On the other hand, looks were not everything and, surely, any suitor would, in the end, be quickly repelled by the girl’s personality – or absence thereof. Put simply, Mary had nothing about her! No conversation, beyond the odd ‘yes’ or ‘no’, added to which was an unfortunate tendency to be rather sullen. And that was hardly a quality that any sensible man would desire in a wife.

However, if the girl should take it upon herself to pursue some unfortunate match – and, sadly, one could not put it past her – then that would greatly upset poor Sir Edward. And, more to the point, it would reflect badly on Fanny – unfairly, of course. But then, when did natural justice ever concern itself with the defence of the stepmother? Hers was a sorry position, indeed.

The only thing for it was for Fanny to concoct some strategy of preventive action. And, after long hours of plotting, she had it all clear in her mind just in time for her husband’s return.

To the right of the fireplace, in a high, wing-backed chair of plum damask, Sir Edward sat behind the large, open pages of the Kentish Gazette; to the left, his wife was busy with an embroidered pillow she was working on for Lady Banks. Though it still should be the summer, the evening was cool and an early fire crackled between them; the clock ticked on the mantel above, and the vast acreage of the gilded drawing room hummed that near sonorous hum of domestic contentment.

Fanny pulled the silk through, reached for her scissors, stopped, thought, braced herself and then spoke: ‘Dearest?’

The Kentish Gazette did not move.

‘My dear?’ Fanny put down her scissors and raised her voice. ‘Sir Edward!’

‘I am listening,’ he said, while remaining invisible.

‘Thank you. There’s something on my mind, and I would just like to share it.’ She selected a dark green, and paused while threading the needle.

‘Share away, my dear.’ He licked at a finger and turned a new page. ‘Share away.’

‘It is on the matter of Mary.’ The silence seemed to suggest that further clarification would be welcome. ‘Mary Dorothea,’ she said, before adding, for good measure, ‘your daughter.’

‘Indeed?’ He slapped the pages together and folded the paper on to his lap. If there was one subject with which Fanny could always get his attention, it was his precious only daughter.

‘There has been the most astonishing development.’ She put her embroidery back in its bag and leaned forward towards him. ‘I cannot tell you how long it has been in the brewing, so to speak. The first I noticed was on – let me see – Monday, I believe?’ She looked up at the ceiling while counting on her fingers. ‘Yes, definitely last Monday. I had just come in from relieving the poor …’