Jane and the Canterbury Tale Read online

  PRAISE FOR STEPHANIE BARRON’S

  BEING A JANE AUSTEN MYSTERY SERIES

  Jane and the Madness of Lord Byron

  “The incomparable Stephanie Barron spins an irresistible tale as she ventures once more into the glittering world of the Regency. Featuring Lord Byron at his maddest, baddest, and most dangerous to know, Barron’s latest has Jane Austen crossing swords with England’s most notorious poet in mesmerizing style. From its deftly crafted mystery to its pitch-perfect Regency tone, this book is a delight.”

  —Deanna Raybourn

  “Take two literary titans, one Prince Regent, a dead debutante, and nineteenth-century Brighton … and you have the perfect set-up for sleuthing. Another fabulous adventure with Jane Austen!”

  —Lauren Willig

  “Superb … Barron’s ability to capture Austen’s tone helps make this series one of the more literary and enjoyable of the pseudo-Austen oeuvre.”

  —Publishers Weekly (starred)

  “[The] writing is so joyous and clever and entertaining that it might have been written by the great Austen herself.”

  —The Denver Post

  Jane and the Barque of Frailty

  “Barron does an admirable job not only with the [Jane Austen] mysteries, but also in mimicking Austen’s style.”

  —The Tampa Tribune

  “Satisfying right to the last revelation … Like Regency great Georgette Heyer, the author excels at both period detail and modern verve. Aping Austen’s cool, precise and very famous voice is a hard trick to pull off, but Barron manages it with aplomb.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “Charming, literate and unequaled in its dissection of Regency-era social injustices.”

  —Kirkus Reviews

  Jane and His Lordship’s Legacy

  “Considered by some as the best of the ‘neo-Austens,’ Barron gets high marks for authenticity and wit.”

  —Booklist

  Jane and the Ghosts of Netley

  “The latest installment in Stephanie Barron’s charming series … [is] a first-rate historical mystery. Barron writes a lively adventure that puts warm flesh on historical bones. The nice thing is she does so in a literary style that would not put Jane Austen’s nose out of joint.”

  —The New York Times Book Review

  “A wonderfully intricate plot full of espionage and intrigue … The Austen voice, both humorous and fanciful, with shades of Northanger Abbey, rings true as always. Once again Barron shows why she leads the pack of neo–Jane Austens.”

  —Publishers Weekly (starred review)

  Jane and the Prisoner of Wool House

  “There’s plenty to enjoy in the crime-solving side of Jane.… [She] is as worthy a detective as Columbo.”

  —USA Today

  “A carefully written, thoroughly researched novel … An enjoyable, authentic portrayal of this classic author, a strong setting and a thoroughly enjoyable plot will convert new readers to the series as well as satisfy longtime fans.”

  —The Mystery Reader

  Jane and the Stillroom Maid

  “Barron does a wonderful job of evoking the great British estates and the woes of spinsters living in that era … often echoing the rhythms of the Austen novels with uncanny ease.”

  —Entertainment Weekly

  “This work bears all the wonderful trademarks of the earlier titles, including period detail, measured but often sardonic wit, and authenticity.”

  —Library Journal

  Jane and the Genius of the Place

  “This is perhaps the best ‘Jane’ yet. The plot moves smoothly and quickly to its denouement. Barron’s mysteries also educate the reader, in a painless fashion, about the political, social and cultural concerns of Austen’s time. Jane [is] a subtle but determined sleuth.”

  —Chicago Tribune

  “Barron tells the tale in Jane’s leisurely voice, skillfully re-creating the tone and temper of the time without a hint of an anachronism.”

  —The Plain Dealer

  THE JANE AUSTEN MYSTERIES

  BY STEPHANIE BARRON

  Jane and the Unpleasantness at Scargrave Manor

  Jane and the Man of the Cloth

  Jane and the Wandering Eye

  Jane and the Genius of the Place

  Jane and the Stillroom Maid

  Jane and the Prisoner of Wool House

  Jane and the Ghosts of Netley

  Jane and His Lordship’s Legacy

  Jane and the Barque of Frailty

  Jane and the Madness of Lord Byron

  Jane and the Canterbury Tale

  Jane and the Canterbury Tale is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  A Bantam Books Trade Paperback Original

  Copyright © 2011 by Stephanie Barron

  All rights reserved.

