Stephanie Barron - Jane and the Stillroom Maid

A mottled band of colour swept over Charles Danforth’s handsome countenance. “What in God’s name would you suggest, Tivey? I should call you out for that!”

“Pray answer the question, Mr. Danforth,” the Coroner replied coolly.

“I never looked at the girl, nor considered of her existence,” the gentleman replied angrily.

“Very well.” The Coroner spoke easily — as though Charles Danforth had supplied all the reply that was necessary. “Thank’ee, Mr. Danforth. Tha’ may step down.”

Charles Danforth thrust himself to his feet with the aid of his stick, and made a stately passage through the assembled townsfolk. He did not look to the right or the left, and the expression of dignity on his countenance should have wrung the heart of the coldest person; but the people of Bakewell showed him no pity. Not a few of them crossed themselves hurriedly as he passed, or made the sign against the evil eye. The gentleman chose not to observe this; and I wondered if it was a practise long familiar of old.

He did not wait for the conclusion of the panel, but left the inn immediately, the broad oak door slamming harshly in his wake. This little display of petulance, I fear, did not recommend him to the assembled crowd; and his conduct on the night of Tess Arnold’s death — blameless though it may in fact have been — laid him open to the worst sort of public conjecture. It was a great pity that Charles Danforth could summon not a single witness to his cause; and I wondered, as I considered of the evidence Mr. Tivey would build against him, what George Hemming had urged his client to say. What words had passed between the two men during their consultation yesterday, that Charles Danforth should seem so ill-prepared for the Coroner’s questions?

I followed the man in thought as he made his way from Bakewell — in a closed carriage, perhaps, to defy the gaze of the curious. What emotions roiled in that melancholy breast? And whither was he bound, while his neighbours canvassed his troubled mind, his midnight rambles, his well-tailored clothes and their curious theft?

“Coroner calls Mrs. Augusta Haskell!”

The matron in grey rose with dignity and proceeded towards the panel. The girl with the disfigured face — Tess Arnold’s sister? — followed Mrs. Haskell’s progress with an expression of purest hatred on her stony countenance.

“Tha’rt Mrs. Augusta Haskell?”

“I am, Michael Tivey, as tha’ve known since Tha’ wert in leading strings.”

Mr. Tivey made no gesture of acknowledgement to this sally.

“And Tha’ keeps house up t’a Hall?”

“These three-and-twenty year.”

“Deceased was employed by Tha’?”

“She were.”

“In what position?”

“Stillroom maid.” Mrs. Haskell shifted in her seat and allowed her eyes to drift over the three women grouped at the front of the room; a curious lapse, I thought, in her iron self-command. She looked almost uneasy.

“And could’ee relate for the panel what Tha’ told Sir James Villiers on Tuesday, ma’am?”

“I said as how I’d dismissed Tess Arnold without a character,” she declared, “and good riddance to a bad seed.”

A slight murmur, as the wind sighing through the trees, made its way through the inquest chamber. Of indignation or surprise, I could not tell.

“Though Tess Arnold had been in thy employ some years?” Mr. Tivey persisted.

“Twelve year or more. Ever since she were twelve year old.”

“And though she had been raised as a child on the Penfolds estate?”

“I did what I had to do,” Mrs. Haskell returned defiantly, “and I’ll not be beggin’ pardon of anybody.”

“And because of it, our Tess were murdered,” came another voice — chill, bereft, and filled with suppressed violence. The stony-eyed girl rose to her feet and pointed a trembling hand directly at the Penfolds housekeeper. “Because of thy unfeeling heart and malicious soul, Augusta Haskell, my sister were cast out of her home and sent abroad in the dead of night, without even the clothes she earned upon her back. She were cast out, and died a brutal death alone and far from aid. Because of Tha’! May her unquiet ghost haunt thy sleep, Augusta Haskell, and cry vengeance for what Tha’ did! May Tha’ never find another night’s peace, until the end of thy days!”

The girl’s cry fell in the midst of total silence, and the manner in which she uttered it gave her imprecation all the weight of a curse. I felt a cold finger trail along my spine, and sensed a greater power than Sir James Villiers’s take command of the chamber.

Augusta Haskell’s countenance turned ghastly and her lips went blue. She pressed a gloved hand to her bosom. “My heart — oh, Lord, my heart—”

And then her eyes rolled Heavenward, and she slumped insensible to the floor.

The furor that then ensued was indescribable. Mr. Tivey might pound with his hand in vain, for the hubbub went on unceasing; several of the empanelled jury rushed to Mrs. Haskell’s aid; and still others moved to adjure the Arnold girl. But I judged that they were a little afraid of her — and when she stared defiantly at one man, and moved to guide her mother towards the door, the wall of townsfolk fell back. A parting was made, and a fearful silence fell, broken only by the sound of the third woman’s weeping. The three passed like a cabal of Furies from the room. An air of menace — or was it grief? — moved with them, and stirred the dust long after they were gone.

The Coroner’s Inquest was adjourned, for pursuit of further information, and the crowd of the curious gladly filed outside into fresh air and sunlight.

I was perhaps one of the few who noticed that Mrs. Haskell had been prevented, by the depth of her fear and a strategic swoon, from publicly disclosing the cause of the stillroom maid’s dismissal.

For Swooning Fits

Rub to powder three grains of Cochineal, and mix thoroughly with a little sugar. Add a spoonful of burnt wine, and take the dose immediately. Follow with a glass of the same burnt wine afterwards.

— From the Stillroom Book

of Tess Arnold,

Penfolds Hall, Derbyshire , 1802–1806

28 August 1806, cont.

“YOU ACQUITTED YOURSELF WELL, MISS AUSTEN.” Sir James Villiers appeared before me in all the splendour of yellow pantaloons and a striped waistcoat, his fair hair carefully disarranged. “And without the display of nerves or sensibility so many young ladies should have thought necessary! I feel myself moved to offer you refreshment. Shall we adjourn to Mr. Patter’s front parlour, and send the maidservant in search of victuals? I should like to discuss the particulars of this extraordinary case.”

“Though I am as much a friend to an innkeeper’s larder as any man,” interposed my cousin Mr. Cooper, “I confess, Sir James, that we cannot quit these premises too soon for my taste.” Mr. Cooper’s first experience of a Coroner’s Inquest had been an unhappy one; his brown eyes were deeply shadowed, and an unaccustomed frowziness distinguished his sparse hair. “I cannot feel easy in Miss Austen’s association with this unfortunate affair. I must beg to remove myself and my party from Derbyshire at the nearest opportunity, Sir James, and cannot apprehend why you believe it in your power to thwart my wishes—”

“My dear Mr. Cooper,” exclaimed Sir James, “pray do not let us quarrel! Circumstances at present are disagreeable enough. I suggest you find comfort in a spot of angling, and throw off the cares of this sordid world in fresh air and exercise. Your friend Mr. Hemming will undoubtedly oblige you — if he can be found.”