Jane and the Stillroom Maid

by Stephanie Barron

  Cassandra shuddered, and turned her face away.

  “And so you arranged to meet her at Miller’s Dale on Monday last,” I persisted. “Why that night, above all others? Why not the one evening each month when the maid had secured her leave?”

  The solicitor hesitated. “I wished the affair to be quickly achieved. Having taken my decision, I could not bear to linger in suspense. I sent the girl a note at Penfolds, and received her reply within hours.”

  It would be well, I thought, to determine whether the maid had ever received such a note. Tess must have been summoned from home by someone. “But having killed her with a single shot,” I persisted, “—a remarkable shot, indeed—why did you feel compelled to visit such savagery upon her person?”

  The solicitor looked at me directly. “I hoped her death would be imputed to a madman.”

  Cassandra placed her hand upon her throat. “I cannot think it Christian, Jane, to recall these hideous memories of the maid, and particularly in the middle of the night, when such ravaged souls may walk the earth in torment. I beg of you, leave Mr. Hemming’s explanations for the Justice! The guilty are properly Sir James’s province.”

  “But Mr. Hemming is not guilty, Cassandra. He merely hopes to shield another from discovery—and if I am not mistaken, it is his client, Mr. Charles Danforth. What cause have you, sir, to suspect that gentleman of guilt? Do you know aught of the man’s movements on Monday night, that will not bear an honest scrutiny? Pray speak, before your own case is desperate! The loyalty of a solicitor should not extend so far as the gallows!”

  My sister’s face was yet averted from Hemming’s; he observed it, and his countenance paled. Cassandra’s distress should be nothing, however, to the public aversion in which he would be held, did he persist in proclaiming his guilt. That such a man, of reputation and standing in Bakewell, should risk everything on a whim—!

  “If I did visit the hideous wounds upon the maid’s body,” he said, in a voice less steady than it had been, “I may only claim a profound disturbance of spirit.”

  “You will not disclose the nature of Tess Arnold’s hold upon you?”

  “I cannot.”

  “Nor why you effected the mutilation in such a manner, as to throw suspicion upon your brother Masons?”

  To this he made no reply whatsoever.

  “Will you produce the note you received from the maid, or the fowling piece that killed her?”

  George Hemming raised his head, and in his looks I read a seizure of doubt. Whether fuddled by drink or the torments of his own mind, he had not considered of this point when he constructed his confession.

  “In the darkness above Miller’s Dale,” he said, “a man may lose his reason. When I stood over Tess Arnold’s body, I was not then myself. I cannot frankly say what I may have done, or why.”

  “To use your own term, sir,” I cried, “bosh! You cannot expect me to believe, that having undertaken to kill Tess Arnold—having drawn her out in the dead of night by subterfuge—you then left her body in plain view of the walker’s path above the Dale, and returned to the river so soon as the following morning! Recollect that you were seen to have taken tea here at the inn with us on the night of the maid’s death; and it was then you extended the invitation to all our party for a drive to Miller’s Dale! Are we to believe you so cold-blooded a killer, that you may drink tea and propose the angling scheme, mere hours before despatching your blackmailer? Never, sir! I refuse to credit it!”

  “Perhaps I hoped that you would discover her body,” he attempted. “Is it not the way of the sinner to wish his disgrace to be known?”

  “Had you felt so deep a remorse, you might have led Sir James to the body yourself on that dreadful morning. It will not do, sir. If discovery was your object, you should have killed Tess Arnold in the middle of the Bakewell green, and have done!”

  Mr. Hemming stared at me; and then he summoned the faintest of smiles. “It is a pity you were not born a man, Jane Austen,” he observed, “for I certainly know whom I should hire for my defence.”

  “IT IS UNACCOUNTABLE,” I TOLD LORD HAROLD THIS morning, as he sat in the inn’s parlour, one elegantly-clad leg caught in a stream of late-summer sunlight; “in every way, it is unaccountable! What can he mean by confessing to a murder it is impossible he should have committed?”

  “Surely you have already found the answer, Jane,” the gentleman replied. “He intends to shield another by taking the burden of guilt upon himself.”

