Stephanie Barron - Jane and the Stillroom Maid

“Not so well as I could wish.” I settled myself in a chair and observed the linen Cassandra was embroidering. “He is presently in mourning for the Duchess of Devonshire. She was a great friend of his youth, it seems.”

“ Great is but the first of the superlatives to describe her,” intoned my cousin Mr. Cooper from his chair in the corner. “One cannot escape hearing her spoken of in this town. Her death has been most deeply felt; and yet, I rather wonder at such a figure being held in high esteem by the common folk! My noble patron, Sir George Mumps, was a little acquainted with Her Grace — such people of Fashion are always aware of one another, you know — and Sir George assures me that the Duchess owed no less than an hundred thousand pounds at her death — and all, debts accrued at the gaming tables!”

“A gamester!” cried Cassandra, horrified. “How is half such a sum to be repaid?”

“Very readily,” I murmured, “if the riches of Chatsworth are a token of the Duke’s wealth. I suspect he should no more regard the debt than you should moan over your laundry bill, Cassandra.”

“I am sure that the Duchess was everything that is pleasing,” my mother observed, “but she was a Whig, my dear, and you know they cannot be respectable.”

“It is dreadful, indeed,” my cousin reflected, “to consider the course of her life. Such great gifts, and so little principle; such riches, and yet such a squander of what might have gone to the greater Glory of God! I hope you were sensible, Cousin, that in entering that house you visited a place of lamentation — a place where Death has taught the most awful lesson it may bestow: that of waste, and misery, and a life struck down in its very prime!”

“I am afraid, sir, that I observed only the natural grief for a beloved parent gone too early to the grave,” I rejoined. “And as I have endured a similar loss myself in recent months, it could not seem extraordinary.”

“Was the estate very grand, Jane?” enquired Cassandra eagerly.

“What little I saw of the house was almost oppressive in its grandeur,” I said thoughtfully, “and not what I should consider a home. But for a family of Whigs I am sure it would do very well. And the grounds are magnificent. I could wish for a week together to ramble over the estate; a phaeton and a pair of ponies would be the very thing.”

“And may you hope for a second invitation?”

“I have already received one. Lady Harriot Cavendish has asked me to dine at Chatsworth on Saturday, in respect of her twenty-first birthday; and I have agreed to go.”

“Saturday!” Mr. Cooper cried in horror. “But I had intended to quit this dreadful place as early as tomorrow, or Saturday morning at the very latest!” He waved an unsealed letter in the air. “My dear Caroline writes that the whooping cough has taken hold of the entire family; several of the little ones are in a most parlous state. Her mother urges draughts of black cherry water, but the apothecary, Mr. Greene, will have none of it, and abuses the good woman for her interference. It is imperative that I return to Staffordshire immediately. I am certain that Sir George Mumps would wish it.”

“But has Sir James given us leave to go?” I enquired, surprised.

My cousin flushed. “I have not the least intention of conducting my affairs at that gentleman’s behest,” he retorted. “It lends a most unseemly air to my conduct, to kick my heels in Bakewell like a guilty party when I might better be in attendance upon my family.”

“If you do mean to throw yourself in Lord Harold’s way again, Jane, you had better have the wearing of Cassandra’s grey silk,” my mother observed in a resigned accent. “Its tone should soften the ill effect of your blushes, and pay some deference to mourning. Unhappily, it can do nothing further for your complexion; you are most disgracefully tanned!”

“Such contrivings shall hardly be necessary,” Mr. Cooper broke in. “You must refuse the invitation, Cousin. Express all that is proper to Lady Harriot — show yourself sensible of the very great honour you have been done — but refuse it in any case.”

“I could not deprive Cassandra of her silk—”

“Fiddle!” my mother cried. “You will never get Lord Harold, Jane, in a washed-out muslin! With Mr. Hemming fled in fear of his life, it cannot matter what Cassandra wears!”

“Fled?” I repeated. “Not truly?”

Mr. Cooper was approaching apoplexy in his looks. “If Jane were to dine at Chatsworth on Saturday, we should be incapable of quitting this miserable place until Monday at the earliest — for I trust you are not intending to subject me to Sunday travel.”

Sunday travel, the horror of every person who professed to keep the Sabbath — and an opportunity, did we force my cousin to it, for an unremitting martyrdom of hymn singing. “Certainly not,” I replied. “We might perfectly quit this place on Monday. Have you communicated your intentions, Cousin, to Sir James?”

Mr. Cooper slapped his wife’s missive down upon the table. “I have no opinion of Sir James Villiers. He does not deserve such attention. I am certain that he has led the people of this despicable hamlet to believe the very worst sort of nonsense. In moving through the streets today, Cousin, I felt as though an hundred eyes were upon me, and the most malicious falsehoods whispered in my train.”

“Indeed, Mr. Cooper, I am sure you take too much upon yourself. The unsettled nature of events has given rise to unnatural fears. You must endeavour to calm yourself, and consider where your duty lies.”

“My duty! My duty!” Mr. Cooper’s countenance was purple with rage. “Let us better consider of Sir James’s duty, Jane! Any person of sound understanding would counsel the Justice to lay that villain Charles Danforth directly by the heels! If Sir James does not effect it soon, the local folk will achieve justice in his stead!”

“Of what are you speaking, Mr. Cooper?” My entire body felt suddenly cold, although the heat had not yet faded from the day.

“Of that cursed and misbegotten soul,” my cousin retorted, “the maid’s employer! It was Danforth’s clothes she wore at the moment of her death; and he is everywhere acknowledged as a Freemason, and an excellent shot. Clearly he was sent to destroy the girl when she would have published the dark secrets of the Masons’ lodge!”

“Good Heaven, Edward, do you truly believe such rank nonsense? What would your noble patron, Sir George Mumps, say if he did hear you? He should reconsider his pressing invitation to join the Staffordshire lodge!”

My cousin faltered an instant, then summoned energy for a final retort. “Charles Danforth has the mark of the Devil upon him, Jane, and he shall be strung up on a tree before the night is out. There are the torches in evidence!”

I looked through the windowpane at Mr. Cooper’s direction. A grim band of local men was assembled at the head of Matlock Street. There were thirty of them at least, some mounted and some on foot, with burning staffs raised high. At their head was Michael Tivey, the coroner and surgeon; and it was clear from all aspects they meant nothing but mischief.

“Are they bound for Penfolds Hall?” I enquired in a breathless accent.

“As soon as darkness will descend.” Even my cousin had left off his bluster, at the sight of the milling men.

“Then someone,” I said with decision, “had better send word to Chatsworth. The Danforths are from home tonight, and would not wish their house burnt down in their absence.”

“But it is none of our affair!” my cousin cried. “We are strangers to Bakewell and everyone in it. If these vicious fellows would string one of their company from the nearest tree, then I for one shall not risk my neck to stop them.”