“Miss Austen,” Charles Danforth said correctly—and was then arrested when he would have bowed, and studied my countenance keenly. “But surely—I cannot be so mistaken—surely we have already met?”
“We have had a glimpse of each other,” I replied. “In Bakewell this morning, at the Snake and Hind.”
“Good Lord! You are the lady who discovered poor Tess.”
I inclined my head. That he could speak of the maid with such charity—after the imputations the Coroner had laid at his door, and all the malice of the townsfolk—spoke to his amiable temperament.
“Was the Inquest horrid, Charles?” Lady Harriot enquired. “Miss Austen is too well-bred—or too in awe of Tommy’s disapproval—to speak of it.”
“Then I am for Miss Austen,” he quietly replied. “Such unpleasant scenes cannot be too quickly forgotten.”
“And have they no notion of who may have injured the poor maid?”
“None whatsoever, Lady Swithin. It is in every way inexplicable. I had not so much as known that she was dismissed from my service, before I learned of her death.”
“Dismissed?” Lady Harriot cried.
“Indeed! Mrs. Haskell turned Tess Arnold away, on the grounds of some grievous infraction, on the very night she was killed—although she made no such confession to me. The servants all conspire to respect my privacy, you know.” He offered this last for my benefit, who could not be presumed to know anything of Penfolds Hall.
So Charles Danforth would have us believe he knew nothing of his brother’s affairs; and perhaps, indeed, he did not. My gaze drifted towards Lord Harold; but his eyes were fixed on the gentleman’s face. His own disclosed nothing of his inward thought.
“Poor Haskell seems to feel herself in some wise responsible for the maid’s death,” Danforth continued. “It is only natural, I suppose, that she should take so much upon herself; but I cannot believe it reasonable. The girl was murdered by a wandering lunatic. That is the only explanation possible—and Haskell must learn to forgive herself.”
“It is a difficult lesson for any of us to learn,” I observed.
“Yes.” He gazed at my countenance, and his own altered slightly. From a studied air of ease that had been meant to reassure the ladies—to suggest that he was in no way affected by the Inquest—it saddened perceptibly, and his thoughts fled far afield. Had Charles Danforth forgiven himself, I wondered, for the deaths of his little children? For the despair and agony of his late wife? A man might take every grief in the world upon his shoulders—might stand as God within the bounds of his own kingdom—and feel how futile his power to alter the balance of life and death. Charles Danforth could do nothing to prevent his daughters failing before him; he could not keep back his son from the brink. Such a man might well believe the whispered mutterings he heard on every side—and cry out that he was cursed. What had kept Charles Danforth from falling headlong into the grave?
“And how have you been amusing yourself, Charles?” Lady Harriot demanded. “Playing the gentleman farmer, I suppose? Or reading great tomes of philosophy in your dusty old library?”
The look of nagging melancholy softened, and was gone; he smiled at Lady Harriot. “I have been planning a great journey, you know. You will have heard, I think, that I intend to sail for the West Indies in the spring.”
“Not really!” The sudden access of delight—of wistful longing—was startling in Lady Harriot’s face. “How I should love to throw off the wet and cold of England, and sail towards the sun! What freedom you men possess—and how I detest you all!”
He held her gaze, and measured his words with care. “I am sure that if Lady Harriot Cavendish wished to go anywhere in the world, she might command the will of any man.”
Lady Harriot drew a sharp breath, and glanced away. Colour flooded into her cheeks; she affected indifference. “It has been ages and ages since I’ve been anywhere but London. And the Continent is entirely closed to us now, unless one considers Oporto, which I cannot regard. But the Indies—! Oh, Charles, how fortunate you are!”
“Or would be, were my estates in better order. But that is to talk of business, and I shall not try your patience with sugar and accounts. My lord,” he observed with a nod to Lord Harold, “what have you attempted, for the amusement of these ladies? I had heard from Andrew that archery had been taken up, and targets secured on the lawn; but I can observe nothing so novel in the landscape. Chatsworth rolls on, as it has ever done, serene in its breadth of green.”
