Mary stood, held hands with her brothers, closed her eyes, bit her lip and awaited the thrill of her life. Could it really be true that her hair would stand on its ends? The maids might go wild, but that would come later. Right now, sheer anticipation was making her all over quivery …

And then it came:

‘Miss Mary! Miss Mary? Where has that wretched girl got to?’

‘Dash it!’ Norton threw down the magnet in fury. ‘Typical! You’ve gone and ruined my experiment. They’ve come to take you away.’

An hour and a half later, she was with her papa at an estate that called itself Godmersham, visiting some people by the name of Knight – though Mary had no idea what on earth she was doing there.

With her stockinged legs crossed at the ankle, white-gloved hands loose on her lap, Mary sat and – quietly, heroically; with the greatest politeness – started to melt.

Of course, their hostess had taken precautions against the worst of it. The table had been set in the shade of a cypress, Miss Knight had found Mary a Japanese fan and ices were served before cake. But still, the air was unusually stifling. One poor footman, in stiff Godmersham livery, was looking decidedly faint. Mary had a sudden vision of her brothers down by the lake or, more probably in it, and to her horror she heard herself sigh.

Thank heavens her papa did not notice and instead simply breezed on with his passionate views on the recent assizes. Mr Austen Knight, though, who Mary thought might be a very good sort of gentleman, looked over with sympathy.

‘Quite so, Knatchbull. Quite so,’ Mr Austen Knight cut in. Mary had noticed he agreed with her father on everything. Most people did. ‘My dear’ – he addressed his own daughter – ‘are there no girls around to amuse our young visitor?’

‘I fear not, Father.’ Miss Knight’s chest, exposed in a delicate muslin, started to flush with some violence. ‘Please do forgive me.’ The pink moved up to her cheeks and on to the roots of her hair. ‘I could not—’

‘Pray, Miss Knight, do not worry!’ Sir Edward cried with what seemed to Mary unnecessary vehemence. ‘I assure you, my daughter could not be more happy.’

Mary essayed a smile, looked over at the house – a friendly sort of place, but not a patch on her Hatch – and then studied their hostess. Now, here was a curious creature – stiff as a poker and awkward with it; not unattractive, but what Mrs Grant used to call handsomeish, which the whole school understood to be a fate worse than death. What age might she be? Not ancient exactly, yet there remained not a trace of her youth. Ah! Perhaps she was one of those ‘poor spinsters’ one heard so much about? How very interesting. As far as she was aware, Mary had never actually seen one in the flesh.