Fanny Knight of Godmersham Park was in the twenty-eighth year of her settled existence when she suddenly found her life changed.

It was 30 August 1820, and she was late to breakfast that morning, having spent a hot, difficult hour in the linen cupboard with Mrs Salkeld. Fanny always aimed to do the more tiresome tasks early in the day, and there was little more tiresome than the counting of pillowslips or the company of the housekeeper. By the time she got to the table, the rest of the family had already left to pursue their various sporting interests.

Fanny made herself comfortable, poured her own tea and glanced through the long window. It was the third week of infernal hot weather and even the impeccable Godmersham lawn was baked brown as a biscuit. She surrendered to worry – on the subject of younger children, the force of the sun and the wearing of hats – and then determined to enjoy her moment of solitude before the next duties beckoned.

With one hand, she stirred; the other rifled through that morning’s post. A letter from Ned: no doubt a detailed account of some triumph against fish, fowl or Hampshire cricketer. Dear brother – few beings were safe. Fanny would save that to last. She raised the dish to her lips, saw the next was from her Aunt Cassandra, gave a tight little sigh and put that to one side. Fanny replaced dish upon saucer and, from what little had been left for her, selected something to eat.

The hand on the next packet was not immediately known to her. She turned it from front to back, decreed its author to be masculine – such strength and confidence in the stroke – and nibbled at the edge of a muffin. No doubt it would prove to be tedious; nevertheless, Fanny must own to some mild curiosity. After all, one simply never could tell. And in a deft balancing act of knife and bun, she sliced open the pages, skimmed the requisite address to her person, wishes for her health and read: You are the only person in whose society I can find happiness …

Good heavens! This seemed to be – no, it was surely impossible. And yet it was, categorically, so. Fanny held in her hand a declaration of love! The page started to tremble. Her heart thumped at her ribs. Again, doubt flooded in: oh, but she must be mistaken! Her eye raced on.

… and in whom I can trust the welfare of my children …

Fanny’s pulse found its pace; the muffin began its descent. The words ’welfare’ and ‘children’ were hardly in the lexicon of romance or high passion. And yet: Your confidence, if given to me, will not I hope be misplaced.