She and Cassy, her favourite playmate, were joined by George and William Knight. And her own brother, Norton, was out of school for the holidays, though the younger ones were off staying with cousins. Mary missed them, of course. She did not see them as often as she would like, but the Mother was known to find all five stepchildren together a little de trop.

For the whole time of their stay, Ned Knight was a whirlwind. If the weather was fine, he organised games and sports out in the grounds; when conditions allowed, he took all the brothers out with their guns. On top of all that, there was his duty of management of the land and the men. And, owing to some concern for the harvest, he was away from the house on this particularly dull morning in the first week of their stay, when the party of young people decided on a game of Hide and Seek.

George Knight, down in the hall, counting in his deep, lawyerly boom, made Mary smile. How men did like to be boys when they got half a chance! Apart from her own papa, of course … But there was no time to ponder that anomaly now. Instead, she scampered up the stairs, past the maid on her knees with the beeswax – slipped on the new gleam – and came out on the landing. Known to the family as the Haunted Gallery, it was not her preferred Chawton location. There had been verified sightings, they said … She quailed; dithered about which way to turn; heard George bellow: ‘Coming!’ and, in a panic, climbed on to the seat at the long mullioned window, drew the heavy crewel curtain and hid.

Hugging her knees, heart thumping at ribs, Mary tried to keep herself calm by gazing out at the vista. The little flint church of St Nicholas, squat in its graveyard, she decided must be among the most charming in England and thought that if one really must die – and she would much rather not – it would be a fine place to rest in eternity. Though, for the living, was it not a little too close to the house? Suppose one or two of the spirits were not peaceful but actually restless?

And just then, Mary heard footsteps – slow; tread heavy – cross the floor of the attic over her head. She shrank into the panelling. The boots descended the stairs, and began their slow plod along the – yes! – along the Haunted Gallery. She covered her face to stifle her screams. The curtain was torn back. She was exposed! Mary’s heart stopped.

It was Ned. How shy she had been on their first solo encounter in Godmersham. Now, such was Mary’s relief that he was not, after all, some unfortunate Tudor in want of a head, she simply laughed.