Stephanie Barron - Jane and the Canterbury Tale

“Did young Mr. Wildman’s Express succeed in reaching the couple?” I enquired.

“Caught up with them not far out of Maidstone,” Mrs. Wildman replied eagerly. “They’d not been travelling above two hours, you know, on account of having risen late and taken their good time in quitting us. Lord, how happy the Captain was to be whisking his bride away to London! To be sure, Town’s tolerably thin of company, with Parliament adjourned and all the ton folk rusticating among the pheasant and grouse, but I should guess the Little Theatre is open, and the good Captain’s friends at the Horse Guards would be ready enough to drink to his dear lady’s health!”

“How unfortunate,” I murmured, “that all his plans were thrown into disarray. The Captain was in excellent spirits, I suppose, in setting out?”

“Aye, but the look on his face when the pair of them came back again—!”

At this, there was a marked disruption. Mrs. Thane rose so precipitately from her chair that she succeeded in knocking over one of the profusion of small tables the Wildman girls had strewn about their mother’s drawing-room, in an effort to make it appear more fashionable, and less like the drawing-room they had grown up in; such are the fruits of expensive educations at the finest establishments in Bath. The table fell against the harp that Charlotte was most assiduous in playing, whenever the opportunity to exhibit might present itself, and a selection of strings emitted a chance thrum! , not at all displeasing, which caused me to wonder how much instruction, indeed, was required to appear proficient on the harp.

“Enough,” Mrs. Thane proclaimed in a voice that must chill the very marrow. “I will not have my daughter’s affairs talked over in this odious and despicable way. I must beg, Mrs. Wildman, that you say nothing further to these people. Indeed, I wonder that anyone so wholly unconnected with ourselves should regard the subject as one for common discussion.”

“Why, Mamma?” said a voice low and distinct from the doorway. “Are you afraid of what they might say —or you might learn ?”

22 October 1813, Cont.

Adelaide Fiske Maccallister, née Thane, entered the drawing-room with all the grace she had long claimed; but I should judge that her usual composure was lacking. She was beautifully arrayed in a morning dress of striped French twill, with a high, stiff collar and sleeves tightly buttoned at the wrist, a complex of stile and neatness not often achieved. Her countenance, however, was drawn and pale, and the expression in her eyes was bleak; her dark hair was simply arranged in a knot at the nape of her neck that in another woman should have appeared dowdy; on Adelaide, it achieved a Grecian purity.

Striding into the room behind her was her brother, Julian Thane. He was dressed for riding—but so elegantly that I must have assumed his destination to be Hyde Park, rather than his cousin’s stables. A stray lock of dark hair curled romantickally over his forehead; his countenance was interestingly pale. He bowed carelessly to us all, but his eyes were fixed on his mother’s forbidding looks.

“As we sow, dearest ma’am, so shall we reap,” he said by way of greeting. “Is that not the bit of wisdom you are forever whispering in my ear? How apt, in the present instance! Nothing would do for you but to cut Addie dead upon her marriage—thereby ensuring that her blackguard of a husband should find little profit in mending his ways. We are justly served! The fellow is never done plaguing her, even in death!”

“Silence!” Mrs. Thane replied.

Her son’s black brows snapped together and his eyes narrowed; but without another word, he dismissed the woman from his consideration and turned towards Fanny. “Miss Knight. It is truly a pleasure to meet with you again—the morning’s sun doing only greater justice to your charms.”

Fanny coloured, and offered the hand he was clearly seeking. He bowed over it, then looked enquiringly at me. “I regret that I am unacquainted with your … sister?”

Such a blatant essay at flattery! But when tempered with a raised brow and a quirk of the lips, could not fail of being charming.

“My aunt , Miss Austen,” Fanny returned reprovingly. “May I present Mr. Thane?”

“I am very glad to meet you, sir.” And so I was. For many reasons—romantic and violent—Mr. Thane could not help but be an object of interest with me. I judged him to be younger than Adelaide—perhaps only just of age [7] Gentlemen, in Austen’s day, came of age at twenty-one. — Editor’s note . . How well had he known Curzon Fiske, or the sad history of his sister’s marriage? Would not he have been away at school for much of it? The curious rebuke Thane had only now offered his mother suggested an intimacy with—and a repugnance for—his sister’s trials. What were Thane’s loyalties to Adelaide—or her new husband, Andrew MacCallister?

And would not a gentleman who had been out some once or twice, as Fanny put it, be more likely to challenge Fiske to a duel rather than shoot him in cold blood? There were any number of spurs to such a meeting; Thane might have accused his late brother of desertion, for example, or of an insult to a lady, and been entirely within his rights in challenging Fiske. Murder outright, however … I did not think it suited the gentleman.

Being too well aware of the danger of prejudice, however, I resolved to ignore the promptings of my better self, and rank Julian Thane high among my suspects.

Fanny had risen from her place and moved towards Adelaide MacCallister; she was speaking in her firm, soft voice, and I must attend.

“I hope, Mrs. MacCallister, that you do not think ill of us for descending upon Chilham Castle in this way—so hard upon the tragic discovery. The fact of my father’s being charged with a duty in respect of Mr. Fiske’s death, and his intention of paying a call upon Mr. Wildman, resolved my aunt and me in accompanying him; but indeed, we have outstayed our welcome, and ought to be taking leave.”

“Pray, do not go on my account,” she returned calmly, and seated herself in one of Mrs. Wildman’s Louis XV chairs. “I know full well why your excellent father has come—and must speak with him in my turn, no doubt, whenever he commands it. Curzon was murdered; he was shot down like a dog in the night, and left to bleed out his heart; and I should be a very strange woman indeed if I did not feel the loss. I loved him to distraction once—and his was a terrible death. No matter how poor a husband, or how reprehensible a man, he did not deserve it.”

“Adelaide!” Mrs. Thane was outraged. “Hold your tongue! Pray consider of the Captain!”

A faint smile twisted Mrs. MacCallister’s lips. “I consider of little else, Mamma, as I am sure you know. But I do feel this death most acutely; and the fact that I am now united to another, with all the bonds of affection and duty that attend such a union, cannot entirely negate the love I once bore my first husband. I am happy to speak of him; indeed, I think I shall sooner lay his unhappy ghost to rest, if I do speak of Curzon. Were you at all acquainted with him, Miss Knight?”