“The only novel you shall find, my dear Charles, is presently in Lady Elizabeth’s work basket,” Hary-O retorted before Lord Harold could speak. “The bows and arrows were dismissed from her sight so lately as yesterday; we may presume that she feared they offered too much temptation. With one murder in the air, you know, the effect may be catching; and dear Bess will not play the bull’s-eye for anyone.”
“You are very bad, Lady Harriot,” Danforth assured her with a half-choked laugh; and as he bent over her chair to admire her work, I had the strongest impression of collusion among Hary-O and Danforth and Lady Swithin. They were all of them shaking with guilty amusement; and I wondered that I had ever found Charles Danforth a figure of melancholy. The effects of sadness—of profound loss—were etched upon his countenance, to be sure; but in this place, and among these young women, he was able to set aside his care. Like Lady Harriot, I was suddenly glad that he had come; and I disliked to think of him alone amidst the many ghosts of Penfolds Hall.
The sound of a barking dog drew Lady Harriot sharply around, to gaze towards a gravelled avenue; three horsemen and several great hounds—bull mastiffs, by their appearance—approached at a walk. The eldest of the three, whose venerable head and resemblance to Lady Harriot proclaimed him her near relation, I judged to be His Grace the Duke of Devonshire. The second was a boyish figure of perhaps fifteen, with auburn hair, a bearing quite stiff and correct, and an unsmiling countenance; he was arrayed entirely in the profoundest black. William, Marquess of Hartington, it must be presumed—the sole Cavendish son and heir to a king’s ransom. He did not look to me to be very promising; but allowances must be made for youth, and for the effects of grief. Lord Hartington was said by all the world to have been devoted to his mother.
The last was a gentleman of sober dress and easy appearance, a decade older than the boy at his side. This must be Andrew Danforth, though I could trace not the slightest resemblance to his brother. Where Charles Danforth was dark and sombre, this man was fair-haired and easy; where the weight of suffering lent nobility to Charles’s brow, his brother could offer only good-humoured charm. Whatever of tragedy had been visited upon Penfolds Hall, it had not laid low this elegant figure.
He swung himself carelessly from the saddle, nodded at his brother by way of greeting, and strode towards our party before his companions had even dismounted.
“You have been eating peaches, Lady Harriot!” he cried, “and were so cruel as to leave us nothing but stones! You see us returned as from a desert. We are utterly parched. Has there ever been an August so hot and brown?”
“There were peaches a-plenty, had you returned in good time.” Lady Harriot proffered a glass of iced lemon-water. “We expected you this last hour, Mr. Danforth, and had no recourse but to devour all the fruit when you failed us.”
“Were I a scrub,” he confided, “I should lay all the blame upon His Grace. There was the matter of a dog to be visited—a bitch with a new litter—and you know what Canis is when he is among his fellows.”
“Not really, Father!” she cried, with a look for the Duke. “Visiting the stables, when you meant to persuade Mr. Danforth to stand for Parliament! It is too bad!”
“Possible to persuade and visit all at once, m’dear,” observed His Grace the Duke. “He’s agreed to stand.”
Lady Harriot threw up her arms in delight and pirouetted on the lawn. “Glorious!” she cried. “The very thing for you, Andrew, had you but eyes to see it!”
“
Apparently he does,” observed Lord Harold drily, and drew me forward. “May I present Miss Austen, Your Grace? An old family friend from Bath.”
The Duke inclined his head with a faint air of boredom and proceeded to fondle his dog. The Marquess of Hartington entered more fully into the forms of polite address, without greatly embracing their spirit; he bowed low, but failed to utter a word.
Mr. Andrew Danforth, however, was another matter entirely.
He bent over my hand with an expression of pleasure, smiled warmly into my eyes, and said, “Your servant, Miss Austen. I am delighted to make your acquaintance. Lady Swithin cannot stop praising your merits—and as you know, Lady Swithin is never wrong.”
“Although perhaps she is sometimes a little kinder than I deserve,” I replied with a laugh. “I should not wish my worth to stand a closer scrutiny!”
“Are you the one who found the body?”
The voice was curious—muffled, heavy and halting, as though the speaker must measure every word. I turned, and saw that it was Lord Hartington who addressed me; his expression was quite intent, his eyes fixed upon my face.
