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 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.’