  Published in the United States by Bantam Books, an imprint of The Random House Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York.

  BANTAM BOOKS and the rooster colophon are registered trademarks of Random House, Inc.

  Grateful acknowledgment is given to reprint from THE CANTERRBURY TALES by Geoffrey Chaucer, translated by Burton Raffel. Translation and notes copyright © 2008 by Burton Raffel. Used by permission of Modern Library, a division of Random House, Inc.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Barron, Stephanie.

  Jane and the Canterbury tale : being a Jane Austen mystery / Stephanie Barron.

  p. cm.

  eISBN: 978-0-345-53035-6

  1. Austen, Jane, 1775–1817—Fiction. 2. Women novelists—Fiction.

  3. England—Fiction. I. Title.

  PS3563.A8357J329 2011

  813′.54—dc22 2011000501

  www.bantamdell.com

  Cover design: Jennifer O’Connor

  Cover photograph: © Christine Balderas/Photodisc/Getty Images

  v3.1

  Contents

  Cover

  Other Books by This Author

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Chapter One: Marriages Made in Heaven

  Chapter Two: The Shooting-Party

  Chapter Three: The Unexpected Hessians

  Chapter Four: The Pilgrim’s Tale

  Chapter Five: A Pact of Silence

  Chapter Six: The Uses of Gossip

  Chapter Seven: The Curious History of Curzon Fiske

  Chapter Eight: The Tamarind Seed

  Chapter Nine: The Devil in Dancing

  Chapter Ten: A Dish Best Served Cold

  Chapter Eleven: The Search Party

  Chapter Twelve: A Call of Condolence

  Chapter Thirteen: A Delicate Interrogation

  Chapter Fourteen: The Bride’s Tale

  Chapter Fifteen: A Choice of Pistols

  Chapter Sixteen: Revelations of an Inquest

  Chapter Seventeen: A Man Impossible to Move

  Chapter Eighteen: Correspondence

  Chapter Nineteen: A Magistrate’s Duty

  Chapter Twenty: History of an Entanglement

  Chapter Twenty-one: A Visit to Canterbury

  Chapter Twenty-two: The Seaman’s Story

  Chapter Twenty-three: The Clean-Shaven Liar

  Chapter Twenty-four: An Affair of Honour

  Chapter Twenty-five: Deadly Stakes

  Chapter Twenty-six: The Coppice

  Chapter Twenty-seven: Pretty Maids All in a Row

  Chapter Twenty-eight: Ghosts

  Chapter Twenty-nine: The Plantation Stewar
d’s Boy

  Chapter Thirty: A Convenient Indisposition

  Chapter Thirty-one: The Maid’s Clutches

  Chapter Thirty-two: Where There’s a Will

  Chapter Thirty-three: There’s a Way

  Chapter Thirty-four: The Lady in the Tower

  Chapter Thirty-five: Exit Dancing

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  CHAPTER ONE

  Marriages Made in Heaven

  “… either you or I will win

  My lady, and if it’s you, rejoicing in

  Her love when I am dead, why then you’ll have her.”

  GEOFFREY CHAUCER, “THE KNIGHT’S TALE”

  WEDNESDAY, 20 OCTOBER 1813

  GODMERSHAM PARK, KENT

  “AH, MISS AUSTEN,” CRIED MR. RICHARD TYLDEN AS HE offered me a glass of claret this evening—most welcome, as the day had been exceedingly wet, and the crush of persons in the ballroom at Chilham Castle so great as to entirely prevent me approaching the fire—“It has been an age since we met! And yet you appear to greater advantage than ever, if I may permit myself to offer so bold a compliment. That gown is excessively becoming. A shade exactly suited to a lady of your colouring.”

  As the gown was new, and a source of inordinate pride—the very kick of fashion and purchased at breathless expence only six months before in Brighton—I blushed like a schoolgirl. “You flatter me, Mr. Tylden.”

