Stephanie Barron - Jane and the Stillroom Maid

And thus in sparkling reminiscence, with many introductions of her own adventures and good jokes, did Desdemona contrive to amuse us all for a half-hour together, while the shadows lengthened on the verdant lawn. A chair was brought for my comfort, and the promised lemon-water; Lord Harold tossed his hat aside and threw his length along the grass, resting carelessly at Hary-O’s feet, and adding a word or two when the conversation required it. He bent his efforts to peeling a series of peaches, the long, curling, golden skin lengthening under the ministrations of his pocket-knife; and I watched the subtle movements of his hands, the delicate fingers roaming over the surface of the fruit, while attending to Desdemona’s chatter with half my mind. There was trouble here in Paradise, something greater even than the grief of mourning; the anxiety behind all their looks revealed it.

I was the first to perceive Charles Danforth as he made his way across the lawn; and Lord Harold, in following my gaze, rose abruptly to his feet.

“It would appear that Trimmy has found someone besides Lady E.,” he observed to Hary-O. “I thought Charles Danforth should have arrived well before myself and Miss Austen; but perhaps he had an errand along the way.”

“Charles!” Lady Harriot cried, an unsuspected warmth in her voice; and she ran forward to seize his hand, as unaffected as a girl. “I am so glad you are come! I cannot bear to think of you, alone in that house on such a fine summer’s day! You will stay to dinner? I do not think you have been at our table three times this summer — and yet Andrew is never absent!”

“And thus we manage to achieve a balance,” Mr. Danforth replied, “Andrew, by his excess, and I in my restraint. In this you may read the nature of our characters, Lady Harriot.” The judgement was offered coolly, but there was a smile about the gentleman’s lips; whatever his inward trouble, he could not regard Lady Harriot’s eager countenance and remain unaffected.

“And were you always so measured, Mr. Danforth?” enquired Lady Swithin with a tearing glance, “or was your youth as ardent, and as misspent, as your brother’s? Come and meet my very great friend, Miss Jane Austen. She is travelling through Derbyshire, to our good fortune.”

“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.