“Sir James Villiers supplied the intelligence. Had she been killed by a true Mason, Tess Arnold should have died of a cut throat, and not a lead ball. Very well — a true Mason did not kill her; or not for the reasons described. The Masonic mutilation is by way of subterfuge, visited upon her body after death.”
“By her murderer — or another person altogether?” Lord Harold enquired, with a narrowing of his eyes.
“I cannot say. I believe, however, that it is a diversion — intended to direct our gaze from the true nature of the crime.”
“And what would you have that to be, Jane?”
I lifted my shoulders impatiently. “The Inquest was scuttled by the performance of the Penfolds housekeeper and the maid’s family between them. But we learned this much: Tess Arnold’s situation was compromised, and her subsequent flight may be imputed to her dismissal from the household. It should be Sir James’s first object to learn the cause of the maid’s disgrace.”
“He has done so,” Lord Harold told me.
I looked all my chagrin. “Then he was very remiss in not informing me at once! I have come to depend upon Sir James’s indiscretions. They form the principal matter I possess for consideration. But you will not torture me, my lord. You will not consign me to suspense.”
“Tess Arnold was dismissed because she found her way into Andrew Danforth’s bed. Mrs. Haskell discovered it, and turned the girl away without a character.”
Trust the Gentleman Rogue not to mince words, even with a lady. I was too old an acquaintance to merit the usual deference; we had long adopted the habit of plain-speaking. I revolved the intelligence in my mind. It was, after all, one of the oldest stories in the world, and murder had been done on so slim an account before.
“Tell me a little of Penfolds Hall,” I commanded Lord Harold, “and of the Danforth family history.”
“Charles Danforth is the son of a very respectable man who passed from this life nearly fifteen years ago, leaving a considerable estate in Mr. Danforth’s care. The family is ancient, though untitled, in Derbyshire; and Penfolds itself is a venerable place, dating from the time of Elizabeth. Charles Danforth’s mother was, as I have said, a d’Arcy — the Honourable Anne, a very elegant but fragile woman. She died when the boy was still quite young. Charles was her only child.
“Old Danforth married again not long after his first wife’s death. The second Mrs. Danforth was reckoned a beauty; she was certainly over twenty years his junior; and though perhaps amiable, had not a wit in her head. Andrew was the child of that union, and so delighted his fond parents, that Charles fell into disfavour. Andrew was dandled, spoilt, indulged beyond what was good for him — and raised to believe himself the rightful heir to Penfolds. Charles was sent away to school, and later, to Cambridge. At his parents’ death, he had not seen Penfolds for over a decade.”
“What a dreadful story!” I cried. “That the father should prove so unfeeling to his own child! It is in every way unpardonable!”
Lord Harold shrugged. “Charles Danforth was always of a taciturn disposition, as might repulse the affections of a parent. He was born with a clubbed foot, Jane; and the infirmity, and its singularity, worked early upon his sensibility. It is said that the second Mrs. Danforth — Andrew’s mother — was afraid of the boy, believing his deformity to be the mark of the Devil.”
“Then she was a much stupider person than reputation allows,” I returned crisply. “And Andrew himself? How does he conduct himself towards the usurper of his fortune?”
“With becoming affection,” said Lord Harold. “Without Charles, you understand, Andrew should possess not a farthing. I feel his situation keenly; it is rather like to my own.”
A sidelong glance, to judge how I should take this. I rejoiced in the return of Lord Harold’s wit, and forbore to comment on the sad case of younger sons.
“Do not pretend to being in charity with the fellow,” I cried. “You dislike Andrew Danforth excessively, I feel it in your words. You have said nothing to encourage prejudice; and yet prejudice runs rank throughout your narrative. Because he chuses to dally with his own maids?”
“Young Mr. Danforth’s manners are very pleasing, Jane — I am certain you will find them so. Certainly Lady Harriot enjoys his attentions; and she is nothing if not a discerning character.”
“You believe that he aspires to her ladyship’s hand,” I mused. “If word were put abroad of his liaison with the maid—”
“Who knows what the result might be?”
