Sir Edward tapped at a flank and the horses started to trot; they pulled away from the house. ‘Now,’ he began. ‘Let us discuss the children.’

Fanny’s whole being relaxed. She looked away from the driver, off to the side, and smiled at the view.

‘As my firstborn child and only daughter, Mary Dorothea is especially important to me.’ He paused to clear his throat, as if – could this be possible? – he was fighting back tears.

Fanny was moved. Such a kind and good man.

‘In my estimation, and this is supported by many positive statements from other, less interested parties, the child is particularly blessed with all the gifts and talents for which a young lady could hope.’

Having met her quite recently, Fanny found this a little surprising.

‘She has certainly suffered, though, from the absence of her dear mama. Therefore, it would please me, my dear – and I am sure it would her – if Mary Dorothea were to become your principal concern.’

‘Oh, but of course,’ Fanny replied earnestly. Nothing could delight her more. Girls she was sure she could do. She had brought out one sister and married her brilliantly; the other three were all set fair to follow and Sir Edward’s daughter was quite obviously the easiest and most biddable – even gifted, apparently – of them all. The carriage was now passing the stables. Fanny gave a happy wave to the groom. ‘I must say Mary Dorothea struck me as a particularly’ – she searched for a compliment which might also be genuine – ‘dear child.’

‘But one never can count on it!’ Sir Edward exclaimed with some passion. ‘It is my firm belief – intractable, indeed – that when it comes to the children, one can never let up. They require constant reminders of their role.’

‘Their role?’ Fanny risked a glance at her fiancé’s profile, while reaching up for the rim of her hat. They were out on the lane now, and the going was bumpy.

‘To be a comfort and support to their parents.’ Sir Edward’s tone was that commonly used by those stating the obvious. ‘The worry with dear Mary, though, is that with her living almost entirely at school in Ramsgate, the opportunities are rare.’

‘Ah.’ Fanny was almost too frightened to ask, but she did have to know. ‘And at what age did the child first go to Ramsgate?’

‘Let me see. Was it on the death of her mother, or just before?’ He pulled at the reins and the carriage turned right to the bridge. ‘I should say seven years of age. Possibly six.’ The doves in the dovecote took sudden flight. ‘I suppose it could have been five?’