Without any discussion, they turned away from the busy village towards wide, empty country, settled into an easy pace and a comfortable silence. This was not unusual. Some mornings they talked, joked, amused one another with foolish games – for all his masculine swagger, Mr Knight could be as restlessly playful as a seven-year-old boy. On others, though, barely a word was exchanged and, curiously, Mary treasured the quiet encounters as much as the other. Having become so used to forced, social intercourse and stupid flirtation, she found the release from those evils a revelation indeed. They were now climbing to the ridge, where the pale moon weakly loitered as a marmalade sun rose. And while her companion hummed with a peaceful contentment, Mary marvelled at how composed she could be while in his dear company.

Of course, she well understood that it was all due to Mr Knight’s extraordinary confidence. That quality, lately despised by Sir Edward, was what Mary so richly admired. And such was its strength, was it not even contagious? Up to this moment, she had been too easily influenced by the behaviour of others: allowed the edges of her character to be buffeted by the strong winds of personalities bigger than her own. So she could be quietly pious when met by her father, plain sullen when Fanny was present, frankly silly with Cassy – when, in truth, she was none of those things. Now at last, out in the country with Ned by her side – whether they spoke perfectly frankly or spoke not at all – Mary Knatchbull could take her first, hesitant steps on the path to discovery of her own natural self.

‘Oh, do look!’ she exclaimed now as they came to an old beech upon which was stretched a great canopy of lace from the bough to the trunk. Shafts of sun turned the dewdrops to diamonds. ‘I know we must love the summer, but is not this in fact the loveliest season of them all?’

‘A pretty enough sight, I will grant you. But as for the autumn, I cannot agree.’ Already he was riding on past it, head set firmly forward. The air was quite still, yet about him was turbulence. Mary studied his back, mystified. Surely her observation was perfectly harmless. How could Ned, of all people, have taken offence?

In the past, or if out with another, Mary might have held back, stewed in mortification and let the incident go unremarked. This time, she galloped to reach him and demanded he explain.