Stephanie Barron - Jane and the Stillroom Maid

“You shall gaze upon Caesar until you are sick of him, my dear Jane,” murmured Lord Harold at my ear, “once you have been properly introduced. The State Apartments, too, are not to be missed; but they are well above, on the second floor. Pray attend to the footman!”

I tore my eyes from the Painted Hall and hurried resolutely after the servant. He led us through a passage to the rear of the great house and from thence to a stone terrace. Beyond it lay a sweep of lawn, more verdant and inviting even than the formal parterres that lay to the east of the building; and there, like the Muses themselves, were arranged the figures of three ladies.

“Uncle! And my dear Miss Austen! It has been an age!”

It was the Countess of Swithin who first distinguished me, as should be only natural — rising from her chair beneath a spreading oak, where she had been disposed with an easel and crayons, intent upon capturing the scene. Lord Harold drew me forward across the flags, up a short flight of steps to the lawn, past several flower beds, where some late blooms were charmingly grouped among the lavender — and bowed low upon achieving the ladies.

“I dared not dream that Uncle would prevail upon you to pay a call today,” said Lady Swithin. “It is very good of you, and far more than we deserve, after all that you have been through. You must be utterly fagged!”

Lord Harold’s niece was considerably altered since I had last seen her — for two years, in the life of such a young lady, must make a distinct change. Her countenance was less open, less touched by innocence, but still as glowing; her figure, though full with the burden of her approaching child, yet managed a youthful grace. Her hair was as golden, and her gown as before the fashion, as ever they had been; but where once her attire had possessed the simplicity of youth, there was now an elegance and refinement due entirely to her familiarity with the Great. I was pleased to detect no sign of weariness or sorrow about the eyes, no suggestion of a private pain. The Earl of Swithin was always a difficult companion, and the love that united him to Desdemona of a jealous and fitful kind; but it appeared that the two had learned to suit, and that no spectre of unhappiness could dog their union.

Two other ladies were seated near the Countess, on chairs set out upon the lawn. One was fast approaching middle age, and wore the decent but unadorned dark grey cambric of a lesser relation or superior domestic; the other was a strong-boned, fresh-faced, alert young woman of middle height, with a figure fully-formed, and a wild cascade of gingery curls about her nape.

How shall I relate my first impression of Lady Harriot Cavendish, second child of the Duke of Devonshire? She is not a beauty by any means, but her face has a certain intelligent distinction; it shall be called “handsome” with time, and her character will stamp it. The nose is a defiant blade, the chin square and stubborn; her round eyes and full lips, I later learned, she received from the Cavendish side of the family, but her temperament is entirely Spencer. [5] Spencer was the maiden name of Georgiana Cavendish, Duchess of Devonshire. — Editor’s note . I should judge her to be of an age with the Countess of Swithin, but being yet a dependant in her father’s home, she wants Lady Desdemona’s easy assurance. Her countenance, too, is bereft of Mona’s happy glow; she is altogether a more subdued and reflective companion than I should look to find at the Countess’s side.

Lady Harriot’s gown was of sheer grey Alençon lace, over a dark grey underskirt; it was trimmed in white soutache, which offered some relief from the austerity of mourning. But the languor of grief clung about her still — she moved with the weariness of a spent child.

Lord Harold drew me forward. “Lady Harriot, may I have the honour of introducing Miss Jane Austen to your acquaintance? Lady Harriot Cavendish.”

The Duke’s daughter closed the volume she had been reading and nodded austerely. Those round eyes, deeply shadowed, swept the length of my person. “Welcome to Chatsworth, Miss Austen. You find us in a melancholy state, I own, but we are glad you are come to lighten it.”

“You have my deepest sympathy, Lady Harriot, and my gratitude for allowing this trespass upon your kindness at such a time.” I curtseyed deeply.

Lady Harriot made an impatient little movement — a plucking with one hand at the lace of her gown — and then recovered her countenance. If she had heard my words, she had already dismissed them as a commonplace — the muttered decencies of the Polite World — and accorded them no other significance beyond an irritant. I had not known her mother; I could not possibly comprehend what Georgiana Duchess, nor her passing, had meant in this household, and every attempt at condolence must be regarded as the grossest impertinence. I wondered if Harriot Cavendish was often prone to dismiss the goodwill of others. Her life must be full of sycophants and toad-eaters.

“May I introduce Miss Trimmer to your acquaintance?” Lord Harold directed my steps towards the creature in grey cambric and inclined his head with a certain fond deference. “Miss Jane Austen — Miss Selina Trimmer. Miss Trimmer has been Lady Harriot’s governess from her earliest years, and now serves by way of companion.”

“It is a pleasure,” Miss Trimmer said, with a nod of her head. “Any friend of our excellent Lord Harold must always find a welcome at Chatsworth.”

“Do you make a long visit in the neighbourhood, Miss Austen?” enquired the Countess of Swithin. “Do say that you intend a few weeks, at the very least!”

“I fear it is beyond my power to name the length of my stay, Lady Swithin,” I replied with a smile, “since I remain at the pleasure of my cousin Mr. Cooper, who was so good as to bring me into Derbyshire.”

“I do not know that name,” Lady Harriot observed with a frown. “Is he a gentleman of Bakewell? I do not believe that we have ever met.”

“Mr. Cooper is a clergyman, Lady Harriot, with a living in Staffordshire, and I fear his interest in this county does not extend beyond its trout streams! I have seen very little else, I assure you, during the three days I have spent at Bakewell.”

“Then you must remain another week complete,” Desdemona said warmly, “and allow us to show you the wonders of Derbyshire. There are said to be at least seven, are there not, Uncle?”

“Only by the county’s detractors, Mona. I could name an hundred, and never tire of discovering more.”

“There is Cresswell Crag, and the Heights of Abraham,” she began, numbering them upon her fingers, “and the Nine Ladies — they are monstrous great stones, Jane, rather like to the Henge — and the Blue John Cavern! Have you ever descended into the depths of the earth, and seen stone carved by nature into the semblance of a cathedral?”

“I confess that I have not.”

Lady Swithin clapped her hands. “Then we shall make up a party and spend the day. You must and shall see the Blue John!” [6] 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 .

“If your cousin is an angler, Miss Austen,” Lady Harriot interposed, “then you may assure him that the very best streams are on the Chatsworth estate. Mr. Cooper must come one day and fish with the other gentlemen, before he quits the neighbourhood.”

“You are very good, my lady,” I replied, “but I fear Mr. Cooper is lately surfeited with trout streams. I do not think he will be fishing very much in future. Miller’s Dale has put paid to his passion.”