“It admits enough of doubt, perhaps, to warrant murder — if the gentleman’s case is desperate.”
“He aspires to a career in Parliament,” Lord Harold observed, “and possesses neither fortune nor influence. Lady Harriot, however, might be the saving of him in both respects.”
“I wonder if Tess Arnold’s witchcraft ran to blackmail?”
“A girl who has been dismissed from service must make her way in the world,” Lord Harold replied drily.
“Were I Andrew Danforth, ambitious as to love and fortune, I believe I should murder the maid myself. I should arrange to meet her in the wildest country, upon my return from a respectable engagement; and I should make it appear that her death was the work of a madman.”
“But if Tess Arnold walked out into Miller’s Dale at Andrew Danforth’s urging — why borrow Charles Danforth’s clothes?”
My gaze held Lord Harold’s impenetrable one. “Because Andrew wished her to do so, of course.”
“To throw suspicion for her death upon his brother?”
“If Charles Danforth were to hang,” I suggested, “surely Andrew would inherit the Hall.”
“He has no other heir.” Lord Harold revolved the idea in his mind; then slowly shook his head. “It cannot explain the attempt at Masonic mutilation, Jane. You may answer the clothes, or answer the wounds, with a number of attractive theories — but you cannot answer them both, in the person of Andrew Danforth. It will not do.”
“Sir James would have it that she was the victim of vengeance,” I said slowly.
“Then why deprive oneself of the pleasure of witnessing her pain, by despatching her with a lead ball prior to inflicting it?” Lord Harold persisted.
“Have you considered, my lord, that the girl’s death might be nothing more than a hideous mistake?”
His glance travelled over my countenance. “You would suggest that she was killed in Charles Danforth’s stead?”
“Why not? The moon that evening was only at the half; in variable darkness, wearing the clothes of mourning, Tess Arnold might well be taken for a man. I credited the ruse myself, in the full light of day.”
“Someone might well fire upon the figure of a man in the belief that it was Charles Danforth,” Lord Harold conceded, “but to then mutilate the body in ignorance? Impossible!”
“Unless, being horrified at his discovery of his mistake, the murderer then proceeded to create a diversion,” I offered equably.
“Freemasonry.” Lord Harold sighed.
“What else? We might justly charge Michael Tivey with the maid’s death, on the strength of his diversions alone!”
I had intended the jibe to be taken in jest; but Lord Harold considered it thoughtfully. “We should enquire whether Tivey has reason to wish Charles Danforth dead.”
“A question the Justice might better pursue. If Charles Danforth is the surgeon’s enemy, then all the world shall know of it. Anyone might employ a man such as Tivey.”
“Andrew?” Lord Harold enquired.
“He does stand to inherit,” I concluded pensively. “What better method of ridding himself of a double vice, than to set Tivey on to his brother, and so quit himself of the maid? I begin to admire the cast of young Mr. Danforth’s mind. It is subtle and calculating. Has Sir James considered of the gun-room at Penfolds Hall? Are all the fowling pieces in order?”
“Even if the Justice had secured it with stout men from the first whisper of the maid’s passing, Jane, the fo
wling piece would not be found,” Lord Harold replied. “It is probably at the bottom of one of Derbyshire’s deepest caverns, and no one shall bring it up again.”
BY THE TIME WE TURNED IN AT THE LODGE, MY SPIRITS were in a high flutter. The park was very large, and contained great variety of ground. We entered it in one of its lowest points, from the west, and drove for some time through a beautiful wood stretching over a wide extent.[3]
“Have I stumbled upon Paradise?” I murmured.
“It was not always thus,” Lord Harold replied. “The approach was formerly from the east, in Elizabeth’s time. The present Duke’s father determined that it had better be changed to the west, and so pulled down some old stables and offices on this side that interfered with the view. He razed the cottages of Edensor Village as well, which used to sit near the river.”
This, I supposed, was the privilege of a Duke — to destroy the homes of his dependants in order to enclose his park. How admirably the Whigs did manage the people! “How large is the estate, my lord?”
