Jane and the Stillroom Maid
( Jane Austen Mysteries - 5 )
Stephanie Barron
A chilling mystery with a solution that will leave you spellbound. Stephanie Barron does an excellent job of creating Jane Austen’s world. Details of early 19th-century country life of all cases ring true, while the story line is clear, yet full of surprises.
Stephanie Barron
Jane and the Stillroom Maid
Being the Fifth Jane Austen Mystery
Dedicated to Carol Bauer Bowron, friend and writer, who carries a certain Pemberley in her heart
Editor’s Foreword
THIS IS THE FIFTH OF THE AUSTEN MANUSCRIPTS I have been privileged to edit for publication since their discovery, in 1992, in the cellar of a Georgian manor house outside of Baltimore. I may say that I find it by far the most exciting, for it sheds light on Jane Austen’s life and travels in 1806 that helps to confirm events only suspected before.
One of the most vividly described and memorable locations in all of Austen’s novels must be the county of Derbyshire, where Fitzwilliam Darcy, the reticent hero of Pride and Prejudice, makes his home. Here Elizabeth Bennet is privileged to travel in the company of her relations, the Gardiners. The party tours Matlock and Dovedale before visiting Darcy’s estate of Pemberley, where they unaccountably stumble across the owner. Elizabeth, in conversation with Darcy, refers to the inn at Bakewell, where she has been staying with the Gardiners — and to this day there is a tradition in Bakewell that Jane Austen was once a guest at the town’s principal Georgian inn, The Rutland Arms. She must have been to Bakewell, the local inhabitants reason; her description of the landscape surrounding Pemberley accords so closely to the town’s physical reality. Furthermore, she imputes to Elizabeth Bennet an enthusiasm for the beauties of the Peaks that sounds entirely genuine.
Austen scholars, however, have contested for years The Rutland Arms’ claim that Jane was a guest during the summer of 1811; for in 1811, as all good Austen scholars know, she was far from the Midlands and the Peaks.
A few voices, however, have lately suggested that Jane might have visited Derbyshire during the summer of 1806, while staying with her cousin Edward Cooper in neighboring Staffordshire. During the seven weeks she spent in a rectory in Hamstall Ridware, Staffordshire, Austen would have been but forty miles from the sites she later describes in Pride and Prejudice. George Holbert Tucker, author of Jane Austen the Woman, is inclined to support fellow academic Donald Greene, who argues that Darcy’s fictitious home corresponds in its broad outlines to Chatsworth, the great estate of the dukes of Devonshire. Certainly it is true that the entire Cooper family succumbed to whooping cough during the Austens’ visit — and for this reason, as well as from a possible desire to tour the Peak District, Edward Cooper may have carried the Austen ladies into Derbyshire. No letter has survived in Jane’s hand, dated late August 1806 from the town of Bakewell, but that should hardly be surprising. She was, after all, traveling with her chief correspondent, her sister Cassandra — and any number of Austen’s letters have been destroyed over the years.
Jane and the Stillroom Maid thus comes as a revelation. Here is the complete story of that singular week in 1806, when Austen saw the original of the great house she would use as one of her models for Pemberley. She was writing sporadically, if at all, during this period, having abandoned The Watsons—a decision most Austen scholars ascribe to persistent grief for her late father and the unsettled nature of the Austen ladies’ domestic arrangements. Some part of Jane’s Derbyshire experiences must have lingered powerfully in memory, however. When she once more took up her pen, the outlines of Bakewell and Derbyshire would be traced in the landscape of Pemberley House, and a bit of Charles Danforth in the character of Fitzwilliam Darcy. Is it too great a leap of the imagination to claim, indeed, that but for this 1806 trip to Derbyshire we might never have seen a revision of First Impressions—the novel we now know as Pride and Prejudice?
