Jane and the Stillroom Maid

by Stephanie Barron

  “Curious,” I commented. “Did he give any reason for such haste?”

  Lord Harold snapped the reins over the backs of our borrowed horses. “You never fail to amaze, my excellent Jane! A thousand women should have exclaimed at the indignity visited upon the dead lady, in thus driving her husband to the altar; a thousand more should have berated Mr. Wickham, or Mr. Danforth, as dishonourable and unfeeling brutes. You merely wish to know the reason why. Very well—I shall tell you. Or perhaps, I may say, I shall tell you why not.”

  “Exclusion is the better part of reason, my lord.”

  “I endeavoured to learn, with infinite discretion, whether Mr. Danforth is embarrassed in his circumstances, and requires a wealthy wife with a considerable fortune to save him—but Mr. Wickham assures me that, in addition to the comfortable rents of the Penfolds estate, Charles may depend upon his late wife’s income. Lydia Danforth, it seems, was the only child of a prosperous textile-mill owner, such as are prevalent in these Midland parts; and though her birth was inferior to her husband’s, she brought Charles Danforth no less than an hundred thousand pounds. Lydia possessed only a life-interest in the sum, however; by stipulation of her father’s will, the principal was to be settled upon her children. At her death—all such children having predeceased the lady—the wealth became Charles Danforth’s to command.”

  “Good Lord!” I cried. “If ever there were a motive for murder, there is one! Had the maid and her mistress exchanged places, we might look no further for the cause! But though a man might often be blamed for his wife’s death in childbed, I have not heard it called murder.”

  “Not in an English court of law, in any case,” his lordship replied. “But such a vast sum of money does give rise to speculation. Had the children not preceded their mother to the grave—”

  “Had the babe not been stillborn, and carried his mother with him—”

  “Then Charles Danforth should be a much poorer man.” Lord Harold tapped the squarish parcel that rested on the curricle seat between us. “What did you spirit away from Penfolds Hall, my dear Jane?”

  “Tess Arnold’s stillroom book,” I replied. “In which she recorded the histories of each of her cases, the dates on which the poor sufferers sought her aid, and the remedies she availed them.”

  “Compelling reading,” Lord Harold observed. “Do not neglect to study her account of the Danforth progeny. Precarious though childhood may be—and beset with every danger from contagion to accident—I cannot quite credit the parade of misfortune that has dogged Penfolds Hall. It strains the bounds of human belief, does it not?”

  “But may be well within the bounds of human infamy,” I replied.

  I WAS SET DOWN AT THE RUTLAND ARMS AT THREE o’clock. My sister and Mr. Cooper had walked out in the direction of All Saints Church—a difficult, though rewarding, climb up a considerable eminence in Bakewell—Mr. Cooper being most desirous of showing Cassandra the tombs in the Vernon transept, recommended to his notice by Sir James Villiers. My mother was dozing in her chair in the upstairs parlour given over to our comfort; but at my entrance, came to her senses with a start.

  “And so Lord Harold has been carrying you off into the countryside, Jane,” she cried by way of greeting. “We are fortunate this outing did not end in a report of your death!”

  “He is a most cautious and proficient handler of horseflesh, ma’am,” I replied.

  “And yet murder and every sort of disgrace are forever nipping at that gentleman’s heels! He cannot be in the country, without a body being found under every hedgerow! It bears a most suspicious aspect, my dear; and if your father were alive, I am sure he would agree. I am sure Mr. Austen would forbid you that gentleman’s company, being most anxiously concerned for your health. He should certainly not wish you to enter a closed carriage. Any sort of mischief might ensue, in such company.”

  “It was a curricle, ma’am,” I told her. “There can be nothing disgraceful in a summer airing, amidst the beauties of the Peaks.”

  My mother looked darkly and said, “I suppose Lord Harold denies all part in that unfortunate maid’s end?”

  “Naturally, ma’am—having learned of her existence only Tuesday, in company with ourselves.”

  “You are far too artless, Jane! You ought not to believe everything you are told,” my mother returned. “It is necessary to give the appearance of belief when one is young, and in the world—anything else should be immodest in the extreme. The arch and knowing woman will drive off every eligible prospect that offers. But among your family, Jane, I hope you will always speak frankly.”