“I am, my lord,” I replied.
He stared at me uncomprehendingly, the eyes acute and agonized.
“Lord Hartington is a trifle hard of hearing,” Desdemona breathed in my ear. “Pray repeat your words a bit louder, Jane.”
“Yes, my lord, I found the body of Tess Arnold,” I said distinctly, and saw from the change in the boy’s expression that he had understood.
“Do you think she suffered?”
They were all listening to us now, silent and watchful—Lady Harriot and the Danforths, Lord Harold and the Duke. I felt that they waited with breath suspended, as though something extraordinary were about to happen.
“The shot that despatched her was deadly and true,” I replied. “She can have suffered no more than a dog that is put down.”
Lord Hartington approached until he was barely a foot from my form. His youthful visage twisted suddenly with bitterness.
“Bloody hell,” he burst out. The words were like a gun report in that bated stillness. “I’d hoped the witch had died in agony!”
1 Present-day visitors to Chatsworth will detect a discrepancy here between Jane’s description of its interior and grounds and the manner in which both now appear. The sixth Duke of Devonshire made extensive renovations and additions to the estate after his accession in 1811. The colonnade through which Jane passed was then enclosed, and the twin staircases replaced with a single flight and matching galleries along the east and west walls.—Editor’s note.
2 Spencer was the maiden name of Georgiana Cavendish, Duchess of Devonshire.—Editor’s note.
3 Blue John is a blue-colored fluorspar peculiar to Derbyshire. During the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, it was often carved into vases and ornamental figures, examples of which may be seen at Chatsworth today.—Editor’s note.
A Remedy for Deafness
oast a fine fresh oyster and when it is moderately done, open it and preserve the Liquor. Warm a spoon and put a little of the warm Liquor in it. When it is blood-warm, let the Sufferer lie on one side, turning the deaf ear uppermost, and let four drops of Liquor be dropped in from the spoon. Let him lie thus upon the same side half an hour, leaving the Liquor to operate on the Obstruction.
If both ears be deaf, the same must be repeated half an hour afterwards on the other Ear.
—From the Stillroom Book
of Tess Arnold,
Penfolds Hall, Derbyshire,
1802–1806
Chapter 11
Enter the Usurper
28 August 1806, cont.
∼
“GOOD GOD, HART, WHAT IS IT YOU HAVE SAID? WHAT can you have been thinking?”
Lord Hartington wheeled around and stared at the woman standing just beyond our circle, her figure indistinct in the heavy shade thrown by the Spanish chestnuts. The Marquess’s pallor was suddenly dreadful and his features worked furiously; then, with a strangled word that might have been an oath—or a cry of despair—he ran to his horse and sprang into the saddle.
“Hart!” cried Lady Harriot.
He hauled savagely on the reins, pulled the animal’s head around, and, with a kick to the horse’s flanks, cantered off in the direction he had come.
“I shall follow him.” Andrew Danforth pressed Hary-O’s hand and made for his horse.
“You shall do nothing of the kind, Mr. Danforth,” ordered the lady who had caused the Marquess’s flight. “Hart is master enough of himself and his mount; he cannot possibly come to harm at Chatsworth. He will enjoy his fit of the sullens, you know, though it be at the expense of those dearest to him in the world! Never have I seen the boy so blue-deviled as this summer! Canis and I agree that nothing he says should be taken in the least account. I do not regard his ill-behaviour towards myself, I assure you.”
“You were always the best-tempered creature in the world, Bess,” said the Duke with fondness. “And what have you found to occupy yourself this morning?”
“I have been perusing dear Georgiana’s letters.” Her voice faltered, and she stepped forward into the last rays of sunlight.
She was a frail, fine-boned creature with a heart-shaped face, a cascade of pale curls, and large eyes deeply set. The inky black of her clothing threw the translucent skin of her face into ghastly relief; but one might almost declare that mourning became her. Lady Elizabeth Foster, I should judge, would never allow herself to appear to disadvantage, no matter how real her grief, or how deeply felt her loss.