  “But whom? Charles Danforth? No one else has been so openly the object of suspicion. Why should George Hemming sacrifice his life for Danforth’s?”

  Lord Harold shrugged indolently. His face this morning was less ravaged than it had been; the activity of the past few hours agreed with him. He was not the sort of man to spend many days together in attendance upon a group of females, arranged about a well-clipped lawn. Dissipation was to Lord Harold a kind of disease.

  He had ridden early into town to inform me of the outcome of last night’s events. The constabulary from Buxton had arrived post-haste at Penfolds Hall, due to Devonshire’s urgent instruction; and they had been in time to mount guard over the household, and prevent the more egregious damage intended by the hanging party. Charles Danforth had been most eager to ride upon the scoundrels himself, and had been required to be restrained by his brother, when he would have gone in pursuit; but eventually the pleading of Lady Harriot, and the calmer counsel of Lord Harold, had urged caution. Both the Danforths had gratefully accepted the Duke’s offer of aid, and of bedchambers for the duration of the siege.

  At about midnight, Michael Tivey had led his men up to the door of the Danforth estate, and demanded to parley with its owner; Charles Danforth must show his face, as a Mason and a murderer, or be burnt in his bed. It was left to the Penfolds steward—a respectable man by the name of Wickham—to admit that the master was from home; and the rage of the assembled drunkards was then unimaginable. Bricks were hurled, and windows smashed; a very valuable vase of Blue John was dashed upon the front steps, and several of the raiding party gained entrance to the house itself, where they commenced to tear at draperies and harry the terrified servants, most of whom had been torn from their beds. The introduction of flaming torches to the interiors might have caused considerable destruction, had Sir James Villiers not arrived.

  The Justice came upon the scene, admirably mounted and entirely cool of temper, just as the assembly were in the act of thrusting a rope over the unfortunate Wickham’s head. The rabble intended, Lord Harold told me, to hang the steward from a venerable oak that stood on the verge of the sweep. The Justice fired his gun in the air, however, summoning the constabulary at his rear, and the hanging party were swiftly routed. Several were even now sleeping off the effects of gin and blows in the Bakewell gaol; while others—including the disreputable Tivey—had fled through the darkness to the obscurity of their homes, and were unlikely to show their faces in town for some days to come. But it had been a very near thing: had the Danforths been sitting quietly at Penfolds last evening—had I failed to mount the alarm—had Sir James or the Duke been called away—who knew the event of such rough justice?

  And the intervention of the Law had done nothing to allay suspicion against Charles Danforth: it still ran at full tide through the streets of Bakewell. The gentleman was protected, so the townsfolk said, by Influence. A murdered maid, without connexion or consequence, could not hope to find justice in an English court of law; Danforth’s fellow Freemasons would ensure that the crime remained obscure. The common folk of Bakewell should never sleep safe in their beds until the pernicious Brotherhood was banished from the Peaks.

  They had not considered, perhaps, that they should be forced to rout the Prince of Wales as well, and most of the kingdom’s Great, if an end to Masonic influence was their object.

  “Your friend George Hemming having barely diverted the public eye from his client,” Lord Harold observed, “we may assume there are not
many in Derbyshire who credit the truth of his confession. But in asking whom he would shield, my dear Jane, you would beg the question of the entire affair. Who was burdened enough by Tess Arnold’s existence, that he should take up a knife and a gun to cut off her young life?”

  “Whoever that person may be,” I observed, “he has gone free, while Mr. Hemming is presently in gaol.” The solicitor, I learned upon Lord Harold’s entrance just after breakfast, had pounded upon Sir James’s door at five o’clock this morning, and had begged to be put in irons. So much for the sobering effects of coffee and common sense.

  “Then if you would have their cases reversed,” Lord Harold returned, “you must find the guilty party. Sir James is under no obligation to do so, I assure you. A confessed killer has walked up to his door. All that he must now do is declare the matter of Tess Arnold’s death resolved, and await the Assizes.”

  “It will not do,” I replied. “You know that no sane man would pursue revenge in so haphazard a manner.”

