Jane and the Canterbury Tale (14 page)

22 O
CTOBER
1813,
CONT
.

F
ANNY ROSE FROM HER CHAIR ALMOST BEFORE
M
R
. M
OORE
had done, and with a stiff nod of the head to her Aunt Harriot, led the ladies from the dining parlour. I should dearly have loved to remain, to hear what fascinating invective might drop from the mouths of the gentlemen present, but I should have to be content with pumping my nephews on the morrow—that is, this morning—for not even Jane may keep her chair once the decanters of Port are to be passed round.

“Miss Clewes,” Harriot said faintly as we crossed the Great Hall, “I should like to see my son before I retire, if I may—would you be so good as to accompany me to the nursery?”

“I should be
delighted
,” Miss Clewes answered firmly. Mr.
Moore is such an object of admiration for her, that I am sure she has taken Mr. Lushington in severe dislike. “You look excessively tired, dear Mrs. Moore; perhaps a little warm milk before the schoolroom fire? I always offer it to the children, you know, when they have said their prayers and donned their night-clothes; I warm it by the spirit lamp. I do not think I have ever known a night of disturbed rest, when once I have imbibed warm milk before bed!”

With such soothing words, and a modicum of fussing about Harriot’s Paisley shawl, and an arm at her elbow to assist her up the stairs, did Miss Clewes prove herself of some worth; for she succeeded in removing the two most awkward ladies from the drawing-room, and leaving Fanny and me to speak freely.

“Do you think the men will come to blows?” Fanny enquired anxiously as we sat down before the fire and took up our required amusements—transcriptions of sheet music, in my case, and a scrap of embroidery in Fanny’s. “I dread to hear the shattering of crystal, or perhaps foul language. Tho’ I do not believe that my father or Uncle Moore is equal to either. I cannot speak for Mr. Lushington.”

“Mr. Lushington! He shall rather
laugh
his way out of the business, I think, than resort to his fists. Moreover, you are forgetting the good sense of John Plumptre, which must divert the minds of all present,” I soothed. “Plumptre is not the sort of young man to sit by and tolerate foolishness or calumny.”

“No, indeed—Mr. Plumptre made his sentiments abundantly clear on that score this evening, did he not? Although his subject
then
was the inherent frivolity and … 
selfishness
 … of women. At least, that is how
I
interpreted what he said.” Fanny gave a hard tinkle of laughter. “I am excessively glad that I never nursed a
tendre
for Mr. Plumptre. I should be sadly cast down by his opinion of me—whereas at present,
I may be thankful for my escape. A man without a particle of humour is what I cannot endure.”

As I knew very well that Fanny
had
nursed a
tendre
for Plumptre—that there had been a time, before such things as waltzes with Julian Thane or badinage with Jupiter Finch-Hatton, when her countenance was wont to flush whenever Plumptre’s quiet good looks made their appearance in our drawing-room, I disregarded the bitter feeling in this speech and went straight to its heart.

“Do not regard anything he chuses to hurl at your head, Fanny,” I cautioned. “John Plumptre is a man very much in love, if I do not mistake.”

“In love! You
heard
what he said to me, Aunt! You
heard
his poor opinion of my character!”

“I did—and knew him for a man who is suffering under the lash of jealousy. If he seems intent upon wounding you, it is from a desire to win your attention from others—however illogical his methods may seem. He is like a small boy who will not leave off tugging the curls of the little girl he adores.”

Fanny turned her head aside.

“If he is not at your feet this very evening, begging forgiveness for his ill-judged words, I shall be very much surprized,” I said cajolingly. “Do not be so foolish, pray, as to reward him with stony silence. Now, Fanny: What is your opinion of that last exchange between Mr. Lushington and your Uncle Moore? Had you an idea the two held each other in dislike?”

“I should not have called them
intimate friends
, perhaps, but I have perceived no hint of the discord we witnessed tonight. They have been guests in this house for two days, and have conducted themselves with nothing but propriety and cordiality.”

“For my part,” I said thoughtfully, “I should have thought them unacquainted before this mutual visit to Godmersham—
and yet you heard what Moore said: Mr. Lushington was present at the famous card party at Chilham Castle, on that night three years ago when Curzon Fiske fled to India.”

“So, too, must Uncle Moore have been present,” Fanny observed. “Else he should not have been able to repeat what Mr. Lushington then did, or said. Perhaps he and Aunt Harriot were on a visit to Chilham at the time.”

