Mr Knight had kept the promise he had made to Mary all those long years ago, and kept a kindly eye on her brother throughout his unhappy schooldays. His reward was that Norton now worshipped him as a hero, and in meeting him now could hardly contain himself. He started to jabber, nineteen to the dozen, about shooting and hunting and his new glorious freedom, until Mary felt it only humane to put the boy out of his misery. Politely, she cleared her throat.

‘Do forgive me!’ Norton finally collected himself. ‘I am sure, sir, you must know my sister – but of course you must – what can I be thinking?’

There was nothing else for it, so the couple just laughed.

‘Oh!’ said Norton; then, as he looked from one to the other: ‘Oh?’ he repeated, before letting his mouth hang wide open.

‘Why don’t you take out that new gun of yours, old chap?’ Ned put a friendly hand on his arm. ‘I was just over at Hinxhill. Knee deep in rabbits. Excellent practice.’

Norton hesitated; turned back to his sister.

‘Darling, don’t look so worried!’ Mary reassured him with a smile. ‘This isn’t a kidnapping. Mr Knight has very kindly been – er – helping with my riding. But still, Norton, you wouldn’t …?’

‘What, tell ’em?’ Norton retorted. ‘Course not.’ And with a comradely wink to the gentleman, he rode away and they were alone.

Since the subject was first breached, their late mothers came often into their conversation and – as if the poor ladies themselves were the keys to two secret chambers – their relationship deepened accordingly. That morning – prompted by the appearance of Norton, and Ned’s concerned enquiries for how he had suffered back in his boyhood – they at last came to discuss the awesome moments of loss.

At several intervals, Mr Knight’s voice broke as he described how he was at Winchester when the tragedy occurred. That he had entirely missed his precious mother’s last month on this earth was still the cause of great bitterness. And as for the moment at which an uncle appeared to deliver the news: the reins trembled in his hands as he recalled it.

Mary, whose own experience was quite strikingly similar, could not help but be deeply moved. ‘And then you were brought back to Godmersham.’ This was more statement than question, for surely a family such as his must have done the right thing.

‘At the time, that was not thought to be practical and, in fact, for that I can hold no resentment. Instead, I had the great fortune of being taken in for some days by my Grandmother Austen and younger aunt. I shall never forget the sympathy, love … and really rather remarkable intelligence they brought to the awkward business of my terrible grief.’