  “Many a hot-blooded gentleman has killed before this, Jane, without due consideration of the consequences,” said his lordship gently.

  “I am sure that is what the jury will find in the present case,” I retorted, “but we will both know it to be absurd! Mr. Hemming’s professed method does not fit the circumstances; and his character, moreover, is quite unsuited to the manner of the maid’s death.”

  “Do you know so much about him, Jane, on the basis of a few hours’ conversation? There was a time when you considered his behaviour decidedly odd.”

  “And so do I still—though perhaps for different reasons.” Hard scrutiny must find that I knew little of George Hemming beyond his friendship with my cousin, and a taste for angling and Cowper. My heart declared that he was a man of merit, and my reason rebelled at the poverty of his explanation for the murder of the stillroom maid. Where reason and heart are aligned, conviction will follow.

  “Do you know very much, Lord Harold, about your friends at Chatsworth—though you have been acquainted with them this age?”

  I had been fixed by the window as we conversed, my gaze moving restlessly over the herd of townspeople below—the good folk of Bakewell, all agog with the news of a respectable man’s misery. Lord Harold arose, and joined me at the view.

  “I know enough to be deeply troubled, Jane,” he replied. “What exactly did you observe during your interval under the Spanish oaks?”

  “A household in some upheaval,” I replied, “spurred by the twin influences of jealousy and competition. Lady Elizabeth has much to answer for.”

  “Say, rather, the Duke, since it is the result of his perennial weaknesses that disorder is allowed to flourish. Could you apprehend, Jane, the qualities for good in that man—the immense talents, so indolently employed—your heart would surge with indignation at all he has squandered. The late Duchess’s gaming debts are nothing to it. There, we speak merely of money.”

  “That such a character as Lady Harriot’s could be formed in so pernicious an atmosphere, is a testament to her breeding,” I observed.

  “In her we see again the strength of her noble family, rather than its decline.” Lord Harold fidgeted restlessly with a signet ring on his left hand, his countenance for once unguarded. “Harriot is very much like her aunt, Lady Bessborough—keen of wit, sharp of tongue, utterly discerning, and blessed with a singular understanding. Had she been born a man—” He broke off, and allowed his hands to fall to his sides.

  “And in the Marquess, Lord Harold? What do we observe in Devonshire’s heir?”

  “The callowness of youth, and a depth of misery unimaginable to ourselves.” He looked at me keenly. “Georgiana’s death is a blow from which her youngest child has not recovered. I may say so much; the rest you will discern for yourself. The very circumstance to which you refer—my long acquaintance and friendship with the Devonshire household—must prohibit me from speaking rashly now. But I will admit, Jane, that I am most distressed in my soul about Lord Hartington.”

  “His words to me were indisputably singular,” I persisted. “‘I’d hoped the witch had died in agony.’ What can his lordship have meant by so frank and brutal a sentiment?”

  “You are not alone in posing such a question,” Lord Harold replied. “Lady Harriot is most uneasy for her brother. He has been too much alone this summer at Chatsworth; he barely speaks a word to anyone. You saw how all his family regarded you with amazement, when he deigned to question you concerning the maid’s death; only the most ardent interest could have moved Lord Hartington to address a stranger.”

  “And I thought them merely appalled at his conversation.” I studied Lord Harold’s countenance; but as ever, it revealed only what he would have me to know. “Would you make me your proxy, sir, in this dreadful business? Am I to be forced to the unhappy duty of examining that privileged household—one of the most exalted in England—because your honour forbids you do it?”

  “Remember that you possess a motive I lack,” he replied. “If you would save George Hemming’s neck, my dear Jane, you must place another in the noose.”

  “The discovery of guilt and innocence is more properly Sir James’s province.” And yet, as Lord Harold observed, Sir James was compelled to do nothing further. An honest man had come forth to claim his share of blame; the Law was satisfied, and Sir James might take up his old schoolfellow’s invitation, to shoot grouse in Scotland.

  “I do not mean to suggest that George Hemming is entirely blameless,” I attempted. “He is certainly most determined upon shielding another, and may even possess a dangerous knowledge—knowledge that torments him. But I do not believe that he killed Tess Arnold. Though he was anxious and preoccupied at the moment of the corpse’s discovery, it was not the anxiety of guilt. He was startled, he was amazed, he was determined to conceal the whole—but he was not fearful for the salvation of his soul.”