She was correct, of course. Phantom faces rose in my mind, chance guests around a green-baize table, their looks years younger, their frames thinner, themselves shadowy in aspect and purpose—George Moore and Jupiter Finch-Hatton; Stephen Lushington and John Plumptre; Curzon Fiske and his host, James Wildman. A strange assortment of gentlemen—their ages, aims in life, and the means they chose to achieve them … utterly different.…

And the MP had accused Fiske of cheating. Did not such rash words generally end in a meeting at dawn, rather than voluntary exile? I supposed the outcome depended upon the spirit in which the accusation was received. —Not with gloves slapped across the face, but a craven apology?

It came to me then, with a force of conviction unbidden and unquestionable, that the murder perpetrated on the Pilgrim’s Way had its root in that fateful card party—Curzon Fiske’s last hand of whist as an acknowledged Englishman, in the bosom of his neighbours and acquaintance, some three years since. Dr. Bredloe might chuse to believe the affair was simple, and that once the MacCallisters were returned from their aborted honeymoon, he should find his murderer in husband or wife—but I suspected there was more behind Fiske’s death than mere wedding-night violence. The quiet corpse lying cold in the scullery still wielded a malevolent power: it had pitted friend against friend only this evening. The seeds of Fiske’s death were planted, I felt certain, in that company of whist players at Chilham Castle; and whatever they had
said or done that wretched night still divided them. Indeed, the apparent peace achieved once Fiske was fled to India was entirely destroyed at his unexpected return—the secret that bound his fellows was sure to spill out, like water overflowing from cupped hands.
One
among our quiet neighbours had known Fiske was not dead of a fever in Ceylon; one had waited for him to reappear, like a phantasm or bogey from the grave; and one had determined that Fiske should never leave the Pilgrim’s Way alive.…

“That poor man’s death,” Fanny murmured, “has unleashed a nasty spirit in this house. Do you not feel it, Aunt? We are all in discord, as tho’ we breathed a bitter atmosphere. I believe I shall go up to bed early. I have no heart for embroidery tonight.”

“Have you none for whatever apology John Plumptre might make?” I asked, in an attempt to rally her.

She shook her head with a faint smile, and exited the drawing-room.

I
DID NOT LINGER LONG MYSELF, FOR WHEN THE GENTLEMEN
put in their appearance at last, and stood around the tea table when it was brought in, that I might pour out for them and preserve the
appearance
at least of a cordial country-house evening, the talk was all of hunting—it being the most neutral topic the party might hit upon. John Plumptre, as I had expected, struck the correct note, in remaining firmly upon the path of what was unobjectionable, impersonal, and incapable of giving offence; he talked with determination of hard frosts, stopped earths, thinning coverts, and sound hunters, in which he was heartily joined by my nephew Young Edward, whose unbridled enthusiasm for every form of sport is the most tiresome thing about him. Mr. Lushington, as Keeper of Hounds, might join in with impunity; and
my brother the Magistrate observe all with a dispassionate eye. Mr. Moore, upon learning that his lady had already retired, buried himself in a book; and not long thereafter excused himself from the party.

Mr. Lushington surprized me excessively by bending over my hand, and offering the most fulsome compliments on the hospitality of the house, explaining that he found he must depart on the morrow—possibly before breakfast—on urgent business that could not wait. As Mr. Plumptre would also be leaving us in the morning, he, too, said all that was proper when I rose to retire—but I offered
him
more than the polite nothings I had given our MP.

“Do not be in a hurry to run away from us, Mr. Plumptre,” I suggested. “We enjoy your society so much; and in a difficult hour, the presence of a friend is a solace, not a burden.”

“You are very good, Miss Austen.” He looked a trifle discomposed, as tho’ his cravat were suddenly too tight. “But I know too well that I have hurt where I ought to have healed. I fault myself—indeed, I cannot recall my behaviour at dinner this evening without shame and reproach. I will not say more; there is nothing that may be said, in defence of my ill-judged temper.”

“Which is why you ought to have breakfast with us, Mr. Plumptre,” I returned with amusement, “for much may be forgiven over the morning coffee, particularly if the sun is shining, as I expect it shall be tomorrow.
Try
to enjoy a good night’s sleep; and know that each new day is a chance to start life afresh. Or so I have always found it.”

“Thank you. I shall.” He bowed over my hand—such a boy, for all his airs and intellect; an uncertain boy with eloquent eyes, who has yet to plumb the mysteries of his own heart or anyone else’s—for all he may study Philosophy.

I
TOOK BREAKFAST IN MY ROOM, ON A TRAY, AS BEFITS A
lady of my advanced years; fancy me, sitting up in a great bed with draperies, and a brisk fire in the hearth, and a cap on my head as I write in this journal. The breakfast-parlour shall be all the better for my absence, provided Mr. Plumptre and Fanny have the solitary use of it; as the weather is indeed much improved from yesterday, I would expect both Young Edward and George shall already be out shooting, with sandwiches in their pockets, and Edward will have ridden into Canterbury to see to the inquest—