  “You may be assured of that, dear ma’am. I have not the slightest doubt of Lord Harold’s being other than a murderer; and I cannot think that any ill should attach to my name, from being known to have driven out in his company, nor to have dined at his invitation at Chatsworth. I should rather be the object of envy from our entire acquaintance, and serve to raise our credit wherever we are known.”

  “I have sent the grey silk to Sally for airing”—my mother sighed—“and have told Mr. Cooper that does he wish to quit this place for Staffordshire on the morrow, he must do so alone. You are not growing any younger, Jane—and against such an extremity as spinsterhood, a trifling affair of whooping cough must be accounted as nothing.”

  After dinner, I settled myself beside a tallow candle with Tess Arnold’s stillroom book. The cooling air crept softly through the open casement, and all the horror of yesterday evening—the drunken shouting, the gathering of men like a bated storm—might never have happened. Had the Danforth brothers returned to Penfolds? I wondered. Or did they remain at Chatsworth, in respect of tomorrow’s dinner party? My heart quickened at the idea of being once more in the midst of that brilliant company. There should be much to enjoy—and much to observe. Purposefully, I opened the dead maid’s book.

  11 November 1803. Gave Mistress, at her wish, a draught of oil of sweet almonds just before bed; labour begun hard and fast three hours after. Gave mistress a purge at lying-in, of boiled milk and beaten eggs, with a little sugar.

  12 November 1803. Mistress brought to bed, hard on one o’clock, of a fine, healthy boy. He is named John d’Arcy Danforth. Saw birth along with Dr. Bascomb of Buxton. Gave mistress a posset of pennyworth of Mummy in warmed white wine, to clear the Secundine.

  13 November 1803. Haskell complains of breathing; gave a little of the armoniac and hyssop water. Miss Julia yellow about the eyes; gave celandine and madder water against the jaundice. Old Matthew feels gout coming on, and is spitting blood. Sent Comfrey water to stables and a little Duke of Portland’s Remedy.

  Tess Arnold had been a most active stillroom maid, between the demands of her employers, their several children, and a house full of servants. It was a wonder that she could spare any time from her duties to attend to the ills of all and sundry in the Peaks—much less go playacting with Andrew Danforth; but spare the time, she had. A brisk trade in draughts and powders, steel pills and plasters was managed from the Penfolds stillroom. Tess had turned a pretty penny.

  21 May 1804. Gave wine whey and spirits of Hartshorn against the sore throat to Maggie Watchit; one shilling fivepence. For a sour stomach, draughts of gum Arabick and chalk, to Michael Tivey, fivepence. To Daisy Marlebone of Tissington, Musk and Damask Rose Water, for they histerick fits. Sixpence.

  This was the first mention I had found of Michael Tivey, though I assumed their association was an ancient one; nobody raised in so confined a society, with a mutual concern in curing the sick, could fail to learn of one another. I wondered at the surgeon seeking out a simple healer for his ills; but then recollected that he was supposed to be enamoured of the maid—and perhaps it was no uncommon thing to find a surgeon seeking the skills of another as apothecary. But surely there were apothecaries enough in Bakewell? So large a town—and so well patronised by a comfortable gentry roundabouts—must boast at least two or three.

  The entries in the journal ran on through the years fro
m 1802 until the summer of 1805, with just such a mixture of trifling incident and common ailments—here a case of the dropsy, there an attack of the rheumaticks; until August of 1805, when I noted an entry that must alert all my senses.

  2 August 1805. Had of Michael Tivey tincture of opium, for the mixing with sulphate of zinc, in a wash for tired eyes; sent the same to the Duchess of Devonshire, against her dread ailment, by way of Lady Elizabeth Foster, one shilling. For Lady Elizabeth Foster, against the blockage of the menses, Mugwort pap and Rhubarb water, to be taken at bedtime, fivepence.

  This was the first time I had noticed an entry regarding the intimates of Chatsworth, and I found it in every respect extraordinary. That Her Grace the Duchess—who could command the finest physicians in the land, and must employ a stillroom maid herself at Chatsworth—should attempt to find aid from the servant of a neighbour, confounded belief. Had Tess Arnold’s reputation for healing merited such sponsorship? Or had Lady Elizabeth, whose hand had carried the tincture to her bosom friend, gone far afield in search of discretion?