  “Indeed I do not!” he insisted, and raised his glass in salute. “To marriages made in Heaven,” he intoned, “and acquaintance renewed, after far too long a lapse.”

  I had no intention of flirting with the poor man, who is already long since married and devoted to his country church; but I condescended to beam at him before taking a sip of wine. I could not help but be pleased with my situation—having come into Kent with my brother Edward’s entire family party in September, I had endured a headlong whirl of gaiety ever since, and tho’ excessively fatiguing, the change from the quieter pleasures of the Hampshire countryside had undoubtedly done me good. I might revisit all those treasured scenes of happier days, when Edward’s beloved Elizabeth reigned at his beautiful Godmersham Park; serve as counselor to my niece Fanny, who was caught in all the toils of young womanhood; and appear as boon companion to the affected and rather silly spinster charged with the governance of Edward’s madcap younger daughters. In the midst of which, naturally, I snatched the odd hour to jot my immortal phrases into the little books I sew up from bits of foolscap. They have a distinct advantage, in being no larger than the span of a pocket in a lady’s gown—into which mine are frequently slipped, when an unwanted visitor shatters the solitude of Edward’s great library.

  There is nothing like a sojourn in the environs of Canterbury, indeed, for the refreshment and further education of a novelist—albeit a secret one, like myself. Everyone is rich here, and each has his peculiar story to tell. I think I could spend my whole life in Kent, collecting my characters and assembling my comic situations; and as I am presently at work on the story of a wealthy and indulged young lady by the name of Emma Woodhouse, who orders the existence of everybody about her exactly to her liking, much as my niece Fanny does—I could not be better placed. A wedding-party at Chilham Castle, for example, with all the elegance of Edward’s Kentish neighbours, must provide endless food for the writer’s imagination. Add to its recommendations, that it is the perfect occasion for the parading of my beloved wine-coloured silk—and you will understand a little of my inner exultation.

  No matter if Mr. Tylden were sparse of hair and stooped of shoulder; I knew myself to be in excellent looks, and must be gratified that someone, and a male someone at that, had admired my prize on its first wearing.

  “It has been some time since you were come into Kent, I think?” Mr. Tylden persisted.

  “Four years, at least.”

  “So long! I shall have to dispute the question of hospitality with your esteemed brother, Miss Austen—I certainly shall! I wonder you know your nieces and nephews again, after so long a lapse!”

  “But you forget, sir—my brother has lately been staying with all his family on his Hampshire estate, in the village where I myself reside, so that our intercourse has been a matter of daily occurrence.”

  “Just so. Nearly half the year they were gone to Chawton, and a refurbishment of Godmersham Park undertaken, I collect, during Mr. Knight’s absence. We were excessively glad to have the whole party back again.”

  I frowned a little at the use of Edward’s adoptive name, tho’ it is hardly the first time I have heard it since coming into Kent. My brother must leave off the name of Austen, now that his patroness, our distant cousin Mrs. Knight, has passed from this world. In acceding to his full inheritance, Edward and all his progeny must be Knights forevermore; the Will so stipulates it. Mr. Tylden has accepted the change with more aplomb than myself; he did not stumble over his address, as I am forever doing, when some Kentish neighbour hails Edward unawares.

  “And there are the fortunate couple now,” Mr. Tylden observed, setting down his glass with a benevolent look, as befit a man who had united Captain Andrew MacCallister with Adelaide Fiske. The two had just entered the ballroom, followed by our host, Mr. James Wildman, the bride’s cousin; and were receiving congratulations from every side.

  “And you truly regard theirs as a marriage made in Heaven?” I enquired idly.

  “Who could not? So much gallantry on the gentleman’s side, and so much beauty on the lady’s!”

