And who could resist such a declaration of love? Mary opened her eyes – reached out her hand – before, remembering her role, she strained for the means to offer him comfort. ‘Poor, dear Papa.’ Somehow, she summoned the strength for a whisper. ‘Poor, dear Papa.’

‘My dear, darling child.’ He took her small hand in his, pressed it to his wet cheek. ‘He heard me, He heard me. God’s will be done.’

He lifted her from the pillow; caught her up in the most affectionate embrace that they had enjoyed for some long years. Mary breathed in the scent of cologne at his neck, thought: Here – here – is my distinguishing feature. My father loves me above any other.

She lifted her eyes to the room and noticed Fanny, standing close to the door – looking on, biting her lip – silently weeping.

CHAPTER XVIII

That summer, it was decreed the Knatchbulls would remove themselves to Hampshire to spend some time with the Knights. Mary was not sure how or why this decision was reached – it was her lot to be moved through life as a piece on a chess board – but still it delighted her. Almost anywhere was more amusing than Hatch with only her parents for company, but to be with dear friends was the best outcome of all.

She and Cassy travelled together, with Sir Edward and Lady Knatchbull following closely behind. Having been separated for some months, the girls passed the first part of the journey in play, gossip and shrieking, so that Booker was forced to issue sharp knocks on the window from her place on the back. But as they thundered through Surrey, travel fatigue overcame them – how Mary hated long journeys – and they slumped into quiet.

At last, the carriage turned off the turnpike, swung on to a lane and, as they came to the edge of the village, the horses fell from a gallop down into a trot.

‘And so here we are,’ Cassy announced. ‘The mad, giddy heart of the village of Chawton!’

Mary, suddenly revived, pressed up to the window; she saw a singular street but of its population there was no obvious sign. To her right was an inn, though it was possibly closed, and beside that, a modest round duck pond. There were some signs of life – if one were to count the drake with its beak under its wing or the man stretched out on the grass, face obscured by his cap. But not enough to prevent Mary stating the obvious deficiencies from the girls’ point of view. ‘Not quite the Pleasure Gardens.’