About the Author

Gill Hornby is the author of The Hive and All Together Now, as well as The Story of Jane Austen, a biography of Austen for young readers.

Her subsequent novels, Miss Austen and Godmersham Park, were Sunday Times bestsellers, and Miss Austen is now a four-part BBC series starring Keeley Hawes as Cassandra Austen.

She lives in West Berkshire with her husband and their four children.

Also by Gill Hornby

The Hive

All Together Now

Miss Austen

Godmersham Park

TITLE PAGE

DEDICATION

For Charlie, Sam and George, with love

A Note about Names

Edward Austen, brother of Jane, was adopted in his teens by a childless couple, Thomas and Catherine Knight, and became their heir to Godmersham Park in Kent, as well as Chawton in Hampshire. When Thomas Knight died, Edward took over both estates, but it wasn’t until Catherine Knight’s death, in 1812, that he took full possession. And it was in that year, as he was obliged under the terms of the will, that he changed his name. From then on, he was known as Edward Austen Knight, and decided that his eleven children would drop the Austen altogether and became simply ‘Knight’. How I miss being dear old Austen, his eldest daughter, Fanny, wrote in her journal.

This novel is based on the true story of the Knight family after that time, a period in which, by an unfortunate coincidence, three of the main actors share the name Edward. Though there is no record of his family ever using the diminutive, I have, for simplicity’s sake, taken the liberty of renaming Edward Knight II: Ned.

EPIGRAPH

I leave it to be settled, by whomsoever it may concern, whether the tendency of this work be altogether to recommend parental tyranny, or reward filial disobedience.

Jane Austen, Northanger Abbey

The Families

The Knights of Godmersham Park

EDWARD AUSTEN KNIGHT, widowed father and elder brother of Jane

And his eleven children:

FANNY KNIGHT

EDWARD KNIGHT, ‘NED’, heir to the estate

GEORGE

HENRY

WILLIAM

LIZZIE

MARIANNE

CHARLES

LOUISA

CASSY

BROOK JOHN

SAYCE, Fanny’s Maid

MR JOHNCOCK, the Butler

BOOKER, Maid to the children

MRS SALKELD, the Housekeeper

SACKREE, known to the children as ‘CAKEY’, the Head Nurse

The Knatchbulls of Mersham-le-Hatch

SIR EDWARD KNATCHBULL, widowed father

His aunt: LADY BANKS, widow of Sir Joseph Banks, the distinguished botanist

And his children:

MARY DOROTHEA

NORTON

EDWARD (died 1818)

CHARLES

WYNDHAM

JOHN

The Austens of Chawton Cottage

MRS AUSTEN, mother of Jane

MISS CASSANDRA AUSTEN, Jane’s sister

Prologue

On the morning of the 25th day of May, in the year 1826, Miss Cassandra Austen settled herself down at the corner window of her dear Chawton cottage, and waited. Though the light was just so – such pretty, spring weather they were blessed with this year! – her mind was too full for work. And, as this promised to be a significant day in her own personal history, she should preserve all her energies for later. So instead, she simply sat – this was quite out of character – with empty hands clasped in an empty lap, and eyes firmly trained on the Winchester Road. But rather like a watched kettle, the longer she stared, the sleepier it seemed to become.

The new lad from the farm, White’s youngest boy, brought up her milk; Cassandra waved, mouthed her thanks and signalled to leave the pail at the kitchen so that she did not have to move. Ten minutes later, there came the sound of hooves; the first stirrings of dust. She stiffened, alert. But it was only a humble pony-and-trap and, of course, that could hardly be them.

At last, she lost patience. Really, she chided herself, what on earth was the matter with her? Miss Austen was, famously, never known to be idle, and there was a mound of darning yet to be done. She rose to retrieve it, caught the sight of her latest letters piled up on the table, and smiled.