  These observations were certainly apt; and if nothing more than gallantry and beauty were required for conjugal happiness, the MacCallisters bid fair to enjoy a halcyon future. The Captain is a man of thirty, battle-hardened and a coming fellow—attached to the Marquis of Wellington’s staff, no less. Some six years his junior, Adelaide Fiske is just that sort of tall, raven-haired beauty possessed of speaking dark eyes, that must turn every head upon entering a room. She possesses the carriage of a duchess and a figure that should make a courtesan wild with envy—tho’ I may not utter that judgement aloud in present company; only my brother Henry should know how to appreciate it, and he is in London at present. Adelaide Fiske’s life to date, however—but it would be as well to dwell as little as possible on the lady’s sad career. The history of Adelaide’s first marriage and widowhood are all to be forgot, now that she is once more a bride; and I should do well to heed Mr. Tylden’s better angels, in wishing the pair nothing but good fortune—and leaving off the name Fiske for the MacCallister she has vowed to cherish until death.

  It is unbecoming in a spinster to dwell upon the ominous at a wedding feast; it smacks of disappointment.

  “Ah, they are to dance!” Mr. Tylden cried in appreciation. “Only look how well they appear together!”

  And it was true, of course. MacCallister swept his wife into the daring strains of a waltz, his dress uniform a blaze of colour against her pale blue gown. His hair might be of a fiery carrot hue and his features nothing out of the ordinary way, but his shoulders were good; and his countenance was suffused with adoration as he gazed at his wife, so that it seemed almost indecent to observe them. Here was the true article: love deep and encompassing, not the pale social convention that too-often passes for it. I read triumph in the soldier’s look, and guessed he had worked long to win his prize. In the lady’s countenance there was greater reserve; she had long ago learnt to meet the publick eye with composure. Scandal is a hard school for young ladies gently bred.

  “Your niece has also taken the floor,” Mr. Tylden observed. “We must regard the waltz as approved in Kent henceforth, Miss Austen, if Miss Knight consents to dance it.”

  Miss Knight, indeed. And there was my own dear Fanny, who at the advanced age of twenty had been feverishly practicing the steps of the new dance with her brother the whole of the week past. Her countenance was becomingly flushed, and her grey eyes sparkled as she turned about the ballroom in her oyster silk—we had purchased the stuff for the gown in
London together a few weeks since, and she was sublimely conscious of having two flounces to her hem and a bodice cut alarmingly low.

  Her partner was a gentleman I did not recognise; his arm encircled Fanny’s waist in a shockingly intimate manner I must attribute to the waltz. He was tailored to swooning point in a black coat and cream satin breeches, his dark locks windswept à la Brutus, and his cravat a miracle of complexity. Far from affecting the Dandy, however, he proclaimed the sporting Corinthian with every inch of his muscular frame. It was his eyes that must chiefly draw attention, however—brooding black eyes that fixed upon Fanny’s with a smouldering look. She had excited a dangerous emotion in the young man’s breast, I judged—one it should be as well, perhaps, to discourage before it caused general comment. Intrigued, I taxed Mr. Tylden for the gentleman’s name.

  “That is Julian Thane,” he informed me stiffly. “A very wild young man, from all I hear. Sent down from Oxford in his second year, for crimes as yet unnamed.”

  “The bride’s brother?” Adelaide Fiske had been a Thane before her first marriage; and this young buck had his sister’s dark looks and self-possessed air. Julian Thane was the sort of man to throw all the girls of Canterbury into strong hysterics, indeed, if I knew anything of Fanny’s acquaintance. Rakes were in short supply in Kent at any season.

  From the indignant looks that followed Mr. Thane from nearly every young man in the neighbourhood, I concluded with some amusement that the interloper should be treated with coldness henceforth; he had poached in other men’s preserves.

  Grouped near the French doors letting out onto the balcony were three such Kentish fellows: John Plumptre, a serious young man of Oxford, with intellectual pretensions and a tendency to disapprove of frivolity; George Finch-Hatton, the blond god whom all the local girls apostrophized as Jupiter, whenever his planet swung across their firmament; and James Wildman, son and heir of our host, the most gentleman-like member of the set. I had known them boy and man, in company with my own nephews, as the most attractive and indolent passel of gilded youth as might be met with—friends from birth, companions by schooling and inclination, and united this evening in their disapprobation of my niece’s choice.