“Some thirty-five thousand acres. But I presume you would mean the park itself. Dawson?” Lord Harold threw the word over his shoulder. “How many miles round is the park?”
“Near ten mile, sir,” the coachman replied.
We gradually ascended for half-a-mile, and then found ourselves at the top of a considerable eminence, re the wood ceased, and the eye was instantly caught by Chatsworth House, situated on the opposite side of a valley, into which the road with some abruptness wound. It was a large, handsome stone building, standing well on rising ground, and backed by a ridge of high woody hills.
“Observe the river,” Lord Harold commanded. “The course of it has been altered, and swelled into greater, but without any artificial appearance. This stone bridge” — as the horses’ hooves clattered across it — “was also built in the last Duke’s time.”
“I have never seen a place for which nature has done more, or where natural beauty has been so little counteracted by an awkward taste.” In this, I might hope to judge Chatsworth entirely without prejudice, as Lord Harold had preferred; my whole heart was filled with delight at its beauty, and at everything that proclaimed the elegance of its owner.
“You detect the hand of Capability Brown,” Lord Harold replied. “There was no man for designing a park quite like him.”
Sheep scattered at the curricle’s approach; the splendid façade of the house drew near, with its masses of windows, its central pediment blazing with the Devonshire arms, its ornate pilasters and casement stonework — and above all, surmounting the broad, flat roof, a parade of urns and statues from antique climes. It was a picture of elegance and taste that rivalled everything I had ever seen; and to think that I should enter through the great portals of Chatsworth, and attempt to pass myself off with credit, must strike terror to the very bone.
The curricle pulled up — a waiting footman stepped forward — and I was handed down to the sweep before the massive divided stair that led to the very door.
“Thank you, Dawson,” Lord Harold said absently to the coachman; and offered me his arm.
To Beautify the Hands
Take two ounces of Venice soap and dissolve it in two ounces of lemon juice. Add one ounce of the oil of bitter almonds, and a like quantity of oil of tartar. Mix the whole, and stir it well, until it is like to cream; then use it as such for the hands.
— From the Stillroom Book
of Tess Arnold,
Penfolds Hall, Derbyshire, 1802–1806
Chapter 10
Among the Serpents and the Stag
28 August 1806, cont.
A FOOTMAN IN SKY BLUE AND BUFF LIVERY LED US from the West Entrance through an open colonnade, to a great hall with a painted ceiling and branching twin staircases.[4] I should have liked, at that moment, to be a stranger even to Lord Harold — a mere pleasure-seeker escorted by the Chatsworth housekeeper, who might be expected to stare boldly upwards at the vivid frescoes. A multitude of classical figures — in the usual state of undress — reclined on a swirling bed of painted clouds, without taking the slightest notice of my existence far below: a metaphor, one might say, for the entire Whig view of Society.
“You shall gaze upon Caesar until you are sick of him, my dear Jane,” murmured Lord Harold at my ear, “once you have been properly introduced. The State Apartments, too, are not to be missed; but they are well above, on the second floor. Pray attend to the footman!”
I tore my eyes from the Painted Hall and hurried resolutely after the servant. He led us through a passage to the rear of the great house and from thence to a stone terrace. Beyond it lay a sweep of lawn, more verdant and inviting even than the formal parterres that lay to the east of the building; and there, like the Muses themselves, were arranged the figures of three ladies.
“Uncle! And my dear Miss Austen! It has been an age!”
It was the Countess of Swithin who first distinguished me, as should be only natural — rising from her chair beneath a spreading oak, where she had been disposed with an easel and crayons, intent upon capturing the scene. Lord Harold drew me forward across the flags, up a short flight of steps to the lawn, past several flower beds, where some late blooms were charmingly grouped among the lavender — and bowed low upon achieving the ladies.
“I dared not dream that Uncle would prevail upon you to pay a call today,” said Lady Swithin. “It is very good of you, and far more than we deserve, after all that you have been through. You must be utterly fagged!”