These past two weeks, Cassandra had received more correspondence than she had in her youth! Even the post boy, by nature so sullen, had been provoked into raising a brow. Dear brother Edward, her many prurient sisters-in-law and Fanny, of course – poor girl, how she suffered – they had all taken the trouble to write often, at length. And though she should rightly be touched to be kept so closely informed – after all, she was hardly a principal in this particular drama – instead, Cassandra suspected their motives.

For were they not, in fact, trying to set the agenda? After an event such as this, a narrative quickly takes hold and turns into popular legend. Some wanted to see tragedy; a few preferred scandal, though was that not typical? The more sensible took the view that the best should be made of it. Well, she had no need of their guidance, though she thanked them very much. Cassandra Austen was perfectly able to make up her own mind. Indeed, she already had.

She marched to the work basket, took it back to the window, and let out a chuckle. Oh – was there ever a family such as her own! Though her life had not been without its misfortunes, in that particular moment Cassandra could see only the privileges. She held a stocking to the light, decreed it past saving, set it aside – it was bound to come in for some other purpose – and reached for the next. Certainly, her seat at the edge of this great, never-ending saga was never known to be boring: this was merely the latest instalment. The things this new generation got up to! One could scarcely have imagined it, back in that closed little world of the Steventon Rectory in which the Austens began …

As she chose the best thread for a jerkin, there came a sudden commotion. Cassandra tightened her grip; leaned forward: face pressed to the window. And yes! The coach-and-four in its unmistakeable livery. She must leave now – at once!

First, of course, she packed up the basket – any mess was abhorrent – then she went up the stairs to check on her mother. As ever, the poor lady was sleeping, but peaceful. Her moments of clarity were increasingly rare, but she knew no discomfort, which was a blessing, and the maid could be trusted to keep an eye. Those duties dispatched, Cassandra headed back down to the front door, grabbed a shawl and a bonnet and only then thought to remember her cane. She selected a good stick. One did not need a fall, on that day of all days. With a quick firm stride, she went out into the sunshine, turned right and set off for the Great House.

The route did have its challenges. There were significant hills to be taken both down and up and, lately, Cassandra found it a struggle. Of course, she could always find some good man in the village willing to take her by cart, but, on the whole, she preferred to stretch her old legs while she still could.

When her sister was alive, they had together been the most desperate walkers – that was their phrase. She passed the thatched cottages, crossed the lane, came to the top of the long drive – the first view of the mansion – and then paused. The blossom was heavy; the air purest green. The glorious vistas of Chawton, particularly at this time of the year – the cusp of the seasons – always brought Jane back to life in her mind.

And how she missed the dear one in that moment! They would have so much to discuss and would no doubt have done so late into the night. Feeling again the sharp pain of her absence – the loss was a wound that could never quite heal – Cassandra could not help but wonder: what would Jane have made of it all?

PART ONE

CHAPTER I

Fanny Knight of Godmersham Park was in the twenty-eighth year of her settled existence when she suddenly found her life changed.

It was 30 August 1820, and she was late to breakfast that morning, having spent a hot, difficult hour in the linen cupboard with Mrs Salkeld. Fanny always aimed to do the more tiresome tasks early in the day, and there was little more tiresome than the counting of pillowslips or the company of the housekeeper. By the time she got to the table, the rest of the family had already left to pursue their various sporting interests.

Fanny made herself comfortable, poured her own tea and glanced through the long window. It was the third week of infernal hot weather and even the impeccable Godmersham lawn was baked brown as a biscuit. She surrendered to worry – on the subject of younger children, the force of the sun and the wearing of hats – and then determined to enjoy her moment of solitude before the next duties beckoned.

With one hand, she stirred; the other rifled through that morning’s post. A letter from Ned: no doubt a detailed account of some triumph against fish, fowl or Hampshire cricketer. Dear brother – few beings were safe. Fanny would save that to last. She raised the dish to her lips, saw the next was from her Aunt Cassandra, gave a tight little sigh and put that to one side. Fanny replaced dish upon saucer and, from what little had been left for her, selected something to eat.

