Curiously, it was her sister’s suffering that seemed to be greater. Marianne’s own failed engagement, those long years ago, she had come to accept with a quiet, noble calm. From that day on, she had given every appearance of contentment with her role of dear daughter, sister and aunt upon whom all could rely. So that she should only now show the signs of a true, deep distress—

‘Miss Knatchbull!’ The deep voice came from behind her. Lord Byron bounced up to her side.

‘Oh!’ Mary jumped, and then turned. ‘Oh, Mr Knight! Oh, do forgive me.’ She laid a hand to her breast, hoping to steady her heart. ‘You gave me a shock.’

‘Then, madam, ’tis for you to forgive me.’ Ned drew up beside her, saw that she trembled and took hold of her reins. ‘How foolish – to startle a rider – what on earth was I thinking?’ His habitually blithe countenance was shot through with alarm. ‘That I might ever put you in danger – the idea—’

Such was his agony, Mary cried out to appease him: ‘Pray, sir, you are blameless.’ Calmer, she smiled. ‘I was in my own thoughts – “away in my head” as my great-aunt likes to put it. A bad habit, I fear, formed back in my schooldays.’

‘Interesting,’ he murmured. ‘I did not know—’ as if this small fact could be a missing part of some greater collection. He then returned to the moment. ‘If you would prefer to be alone on your way back to Hatch, then of course—’

‘Mr Knight.’ Mary tilted the brim of her straw. ‘I would welcome the company.’

And so they proceeded. He maintained control of her horse as well as his own and, with meticulous steering, enabled their riders to travel but inches apart. Such proximity was irregular – Mary had not been led in this fashion since the days of her girlhood – but somehow not exactly objectionable.

An easy silence settled between them. He did not ask for a report on the state of his sisters, nor did she supply one. To even suggest at some superior intimacy would be to stray over her remit. A Knatchbull could never be considered the equal of a Knight, however much their stories might be entwined. At the same time, it would be heartless to speak of anything else. So they simply sank into the heady beauty of a fine summer’s evening – drank in the pungent flavours of the nicely warmed hedgerows – and said nothing at all.

They reached the great yew that stood at the edge of the Knatchbull estate and slowed down by the hawthorn.

‘And here, madam, we must part.’ Mr Knight stopped, as if at the gates of some Forbidden City.