Stephanie Barron - Jane and the Stillroom Maid

The sound of a barking dog drew Lady Harriot sharply around, to gaze towards a gravelled avenue; three horsemen and several great hounds — bull mastiffs, by their appearance — approached at a walk. The eldest of the three, whose venerable head and resemblance to Lady Harriot proclaimed him her near relation, I judged to be His Grace the Duke of Devonshire. The second was a boyish figure of perhaps fifteen, with auburn hair, a bearing quite stiff and correct, and an unsmiling countenance; he was arrayed entirely in the profoundest black. William, Marquess of Hartington, it must be presumed — the sole Cavendish son and heir to a king’s ransom. He did not look to me to be very promising; but allowances must be made for youth, and for the effects of grief. Lord Hartington was said by all the world to have been devoted to his mother.

The last was a gentleman of sober dress and easy appearance, a decade older than the boy at his side. This must be Andrew Danforth, though I could trace not the slightest resemblance to his brother. Where Charles Danforth was dark and sombre, this man was fair-haired and easy; where the weight of suffering lent nobility to Charles’s brow, his brother could offer only good-humoured charm. Whatever of tragedy had been visited upon Penfolds Hall, it had not laid low this elegant figure.

He swung himself carelessly from the saddle, nodded at his brother by way of greeting, and strode towards our party before his companions had even dismounted.

“You have been eating peaches, Lady Harriot!” he cried, “and were so cruel as to leave us nothing but stones! You see us returned as from a desert. We are utterly parched. Has there ever been an August so hot and brown?”

“There were peaches a-plenty, had you returned in good time.” Lady Harriot proffered a glass of iced lemon-water. “We expected you this last hour, Mr. Danforth, and had no recourse but to devour all the fruit when you failed us.”

“Were I a scrub,” he confided, “I should lay all the blame upon His Grace. There was the matter of a dog to be visited — a bitch with a new litter — and you know what Canis is when he is among his fellows.”

“Not really, Father!” she cried, with a look for the Duke. “Visiting the stables, when you meant to persuade Mr. Danforth to stand for Parliament! It is too bad!”

“Possible to persuade and visit all at once, m’dear,” observed His Grace the Duke. “He’s agreed to stand.”

Lady Harriot threw up her arms in delight and pirouetted on the lawn. “Glorious!” she cried. “The very thing for you, Andrew, had you but eyes to see it!”

“Apparently he does,” observed Lord Harold drily, and drew me forward. “May I present Miss Austen, Your Grace? An old family friend from Bath.”

The Duke inclined his head with a faint air of boredom and proceeded to fondle his dog. The Marquess of Hartington entered more fully into the forms of polite address, without greatly embracing their spirit; he bowed low, but failed to utter a word.

Mr. Andrew Danforth, however, was another matter entirely.

He bent over my hand with an expression of pleasure, smiled warmly into my eyes, and said, “Your servant, Miss Austen. I am delighted to make your acquaintance. Lady Swithin cannot stop praising your merits — and as you know, Lady Swithin is never wrong.”

“Although perhaps she is sometimes a little kinder than I deserve,” I replied with a laugh. “I should not wish my worth to stand a closer scrutiny!”

“Are you the one who found the body?”

The voice was curious — muffled, heavy and halting, as though the speaker must measure every word. I turned, and saw that it was Lord Hartington who addressed me; his expression was quite intent, his eyes fixed upon my face.

“I am, my lord,” I replied.

He stared at me uncomprehendingly, the eyes acute and agonized.

“Lord Hartington is a trifle hard of hearing,” Desdemona breathed in my ear. “Pray repeat your words a bit louder, Jane.”

“Yes, my lord, I found the body of Tess Arnold,” I said distinctly, and saw from the change in the boy’s expression that he had understood.

“Do you think she suffered?”

They were all listening to us now, silent and watchful — Lady Harriot and the Danforths, Lord Harold and the Duke. I felt that they waited with breath suspended, as though something extraordinary were about to happen.

“The shot that despatched her was deadly and true,” I replied. “She can have suffered no more than a dog that is put down.”

Lord Hartington approached until he was barely a foot from my form. His youthful visage twisted suddenly with bitterness.

“Bloody hell,” he burst out. The words were like a gun report in that bated stillness. “I’d hoped the witch had died in agony!”

A Remedy for Deafness

Roast a fine fresh oyster and when it is moderately done, open it and preserve the Liquor. Warm a spoon and put a little of the warm Liquor in it. When it is blood-warm, let the Sufferer lie on one side, turning the deaf ear uppermost, and let four drops of Liquor be dropped in from the spoon. Let him lie thus upon the same side half an hour, leaving the Liquor to operate on the Obstruction.

If both ears be deaf, the same must be repeated half an hour afterwards on the other Ear.

— From the Stillroom Book

of Tess Arnold,

Penfolds Hall, Derbyshire , 1802–1806

28 August 1806, cont.

“GOOD GOD, HART, WHAT IS IT YOU HAVE SAID? WHAT can you have been thinking?”

Lord Hartington wheeled around and stared at the woman standing just beyond our circle, her figure indistinct in the heavy shade thrown by the Spanish chestnuts. The Marquess’s pallor was suddenly dreadful and his features worked furiously; then, with a strangled word that might have been an oath — or a cry of despair — he ran to his horse and sprang into the saddle.

“Hart!” cried Lady Harriot.

He hauled savagely on the reins, pulled the animal’s head around, and, with a kick to the horse’s flanks, cantered off in the direction he had come.

“I shall follow him.” Andrew Danforth pressed Hary-O’s hand and made for his horse.

“You shall do nothing of the kind, Mr. Danforth,” ordered the lady who had caused the Marquess’s flight. “Hart is master enough of himself and his mount; he cannot possibly come to harm at Chatsworth. He will enjoy his fit of the sullens, you know, though it be at the expense of those dearest to him in the world! Never have I seen the boy so blue-deviled as this summer! Canis and I agree that nothing he says should be taken in the least account. I do not regard his ill-behaviour towards myself, I assure you.”

“You were always the best-tempered creature in the world, Bess,” said the Duke with fondness. “And what have you found to occupy yourself this morning?”

“I have been perusing dear Georgiana’s letters.” Her voice faltered, and she stepped forward into the last rays of sunlight.

She was a frail, fine-boned creature with a heart-shaped face, a cascade of pale curls, and large eyes deeply set. The inky black of her clothing threw the translucent skin of her face into ghastly relief; but one might almost declare that mourning became her. Lady Elizabeth Foster, I should judge, would never allow herself to appear to disadvantage, no matter how real her grief, or how deeply felt her loss.

“How pretty you all look!” she cried, as she surveyed our party. “Such colour! Such gaiety!” One speaking, long-fingered hand carried a piece of silk to her eyes. “Had I known you were all to be so happy, I should have forced myself to leave my little room, and sought some comfort here. But alas …”