The one comfort was that, for these Knights at least, the ramifications would be negligible. They would always know the protection of a good family. As happened with Marianne, William’s affair would soon be over – possibly even by the end of that afternoon. As soon as he returned to Godmersham, her brother would be made fully aware of the facts of his situation and that would, perforce, be that.

For Miss Atkinson, however, the immediate future would not be so straightforward. And much as Fanny resented the governess’s behaviour – and in so far as she fully approved of consequences for actions – it would be a shame, and moreover of great, personal inconvenience, if the punishment were to outweigh the crime.

The next morning, Fanny sat up in bed, reached for the lavender oil and applied drops to her temples. Such a pain in her head – as if she had been drinking gallons of wine, rather than dealing with the dramas of her dearest family. And what did this new day hold? She dared not even think of it.

‘Madam.’ Sayce popped her dear head around the door, and then walked into the bedroom. ‘It’s the Miss, ma’am.’ And then she withdrew.

‘Mary, dearest.’ Fanny sat up straight and forced a huge smile, even though she could barely see straight. ‘Do come in and sit on the ’pane here.’ She tapped on the coverlet. ‘Let us be cosy together.’

Mary Dorothea approached the bed slowly, as if fearing an ambush. ‘Good morning’ – a semi-quaver’s pause – ‘Mama.’ Gingerly, she sat and passively allowed Fanny to take hold of her hand.

‘Do you remember, child, back when your dear papa and I were first engaged to be married, that we planned to take our morning tea together whenever possible?’

Mary nodded and looked into her lap.

‘We never quite got round to doing so as it turned out, did we?’

Almost imperceptibly, Mary’s head shook.

‘I fear events have rather conspired against us both, and that is unfortunate.’ Fanny reached for the tray on the bedside table, placed the strainer on the dish, lifted the pot and started to pour. ‘I am sorry that we haven’t spent as much time together as I should have liked. But now, I should like to rectify that.’ She passed Mary her tea, smiled – she hoped – winningly, and wrinkled her nose. ‘And I think we could become the firmest of friends, you and—’

Mary had reached over and was placing her cup back on the tray. ‘I am sorry. Perhaps, Mama, I should have informed you. I do not take tea, having not yet developed the taste for it.’ She then looked up at Fanny. ‘Thank you, though. Most sincerely.’