  “Prove it, Jane,” Lord Harold retorted with a smile.

  “How, my lord?”

  “You must first comprehend the nature of the woman Hemming claims to have killed. You know already that she was hated by some, and feared by others. But you know nothing of what Tess Arnold regarded with ambition and dread. When we comprehend so much, we may claim to understand why she died.”

  “You urge me to this, though you know full well that whatever I learn may harm the people you love best in all the world?”

  His eyes did not waver. “I cannot sit by and watch a good man go to his death without cause. Neither will I countenance evil with equanimity. I cannot undertake to betray my friends, Jane. But if you choose to probe the nature of Tess Arnold, I shall support your endeavour. You must attempt the matter soon, however: I understand that your cousin, Mr. Cooper, hopes to quit Bakewell as soon as may be.”

  “He has forbidden me to dine at Chatsworth tomorrow,” I told his lordship with a smile. “My mother, however, has secured me borrowed feathers; and from this we may assume that my attendance is certain. The next day being Sunday, we are entirely fixed—Mr. Cooper would never profane the Sabbath with travel. I shall remain in Bakewell until Monday at the very least.”

  “Excellent,” Lord Harold cried. “That wins us nearly three days. How shall you use them?”

  “First, by returning to Miller’s Dale. I wish to review the ground where the maidservant died, and consider where her murderer might have hid. And if energy enough remains, I intend to walk the path she might have taken from Penfolds Hall. Much may be learned from the country itself, if one has but the courage to ask.”

  “You will require a carriage,” he added thoughtfully, “and a broad-brimmed sunbonnet, if you hope to do so much of an August morning. Pray leave the business to me.”

  1 The Assizes, in the British legal system of Austen’s time, was a court convened by a superior judge for each county; it was this judge’s duty to hear civil and criminal cases remanded by local magistrates, including capital crimes. The Assizes were held aperiodically, and the accused cou
ld wait months for a trial. Austen’s aunt, Mrs. Leigh-Perrot, spent more than seven months in the Somerset County jail awaiting trial on a charge of shoplifting, which at the time was considered grand larceny, and carried a sentence of death or transportation. She was acquitted in March 1800.—Editor’s note.

  To Avoid Apoplexy

  his illness occurs most frequently in the corpulent or obese. To treat, raise the head to a nearly upright position. Unloose all the clothes. Apply cold water to the head and warm cloths to the feet. Give nothing by mouth until the breathing is relieved, and then only draughts of cold water.

  —From the Stillroom Book

  of Tess Arnold,

  Penfolds Hall, Derbyshire,

  1802–1806

  Chapter 15

  In the Footsteps of the Dead

  29 August 1806, cont.

  ∼

  THERE ARE MOMENTS IN LIFE THAT SHOULD JUSTIFIABLY live long in memory—moments of experience so deeply felt, whether of pain or pleasure, that they mark the human soul even unto the grave. I am long familiar with such intimate scars. I may recall with the vividness of yesterday, the happy agitation of being first asked to dance—though by entirely the wrong gentleman; the pain of Tom Lefroy’s defection for Ireland, and a lady of greater fortune; the oppression of spirits at the death of Cassandra’s betrothed. My father’s laugh, ringing out again in memory, will bring both tears and joy; so, too, will the idea of reading aloud in Madam Lefroy’s front parlour of a winter afternoon, long ago. What is life, but an accumulation of such memories, a gathering of sensibility?

  And yet, not all that is precious must be alloyed with pain. I have also these moments in Lord Harold’s company, on a golden day in the High Peaks, with the swift shadows of clouds chasing the sheep on the hillsides and the babble of torrents curling whitely over stone. The soul may be as indelibly marked by such impressions of peace—by a conversable man of elegant appearance and the clop of a well-shod hoof—as by an experience of the most shattering emotion. When the rains of January have overtaken Southampton, the Gentleman Rogue will rise in memory as one of the better gifts of the past year.