Of course, Fanny had made perfectly sure that Mary Dorothea was never alone for a second. Dear Booker was with her at all times, and Marianne too, when she could be spared from the nursery. But Mary could enjoy the freedom of taking a chaperone to her cousins or Lady Banks whenever she liked. And, at Fanny’s careful insistence, the girl did still pursue her ladylike interests – refine her accomplishments. So she rode almost daily; took lessons in singing at the same time every morning from Mr Crepaldi in his studio. And after a few months of a good, wholesome routine, the change wrought was remarkable. From the pale, miserable creature of the start of the year, Mary Dorothea was quite transformed. Pink, bright-eyed and strong again. And for that, Fanny felt entitled to take much of the credit.

Her ruminations were disturbed by the appearance of the footman.

‘Mr Austen Knight, madam.’

And so natural was her delight at the sound of her dear father’s name, Fanny quite forgot to prepare for any possible unpleasantness.

Their greeting was as warm as ever and – first things first – Fanny at once took him up to the uppermost floor to admire her baby. The darling was, like an angel, soundly asleep – she was an excellent sleeper. They were, truly, so blessed – and therefore unable to display her latest accomplishments. But still, they stood by the crib for some time, while the devoted mother described, in a whisper, how the baby could not only point but also clap and, according to others, was already displaying the signs of a remarkable intelligence.

But, as they walked down the stairs to the parlour, and Fanny was about to embark on a report into newly cut teeth, her papa launched his assault.

‘I suppose the child shall be reared to the high, modern standards,’ he began in a benign enough manner. ‘The fashions have changed, I have noticed. It is not like one’s day, under the old King, may God rest his soul.’ They had reached the ground floor. ‘No doubt you now judge me, as a parent, to have erred on the side of the liberal. I am quite sure that Sir Edward disapproves of my approach.’

‘Good heavens, Papa!’ Fanny, leading the way, nearly missed the next step. ‘What on earth makes you say such a thing?’ It was almost uncanny – as if he had lurked in the wainscot and heard Sir Edward’s declamations on that very subject.

Her father did not acknowledge the question, but instead he went on: ‘I hope, though, that you think of and will remember me as an affectionate one.’

‘Oh, the kindest, dearest of fathers!’ Fanny exclaimed as they reached the parlour. ‘It has been our greatest good fortune—’

‘Thank you, my dear,’ Mr Austen Knight cut her off briskly, sitting down to inspect the refreshments. ‘And as such, I feel it deeply when my children are suffering unhappiness.’