit much, old girl.’ Ned looked up with a mild frown. ‘You’re in a fine mood . . .’ He drew back up to full height. ‘Indeed, you look rather rum.’ For the first time, he peered into her face and studied her. ‘What is it, Fan? Don’t tell me somebody died . . .’ Fanny pulled herself together, stood firm and upright. She simply could not cry now. It would send out quite the wrong signals. ‘No. Actually, rather the opposite.’ She cleared her throat and tilted her chin. ‘In fact, it seems I may soon be engaged to be married.’
‘And I’ve been away but a week! You are the sly one. Still, not before time, eh? I say, Fan: well done!’ He pecked his sister’s cheek, patted her head; turned to leave and only then thought to ask: ‘Anyone one knows?’
‘Yes, in fact. Well, a little. I believe you have made his acquaintance. It is . . .’ Suddenly fearful of Ned’s reaction, she declared the identity with a great, positive flourish: ‘Sir Edward Knatchbull of Mersham-le-Hatch.’
Ned met the news with a level gaze. ‘Ah, yes.’ He nodded, suddenly quite still and thoughtful. ‘Hatch.’ He nodded, again. ‘Fine place, Hatch.’
‘I have heard.’
‘Robert Adam, you know.’
‘I gather.’
‘Excellent cricket pitch.’
‘So I believe.’ Even to her own ears, she sounded half strangled.
‘Bowled Bligh out there, last summer.’ He put a strong arm around Fanny’s shoulder and began to guide her back to the house, as if she were an invalid.
‘Indeed.’
‘Top strawberry sponge.’ They reached the front door, which opened by the hand of an invisible footman. ‘But then cricket’s not your thing.’ He guided her through.
‘Not especially, no.’
‘Such a shame.’ Was that a reference to cricket or her engagement?
He turned her around to face him. ‘You mean to accept him, of course?’ The afternoon sun caught the gold in his hair.
Fanny nodded, biting her lip.
‘Dear old Fan.’ Ned took her face in both hands and planted a kiss on her forehead. ‘What it is to be good.’
And with that, taking the stairs two at a time – the forbidden dog at his heels – he was gone.
Fanny staggered into the drawing room, closed the
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blind on the corner window without calling for a maid, and collapsed into an armchair and deep despair.
It was all her own fault. Of all people to tell first, she could not have picked worse. Ned was the heir to the entire estate. Ned was due to get everything. Unsurprisingly, Ned loved the world and so in turn, perfectly reasonably, the world loved Ned back. He was the only Knight child who could ever really be sure of a life-long financial security; the only one who could marry whomsoever he liked. How on earth could he ever understand Fanny?
He had, at least, been far too sensitive and polite to acknowledge what he might see as any drawbacks to the match. But his shortlist of advantages spoke volumes. A house, a pitch and a half-decent cook: a harsh summary. Was it a fair one?
The truth was, there were disadvantages. Ned knew them at once; it was time for Fanny to acknowledge them, too. First, she had always been an inveterate enemy of second marriages: it was surely impossible to love truly, deeply and twice. Sir Edward claimed to believe that he did, or could, love her and, of course, she might one day love him back. But the idea brought with it no guarantee. And was Sir Edward even attractive? In her panic, she could not quite recall. All told, as a match, this fell far below her romantic ideal.
More worrying still was the matter of her replacement. Godmersham could not run itself; her siblings
needed some sort of mother figure; her papa must be supported. What if his solution was to marry again, too –hand the house to a stranger, her beloved siblings to a stepmother, which was famously a fate worse than death?
As the sun started to sink on her momentous day, Fanny decided to brave the outdoors once again. She marched to the Gothic Seat in search of some sign; hid in the Temple, awaiting divine guidance.
At last, and as ever, Fanny sought out her father. They took a seat on the terraces and called for refreshment.
‘Your romantic ideal?’ Mr Knight’s dish clattered back into its saucer as his hand shook. ‘Oh, my dear.’ He coughed gently, then patted her hair. ‘Were you a girl of eighteen – as was your sister Lizzie on her engagement –then perhaps that might concern me more, but—’
‘Oh, but of course!’ Fanny exclaimed. The danger of their possible conversational direction suddenly lit up before her. She must arrest it – ‘Forgive me! Foolish!’ –and create a diversion. Some variant on the moral of beggars and choosers, however veiled, would not boost one’s spirits. She moved the conversation briskly on to her principal worry: how would her papa cope without her? To her surprise, on this she found him complacent.
‘My dear, we shall all be perfectly fine.’ Her father patted her hand. ‘How many sisters do you have, after all? Surely one of them will be only too happy to take over as my strength and stay. Perhaps I flatter myself to think it not so very arduous a position, possibly even a pleasure
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at times?’ He issued a soothing smile. ‘Indeed. Quite so. And you will have the whole period of your engagement to show her the way.’
‘Ah yes. On that matter I think, Papa’ – Fanny paused to bite on her lip – ‘a long engagement might be the thing, in this instance, don’t you?’ Things were happening at a speed that did not quite suit her particular character. Fanny loathed all change, in particular change of the sudden variety. She simply must be given time to adapt.
‘Hmm?’ The cake was a fine date and walnut and Mr Austen Knight was selecting his slice with great care. ‘Indeed, if you so wish.’
‘And, sir, you would be so kind as to negotiate that when the whole business is—’
‘Of course. And rest assured, sweet Fanny . . .’ He sat back in his chair, brought his plate to his chest and lifted the cake to his lips. ‘Once all is accomplished’ – he was surely attempting to comfort, rather than wound – ‘we shall barely notice you gone.’
And with that, the decision was taken. Fanny’s nerves were by now shot completely to pieces. She could not possibly write to Sir Edward herself; her father kindly elected to do so on her behalf. This brought with it the added advantage that she could never now change her mind.
By the following day, the deal had been done.
And now, as appointed, Sir Edward was waiting downstairs to make his offer to Fanny in person.
‘Thank you, Sayce.’ She spoke firmly into the looking glass. She could delay things no longer. Her hair had been fussed at enough. ‘I think that’s the best we can do.’
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
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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
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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
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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.’
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‘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