Jane and the Canterbury Tale

guns. On no account should they be cleaned; leave them in the gun room just as they are, until I have had an opportunity to examine them.”

“And the dogs, sir?” Monk objected.

Edward glanced at me. “The dogs will follow Miss Austen, I think. She has a way with them.”

This was an outrageous lie, but I did not regard it. “Dr. Bredloe is also the coroner?” I asked, as I hurried to keep pace with my brother, who was striding ahead of the shooting-party as it struggled to bear its ghastly burden. The leg that had been bent under the corpse in falling, had already stiffened in that position. I was on the point of alerting Edward to this curious fact when he stopped me with a word.

“Bredloe is a man who knows how to keep his mouth shut. I think that is of vital importance, Jane, do not you?”

For a wonder, the pack of spaniels danced at my heels all the way back to the house.

Chapter Four The Pilgrim’s Tale

“For I dissolve all promises and vows,

All grants you think I’ve made, all guarantees.

You fool, don’t you know that love is free,

And I would love her whether you weren’t or were?”

Geoffrey Chaucer, “The Knight’s Tale”

21 October 1813, Cont.

“My dear Miss Austen!” cried Miss Clewes, who was hovering near the stairs with a square of linen clutched in one bony hand as I entered the Great Hall, “I was never more shocked! When our excellent Fanny told me what dreadful events had occurred in the Park, and of the death of that poor innocent at the hands of our gentlemen—a pilgrim, no less, intent upon an errand of expiation for his soul—I declare I suffered palpitations! Poor Lizzy and Marianne administered my vinaigrette, tho’ I am sure they were equally overcome, poor lambs! I should be lying down upon my bed this instant, were it not that my sense of duty required me to remain upright, and offer what assistance a frail woman may, in a household o’erwhelmed by tragedy!”

Miss Clewes is a recent addition to Godmersham, having been engaged by Fanny as governess for her little sisters only a few months ago. In this capacity, Miss Clewes follows a succession of unfortunates, both old and young, who have attempted to earn their bread by imposing order in Edward’s chaotic nursery in the years since Elizabeth’s death. I do not dislike Miss Clewes; indeed, I pity any woman whose circumstances are so sadly left that she must secure a respectable position in a genteel household—for governessing is in general an unhappy lot. I know full well that without the excessive generosity of my brothers, my sister, Cassandra, and I might well have been forced to a similar servitude—existing in that wretched limbo between serving hall and drawing-room, never comfortable in either sphere and despised as imposters by both. Instead, we two have been sustained by the funds contributed yearly by our excellent brothers—and by Chawton Cottage itself, which Edward was so good as to make over to our use. Tho’ we possess no carriage and set up no stable, tho’ we scheme and contrive to dress in a respectable ape of fashion, we four women—for I count my mother and my fellow lodger Mary Lloyd in this—are blessedly fortunate. The luxury of being free from want has allowed me to indulge the frivolity of writing. That I have been able to command a minor independence, from the monies secured by the sale of my novels, is but an added comfort. Miss Clewes was never so lucky.

Some awareness of the similarity, and quelling difference, in our circumstances encouraged me to answer her cheerfully now, when I might have lashed out with impatience. Miss Clewes is too prone to die-away airs for my taste; and tho’ not unintelligent, her volubility cannot serve to recommend her sense. A silly but well-intentioned creature without a particle of harm in her—that is Miss Clewes. Or so I was thinking, until she uttered the fatal sentence that must banish all charity.

“Naturally, I went straight to our excellent Mr. Moore, that he might offer a prayer for the repose of the dead,” she assured me, with evident satisfaction. “I thought it an office of the first importance, and was gratified to discover that my failing energies were equal to so much, at least.”

“You had better have sent him on an errand to Canterbury!” I sighed in exasperation. “Mr. Moore is exactly the person I should wish as far from the scullery as possible, at this present. He is sure to read us a sermon on the sad consequences of the encouragement of sport as a pursuit for young gentlemen, with illustrative anecdotes of his own excellent rearing under the late Archbishop. Dear Lord, I must attempt to keep him out of Edward’s way—”

Miss Clewes was immediately wounded. “My dear Miss Austen,” she cried, wringing her handkerchief—“I had no notion you would be displeased by a consideration of Christian charity—and must beg you will forgive my presumption, if such it was—but indeed, Mr. Moore’s views on the rearing of young people are highly worthy. On countless occasions he has condescended to advise me on the curbing of dear Lizzy’s temper, and the encouragement of Marianne in the use of the backboard —”

I did not linger to learn further what Mr. Moore thought necessary to the education of young ladies. Instead, I hastened in the direction of the housekeeper Mrs. Driver’s preserve: the warren of rooms below-stairs that comprehend the kitchens, serving hall, housekeeper’s and butler’s sitting rooms, pantries, stillroom, and scullery.

This last was a clean but chilly room equipped with two deep wash basins, a draining board, and a trestle table of scrubbed pine. The dead pilgrim had been laid carefully on the latter, to the evident disapproval of Mrs. Driver and the scullery maid, a girl of perhaps seventeen, who stared in bewildered horror at this invasion of her realm. A large stack of breakfast dishes had been hurriedly removed to the draining board, and steam still rose from the wash basins; the girl’s raw, red hands twisted nervously in her apron.

“Get along with you,” Mrs. Driver said crossly, “gawping like a heathen at a poor, Christian man wot’s met his Maker—” and she urged the maid out into the passage.

I eased through the doorway, which was almost entirely blocked by the worthy Mr. Moore, who appeared disinclined to breach the scullery itself and perform the duty for which he had been despatched. Perhaps it was the mingled odours of dirty dishes, hot iron tubs, and aging corpse that discouraged him—a faint expression of distaste was writ on his harsh features. Or perhaps he abhorred a crush—the small room was rather crowded with my brother Edward, his son George, Mr. Finch-Hatton, John Plumptre, and James Wildman—who, having laid their burden on the trestle table, appeared uncertain what further was required of them.

“George,” Edward said, “take these fellows upstairs where they may wash, and then recruit the general strength with tankards of ale all around. Mrs. Driver shall see to a nuncheon, presently.”

“That is very good of you, sir,” Wildman said hesitantly, “but I wonder whether we might relieve your mind by taking ourselves off—and returning to Chilham directly.”

Edward’s blue eyes met the younger man’s indifferently. “You may certainly do so—once the coroner has seen this man and heard your recital from your own lips. Until those duties have been discharged, I must beg you to remain under this roof, James.”

Wildman glanced at Finch-Hatton, who shrugged slightly.

“Naturally we shall remain,” John Plumptre said stiffly. “I should not dream of