Stephanie Barron: Jane and the Canterbury Tale

“Dunno.”

I was half-listening for the slapping notice of the woman’s return, and was startled nearly out of my wits when a cordial voice said, “Miss Austen. How kind of you to come.”

Captain MacCallister—his honest, plain face and thatch of red hair, looming from the shadows of the passage. “If you will allow me to conduct you—Adelaide is at liberty now.”

“How has she taken this dreadful news?”

“She refuses to believe her brother culpable,” he said simply. “She is positive the truth will out, with time. It is the quality one so admires in Adelaide—her loyalty! She has a courage that is beyond everything!”

I was gratified to know that the Captain’s ardour was undimmed by the hideous events that had attended his nuptials. “A quality you share, then, Captain—for certainly your faith in your wife has never failed.”

It was difficult to see much of the countenance beside me in the torchlit corridor, but I thought MacCallister’s expression changed. There was regret in his visage; and bitterness, too. “I ought to have saved her this . I ought to have prevented it—if only by taking the blame myself! But it could not be done—by the time I understood the danger in which she stood, the Law already had her in its grip. Any professions of mine should then have been dismissed, as a husband’s too-willing sacrifice.”

“Pray, do not berate yourself. I believe—I am almost certain—that all representations against Mrs. MacCallister’s innocence are done away with. Indeed, I am convinced she shall be very soon at liberty.”

He glanced at me then. “You have not understood, I fear. Adelaide shall never be free, so long as her brother’s life is at issue.”

I could offer the wretched man no answer; but thankfully, the prison door was nigh, and the Wardress poised to open it. The Captain bowed, and I passed before him within.

Adelaide MacCallister was standing composedly in a narrow shaft of sunlight afforded by a slit in Westgate Tower’s walls. I was recalled suddenly to the high, narrow windows that lined the servants’ quarters at Chilham Castle—and to her mother’s austere figure, silhouetted in the passage. There could be nothing in sharper contrast to Mrs. Thane’s harsh aspect than Adelaide’s dark beauty; but the air of self-command was the same.

My maid did not answer my bell , she had said. So I came in search of her .

“Mrs. MacCallister.” I dropped a curtsey. “I must offer my gratitude at your willingness to receive me. I should not have been surprized to find myself turned away, as being among your greatest enemies.”

“Not at all,” she said gravely. “Should you care to sit down? There is only one chair, but I am perfectly willing to stand. Indeed, I am obliged to sit so much that I grow restless—and pace and pace like a caged tiger. Pray sit, Miss Austen—if the mistress of such a shabby establishment may be allowed to protest, I insist you accept my meagre hospitality.”

I sat, conscious of the interesting couple’s eyes fixed upon me in perfect politeness, awaiting whatever I should chuse to tell them, without anxiety or fury. “I ought to say how distressed I am—how distressed my entire family is become, indeed, at the turn of events at Chilham—the arrest of your brother—but such words must fall hollowly upon your ears, when spoken by the Magistrate’s sister.”

“I am persuaded Mr. Knight is as mistaken in my brother’s guilt, ma’am, as he has been in mine.” Adelaide’s eyes kindled swiftly, but as swiftly the blaze died. “I accept your good wishes in the spirit they are offered. I bear you no ill will. If that is all the burden of your visit, however—to free yourself of anxiety, in offering condolences for the fate that has overtaken my brother and me—I must ask you to accept my thanks, Miss Austen, and be gone.” She swayed slightly as she stood. “You are very good—but I fear my nerves are not equal—”

Captain MacCallister supported her with his strong arm, and I rose immediately from my chair. “I will leave you in an instant, Mrs. MacCallister, if you will be so good as to answer one question.”

“What is that?”

“Where does your mother’s personal maid sleep, while your family is in residence at Chilham Castle?”

Adelaide stared at me in bewilderment. “Her maid? My mother employs none, Miss Austen. Our income did not permit of such luxuries. We shared the services of Martha Kean, until—” She paused, recovering herself. “Mamma was to be forced to an alteration, indeed, once the Captain and I should be married and gone—as we intended to be, a week since.”

They had shared Martha’s services . The thought reverberated in my head with all the force of a clanging bell. Mrs. Thane had lied, when I discovered her in the servants’ quarters—because her purpose there had been to search the dead maid’s room, as I myself had intended.

“Where, oh where, is my brother?” I cried, and turned to the cell door in a fever of anxiety.

“Miss Austen, are you unwell?” the Captain demanded.

“It is imperative I speak to Mr. Knight without delay!”

“You there,” MacCallister called, in a voice accustomed to command. “Unlock this door at once! Miss Austen—is it possible you might save her?” he added in an undertone.

“Unquestionably. But at a cost,” I warned. “I may not stay—Pray support your wife, Captain.”

“God bless you,” he said, as the door closed behind me.

I never felt less worthy of his words.

We drove as fast as two horses whipped to frothing-point could pull us—direct from Canterbury to Chilham, no more than half an hour on the road, at the spanking pace Edward set. Twitch was standing before the Castle door as the curricle drew up; I did not stay for Edward’s assistance, but jumped down as he did.

“Your master,” Edward said in a rush to the butler. “Where is he to be found?”

“In the north tower, sir,” Twitch replied.

Edward was already bolting up the grand stairs, taking two at a time. I followed with as much haste as my carriage dress allowed.

29 October 1813, Cont.

“Good god, man! Must you always appear when you are least wanted?”

Edward drew up in dismay, his feet rooted to the floor. Old Mr. Wildman stood before a heavy oak door. His sparse white hair was in disarray, his broad face suffused with choler, and his aspect so entirely wild, as to suggest a profound disturbance of mind and temper. I had never heard him speak with such acerbity to my brother.

“I had very nearly got her to unbar the door—which she will never do, now you are come!” he concluded.

“You would speak of Mrs. Thane?” My voice held no little urgency. “She has secured the bolt on her chamber—she is immured within?”

“She took to her bed as soon as you were gone yesterday e’en, and has not emerged since.” Old Wildman glanced at Edward with less heat in his aspect. “I confess that I fear for her mind. This latest blow—young Julian’s charge of murder—has overset her reason entirely. I know not what she might do in her despair … some dreadful violence …”