Stephanie Barron - Jane and the Stillroom Maid

Her surprise would be great indeed upon learning that I had now secured an invitation to the house. In anticipation of the fevered exclamations such intelligence would excite — the inordinate concern for my state of dress, my speech, my manners, and my looks — and fearful that my mother would end by determining that she must accompany her younger daughter on so august an occasion — I undertook to leave my dearest relation in ignorance of events until they should be entirely past repair. I settled it with Sir James Villiers that he should call upon my cousin Mr. Cooper at The Rutland Arms, and convey to my mother a note I swiftly penned, explaining the nature of my absence.

I might trust Sir James to make all my party easy as to the propriety of my visit, and the considerable honour of the Countess of Swithin’s notice — for he is possessed of exactly that buoyant self-assurance, that familiarity with the Great World, calculated to impress my mother and comfort my sister. When Sir James is done, I might well be the object of envy for having glimpsed Chatsworth on so intimate a scale — despite having entangled myself once more with Lord Harold.

His lordship had come to Bakewell in an elegant landau, drawn by four matched bays, the panels and doors emblazoned with the Devonshire serpent and stag. A liveried coachman handed me into the carriage, and I settled myself opposite Lord Harold with all the sensations of delight attendant upon an airing in such an equipage, behind such a team, and through such splendid country. It was useless to attempt much conversation amidst all the bustle of the village; and until we had descended the length of the town, and crossed the ancient stone bridge that led towards Chatsworth, Lord Harold said nothing. But a journey of three miles cannot be passed entirely in silence; and presently, in a lowered tone, he enquired how I did.

“Perfectly well, my lord, I thank you.”

“The breeze is not too distressing?”

“Not at all. I find it most refreshing. You will recollect that I have my spencer.”

He then enquired whether I had yet ventured the Baslow road, and upon my answering in the negative, observed, “Then you may expect nothing but delight. This part of the country is known as Manners Wood, after the Rutland family. Do not neglect the view, Jane, as we achieve the top of the hill.”

“I am sure I shall find it charming, Lord Harold.”

He studied my countenance an instant, and then ventured, “You look very well, Jane. I rejoice to find you so obviously in health. It has been too long since we last met; and yet you appear not a day older.”

“You flatter me, sir,” I chided him.

“Not at all. I merely detect in you a resilience I am far from feeling myself.”

“You do appear to have sustained a trying period.”

“Most trying. From a variety of causes, this past twelvemonth has proved the most difficult of my life.” His gaze wandered over the woody hills to left and right, the gentle slopes of pasturage fading now in late summer, without appearing to register their beauty. “And now this brutal death in Miller’s Dale. It is by far too much.”

I frowned. “I had not expected you to feel the maid’s murder with any personal sensibility, my lord.”

“I confess I do not,” he returned, with a brusque laugh. “Indeed, I have entirely failed to consider of the wretched girl. She is nothing to me. It is for those who might be encompassed in the affair, that my anxiety is all alive. If I but knew what Georgiana would do — how she would wish me to act—” He broke off, and raised his hand to his lips in mute frustration.

The late Duchess. Comprehension and astonishment broke upon my head at once. I leaned forward and spoke in no more than a whisper, conscious of the footman behind and the coachman before.

“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.” [2] 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 .

“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.”