STEPHANIE BARRON
GOLDEN, COLORADO
SEPTEMBER 1999
Chapter 1
The Butterfly on the Stone
Tuesday
26 August 1806
The Rutland Arms, Bakewell, Derbyshire
MR. EDWARD COOPER — RECTOR OF HAMSTALL RIDWARE, Staffordshire, Fellow of All Souls, devoted supplicant before his noble patron, Sir George Mumps, and my first cousin — is possessed of a taste for hymns. He sings without the slightest encouragement or provocation, in a key entirely of his own choosing. Were he content to sing alone, in a subdued undertone befitting one of his dignity and station, all might be well. But Mr. Cooper has achieved a modest sort of fame as the composer of sacred music; and like the ardent shepherd of many a flock, must needs have company in his rejoicing. There are those who profess to admire my cousin’s wistful baritone and remarkable lyrics — Sir George Mumps himself is said to have presented the Staffordshire living on the strength of his esteem — but Jane Austen is not among them. Were Mr. Cooper to sing airs in the Italian, before an audience of five hundred, I should still blush for his execution and taste. My cousin is a very good sort of man, his compassion and understanding quite equal to the duties of his parish; but his strains are not for the enduring, of an early hour of the morning.
I was blushing now, as I rolled towards Miller’s Dale in the heart of Derbyshire behind the horse of Mr. Cooper’s excellent friend, Mr. George Hemming; and I foresaw a morning’s-worth of mortification in store, did my cousin continue to sing as he had begun. I had borne with Mr. Cooper’s hymns through his dawn ablutions; I had borne with a determined humming over our morning coffee. And as the pony trap rolled west through a remarkable spread of country, I now reflected that I had borne with a stream of liturgical ditty for nearly a fortnight. To say that I possessed an entire hymnal of Mr. Cooper’s work writ large upon my brain was the merest understatement. I heard his powerful strains in my sleep.
“Is it not a beautiful morning, Jane? Does not the heart leap in the human breast for the greater glorification of God?” Mr. Cooper cried. “Pray sing with me, Cousin, that the Lord might hear us and be glad!”
Poor Mr. Hemming cast a troubled glance my way. He was but an instant from a similar application, and I read his distress in his looks. My cousin’s talent, we may suspect, had progressed unnoticed by his friend during the long years that interceded between their first acquaintance, and this latest renewal; had Mr. Hemming known of the recital we were to receive during our journey to Miller’s Dale, he might well have retracted his invitation. I had long ago learned the surest remedy for Mr. Cooper, however, and I now hastened to employ it. Even the least worldly of men may be prey to vanity.
“Do not destroy all my pleasure in hearing you, Cousin, by requiring me to sing myself!” I cried. “My voice should never be joined with yours; it is not equal to the demands of the performance. Nor, I am certain, is Mr. Hemming’s. Pray let us rest a little in your art, and be satisfied.”
Mr. Cooper beamed, and commenced a tedious five verses of “The Breath That Breathed O’er Eden.”
I endured it in silence; for I owed Mr. Cooper every measure of gratitude and respect. But for my cousin, I should never have set foot in Derbyshire at all. And Derbyshire — with all its wild beauty and untamed peaks — had long been the dearest object of my travels. What was a little singing, however off-key, to the grandeur of lakes and mountains?
Mr. Cooper had long despaired of my mother’s ever paying a visit to Staffordshire and her dearest nephew’s rectory. It was many years, now, since he had first urged the scheme; his family had annually increased, his honours as a vicar and homilist multiplied; Mr. Cooper himself was approa
ching a complaisant middle-age — and still the Austen ladies remained insensibly at home.
But so lately as June my mother determined to quit the environs of Bath — the town in which we have lived more than three years — it being entirely unsuitable now that my beloved father is laid to rest. Being three women of modest means, and having endeavoured to live respectably on a pittance in the midst of a most expensive town, we at last declared defeat and determined to exchange Bath for anywhere else in England. An interval of rest and refreshment, in the form of an extended tour among our relations, was deemed suitable for the summer months; October should find us in Southampton, where we were to set up housekeeping with my dearest brother, Captain Francis Austen. We should serve as company for his new bride, Mary, when duty called Frank to sea.
And so it was decided — we shook off the dust of Bath on the second of July, with what happy feelings of Escape! — and bent all our energies to a summer of idleness.
