The following morning, Fanny stood on the gravel in front of the house and watched the same carriage return. Though she could not have believed it possible, the agitation in her nerves was yet more acute. Admittedly, she had a mere day’s experience, but it did rather seem that being engaged was just one ordeal after another. It led her to wonder: all those other affianced young ladies she had witnessed over the years, those pictures of perfect happiness – were they all pretending? In which case, she did wish someone had let her in on the secret. For the first time in a while, Fanny felt the sharp pang of want of a mother.

At least she was going into this latest great trial with full support. Her dear papa stood beside her, as close as could be – the front of his shoulder touching the back of her own. Her sister, Marianne, guarded the other flank, squeezing her hand. And when she looked left to right, all Fanny could see were members of her own family, arranged in a line – eleven of them all told, the twelfth due for dinner. She could not imagine a more splendid welcome. Or did it look more like an enemy rank? Perhaps they should break it up, relax a little … But then, surely Sir Edward would prefer the more formal approach …

It was already too late. The coach was before them and the footman down and opening its door. There followed a brief, eternal pause during which the entire Knight family held its collective breath and then there emerged one pretty pink slipper.

Mary Dorothea Knatchbull drifted down to the drive, more feather than person. It was clear she had left Hatch with a head full of dark ringlets – there were still just a few discernible kinks – but she was now peering out through a lank pair of curtains. What a pity, thought Fanny, straight hair being such a curse with the present styles. The child’s appearance was met with a united, feminine silence, which Fanny regretted – her three youngest sisters were of the age that set far too much store by the mere superficial and nowhere near enough on spiritual depth – but could not completely condemn. Though Mary’s complexion and poise were all beyond fault, her attire was regrettable. There stood before them a girl on the cusp of young womanhood, clad in the frills and flounces of a very small child. Fanny could see she had much work to do.

‘Miss Knight.’ Mary proffered her right hand to Fanny, took her skirt with her left, arranged her small feet into a balletic position and glided down into a bob. ‘I am pleased to see you again.’