“Would you suggest, my lord, that an intimate of Chatsworth is somehow entangled in the murder of Tess Arnold? But her death was an act of savagery—an act of madness! Surely no one from that exalted family—”
He looked at me with pain. “I am not master enough of the circumstances, Jane—I am too much in the dark on several fronts—to know what can or ought to be disclosed. Would that I might share the worst torments, the most despicable of my fears! But such are not for your hearing.”
I sat back against the squabs and studied him narrowly. “Why was it so necessary for me to call at Chatsworth, my lord?”
“Because Mr. Andrew Danforth, the younger son of Penfolds Hall, rode out with His Grace the Duke this morning; and shall certainly be attendant upon the ladies at this hour.”
“I have not seen the younger brother,” I mused, “though I was so fortunate as to observe Charles Danforth only a few hours since. He is a … singular gentleman. I have rarely remarked so much grief and suffering upon so contained a brow.”
“Charles Danforth is an exceptional fellow. You know that he is descended on his mother’s side from the d’Arcy family, and in Charles one might almost discern the d’Arcy powers reborn.”
“I confess I am unacquainted with the name. Are they well known in Derbyshire?”
“It was the d’Arcys who conspired with the Cavendishes and the Rutlands to bring about the Glorious Revolution,” Lord Harold informed me, “in an alehouse in Whittington named the Cock and Pynot. It was there the Whig party was born, Jane.”1
“And has not escaped the air of the alehouse from that time to this,” I murmured. “But you were speaking of Mr. Andrew Danforth, I believe.”
“Unlike his brother, Andrew was raised on the Penfolds estate. He is said to have been Tess Arnold’s playfellow when they were both in their infancy.”
“Was he, indeed? Then is Andrew a good deal younger than his brother?”
“By some eight years, I believe. He is but a half-brother, being the son of old Danforth’s second wife. I would dearly love your opinion of both gentlemen, Jane.” He hesitated, then plunged on. “I suspect them of being rivals for the hand of the Duke’s younger daughter—Lady Harriot Cavendish. Which of the brothers she prefers is yet in doubt—Charles Danforth, though far superior to Andrew in almost every respect, has age and unhappiness and a widowhood against him—but I shall leave you to judge. Charles being detained at the maidservant’s Inquest, and Andrew being claimed by His Grace, they shall both be served up now on the back lawn, over ratafia and rout cakes.”
My lord’s countenance was inscrutable as always. The grey eyes were fixed upon the road falling away behind us; he had placed himself at the coachman’s back, in deference to a lady’s sensibility and abhorrence at being driven by another.
“Do you suspect one of the Danforths,” I enquired in very nearly a whisper, “of having done away with his maid? And is your concern, then, all alive for the feelings and prospects of Lady Harriot Cavendish? But surely the fact of Tess Arnold’s having stolen Mr. Danforth’s clothing would preclude that gentleman’s involvement. A more careful assassin, in severing her tongue, would have severed all connexion with himself.”
Lord Harold’s gaze dropped to his hands. As always, they were spare and elegant; not for him the marks of distress, in torn and bitten fingernails. “I scarcely know what I suspect, Jane. You have heard the rumours of Freemasonry, no doubt?”
“Who in Derbyshire has not? The Coroner is most anxious to discredit his neighbours; but his reasons for doing so remain obscure.”
“Why should any man throw mud upon his superiors in birth and fortune? From hatred—resentment—a conviction of inferiority. Tivey cannot possibly credit the accusations he has formed. They are in every way absurd. But that will not prevent them from working a hideous change in the peace of this village. And for that I cannot forgive him.”
I cast Lord Harold a sidelong glance. “You speak with real feeling, my lord. I might almost imagine you injured yourself.”
“If you would enquire whether I am a Freemason, Jane, then I shall not hesitate to answer in the affirmative. I have no compunction in proclaiming my pride in an institution that may trace its origins to the Knights Templar themselves; had I lived in the world in the twelfth century, I should have been a Templar in any case.”
“But for the vow of celibacy,” I murmured.
“When the Templars were cast out and denied their worldly powers, their tradition of service to God and country was forced into secrecy, Jane,” Lord Harold continued, “and took upon itself another name. That is why it is death to betray the Masonic Brotherhood; lives once depended upon such protection. The obligations of Brotherhood transcend the ties of nations and their allegiance. If the Monster Napoleon is ever thwarted, my dear girl, it will be due in large part to the work of enlightened men of every country in Europe—and no few of them Masons.”
It was the longest outburst he had yet managed; in his voice I detected something of the Gentleman Rogue, that from his looks, might have been banished forever. I was quietly gratified at having excited so energetic a defence of the gentleman’s realm.
“I understand His Grace the Duke is a member of the local lodge.”
“It was founded in his father’s time. You perceive, now, the cause of my anxiety. The murder of the stillroom maid bids fair to involve the Great very far above her station.”
And it was Lord Harold’s practise to defend the Great from harm. “You are afraid, perhaps, that the men of Chatsworth and those of Penfolds Hall are somehow united—not only in being members of a lodge, but in Tess Arnold’s murder?”
“I do not know, Jane. I cannot possibly say. What I may fear, however—”
“Lord Harold,” I attempted, “surely you take too much upon yourself. If the girl were murdered as a traitor to Freemasonry—then what did she hope to betray? The gentry are all members in good standing; and the common folk of the town should never credit Tess Arnold’s story!”
Lord Harold inclined his head; but he remained unconvinced.
“His Grace has been described as far too indolent to stir himself in any cause,” I persisted, “and he was dining at home in company with Andrew Danforth on the night of the murder. Besides—the wounds to the girl’s body did not entirely correspond to those prescribed for ritual execution.”
My companion stared at me in surprise. “Have you been overlistening the ritual yourself, Jane, in a suit of your brother’s clothes?”
“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 min
ce 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 fowling 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.2
“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 abr
uptness 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.
1 The Cock and Pynot of Old Whittington is now the Revolution House, a museum dedicated to the conspirators of 1688, where Mr. John d’Arcy’s contribution is duly noted.—Editor’s note.
2 Much of Jane Austen’s description of her first view of Chatsworth echoes wording she would later employ to describe Elizabeth Bennet’s first glimpse of Pemberley, the Derbyshire estate of Fitzwilliam Darcy, in Pride and Prejudice.—Editor’s note.
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