We travelled first to Clifton, and from thence to Adlestrop and my mother’s cousin, the clergyman Mr. Thomas Leigh. We had not been settled in that gentleman’s home five days, when the sudden death of a distant relation sent Mr. Leigh flying to Stoneleigh Abbey in Warwickshire, with the intent of laying claim to a disputed inheritance. After a highly diverting week in the company of Mr. Leigh’s solicitor, Mr. Hill, and the absurd Lady Saye and Sele, we parted from the intimates of Stoneleigh and turned our carriage north, towards Staffordshire.[1]
Hamstall Ridware is a prosperous little village lost in a depth of hedgerows, with a very fine Rectory and a finer church spire. Our cousin Mr. Cooper and his dutiful wife, Caroline, possess no less than eight children, the eldest of whom is but twelve and the youngest barely a year. Some little difficulty in the matter of bedchambers was apparent from the moment of our arrival. Cassandra and I were forced to shift together; my mother claimed a bed in the next room. The little boys were grouped in pallets on the nursery floor, and it was likewise with the little girls, while the baby was taken up in its parents’ chamber. And so we contrived to be comfortable; and so we should have been, despite the heat of August and the closeness of such a populous house, had not the whooping cough presently put in an appearance. After three days of Christian endurance, of instruction from the apothecary and draughts that did little good, Mr. Cooper proposed a journey into Derbyshire, with the intent of touring Chatsworth and the principal beauties of the region.
My mother acceded thankfully to the scheme. The harassed Caroline Cooper, beset with ailing children on every side, was relieved of the burden of guests, and the Austens of the fear of contagion. Having set out from the Rectory steps on the Saturday previous, we achieved Bakewell yesterday in the forenoon, very well satisfied with our progress north. But for one aspect of the journey — my cousin’s unsuspected ardour for the sport of angling, which has entirely determined our course through Derbyshire — we should have found nothing in our prospects but delight.
Bakewell is a bustling, if modest, collection of stone buildings and paved streets, of ancient bridges spanning the Wye and sheep-pens ranged along the banks of the river. The town is remarkable for enjoying the patronage of no less than two ducal houses — that of the Duke of Rutland, who is a great landowner hereabouts, and of the Duke of Devonshire, whose principal seat of Chatsworth is but three miles to the east. A brush with nobility and Fashion has lent the town an air of importance unusual in this wild, high country. A few hours sufficed to reveal its charms, however; by dinner I was surfeited with commerce and linen-draping; I yearned for a landscape of disorder, for a riot of water and stone. Too little activity, and too great a period in the confines of a carriage, had conspired to render me peevish and melancholy. When Mr. George Hemming proffered his invitation to Miller’s Dale over our evening tea, I accepted with alacrity. My mother could not be persuaded; and upon ascertaining that the intended equipage was a pony trap, Cassandra, too, declined. I should be left to all the luxury of solitude, once my cousin and his friend were established over their rods.
Mr. Hemming is a solicitor in Bakewell: a prosperous and congenial gentleman, whose quiet manners must always make him amiable, though he should never be called handsome. He is confirmed in middle-age, being nearly twenty years my cousin’s senior. He possesses no family, his wife having died in childbed a decade ago. Having found occasion to perform some little service for the Duke of Devonshire, he may claim an intimacy with so august an institution as Chatsworth; and this alone would ensure that he is regarded in Bakewell as a person of some respectability. To my cousin, he is chiefly valuable in being addicted to the sport of angling; to myself, he appears more in the guise of social saviour. Possessed of conversation, and not entirely ignorant of the world, Mr. Hemming must be regarded as a decided advantage — particularly after too many days in the confines of a closed carriage, with a vigorous soloist for company.
This morning Mr. Hemming came, at the reins of his admirable trap; he displayed no irritation at the company of a female; and his comments during the course of the hour’s journey from Bakewell to Miller’s Dale were always sensible, and sometimes droll. I quite liked him, for the amiability of spirit that urged the revival of a friendship of such ancient formation, as much as for the evenness of temper that marked all his conduct. The conversation of well-informed men falls but too rarely in my way, and I intended to profit from Mr. Hemming’s company.
“Are you Derbyshire born and bred, sir?” I enquired, when my cousin’s five verses were done.
“I am,” he replied, “and have never found a cause to repine. Other than a brief period in the South, when I was so fortunate as to make Mr. Cooper’s acquaintance, I have been happy to call Bakewell my home these thirty years and more. I should never exchange it for another.”
My cousin closed his eyes, as though lost in contemplation or prayer; I knew he should soon be asleep. The gig had not progressed another mile before the gentle sound of snoring fell upon my ear.
