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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?”
    F OR 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?”
    G EOFFREY C HAUCER, “T HE K NIGHT’S T ALE ”
     
    21 O CTOBER 1813, CONT .

    “M Y DEAR M ISS A USTEN!” CRIED M ISS C LEWES, 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