‘I am sure it must be pure agony,’ Fanny agreed earnestly. Already, even the thought that her daughter might one day encounter real pain or distress could bring her to tears.

‘Hard though it may be for you to believe, caring for an infant is much the easiest stage of parenthood. And one imagines, at the time, that one will use all the powers in one’s gift to shield them from life’s many great evils.’

Fanny took this as a plea that she would hereby devote all her energies to the protection of his grandchild, and was suitably touched. ‘Oh, Papa! As long as I have breath in my body—’

‘But one simply cannot, Fan!’

This took her aback. Fanny felt rather at sea, but had to wait while he made a performance of swallowing the shortbread – which was suitably moist – before, at last, he explained.

‘It is my firm belief that the more we ban and forbid and control, the more trouble we make for ourselves and our offspring. Instead, should we not trust to their judgement? Allow them the freedom – limited, admittedly, but nonetheless – freedom to deal with their own problems as they see fit?’

Was this all an obscure attack on her husband? Fanny’s hand started to tremble to such an extent that she was in danger of spilling her cordial.

‘Of course,’ he rambled on as if entirely amiably, ‘Mary Dorothea is not my daughter … And there is no doubt in my mind that you, Fanny – her mother – have talked to her in some depth on the subject of Ned and her feelings.’

Fanny stared into her lap, held her drink tightly and felt the first flush to her throat. Of course she had done no such thing – and perfectly properly! Sir Edward dealt with his child, he reported back to his wife – and, quite frankly, that had proved wearing enough.

‘In which case, you can have no fear for the girl’s virtue, or need to lock her away from us all.’ And, at this point, as ever, her dear father softened. ‘Poor Fan!’ He reached over and patted her knee. ‘To be both Knatchbull and Knight, with all this’ – he lifted his hand, waved another sweetmeat about – ‘going on. It cannot be easy to manage.’

‘Thank you for that, Papa.’ With careful control, Fanny placed her glass back on the chinoiserie tray. ‘Both your advice, and also those last kind words. Now.’ She looked up and across at him brightly, hoping her complexion had suitably paled. ‘Do tell me: what news from Kent? It seems an age since we first came away.’

While Fanny would prefer to forget her father’s words, they rather stayed with her and, when alone with the space for reflection, she found it hard to deny that there might be contained within them a kernel of wisdom.