  5 September 1805. Lord Hartington, for the healing of deafness, applications of warm oyster likker to both ears. Three shillings. Miss Emma, Russia Castor and Milk in black cherry water, against they convulsive fits, three draughts the day.

  Here was one mystery solved at least; Lord Hartington had met Tess Arnold first under the guise of treatment.

  “Will you not retire, Jane?” my mother enquired, breaking into my thoughts. “It has grown very late, and you shall strain your eyes, in reading by such a poor candle! They were never very strong in any case; and you must look your best tomorrow.”

  “Coming, Mamma.” I pressed my fingers against my eyelids—they were, as my mother suspected, reddened and sore with reading—and flipped rapidly through the remainder of the autumn. Lord Hartington had contrived to visit Penfolds at least once each week. Sometimes the oyster liquor was applied; at others, warm almond oil to which spirits of juniper were added. A gap of over a month occurred in late November; presumably, his lordship had been absent in Town. One visit occurred in March of 1806—but by this period, more disturbing entries demanded my attention. I read through them once more.

  25 September 1805. Miss Emma, for the convulsive fits, black cherry water.

  26 September. Miss Emma, a clyster of washing starch, linseed oil, and laudanum, which I had of Michael Tivey, for the bloody flux. Extract of belladona in strong tea against vomiting.

  27 September. Miss Emma bled today by Dr. Bascomb of Buxton.

  A similar series of entries occurred in October and November. I read them with a gathering disquiet in my mind and a vice tightening around my heart.

  27 November 1805. Mistress believes herself increasing again. Spearmint water and Naples biscuit against the sickness at morning.

  28 November. Tincture of morphia against vomiting, in black cherry water, for Miss Emma. Dr. Bascomb cupped and bled her. At quarter past eleven in the evening, she died, aged five years, seven months, three days.

  That was all Tess Arnold had thought fit to record; the words told nothing of Lydia Danforth’s agony, or Charles Danforth’s despair; nothing of the other children left silent and bewildered with their nurse upstairs; nothing of the dreadful building of so small a coffin, or the pain of leaving it, solitary in the autumn cold, in the Danforth tomb. Tess Arnold had said very little, I reflected, regarding the nature of the little girl’s illness. Her pen was reserved for the remedies she had prescribed. But there had been others in attendance who might well know more. Dr. Bascomb of Buxton, for one.

  I read on, as the hours of night fled away; I exchanged a guttering tallow candle for a fresh; I fought back weariness with the sick horror of one who cannot turn her eyes from disaster. The second eldest child—a girl of four named Julia—succumbed in February to a persistent fever and coughing; a wasting disease not unlike consumption, but far swifter in its effect. Dr. Bascomb, I observed, was not in attendance. He had been replaced by a London physician, who could do nothing to save little Julia; after three weeks of worsening ills—of morphia drops and Tess’s draughts—the child gave way to a violent sickness in her bowels, much as Miss Emma had done.

  I set aside the book at half-past two in the morning, unable to read any more—or to face the minutiae of small John d’Arcy’s end. I understood, now, why the people of Bakewell wished Lydia Danforth at peace. Her final months on earth had proved a living hell. And how had Charles Danforth sustained his soul through such an onslaught of unspeakable misery? How could he not have thrown himself into the earth, that day in May when Lydia died, along with all his family? His survival beggared belief.

  And with that final thought I stopped short on the threshold of my bedchamber, staring mutely into the darkness. How long would Charles Danforth have continued in health, had Tess Arnold remained alive?

  A Wash for Tired Eyes

  ake one pint rose water, add one teaspoonful of spirits of camphor and one teaspoonful of laudanum. Mix and bottle. To be shaken and applied to the eyes as often as necessary.