Lord Harold’s niece was considerably altered since I had last seen her — for two years, in the life of such a young lady, must make a distinct change. Her countenance was less open, less touched by innocence, but still as glowing; her figure, though full with the burden of her approaching child, yet managed a youthful grace. Her hair was as golden, and her gown as before the fashion, as ever they had been; but where once her attire had possessed the simplicity of youth, there was now an elegance and refinement due entirely to her familiarity with the Great. I was pleased to detect no sign of weariness or sorrow about the eyes, no suggestion of a private pain. The Earl of Swithin was always a difficult companion, and the love that united him to Desdemona of a jealous and fitful kind; but it appeared that the two had learned to suit, and that no spectre of unhappiness could dog their union.
Two other ladies were seated near the Countess, on chairs set out upon the lawn. One was fast approaching middle age, and wore the decent but unadorned dark grey cambric of a lesser relation or superior domestic; the other was a strong-boned, fresh-faced, alert young woman of middle height, with a figure fully-formed, and a wild cascade of gingery curls about her nape.
How shall I relate my first impression of Lady Harriot Cavendish, second child of the Duke of Devonshire? She is not a beauty by any means, but her face has a certain intelligent distinction; it shall be called “handsome” with time, and her character will stamp it. The nose is a defiant blade, the chin square and stubborn; her round eyes and full lips, I later learned, she received from the Cavendish side of the family, but her temperament is entirely Spencer.[5] I should judge her to be of an age with the Countess of Swithin, but being yet a dependant in her father’s home, she wants Lady Desdemona’s easy assurance. Her countenance, too, is bereft of Mona’s happy glow; she is altogether a more subdued and reflective companion than I should look to find at the Countess’s side.
Lady Harriot’s gown was of sheer grey Alençon lace, over a dark grey underskirt; it was trimmed in white soutache, which offered some relief from the austerity of mourning. But the languor of grief clung about her still — she moved with the weariness of a spent child.
Lord Harold drew me forward. “Lady Harriot, may I have the honour of introducing Miss Jane Austen to your acquaintance? Lady Harriot Cavendish.”
The Duke’s daughter closed the volume she had been reading and nodded austerely. Those round eyes, deeply shadowed, swept the length of my person. “Welcome to Chatsworth, Miss Aust
en. You find us in a melancholy state, I own, but we are glad you are come to lighten it.”
“You have my deepest sympathy, Lady Harriot, and my gratitude for allowing this trespass upon your kindness at such a time.” I curtseyed deeply.
Lady Harriot made an impatient little movement — a plucking with one hand at the lace of her gown — and then recovered her countenance. If she had heard my words, she had already dismissed them as a commonplace — the muttered decencies of the Polite World — and accorded them no other significance beyond an irritant. I had not known her mother; I could not possibly comprehend what Georgiana Duchess, nor her passing, had meant in this household, and every attempt at condolence must be regarded as the grossest impertinence. I wondered if Harriot Cavendish was often prone to dismiss the goodwill of others. Her life must be full of sycophants and toad-eaters.
“May I introduce Miss Trimmer to your acquaintance?” Lord Harold directed my steps towards the creature in grey cambric and inclined his head with a certain fond deference. “Miss Jane Austen — Miss Selina Trimmer. Miss Trimmer has been Lady Harriot’s governess from her earliest years, and now serves by way of companion.”
“It is a pleasure,” Miss Trimmer said, with a nod of her head. “Any friend of our excellent Lord Harold must always find a welcome at Chatsworth.”
“Do you make a long visit in the neighbourhood, Miss Austen?” enquired the Countess of Swithin. “Do say that you intend a few weeks, at the very least!”
“I fear it is beyond my power to name the length of my stay, Lady Swithin,” I replied with a smile, “since I remain at the pleasure of my cousin Mr. Cooper, who was so good as to bring me into Derbyshire.”
“I do not know that name,” Lady Harriot observed with a frown. “Is he a gentleman of Bakewell? I do not believe that we have ever met.”
“Mr. Cooper is a clergyman, Lady Harriot, with a living in Staffordshire, and I fear his interest in this county does not extend beyond its trout streams! I have seen very little else, I assure you, during the three days I have spent at Bakewell.”
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