For the last three months, her mind had been consumed by nothing above or beyond the Godmersham summer. The season had tripped on with its cricket and boating and bathing and races; visits had been received and return visits made. All that time, Fanny had spent thinking about and working hard towards the provision of pleasure to others. And only now was it revealed: all that time – well, some of it, certainly – Sir Edward Knatchbull had been thinking about her.

Since the death of her mother twelve long years ago, Fanny – then just a girl, a mere fifteen years of age – had been in charge of the Godmersham world. She was the one plotting and scheming: the holidays, the schools; the doctors, the dentists; the guest lists, the menus. She was the secret intelligence that throbbed at the heart of every family, quite often unnoticed until it was gone. Half her young adult life had been spent behind the domestic scenery, every hour consumed with making other lives run smoothly. The welfare of her dearest papa, ten younger siblings and their nineteen servants was always uppermost in her mind. Try as she might, she could never rid herself of the notion that any insecurity they might feel was down to her laxness; the miseries they might suffer due only to her silly mistakes.

And now – it was quite dizzying to think of it – here was a whole other, previously un-thought-about person who seemed to harbour the desire to look after her! The secret intelligence of Sir Edward Knatchbull had formed an idea, taken a decision and propelled his physical self into action without her knowledge or say-so. He was offering to remove the heavy saddle of responsibility from Fanny’s back and take control of the reins. So what did it matter that the couple had never been lovers? So what if they had never shared a dance or held hands?

This was, to Fanny, the most romantic thing in the world.

Fanny’s first instinct was to find her father. Clutching the letter to her breast, she rushed from the breakfast room, across the hall and tapped at the door of the library.

‘Ah yes,’ came the voice from within. So he was already expecting her. ‘Enter, dearest – do!’

Mr Austen Knight was seated at his desk, face to the door, back to the window, also holding a piece of paper. And as she hurried towards him, Fanny saw that this, too, had been blessed by the hand of Sir Edward Knatchbull.

Her father peered over the pages – his letter was the longer – and lifted one eyebrow. ‘Well, Fanny?’

‘Oh, Papa!’ Fanny gasped and fell into the nearest armchair. ‘I have never been so astonished by a thing in my life! Are you not astonished?’

Her father smiled benignly. If he felt any sort of surprise whatsoever, he was keeping it well under control.