Jane and the Canterbury Tale

For he was not long home from another war:

Forgiveness for sin was what a pilgrim sought.

Geoffrey Chaucer, “General Prologue”

22 October 1813, Cont.

“Forgive me, Adelaide,” the Captain said as he hesitated in the doorway. “I did not know you entertained guests.”

“It is only the Magistrate’s daughter, Miss Knight, and her aunt, Miss Austen,” his bride returned. “They accompanied Mr. Knight on his business.”

“I see.” MacCallister’s voice and expression were heavy; gone was the joy I had read in his countenance at his wedding. His gaze drifted from Adelaide to her brother, and fixed upon Julian Thane’s face; with a flicker of his sandy eyelashes he said abruptly, “The Magistrate wishes to see you again, Julian—there having been a variance in our accounts. I am sorry for it.”

“Our accounts?” Colour rose in Thane’s face, and to my surprize, his eyes slid towards Fanny. “What would you mean, Andrew?”

“Merely that I told Knight the truth as I knew it—and I collect that you did not.”

Thane stiffened as tho’ a glove had been flung in his face. “Do you call me a liar?”

“Of course not.” MacCallister walked wearily into the room and took up a position behind Adelaide’s chair, his hands resting on her shoulders. She glanced up at him searchingly, but said nothing. “A liar utters falsehoods. You said nothing at all.”

“I do not pretend to understand you,” Thane returned, on his dignity.

“You withheld certain facts, Julian. I urge you to disclose them now. Mr. Knight is waiting. He holds all our fates in his hands.”

There was a silence; then, without another word or look, Thane strode to the drawing-room door and quitted the room.

MacCallister sighed. “Pray present me to your acquaintance, Adelaide.”

“They were about to take their leave,” interjected her mother acidly.

“Tho’ Mr. Knight is as yet engaged?”

“Andrew,” his wife said intently, “what did you mean, just now? About Julian?”

He glanced down at her. “Present me to your acquaintance, Adelaide. I should prefer Julian to speak for himself, once he determines to do it.”

I observed her delicate throat to constrict, as she swallowed her fear with effort, and returned her gaze to ourselves. “Miss Knight—Miss Austen—may I present my husband, Captain MacCallister, to your acquaintance?”

Fanny and I rose, and curtseyed as MacCallister bowed.

“You were our guests at the wedding ball, I know,” he said, “but with such a crush of people—there may have been as many as two hundred in the room—I cannot pretend to have retained the names of most of my well- wishers. Let us say that we renew our acquaintance—and I shall undertake to greet you both with greater civility in future.”

“You are very good,” I said. “I do not believe there is one bridegroom in ten who may discern an individual from the mass of those at his wedding celebration!”

“And now I fear we must take our leave,” Fanny said firmly. “If you would be so good as to summon a footman, Captain MacCallister, I will request my tilbury to be brought round.”

“Hah! Drive yourself, do you?” Mrs. Thane queried. “It is of a piece with the general stile of Knight effrontery; you did not accompany your father at all, but brought yourselves, from a desire to gossip and feed on our troubles! Spiteful girl! I shall take care that my son wastes no more of his notice on you!”

Fanny flushed; her lips parted in indignation, but it was Captain MacCallister who answered his mother-in- law.

“Julian may have little enough liberty in the immediate future, once he has sworn his testimony at the inquest.”

“What do you mean, Andrew?” Adelaide demanded. “What are all these hints and warnings?” She slipped from under his protective hands, and rose to face him.

He stared at her gravely. “Julian did not spend Wednesday night in blameless sleep, Addie. Nor did I. I bear responsibility for entangling your brother in this affair—and must beg your pardon.”

Adelaide’s looks were ghastly, her beauty a mocking skull.

“Andrew—”

“I do not know the countryside hereabouts so well as Julian; he has been cantering over these Downs forever. I asked him, therefore, to ride with me down the old Pilgrim’s Way that divides your cousin’s estate from Mr. Knight’s. There is a side-path from the Pilgrim’s Way that leads to St. Lawrence churchyard. We achieved it at about half-past two on Thursday morning.” The Captain’s voice dropped. “We met with your late husband, Addie— and gave the blackguard all the money we could pool between us, to be gone from England by daybreak.”

It should surprize no one that at these words, Adelaide MacCallister fainted.

I had just succeeded in writing an account of the morning’s events, from a hope of understanding them better, when my brother Edward strode into the library and made directly for the decanters set out on a side table. He tossed back a mouthful of brandy, then topped up his glass with an absorbed expression on his countenance; tho’ he did not appear to be in an ill-humour, I did not like to pelter him with questions just yet. I allowed him an interval for stirring the fire, and frowning into the flames, and swallowing another draught of his restorative drink; and once he had thrown himself into the chair opposite, I regarded him quietly, until he should chuse to speak.

Silence is a restful quality in a woman, one few women may command.

“Fanny manage the tilbury all right, without my escort?” he asked.

“Perfectly well, I assure you.”

The brandy glass sat idly between his palms, half empty. He sighed, as tho’ very well pleased to be in his own home again. “Rowan’s a well-mannered tit; he’d never run away with the girl. I bought him from James Wildman last spring, did you know that?—one of his three-year-olds.”

“You were always an excellent judge of horseflesh, Edward.”

“Yes. But of men, Jane?” He thrust himself from the chair and tossed off the brandy, then stood with his boot on the fender and stared unblinking into the heat of the fire. “Do you know what a galling trick it was, to be welcomed as a friend into my neighbour’s book room, only to demand of him where his son keeps a brace of duelling pistols, and whether one is at present missing?”

“I am sure it was painful and repugnant to you,” I answered quietly, “but I am even more certain that Mr. Wildman understood it to be your duty.”

“Duty!” Edward retorted with loathing. “Yes, and I suppose I must call it my duty to hang one of my friends before very long.”

“Not that—but to find justice for Curzon Fiske, perhaps.” Edward was silent a moment.

I studied his profile and felt it safe to venture a question. “What did Mr. Wildman say, when you enquired of James’s pistol?”

“He laughed, and said the guns were forever lying about—because James has a penchant for shooting at targets in the most unlikely places. When he is up in London, he may commonly be found at Manton’s Shooting Gallery, culping wafers; but when in Kent, is reduced to snuffing candle-flames at thirty paces on the terrace, and has not been unknown to nick playing cards affixed to the billiard-room walls.”

“So Mr. Thane intimated.”

My brother glanced at me swiftly. “I forgot. While I was insulting one of my oldest friends, you were about