Of course, when hunting or killing or hitting a thing, Ned moved like quicksilver. In the world beyond sport, though, he knew no sense of urgency and was rarely disturbed. Yet here he was, eschewing all greetings – Fanny prayed Sir Edward would opt, just on this one occasion, to not take offence – and – what was this? – spluttering about yet another drama of Marianne’s making.

‘A proposal?’ Fanny fell back into the depths of the worn leather sofa. ‘A proposal from whom, might one ask?’

It was to her eternal credit that Fanny’s first thought was given not to Godmersham’s domestic arrangements and her own convenience, but that the gentleman’s identity did, in fact, take priority.

‘Billington,’ she repeated, once informed. ‘Billington?’ Now she was thoroughly mystified. ‘But, Ned dearest,’ she explained in her patient voice, ‘we have no knowledge of any Mr Billington.’ As if that put an end to the matter.

To her husband, however, the name was familiar. Slowly, he rose; took position in the centre of the faded, elegant Aubusson; made fists like a fighter. ‘BILLINGTON?’ When in the comfort of his family home, Sir Edward roared much less than might have been popularly imagined, but when he did, that roar came with significant effect. ‘Your sister has got herself mixed up with that fellow Billington?’

‘Ah.’ Ned looked worried and bit his lip. ‘So you do know him, sir? We did wonder if you might have some information that would prove relevant. It is for that very reason my father urged me to come.’

‘Know him?’ Sir Edward marched to the tray and poured a stiff drink, even though, Fanny noted, it was yet to turn noon. ‘Oh, yes. I know him.’ He did not offer one to Ned. ‘He has the living over at Kennington—’

‘So he is a clergyman?’ Fanny cut in. At last: this was hard, useful information, going some way to grounding her thoughts, which were, until that moment, spinning quite out of control.

‘I fear so, my dear,’ her husband supplied. ‘A clergyman indeed, and’ – an air of menace entered his tone – ‘of the very worst kind.’ In the wobble of his jowl, Fanny marked a new likeness to dear Lady Banks.

‘I say!’ Ned, shocked and alarmed, ran his hand through his hair until it stood up on end. ‘The rascal! What on earth is he up to?’

‘He and I are in some dispute,’ thundered Sir Edward as he stared first at his wife, then at her brother.

‘A dispute?’ Fanny echoed. Oh dear. Not another one …

‘Yes, my dear. About tithes.’ He swallowed the sherry, slammed down the glass, adding as an aside: ‘Do not worry. I am convinced that Right is on my—’

‘Oh, but of course,’ his wife hastily cut in.