They arrived at the door; the maid knocked and announced them. Miss Knight – her head in a nightcap, rose silk shawl round her shoulders, tray across knees, looked up and cried: ‘Dear children! You came.’ Her lips smiled; her eyes flashed with fear. ‘What a pleasure to see you. And yet, such a pity!’ Now all in a fluster, she put the tray to one side – spilling tea on the bedcover – turned, put her feet into the nicely placed slippers. ‘Today of all days!’ She rang for the maid. ‘So much to do, and so little time. Come, children.’ She beckoned them both over, but only John approached. ‘Do give me a kiss, dear. And are you not looking splendid? Ah, there you are, Sayce.’ Her voice all relief. ‘Time to dress now, too sad to say. But you are so sweet for coming, and we will try again soon.’

On the 20th day of October, Mary stood by her bags at the foot of the Godmersham steps and awaited the carriage. She was far too modest a girl to ever expect one of those great, grand farewells, although a fond one would have been pleasant. But the Wedding was now just a few days away and the household in absolute uproar. John had left a few days before, to live with a gentleman who would prepare him for school. And her own removal would inevitably be the last thing upon anyone’s mind.

A kindly footman had been charged with seeing her off. They stood side by side, each endeavouring not to catch the eye of the other, though, when the worst did happen, they achieved a shy smile. But the carriage was late, their wait taking too long. Eventually, he was emboldened to speak.

‘Weather set fair for your journey then, miss.’

In perfect unison, like partners in ballet, they raised their eyes up to the wide, Kentish sky and, necks stretched, traced the great arc of unbroken blue.

‘Nothing like autumn for fine weather,’ he declared.

‘Oh, indeed,’ Mary warmly replied, though she was not entirely convinced that was true.

‘Mind, they do say it’s soon on the turn. Rain from the east coming.’ They both looked to their left. ‘Always the worst. Shame, what with the Wedding and such. Poor Miss Knight. Waits all those long years and now in for a drenching.’

‘Oh! I am sorry to hear that,’ Mary exclaimed, with now genuine warmth. ‘That would be a pity.’

In fact, her thoughts were less with the Bride and more with the bridesmaids: Miss Marianne in particular. She was so very determined to wear her white shoes. What if they were ruined? Mary found her eyes turning back to the house, and her thoughts to her friends.