The hand on the next packet was not immediately known to her. She turned it from front to back, decreed its author to be masculine – such strength and confidence in the stroke – and nibbled at the edge of a muffin. No doubt it would prove to be tedious; nevertheless, Fanny must own to some mild curiosity. After all, one simply never could tell. And in a deft balancing act of knife and bun, she sliced open the pages, skimmed the requisite address to her person, wishes for her health and read: You are the only person in whose society I can find happiness …

Good heavens! This seemed to be – no, it was surely impossible. And yet it was, categorically, so. Fanny held in her hand a declaration of love! The page started to tremble. Her heart thumped at her ribs. Again, doubt flooded in: oh, but she must be mistaken! Her eye raced on.

… and in whom I can trust the welfare of my children …

Fanny’s pulse found its pace; the muffin began its descent. The words ’welfare’ and ‘children’ were hardly in the lexicon of romance or high passion. And yet: Your confidence, if given to me, will not I hope be misplaced.

Was this, in fact, something yet more extraordinary? Indeed, was it not – might it possibly be – a proposal of marriage? Fanny read it again. It felt a little oblique, and certainly cautious – cautious in the extreme. Even after a third reading – it was really no more than a very brief note – she was forced to admit that at no point was the salient question directly asked of her.

Yet it was the work of mere seconds for Fanny’s brain to declare that it was indeed a proposal and, as proposals went, this one was, quite simply, a marvel. And not just because it was the first she had received for a good many years.

Everything about it was perfect. Yes, it was more pragmatic than passionate, but then was not Fanny herself? So its language was sensible and serious, but was not the holy sacrament of marriage? One would certainly hope so. And beyond all of that, it also had one more, startling virtue: it was wildly, dramatically and utterly unexpected.

Sir Edward Knatchbull, the author of these astonishing words, was not completely unknown to her. He was now approaching his fortieth year and the families had been neighbours, in country terms – their estates were some distance apart, but no person of much consequence lived in between – for a few generations. The widower had come to dine with the Knights a few weeks before; had been, for the first time, seated beside Fanny and each had seemed pleased to discover in the other a like, sober mind. Then, the Tuesday before last, he had – rather curiously, now Fanny looked back on it: as if visiting a stables to examine a possible new pony – brought his thirteen-year-old daughter over to call.

So he was not a stranger exactly, but nor, by any stretch, could Sir Edward possibly be described as her lover, or even a friend. No touch or look or moment of even hesitant intimacy had ever passed between them. This declaration came quite out of the blue.

Yet at once, Fanny knew in her heart that it was a serious proposal, for Sir Edward was well known to be a deeply serious man: one of sound Christian faith and profound moral certainty. Though it was possible there was a more frivolous side to him, she very much doubted it. His name was never mentioned in connection with any sport or games or amusements – or any sort of fun whatsoever. Sir Edward Knatchbull, the world was agreed, did not do things lightly.

Which was why Fanny found this development so very touching. Perhaps another young lady might have thought it too abrupt or too formal; not this one. If Fanny Knight were the type for swooning – as it happened, she was very much not – but if she could, she would swoon right there in the breakfast room.

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.

‘Papa, you already knew?’ Fanny pressed her palms into the pillows and sat up, ramrod. ‘This is not the first you have heard of the matter?’

Her father coughed, stood, made as if to perambulate, before losing confidence in the whole scheme and sitting quickly back down again. Fanny sensed he was nervous.

‘Perhaps, Fanny, if you cast your mind back’ – he was now focused intently on straightening his blotter – ‘you might remember the pleasant occasion upon which Sir Edward Knatchbull recently came here to dine?’

‘But of course, Papa. It was only last month!’ As if she wasn’t stirred up enough, Fanny felt the stirrings of impatience.

