Stephanie Barron: Jane and the Stillroom Maid

THE WAY WAS GENTLE ENOUGH IN ITS EARLY STAGES, but steepened inexorably even as it narrowed, until with the passage of three-quarters of an hour, I felt myself to be a sort of sheep or mountain goat, clinging with my half-boots to the edge of the earth. All about me swung the green hills and stone walls of Derbyshire, with the river a bright ribbon below. I looked my fill upon this corner of the sceptre’d isle; saw, as with the eye of Heaven, the flocks of sheep like clouds against the pasturage, the rapid gallop of a distant horse, the tumbled stones of ancient habitation. Smoke curled from the miller’s chimney. I felt as Henry, my brother, must once have done, marshalling toy soldiers. I commanded all that was at my feet.

And then the crows rose up in a great black cloud and tore the peace of morning into fragments. I focused my gaze upon a massive crag of rock, some distance further up the path. The birds were gathered there, a darkling company.

Small heaps of cloth — the remnants of a pleasure party, perhaps — were tossed about the crag’s base. There would be crusts of bread amidst the refuse, enough sustenance for a crow to squabble over. I schooled my gaze to pierce the shadows thrown by the great rock, but the glitter of sunlight on limestone pained my eyes. The crows were settled on the limbs of a tree at the crag’s foot. But surely a tree branch would have no use for a gentleman’s shoe? And yet it was a gentleman’s shoe I espied—

Without hesitation I hurried forward, the beauties of the day forgotten in a sudden access of anxiety. My breath came in tearing gasps, as though born of great exertion, and yet here the pitch of the slope was in my favour, and I might have flown the distance on winged feet. To reach him required but a few moments.

He lay in the shelter of the great rock as though seeking relief from the sun, one hand serving as pillow under his head — a young man, with a delicate countenance and golden curls, dressed entirely in black. He might almost have been asleep. But to my sorrow, I knew better. The stench of blood was heavy in my nostrils, and the raven tearing at the man’s entrails did not suffer itself to move, even when I screamed.

For the Staunching of a Wound, Where There Be Great Blood

If the wound be deep or a great vein cut, take a piece of lean salt beef and lay it in hot ashes until heated through. Then press the hot stuff entirely into the wound and bind with clean linen. A good piece of roasted beef, heated on the coals, will serve as well.

— From the Stillroom Book

of Tess Arnold,

Penfolds Hall, Derbyshire , 1802–1806

26 August 1806, cont.

THE STENCH OF BLOOD AT THE FOOT OF THE CRAG was nearly overwhelming — a hot, sweet, animal smell that engulfed the senses and obliterated thought. I pressed one gloved hand to my nostrils and closed my eyes. A feeling of faintness was inevitable, but I would not give way. It was imperative that help should be sought from my cousin and Mr. Hemming — but they were fixed at the riverbank, perhaps a half-hour back along the path already traversed. My scream of terror had not alerted them. I opened my eyes and allowed my gaze to travel over the form sprawled in the dust. A round hole in the center of the forehead, black with crusted blood, suggested first how the man had died; there would be a lead ball lodged in the skull. But other wounds he had sustained, more grotesque and inexplicable: blood seeped from his parted lips, spilling gore over the folds of his cravat and his white shirt-front. The shirt itself was rucked-up over the fastening of his black pantaloons, and his bowels spilled out upon the rock — a sight that must urge a desperate retching. I turned away, and caused myself to bend nearly double in an effort to contain the wave of sickness. At length the black haze subsided; the blood pounding in my temples returned to its wonted course. I stood up, my back to the savaged corpse, and stared dully at a raven triumphant on a rock. The bird had alighted perhaps five feet from my position, sunlight glinting blue on its sooty feathers; one cruel yellow eye surveyed me with indifference. In the raven’s beak was an oblong of flesh — sandy pink, amorphous, and yet not dissimilar from the breakfast fare on every farmyard table. It was tongue . A human tongue. From the cleanness of the wound at the severed end, I should judge that a knife had cut it out.

I began to move down the path away from the body, unable to look at it again. I stumbled once, saved myself from a bruising fall, and then broke into a run.

“MISS AUSTEN! ARE YOU ILL?”

George Hemming cast aside his rod and hastened towards my breathless figure. Mr. Cooper, it appeared, was in the midst of landing a determined trout; his countenance was o’erspread with a fierce scowl, and he did not spare me so much as a glance.

“I am perfectly well,” I assured Mr. Hemming in a feverish accent, “but there is a man lying among the rocks above who is not. I have found a corpse, Mr. Hemming — so viciously worked upon, I dare not trust myself to relate the particulars. We must fetch a surgeon at once! And the Law, if such exists in these wretched hills—”

Mr. Hemming could not be insensible to my wild appearance; in an instant, he was all solicitude, and led me to a broad, flat rock some yards from the river. There I sat down in gratitude and relief. Mr. Hemming pressed a handkerchief into my hands. I found that I was trembling uncontrollably, and that a feeling of nausea would not be denied. “Do not regard my indisposition,” I cried, “but send at once for aid.”

“Pray calm yourself, Miss Austen,” Mr. Hemming urged. “I will go myself in a moment — or seek help from the miller’s hut — but first, I must insist that you partake of my French brandy. It cannot but prove restorative to one in your condition.”

At this, the admirable Mr. Hemming produced a silver flask from among his fishing tackle and administered a modest draught. I spluttered, choked, and raised a hand to my mouth.

“That’s better,” he said approvingly. “The colour has returned to your cheeks.”

I very much doubted that it had ever been absent — a complexion such as mine does not show to advantage under the twin forces of exertion and summer weather — but I forbore to dispute his gallantry.

“The corpse of a man, you say.” His eyes were fixed upon my countenance with an expression of trouble and anxiety. “A shepherd, perhaps? Or a jagger who lost his way?”

“Jagger?” I was momentarily diverted by the strangeness of the word.

“The packhorse pedlars who roam the Peaks,” Hemming replied. “They bring all manner of goods to more remote villages of Derbyshire, and a fair measure of gossip as well. The jaggers are to be found everywhere among these hills in the summer months.”

“This man was not a pedlar,” I told him, “but a gentleman by his appearance. I should judge his clothes and shoes to be of the first quality, and fairly new.”

Mr. Hemming’s expression changed. From one of interest in myself, it turned to disquiet for another. I saw that he should have preferred to dismiss this death as a misadventure among the lower orders — and with it, all burden to himself. But such was not to be. The claims of a gentleman must be felt.

“How old a gentleman should you judge him to be, Miss Austen?”

The face had been clean-shaven, the skin delicate. “He cannot be much above twenty.”

A whoop from the riverbank then attracted our notice. Mr. Cooper raised high his severed line, an enormous trout depending from its length.