‘We see it, my dear, and we are pleased. Indeed, if I may for one moment put aside all humility, I feel I can now congratulate myself. Did I not always, from your very first days, stress the importance of your goodness to me?’

‘Oh, yes, Papa. You were so clear on the matter that I could never forget it.’ They turned once again. Mary was close to dizzy. ‘Strait is the gate, and narrow the way … The prouder I made you, the better you would love me. That was the gist, I believe.’

‘Mary Dorothea!’ He stopped and stared at her. ‘I never— You are my firstborn! My treasure! You are everything to—’

‘Thank you, Papa.’ If only he had said that at the time, then how different their histories would have been. With a tight, hidden sigh, Mary led him to walking again.

‘To return to my point. It is a comfort to me to know that you have grown into a woman whose head cannot be turned.’ And out of nowhere, as if he could not help himself, the roar came upon him. ‘One to hold friendship higher than passion. To favour the familiar over the foreign …’ This went on for some time until, seemingly spent, Sir Edward fell into silence and the pair turned yet again.

At last, as if starting a quite different subject, he spoke up. ‘Our guest, Dr Knatchbull.’

‘My uncle, Papa?’ she asked, quite demure.

‘Come, come. Only a pedant would address him so, surely. We are not of the same mother! One must not be enslaved to formality.’

Mary raised a brow at the gravel. Over the years, she had somehow formed the impression that Sir Edward was formality’s friend.

‘The gentleman has asked that he might drive you to Sandgate one day this week. The seaside, my dear. A little excursion. Such a pleasant idea – I am minded to permit it.’ He squeezed her arm with his own. ‘It would do you some good.’

There was nothing for it but that Mary should fall victim to another mysterious illness. She kept to her room, doctors were called and leeches applied yet again. From her place on the pillow, she studied the clear, summer skies and, for the first time in her life, longed for the autumn – half agony; half hope.

At last, on 11 October 1825, life started anew. More than that, when Mary looked back on it later, she saw it was the day her life truly began.

She had already heard that the Knight family was recently returned to Godmersham, but had no idea if Ned was of the party or if he had remained in Chawton. Mary could hardly ask Fanny, though she might die of not knowing.

So when she went down to dinner that evening, Mary was quite unprepared.