Jane and the Canterbury Tale (17 page)

William Beckford is known far beyond England, however, for a connoisseur, a collector of art, a musician who once studied under no less a master than Mozart, and as the author of the horrid novel
Vathek
. It is Beckford’s name that young James Beckford Wildman claims—Beckford having stood as the boy’s godfather. We may assume the choice of both name and patron to signify
gratitude
on Mr. Wildman Senior’s part, rather than any approbation of William Beckford’s tastes or habits. The amassing of a considerable fortune must be said to sweep all prudish reserve aside—and Mr. Wildman owed his present comfort entirely to Beckford’s Jamaican plantation. He managed the Quebec Estate, as the plantation was known, so well, in fact—and Beckford proved so profligate in his building and furnishing of his absurd pile at Fonthill Abbey—that Wildman was presently able to relieve his illustrious employer’s straitened circumstances, by purchasing the plantation outright; and at a very good price, if rumour is believed.

The revenues from Jamaican sugar proved so lucrative, that Mr. Wildman was gradually able to put enough by to purchase Chilham Castle when his son was but four years old. The Wildman income is thought to be in the neighbourhood
of
twenty thousand
a year. (If only another such Prize might be secured on the Marriage Mart for my own dear creation, Caroline Bingley! But Chilham is no Pemberley, alas.)

The Castle is far older than its present owner’s claims to gentility, having been built in the early seventeenth century on the ruins of a medieval motte and bailey. Set on high ground, and facing the little village of Chilham, it is a pleasant façade in the Italian Renaissance stile, much improved in recent years by Jamaican profits. The building curves in a polygon shape, with the last link missing—establishing an inner courtyard flanked by the horseshoe of the house. All the principal rooms are to the rear, facing some twenty acres of gardens that fall away in gradual terraces below; Capability Brown had the original draughting of it, tho’ later hands have struggled gamely to mar his work.

Today, however, the air of Chilham Castle verged on the tragic, with a fillip of the sinister. Even the sunshine that was wont to stream through its leaded windows had fled hurriedly to more hospitable roofs; wind sighed in the lofty eaves; and had a ghoul commenced howling in the best Gothick manner I should not have been surprized. I must impute such a change to the influence of the Thane family.

We followed Mrs. Thane into the Great Hall, where she turned abruptly at the foot of the sweeping Jacobean staircase. She was arrayed entirely in black crepe, of an outworn mode that suggested it had been purchased in respect of her late husband’s passing; a mourning brooch of jet was fastened upon her bosom. Was so much magnificence meant to honour a son-in-law she had refused entirely to acknowledge while living?

“You are Mr. Knight, I collect—a near neighbour,” she pronounced. “And you are Miss Knight?”

Fanny curtseyed.

“And that person is Miss … 
Austen
, is it? The poor relation? You are Mr. Knight’s spinster sister, I believe?”

Shock very nearly left me speechless. “One of them, ma’am.”

“
Both
unmarried? What a sadly unprosperous family! I recollect your face from the ball, of course, and must regret that we were not then introduced; I was but briefly in attendance, as my ill-health will not permit me to indulge in protracted dissipations.”

The wedding of her daughter, a protracted dissipation.

The basilisk stare turned on Fanny. “You, however, I could hardly fail to notice.
You
danced several dances with my son.”

From the haughtiness of the lady’s tone, we must assume she regarded Fanny’s waltzing with as much disapprobation as John Plumptre—but from an entirely different cause. Mrs. Thane might have been a monarch, and Fanny an unlettered girl from a distant village, whose pretensions in seducing the prince must be ruthlessly suppressed. I bridled on my niece’s behalf, but no words were necessary—for Edward stepped forward, his countenance set.

“How pleasant to animadvert on the gaieties of a few days ago,” he observed, “and how sad to think they were of such short duration! I am First Magistrate of Canterbury, Mrs. Thane, and cannot help but be charged with resolving Mr. Curzon Fiske’s murder. I have urgent business with Mr. Wildman and his son. Pray lead me to them.”

It was an order, not a request; and Mrs. Thane’s head reared back, as tho’ she had been treated to an insult. “May I remind you, sir, that there is a
servant
present!” she hissed.

Edward glanced satirically at Twitch. He stood as tho’ deaf, a little in advance of Mrs. Thane.

“I am sure most of the servants were aware of the tragedy long before you learnt of it, ma’am, as the local beaters were in at the discovery of the body; and I should never stand on ceremony with James Wildman’s man,” my brother said in an accent of considerable amusement, “for I have known him these twenty years and more. Is your master in his book
room, Twitch? You need not announce me.” With that, he bowed easily to Mrs. Thane, and strode off towards the rear of the house.

Twitch made no move to impede Edward; rather, he gestured towards the opposite passage—which at Chilham is known as the Circular Gallery—and said, “If you will allow me, Miss Fanny, the ladies are sitting in the drawing-room. I’m sure Mrs. Wildman will be most happy to see you.”

“I shall conduct them to her,” Mrs. Thane interjected. “And as you are now at leisure, Twitch—perhaps you may think on the
proper
deference becoming to a servant, and the ways in which impertinence is
generally
rewarded in better-regulated households.”

With these quelling words, she strode down the passage towards the drawing-room; and after a single amazed look, Fanny and I followed her.

“Miss Knight and Miss Austen,” the lady announced on the threshold; and Mrs. Wildman and her two daughters rose to greet us.