“I think I should be content to live my whole life in Derbyshire, Mr. Hemming,” I said. “Never have I seen a country so blest in the marriage of the tame and the wild, so replete at once with romance and comfort.”
“You do not share the opinion of so many fine ladies, then, that these hills and rocks lack refinement?”
“What is refinement,” I cried, “when one has glimpsed the whole force of Nature? Who, having witnessed the Dove toiling amidst her course, could wish for the quieter banks of the Stour? If by refinement you would offer me the dull, Mr. Hemming — if you presume that having spent my life in Hampshire, I know nothing of Beauty — then I must assure you to the contrary.”
“What is it Cowper writes?” he mused. “That ‘Nature is but a name for an effect,/Whose cause is God’?”
Admirable fellow, to have looked into Cowper! “I have always supposed him to mean that true Beauty, true perfection — which is the essence of God, is it not? — may only be found in what is simple. A life of artifice and affectation must prove hollow, and incapable of granting happiness.”
“You shall not win an argument from me, Miss Austen,” replied Hemming. “I have seen your life of artifice in my younger days; and I assure you it will break its victim as a butterfly on a stone.”
His words were heavy; they belied the sunshine of the morning. Abruptly Mr. Hemming fell silent. Some memory he had stirred, of bitterness or regret; it was not for me to probe the wound. I turned my energy to an enjoyment of the landscape beyond the gig, and found everything to delight.
We travelled west for a time through a lovely passage of country, along the banks of the River Wye. The water gurgled in its bed, the horse’s hooves clopped comfortably along the dusty August road, and the green Derbyshire hills rose up around us. It is a northern custom to divide the fields with stone walls, rather than the hedgerows so suitable to the flat meadows of the South. I found the practise charming, and longed for a hut among the rocks, where I might survey the entire country of a morning, and breath
e the clear sweet air. We rolled on, through Ashford-in-the-Water, while my cousin Mr. Cooper was yet lost in slumber, and the sun climbed higher in the cup of sky.
Near Blackwell, the road turns north and plunges into the Dale itself, a precipitous and winding drop among the crags towards the torrent of water below. I had grown accustomed to such a pitch in the course of our Derbyshire travels; and I prided myself upon a measure of complaisance. It should not be said that Jane Austen was so little familiar with the world, that a smart stretch of road might reduce her to hysterics. Upon reflection, however, it was greatly to be thanked that Cassandra had remained in Bakewell.
I gripped the leather seat of Mr. Hemming’s equipage more firmly, and trained my eyes upon his hands as they managed the reins. He spoke in a low voice to his horse, holding the animal in, and we descended by degrees to the Wye, and Miller’s Dale itself. I had a moment for the drawing of breath, and a swift prayer of thanks, when Mr. Hemming brought the gig to rest under the shade of a venerable oak.
He roused my cousin with a few jocular remarks, and the threat of a dose of river water to clear Mr. Cooper’s head; then led our party to a secluded spot some distance downstream, where the limestone crags rose in harsh and fantastic shapes. An ancient mill stood beside a weir; and the picturesque was so delightful that I gasped with pleasure.
“You must not neglect to form an acquaintance with the miller,” Mr. Hemming informed me with a smile, “for he is the purveyor of an excellent cordial. We shall all be desirous of a glass before the day is out.”
The gentlemen disposed themselves with their rods and tackle, their figures quite charming amidst the willows and reeds. It was a bucolic scene that had grown quite familiar. Fishing, I will own, is one of the more healthful and least vicious of gentlemen’s pursuits; but it is unfortunate that it should produce such a number of fish, that must be consumed or otherwise disposed of, before they rot. The rivers that spring from the High Peaks are justly celebrated for their quantities of trout; they have provided generations of gentlemen with sport, well before Mr. Izaak Walton wrote of their charms in The Compleat Angler over a century ago. Our progress through Derby had been marked by an assay of waters: the Trent, the Derwent, the Dove, and at last the Wye. It was through a tangle of line and tackle that I first espied Dove Dale; it was in the odour offish that I descended upon Burghley House, and was granted permission to tour the estate. By the time we achieved Matlock, I was heartily sick of trout, and utterly refused it for dinner in Buxton.
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