‘Quite so.’ It was suddenly imperative that the left side of the blotter be exactly perpendicular to the inkwell. ‘Then I can now explain that the arrangement followed a pleasant meeting between myself and the, er, the, um, gentleman in question.’

‘Indeed?’ Fanny felt rather affronted. She was, after all, the family’s intelligence. ‘And might I enquire where this meeting took place?’

Mr Knight looked up with the hangdog expression of a small boy admitting a crime. ‘In Canterbury,’ he replied miserably. ‘At the last Quarter Sessions.’ He cleared his throat. ‘As you may know, it is now six years since Sir Edward was widowed and his aim was to bravely continue as the dutiful, only parent to his much loved children. Having followed the same pattern myself, I know only too well how lonely and difficult such a situation can sometimes prove to be.’

Fanny stiffened. She had presumed that the immaculate care and concern which she had quite showered upon her father had been enough – more than enough – for him. That he should now suggest otherwise, after so many years of devotion: it was too much! Tears sprang to the daughter’s eyes. His confession struck Fanny as both terribly sad and a great personal slight. As they once used to say in the nursery: she had tried her absolute best.

Her father dropped his gaze. Perhaps after all it was the inkwell itself that was out of place? ‘Of course, with the death of his father, his situation is changed. Sir Edward has assumed the baronetcy, is now due to move into the family seat over at Mersham-le-Hatch and, when the House sits again, he will – by rights, perforce, as is quite natural – become the next Member of Parliament for East Kent.’

Ah. As the causes of the proposal were clarified, so the romance began swiftly to dim. Fanny could hardly help feeling a little humiliated. She retrieved from within her habitual, practical self; regathered her poise; rose from the armchair and started a stroll about the library.

‘So the responsibilities of his estate will be much more than those to which Sir Edward is so far accustomed.’ Fanny was aware of a certain archness of tone, but rather thought the situation required it. ‘I hear Hatch is a fine house indeed. The first private commission Robert Adam ever completed, I believe.’ She turned to the bookshelves, grazed a long, delicate finger along the spines and casually flicked ‘Much land?’ over her shoulder, as if it were a fur tippet.

Her father seemed a little taken aback by this sudden change of approach. ‘It is certainly substantial though I fear I cannot, at this very moment, provide the exact acreage.’

‘Never mind.’ With a quick swish of muslin, Fanny returned to the armchair. ‘Now, the children.’ She rested her hands in her lap and gazed steadily at her father. When first she came in, her cheeks had been warm; they were now returned to their more natural coolness. ‘I had the pleasure of meeting his eldest, Mary Dorothea – a remarkably sweet child. Indeed, I have never before met one quite so keen to please.’

It had puzzled Fanny at the time. Of course, one wants the children to be biddable and courteous and so on and she was quite confident that she had raised her own siblings to be so. However, a little personality – individuality, certainly; even impudence, within reason – did add to their charms. But there had been something about Mary Dorothea’s behavioural perfection that had caused some unease … Studying the plain, colourless creature, looking into her eyes perhaps hoping to see into her soul, Fanny had found nothing beyond her own self reflected back. But of course, she was being silly. The child had been nervous, no doubt, and might improve over time. ‘And the rest are boys, if I am correct?’

‘There were five sons when his wife died; four now remain.’

‘That is unfortunate.’ Fanny acknowledged the loss with a slight sombre nod, before moving on briskly: ‘Then I quite understand that, all things considered, Sir Edward Knatchbull is, indeed’ – she arched one fine eyebrow – ‘very much in want of a wife.’

‘Oh, my dear child!’ Her father rose, came round to the chair, half sat on its arm and took both Fanny’s hands. ‘I fear I have got this all wrong and done both you and Sir Edward a terrible disservice. Yes, it would be as well for him and his family if he were to marry again now. But at the same time – coincidentally—’

‘And conveniently!’ Fanny cut in.

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