“How pretty you all look!” she cried, as she surveyed our party. “Such colour! Such gaiety!” One speaking, long-fingered hand carried a piece of silk to her eyes. “Had I known you were all to be so happy, I should have forced myself to leave my little room, and sought some comfort here. But alas …”
“Dear old Racky.” The Duke rose and went to the lady. “Have you been moping yourself again?”
“Do not regard it,” Lady Elizabeth returned with apparent effort. She fluttered her delicate hand and again pressed the handkerchief to her eyes. “When I gaze upon Hary-O, the merest girl, flush with all the dreams and hopes of a girl’s heart—I might almost think myself transported, to those happy days of old! But they are gone—gone, Canis, with our dear one, into the grave!”
Lady Harriot rolled her eyes towards Heaven with an expression of intense irritation. A faint smile played about Andrew Danforth’s lips; but I noticed that he had not returned to his horse. Lady Elizabeth’s injunction, it appeared, would be obeyed.
“Lady Elizabeth,” said Lord Harold, “may I intrude upon your cares long enough to present a very great acquaintance—Miss Jane Austen—to your notice?”
Lady Elizabeth’s gaze strayed over me, and she attempted the faintest curtsey; but fell almost into a swoon, so that the Duke was forced to support her rather heavily. With an exclamation of concern, Charles Danforth seized a chair, and set it close to the swaying pair. His Grace disposed of his fair burden, and Miss Trimmer—sensible, forthright Miss Trimmer, who had followed in Lady Elizabeth’s train bearing a remarkable encumbrance of fringe-work, sketching book, and circulating library novels—produced a bottle of hartshorn, and waved it under the lady’s nostrils. A start—a failing cry—a dramatic lifting of hands to eyes—and Lady Elizabeth was once more among the living.
“And so, while I had descended into the tenderest reflections in the world, you have all been enjoying a social call,” she murmured, as one amazed. “No, no—do not think to offer an explanation, Hary-O. It is exactly as your mother should have wished. I, who knew the smallest concerns of her excellent heart—who cared for her as a sister even unto death—I must comprehend better than anyone that Georgiana would not wish you to repine.”
“Indeed,” I said hastily, “I have no wish to intrude upon your privacy, Lady Elizabeth, and duties of my own call me immediately back to Bakewell. I shall take my leave, and offer deepest thank
s for the hospitality of all at Chatsworth.”
“Well …” Lady Elizabeth inclined her head and summoned a smile. “Now that you have paid this first call, pray do not hesitate to come often. I am sure the Duke will join me in assuring you, Miss Austen, that we do not begrudge our Hary-O her little pleasures. She is very young, after all, and cannot always be expected to conduct herself with the propriety of her elders.”
“No,” Lady Harriot murmured ironically, “that would be unthinkable.” Her countenance had acquired a markedly set expression; and I observed that both the Countess of Swithin and Lord Harold had moved closer to the Duke’s daughter, so that they were arrayed as one against the lady enthroned near His Grace.
“Good Lord!” exclaimed the Duke. “Should be passing strange, Bess, if the chit didn’t enjoy her pleasures! Not an old shade like ourselves! Girl wants dissipation—life—a home and family of her own! Only natural. Not getting any younger, what?”
“I ask for nothing more than the home I have known all my life, Father,” retorted Lady Harriot. Her lips were compressed into a thin line; she was checking her temper with difficulty.
“And how fortunate you are that such a home is open to you!” observed Lady Elizabeth faintly. “I was not so happy in my own situation in life, dear Hary-O. I rejoice to see the case is different for you. Could I prevent you feeling one-tenth of the suffering I had endured by the time I was your age—”
“You shall achieve that prevention, madam, by ceasing to speak of it. And now, pray forgive me, but I should be remiss in my duties did I not conduct Miss Austen to her carriage.”
Lady Harriot moved to my side as though we were already the greatest of friends and slipped her hand through my arm. Lord Harold followed a few paces behind; his niece impulsively kissed my cheek in farewell.
“I rejoice to see you in such health, Jane, and shall call upon you in Bakewell at the first opportunity,” she whispered.
Jane and the Stillroom Maid Page 12