Stephanie Barron - Jane and the Stillroom Maid

I smoothed my grey silk, touched a hand to the borrowed combs, and turned my face to the light — towards the tea service, the card tables, and the conversation — all the claims of Lord Harold’s glittering world.

A Remedy for Persistent Coughing

Take two ounces each of barley, figs, and raisins, a half ounce of liquorice, and a half ounce of Florentine iris root. Put the iris root and barley into two quarts of water, and boil them well, then put in the raisins, figs, and liquorice. Let it boil up again, and after eight or ten minutes strain it off.

A coffee cup full is the dose, and is to be taken twice each day.

— From the Stillroom Book

of Tess Arnold,

Penfolds Hall, Derbyshire , 1802–1806

30 August 1806, cont.

“I UNDERSTAND, MISS AUSTEN, THAT YOU ARE ACQUAINTED with George Hemming,” said Mr. Charles Danforth as I emerged from the moonlit terrace.

“A little,” I concurred with a quickening of interest, “but hardly so well as yourself. He has served your family in the capacity of solicitor, I believe?”

Danforth accepted a cup of tea from Lady Swithin, handed it in turn to myself, and steered me gently towards a settee placed comfortably in an alcove. “Such a term does not begin to describe the loyalty and devotion he has shown to Penfolds Hall,” he said. “In the course of thirty years, Hemming has served my family in nearly every capacity one can name. I owe him every measure of gratitude and respect — nay, of friendship. I am greatly disturbed in my mind at his present circumstances.”

I seated myself and studied Charles Danforth’s countenance. It was sober and reflective; and though stamped with the lines of old pain, suggested nothing of a willful duplicity. “You were surprised, then, to learn of Mr. Hemming’s confession?”

“Nothing could have a greater power to astonish! I was told of it only yesterday before dinner, the morning having been entirely consumed with anxieties of my own — but perhaps you will have heard of the despicable attack on Penfolds.”

“Yes.”

He looked a trifle conscious, and seemed unable to resume the thread of conversation; if I knew of the attack, presumably I knew that all of Bakewell believed Charles Danforth a murderer.

“And can you account for Mr. Hemming’s extraordinary behaviour? For I must tell you, Mr. Danforth, that I regard his claims as entirely false.”

He sat down beside me, and eased his lame foot straight out before him. “It does not sit well with a man of my temperament to skulk here, under the Duke’s protection, as though I were afraid to enter my own house. Had I not been pressed to remain for Hary-O’s native day, I should have ridden out long ago.”

It was hardly a reply to my question. I let his words fall without remark, and took a sip of tea.

“Miss Austen — have you spoken with George — Mr. Hemming?”

“I have. I was present at his confession, if one may thus describe an admission so thoroughly disguised in drink. I told him then that I believed him to be shielding another — to have claimed the murder of the maid in the belief that Sir James Villiers would be satisfied. But Sir James is not. Too many aspects of Tess Arnold’s death do not accord with Mr. Hemming’s story.”

“Aspects?” he enquired, with a penetrating look. “And may I ask—? But no. You shall not be pressed to an indiscretion.”

“Sir James is of my opinion, Mr. Danforth, that Mr. Hemming would act in the guise of scapegoat. But for whom? Have you any idea?”

I observed the gentleman so coolly, and yet so narrowly, that I could not mistake the turn of his countenance. Charles Danforth was consumed with anxiety; and his fears were inspired by whatever George Hemming might know.

“I can well believe that he would place a noose around his own neck, if it might save another whom he loved,” the gentleman said in a voice hollow and low. “Hemming is the best-hearted and best-intentioned fellow in the world. I can conceive of no reason on earth why he should have harmed Tess Arnold — but neither have I ever known George Hemming to lie .”

“And so you turn on the horns of paradox,” I murmured.

“ One of his actions must be false,” Danforth exclaimed. “But which? Having admitted falseness to be impossible, I cannot rightly say.”

“Perhaps, if Mr. Hemming could explain his actions — either his purpose in lying, or his purpose in killing the maid — we might comprehend his behaviour.”

“Naturally,” Charles Danforth agreed, “but it is just that sort of explanation we cannot expect. I understand from Sir James — who rode out here yesterday to impart the news of Hemming’s confession — that he will offer no reason for his violence or its result.”

“I suppose,” I said tentatively, “that if the person truly responsible were forced to acknowledge his guilt, Mr. Hemming would regard himself as released from silence; but any declaration then on his part should no longer seem useful.”

Charles Danforth clasped his hands uneasily on his knee. “My father and his second wife died in a carriage accident, Miss Austen, when I was but eighteen years of age, and intending Cambridge. It was Hemming who travelled to London to inform me of the tragedy himself, Hemming who comforted me in my first paroxysm of grief. For months thereafter, when I was a lost and frightened boy, it was Hemming who served as guide through a world of care I had not hoped to assume for decades together. I should be a very different man but for his influence; I have reason to regard him with affection all my life. If I can in any measure serve as friend in his present turmoil, then I shall. I owe him that much.”

“Charles!” cried the Countess of Bessborough, approaching with a glow of animation, “you must save us all from the most dreadful ennui, and partner me at the whist table! I cannot drag Granville away from the charms of Lord Harold’s conversation.”

Mr. Danforth rose with good grace, nodded unsmilingly to me, and went immediately to Lady Bessborough’s side; and I did not speak to him for the remainder of the evening. But his words — the force of his expressions, and the manner in which he uttered them — lay powerfully in my mind. He had formed a desperate resolution, I should judge, and required only the opportunity to act.

His Grace preferred, when sitting down to cards, to play at faro — a game whose sole purpose may be described as the loss of as much of one’s purse as one is willing to wager. It is a game played by two people alone, one of them serving as dealer and bank; Lady Elizabeth Foster served in this capacity for the Duke, sitting opposite him at the green baize table and turning over cards very prettily with her thin white hands. The Morpeths sat down to whist, and claimed Lady Bessborough for a third; her partner was the dutiful Charles Danforth. Lord Harold was engrossed in conversation with Granville Leveson-Gower; and that left Lady Harriot, the Countess of Swithin, Andrew Danforth, and myself at leisure.

“Well, Hary-O, and how shall we mark so signal an occasion? Should you like to play at vingt-et-un , macao, or loo?” Danforth enquired in a cavalier tone. “Though my brother has callously revealed that my pockets are entirely to let, I shall wager my pitiful pence in honour of your native day.”

“Do not beggar yourself on my account, I beg. I am sure that I am sick of cards. Losses at the tapis-vert reduced my mother to a walking shadow. I should much rather amuse myself with music than anything.”