  —From the Stillroom Book

  of Tess Arnold,

  Penfolds Hall, Derbyshire,

  1802–1806

  Chapter 19

  A Pleasure Party, Interrupted

  Saturday

  30 August 1806

  ∼

  THE SUN WAS HIGH BY THE TIME I APPEARED IN THE parlour, but as Mr. Davies only served breakfast at ten, I was able to scavenge some rolls and order a fresh pot of tea for my refreshment. Cassandra was seated over a book near the front window; Mr. Cooper had gone to pay a call of condolence upon George Hemming—a call that would undoubtedly involve the entire gaol in a good deal of singing—and my mother had walked out in the direction of the confectioner’s, intent upon procuring some little iced cakes for her dinner. After five days, she had grown tired of Bakewell pudding.

  “You look rather pale this morning, Jane. Did you sleep well?”

  “Well enough, Cassandra.” I raised one hand to my head and peered doubtfully at the harsh sunlight flooding the parlour. I would pay for the abuse to my eyes with a headache, and I was not careful. There could be no reading today.

  “I hope you are not going to be indisposed,” she observed, “on the very day of Lady Harriot’s party.”

  “Never! I shall be carried senseless into the dining parlour, if need be. All I require is a little breakfast.”

  “And perhaps a change of scene,” she suggested. “You have spent a good deal of this visit to Derbyshire in racing over the countryside in Lord Harold’s company, and very little of it in mine! I feel myself outrageously neglected. Not to mention illused. The management of Mr. Cooper and my mother has been all my own, Jane, and I have not derived unalloyed pleasure from the task!”

  The words were reproachful—but the tone was lighthearted; and I felt a welling of gratitude towards my sister, whose sacrifices were always borne with the best will in the world. I had hoped to spend a good part of the morning in perusing Tess Arnold’s stillroom book—but all such selfish notions should be put aside. I reached instead for Cassandra’s hand and squeezed it.

  “I owe you a thousand apologies, my dearest. Such arrears in attention as I owe shall be totted up, with interest. Are you worn to a thread between the efforts of my mother and Mr. Cooper both?”

  “Mr. Cooper—having accepted with ill grace the deferral of his departure until Monday at the earliest—has taken the notion that he must stand friend to Mr. George Hemming in his hour of need.” She snapped together the covers of her book and set it upon the table. “You may thank me for having begun the idea, Jane, with many hints and careful surmises as to the nature of a soul in darkest torment, and the obligations of Christian charity, and the conduct his noble patron, Sir George Mumps, might reasonably expect. Our cousin presently regards himself in the light of a saviour. I daresay, if Mr. Hemming is reduced to a pitiable jelly by the effects of Mr. Cooper’s plainsong, we may win another four-a
nd-twenty hours.”

  “Delightful creature!” I cried. “What plans of pleasure have you drawn up for the day?”

  “My mother begins to tire easily,” Cassandra mused. “I do not think she will like to drive out, once her errand with the confectioner’s is done. She will spend the period before dinner quite comfortably, in reading her correspondence and writing letters. I think we may regard the day as ours, Jane—and I am perishing for a breath of air, and a glimpse of the hills!”

  “Then you shall have them. The cost of a pony trap and driver should not exceed the combined weight of our purses, and Mr. Davies is most obliging in the provision of horses.” I pulled on the bell-rope to summon Sally. “I have two pounds, five shillings, and seven pence I may call my own; and I shall speak to the innkeeper directly. Where should you like to drive?”

  “I have heard that there are caverns in the hills,” Cassandra said wistfully, “large enough to hold a banquet in; that there are torrents above the dales, and villages famous for the plague; that one might climb, with effort, along paths that rim the abyss, and reward with endless beauty.”

  “Then we shall endeavour to find them all,” I told her decidedly. “Sally! We require a pony trap, a driver, and a provisions hamper with the greatest despatch!”

  WE DEPARTED LESS THAN AN HOUR LATER—MY MOTHER having interceded upon her return to The Rutland Arms, and requiring a full account of all our plans, and the wasting of precious moments while she hung in agonised indecision, uncertain whether to claim the peace of the empty parlour or join us in our wandering. Peace at last won out; and we were suffered to drive away with an enormous basket of victuals at our feet, a variety of lap-robes against the dust, Cassandra’s sketching-pad and box of crayons, several novels, two sunshades, and an enormous blunderbuss of ancient vintage, which Mr. Davies propped on the box beside our driver—“for with these murderin’, godless ruffians abaht, miss, tha’ll be wantin’ a sound piece.”