Stephanie Barron - Jane and the Canterbury Tale

—Or should have said so, before the advent of the dangerous Julian Thane. I fear Fanny has noted his inattention since that final encounter over the body of the maid—and that her spirits, so ready to soar at a clandestine note or unexpected posy, a stolen gallop of a Sunday afternoon—are sadly fallen in the absence of Thane’s tributes. I wish it were otherwise; I cannot like a fellow who dallies with his servants; and tho’ I have only Jupiter’s suspicions in the case, I must suspect Mr. Thane’s too-ready address and persistent proximity to danger. He seems the sort of reckless young man who was born to be hanged—a rueful encomium, when applied to a rogue one half-admires, but terrifyingly apt in the present instance. I could wave him heartily from the neighbourhood, for the sake of Fanny’s tranquility; time alone shall restore her to peace.

Jupiter, in the end, took himself off with a langourous bow. Once this last of our male companions was sped down the sweep, I afforded Fanny an interval to attend to household matters. There were all the orders to be given to Mrs. Driver and Johncock, regarding the airing of beds and the inventory of the stores, the neat dinner she wished for and the number of places to be laid—no more than Fanny, Edward, and myself, unless our peace is to be entirely cut up by the unexpected arrival of some one of the Knights’ acquaintance. Muttering a quick prayer against such a tedious event, I ascended the stairs to put on my carriage dress whilst Fanny should be occupied. The cold in my head raged unabated, and as I surveyed my countenance in the gilt mirror that adorned one wall of the Yellow Room, I saw with resignation that I should present a wilted appearance at Chilham, with reddened nose and streaming eyes, the very picture of spinsterly decrepitude.

It was full one o’clock before we were tooling along the road at last.

“How glad I am for this airing!” Fanny exclaimed as she snapped the reins over Rowan’s back. “You cannot conceive, Aunt, how tied to Godmersham I am when the house is full of visitors—my very rambles through the gardens are constrained, from a fear of neglecting some duty. I should feel myself delightfully at liberty now, were it not that a certain dread must accompany this visit. Circumstances are so awkward.”

“Meaning,” I said delicately, “that tho’ you are disinclined to encounter Mrs. Thane, in view of the gaoling of her daughter, you look forward to meeting once more with her son, and testing how adversity has tried his admiration of your excellent looks?”

“Aunt Jane!” Fanny cried; and her ready colour rose in her cheeks. I left her to pursue the subject, if she chose; she elected to hone her attention on managing her horse’s ribbons. I had other concerns to occupy my mind as we bowled towards Chilham, and left her in peace.

Tho’ I had as yet said nothing to my brother Edward, I detected a fatal flaw in the net he had spun for his killers of preference, Sir Davie Myrrh and Mr. Burbage—namely, that they could not be presumed to both flee the Kingdom by way of the nearest port, and linger in the neighbourhood to murder the unfortunate maid Martha. To entertain such conflicting purposes, as Edward plainly did, was to force the crimes to fit his interesting solution. I admired the entire fabric of Sir Davie’s history—the motives for revenge it argued—the indignation of the unfortunate Mr. Burbage, at his father’s ruin and demise—the very natural impulses that must bring both men into collusion with the late Curzon Fiske, and indeed, to Canterbury, where the final scene of Fiske’s long pilgrimage was played. To destroy Old Wildman by employing his son’s pistol, in the hope of placing James on the scaffold, should have been a stroke of genius only Lucifer might fully enjoy. Edward’s theory was neat; it was ingenious; it was seductive in the extreme. But my doubts lingered. They swirled about the dead figure of Martha. I found my brother’s confidence in Sir Davie’s guilt, arising as it had in total ignorance of this second murder, to be lacking. Perhaps Edward should reconsider, once he looked upon Martha’s cold form.

“You are very silent, Aunt,” Fanny observed as she took the left turning in the northern road towards Chilham and its castle.

“I am considering of motive,” I replied, “which must be a consuming subject for any woman. Our hearts so often work in subtle ways, towards complex ends, that the placidity of our outward appearance will invariably mislead the observer.”

Fanny glanced at me sidelong. “Is this meant for me, Aunt?”

“I think rather of that unfortunate creature in Canterbury gaol—whose heart remains obscure, perhaps even to those who love her best. I should wish you to study all the ladies of Chilham, Fanny, while we pay our call. I should dearly value your opinion.”

“And what will you be about, Aunt?”

“I shall study the men,” I replied, and subsided into silence for the remainder of the journey.

We were met in the great hall by the butler twitch. His countenance was grave, and he wore a black riband tied about his arm—in respect of the maid Martha, no doubt. I murmured a few words of condolence as I drew off my bonnet, and he inclined his head.

“I believe you discovered her, ma’am?”

“Miss Knight saw her first—but I was of the walking party, as was Mr. Finch-Hatton.”

“—And you met Mr. Thane, as was riding in the direction of Godmersham.” Twitch’s gaze fixed on my own; he was no fool, and would not wish to appear to gossip, but neither was he insensible to the murderous construction that might be placed upon the presence of that young gentleman so near a corpse. “Mr. Thane is not at home, being obliged to attend the crowner’s panel, but my mistress shall be happy to receive you, I am sure. If you will follow me, ma’am—”

“What do you mean, sirrah, by making free with my son’s private concerns?” a harsh voice demanded. “You ought to be horsewhipped. And if you were in my employ, that is exactly how you should be served. I should place the whip in my son’s hands, and have the satisfaction of seeing him exact revenge himself. Insolent scum!”

It was Mrs. Thane, of course, poised on the stairs descending to the Great Hall. Her eyes blazed in her haggard face, and her hands gripped the baluster so fiercely that the frail bones showed through the mottled skin. She appeared to have aged several years in the days since her daughter’s arrest; and she made no pretence of noticing Fanny or me, as we stood beside the butler. In the fog of her present torment, we must be invisible.

Or perhaps we were merely beneath her notice.

The butler did not reply—indeed, he did not even spare Mrs. Thane a look—but led us in stately fashion towards the gallery. “Mrs. Wildman will receive you in the drawing-room,” he intoned.

“Thank you, Twitch,” I managed unsteadily, aware of the crazed figure to my back. Even Fanny hurried a little in her pace, so as not to be left hindmost. We both of us dreaded to be the next object of attack; Mrs. Thane’s vituperation could chill the blood.

“Poor creature,” Fanny murmured low; “she has undoubtedly suffered in recent days! To see her daughter publickly shamed—to fear the worst of the scaffold—one cannot be amazed at her agony. It is a wonder she is capable of quitting her bed!”

“She doesn’t care that for Miss Addie.” Twitch angrily snapped his fingers, to our considerable surprize. “There’s only room enough in that shrivelled heart for Mr. Julian—he’s sun and moon both to Mrs. Thane, aye, and Prince of Wold Hall into the bargain! Much joy may that young devil bring her!”

Fanny raised her brows in wonder, but there was no time for conjecture or comment; we had achieved the drawing-room, and from the comfort of her sopha Mrs. Wildman was lifting a languid hand in greeting.