Stephanie Barron: Jane and the Stillroom Maid

A stifled scream alerted me to the presence of Mrs. Carver behind her counter, and to the rising tendency of my own conversation. It would not do to cause a fit of public hysterics.

Cassandra’s right eyebrow rose in reproof. “It sounds to be a scene drawn straight from a horrid novel,” she observed. “One of Mrs. Radcliffe’s. Only it should have been in Italy, several centuries ago, and the victim a wandering prince. Take some tea, Jane. I find that it is delightfully restoring, despite the heat of the day. Or perhaps Mrs. Carver might compound a cordial.”

“When she is done imparting the news of murder to her neighbours,” I replied.

THE RUTLAND ARMS IS A FINE, MODERN BUILDING OF stone commanding the top of Matlock Street, with all of Bakewell falling away before it. A posting-house named The White Horse was formerly upon the site, but some two years since the Duke of Rutland, who owns the land upon which the old inn sat, pulled down the building and threw up this new one, to our infinite satisfaction. I find myself in possession of an airy bedchamber overlooking Matlock Street, where every carriage of consequence is subject to my view; and as the principal London stages must change horses here before proceeding on to Manchester, the parade of the fashionable, the frivolous, the indigent, and the wary must be a source of constant amusement. Add to this the luxury of a snug upstairs parlour set aside for our party’s use, and the wild beauty of the surrounding country — and we are considerably more comfortable than we should have been among the victims of whooping cough.

My cousin Mr. Cooper did not return until our dinner was very nearly laid — which at The Rutland Arms occurs at the grand, unfashionable hour of four o’clock. I was sufficiently recovered to quit my bedchamber and join Cassandra and my mother in the parlour a few moments before Mr. Cooper alighted wearily from George Hemming’s trap. Heavy dark clouds had rolled in from the hills, ominous with the threat of rain; thunder bruited in the distance. The air was oppressive and increasingly close — hardly uncommon of an August afternoon. Today, however, I read portents in the storm. The natural order had been violated — a man despatched as one might butcher a calf — and all of Heaven knew it.

My mother was attempting to mend the lace on one of her caps; she had drawn her chair quite close to the window in a vain search for available light. At the sound of carriage wheels in the cobbled street below, she set down her muslin and peered through the storm-darkened panes.

“Well. There he is at last, Jane,” she said, “and not a hint of a corpse about him. I do hope the inn boasts a laundress. The smell of blood can be most persistent.”

“Yes, ma’am,” I replied. I had ordered a bath myself upon returning to The Rutland Arms, and scrubbed my skin raw.

“He does not bring his friend with him,” she observed. “Pity. I had marked out Mr. Hemming for one of you.”

“Thank you for my part of the favour, Mamma, but I do not wish to spend the rest of my days in Derbyshire,” Cassandra said plaintively. “Although a trifle advanced in years, and undoubtedly given to the wearing of flannel during the winter months, Mr. Hemming will do very well for Jane. She may learn to prepare any manner of fish in five different ways, and exclaim continually over the glories of the Peaks.”

“I think I might be equal to the latter,” I mused, “did the gentleman consume his fish himself.”

The door to the hall was flung open, and Mr. Cooper appeared. My cousin’s hair was disarranged and his countenance drawn and pale. His good worsted suiting was smeared with dark stains that could only be blood.

“Dear ladies,” he said faintly, and bowed.

“My poor Edward.” My mother’s accent was more brisk than fond. “Pray take a chair. The roast shall be sent up presently. Unless you should prefer a cold dinner today on account of the juices,” she added obscurely.

“It makes no odds,” Mr. Cooper replied absently, “my appetite is fled. I commend your Christian charity, however, for considering of it, Aunt. My cousin has informed you of the sad events of this morning?”

“You must know that Jane loves nothing so well as a tale of murder,” my mother replied comfortably. “I blame her father, Mr. Cooper. George Austen was an excellent man and an accomplished sermonist — quite lauded in his day, and besieged with offers of publication, which he would not hear of, except insomuch as his fame contributed to his supply of students, for he was always disposed to the tempering of young minds — particularly when their patrons were generous with board, and paid on time. But where was I?”

“You were about to say, ma’am, that my father disposed me to relish a tale of murder,” I supplied.

“And so he did. All that novel-reading of a winter’s eve! The more horrid the better. And she has gone from bad to worse, Mr. Cooper — she practically chuses her friends from among the intimates of the dock. First it was the Countess of Scargrave, who must place herself in Newgate for poisoning of her first husband; and then it was Lord Harold’s nephew, the one who shall inherit the Dukedom. Not to mention French spies. I should not be surprised to learn that Jane has taken up with Whigs,” she added darkly, as though this was tantamount to running naked through the streets, “and no respectable man will have her then .”

“Lord Harold?” my cousin enquired, with a faint line between his brows. The allusion to the fifth Duke of Wilborough’s second son was lost upon him.

“Well you may look shocked,” my mother retorted, with a triumphant air. “You see, Jane, how that man’s reputation has preceded him? Even in the rectories of Staffordshire, his name is uttered with dread!”

At this juncture the serving girl put in her appearance, bearing high a covered tureen. All discourse was naturally suspended some moments. Sally laid the cloth, set out the various dishes, and waited until we should be seated. When she had served us all, I gave her leave to quit the parlour. Left to himself, I believe my cousin should never have considered of it. He appeared insensible to everything but a brown stain upon the tablecloth, which he studied earnestly. His plate he left untouched.

Cassandra sent me a look of mute enquiry. I lifted my shoulders a fraction in dismay. My mother continued to talk of her late husband — of students long absent from our lives, and the disproportionate fortunes of their patrons — of her youth in Oxford, and her uncle Theophilus Leigh, the Master of Balliol College, who was renowned for his wit. When at length she had drawn breath to repeat one of the Master’s most cherished aphorisms, I hastily intervened.

“Was the Coroner able to put a name to that unfortunate young man, Cousin?”

“Eh?” Mr. Cooper came to his senses with a start. “What young man?”

“The one I discovered murdered this morning,” I reminded him gently.

Cassandra’s expression of concern had deepened; her gaze was fixed anxiously on Mr. Cooper. She appeared ready to leap to his aid in the instant, should he fall into a swoon.

“I suppose there is no harm in relating the intelligence,” Mr. Cooper conceded heavily, “and, indeed, it will be on every tradesman’s lips by morning. I shudder to think what my esteemed and noble patron, Sir George Mumps, will say when he learns of the affair.”

We waited in some suspense.

His eyes came up to meet my own, with a look of profound confusion. “The corpse of Miller’s Dale was not that of a gentleman, Jane, but one who had borrowed a gentleman’s clothes.”

“An imposter?” I enquired. “The matter gains in interest.”

“And delicacy,” Mr. Cooper added. “For no one can say what the poor girl was about, or who might have used her so foully.”