Mrs. Wildman is a good deal younger than her husband, being not yet fifty, and her daughters are nearer in age to Fanny. She was born and bred in Jamaica, where Mr. Wildman married her, and remains so persistently opposed to the English climate that she goes about swathed in shawls even in the heat of August. Her daughters are less exotic and less indolent; but I do not think I indulge in phantasy when I say that all three ladies met Mrs. Thane’s appearance with an expression of dismay, one that swiftly changed to delight at discovering ourselves behind her.

“My dearest Fanny!” Mrs. Wildman exclaimed, and kissed her on both cheeks. “We did not expect this pleasure. And Miss Jane, as well! We are so grateful to all at Godmersham for what you did yesterday—for young James, particularly, who was
much distressed
at the terrible events of
the morning. To go out shooting, the weather fine and the company delightful, and to find oneself presented with a corpse! —And the early conviction, too, that one’s fowling piece might have been responsible! For a wonder, my son declares, with
absolute certainty
, that he never recognised Mr. Fiske at all! Tho’ he knew him so well in former days. Well!” The voluble Mrs. Wildman looked with finality from myself to Fanny. “It only goes to show how terrible is the change wrought by Death!”

Or a growth of beard, a pilgrim’s clothes, and the weathering sun of Ceylon
, I thought.

While the others murmured pious nothings at Mrs. Wildman’s inescapable truth of Nature, I reflected that however difficult I might find an approach to Adelaide MacCallister, or however formidable a watchdog her mother should prove, there was little I could not learn of the history of both from a polite show of interest in Mrs. Wildman’s talk. She was a comfortably ample lady dressed in the first croak of fashion—as it is understood in Kent—with a lace cap to her dark hair, which was now streaked with silver; slightly protuberant brown eyes that widened expressively with her exclamations; and a pug dog she carried habitually on her arm, with all the appearance of having forgot it was there.

“Do come and sit down, Miss Jane, and settle yourself over there, Miss Fanny, between Charlotte and Louisa—”

We did as we were bade. It was obvious our hostess was bursting with ambition to talk over the whole affair, but Fanny hastened to say all that was proper, before the tide of speculation and outrage swept all before it.

“We felt it most necessary, ma’am, to offer our deepest sympathy at Mr. Fiske’s loss, and also the sad disruption of Captain and Mrs. MacCallister’s plans,” she said. “We would not have dreamt of descending upon you so suddenly otherwise.”

“Impertinence,”
I heard Mrs. Thane mutter; only Louisa, the younger of the Wildman daughters, stole a glance at her—half frightened, half defiant.

“Bless your heart, Miss Fanny, for saying straight out what everyone cannot help but think,” Mrs. Wildman returned impulsively. “I’m sure I never wished Curzon Fiske ill—and I’ve known him a good many years longer than Augusta there, having watched him grow from boy to man”—this, with a nod for Mrs. Thane—“but I don’t mind saying I wish he’d passed over in Malaysia or Tahiti or whichever of those dreadful Oriental parts he ran off to, instead of sticking his spoon in the wall, as the saying goes, not a mile from our front door on the very night of the ball! And I suppose your good father
must
undertake the business?”

This was a bolt of shrewdness I had not expected.

“I fear so, ma’am,” Fanny replied.

“He is even now closeted with your husband,” Mrs. Thane hissed. “
I
ought to have been consulted.
I
am her mother.”

Mrs. Wildman stared at her cousin in amazement. “And what has Adelaide to do with Mr. Knight the Magistrate?” she demanded. “You’re not thinking it’s
Adelaide
he wants to throw in gaol? Nonsense! Edward Knight has more wit than to believe a new-made bride would steal from her husband’s bed on her wedding night to do murder—or that a man like MacCallister would let her!” She laughed heartily. “There, I’ve made all the girls blush, and sweet they look with it! You leave off trying to rule the roost, Augusta, and let the gentlemen settle the unhappy tangle!”

“Did young Mr. Wildman’s Express succeed in reaching the couple?” I enquired.

“Caught up with them not far out of Maidstone,” Mrs. Wildman replied eagerly. “They’d not been travelling above two hours, you know, on account of having risen late and taken their good time in quitting us. Lord, how happy the
Captain was to be whisking his bride away to London! To be sure, Town’s tolerably thin of company, with Parliament adjourned and all the
ton
folk rusticating among the pheasant and grouse, but I should guess the Little Theatre is open, and the good Captain’s friends at the Horse Guards would be ready enough to drink to his dear lady’s health!”

“How unfortunate,” I murmured, “that all his plans were thrown into disarray. The Captain was in excellent spirits, I suppose, in setting out?”

“Aye, but the look on his face when the pair of them came back again—!”

At this, there was a marked disruption. Mrs. Thane rose so precipitately from her chair that she succeeded in knocking over one of the profusion of small tables the Wildman girls had strewn about their mother’s drawing-room, in an effort to make it appear more fashionable, and less like the drawing-room they had grown up in; such are the fruits of expensive educations at the finest establishments in Bath. The table fell against the harp that Charlotte was most assiduous in playing, whenever the opportunity to exhibit might present itself, and a selection of strings emitted a chance
thrum!
, not at all displeasing, which caused me to wonder
how much
instruction, indeed, was required to appear proficient on the harp.

“Enough,” Mrs. Thane proclaimed in a voice that must chill the very marrow. “I will
not
have my daughter’s affairs talked over in this odious and despicable way. I must beg, Mrs. Wildman, that you say nothing further to these people. Indeed, I wonder that
anyone
so wholly unconnected with ourselves should regard the subject as one for common discussion.”

“Why, Mamma?” said a voice low and distinct from the doorway. “Are you afraid of what they might
say
—or
you
might
learn
?”

  
CHAPTER FOURTEEN