IT WAS AS WE APPROACHED PILSLEY, AND THE TURNING in our road for Chatsworth, that I espied the lone horseman. He had pulled up his mount on a little rise above, and was staring keenly down at my equipage as it approached the western gates of the park. Both horse and rider were utterly still, their figures suggesting the statue rather than life; and something chilling there was in so undisguised, and so acute, a scrutiny. Indiscernible myself behind the shutters of my coach, I stared implacably back. Only one person in Derbyshire was plunged in so profound a mourning; and only one bore that air of grief, even in stillness. The Marquess of Hartington, Devonshire’s heir.
But why was he not already at home, and dressing for his sister’s dinner?
He wheeled the horse’s head—raised one arm—a whip flashed out, and as swift as a bird in flight, the boy and his mount had put Chatsworth to their backs. I watched, until a turning in the road swept them both from my sight; and knew that it was the last glimpse of the Marquess I should have, that evening.
A Draught to Bring On Labour
ix together three spoonfuls of white wine and one spoonful of Oil of Sweet Almonds; take this every night before going to bed for a fortnight or three weeks before the expected Time.
Or take a little rye that has been spurred or covered with ergot, and boil in one pint sweet wine; strain the whole and let it cool. The dose is one-quarter pint, and the draught thus taken will bring on the pains in half an hour.
—From the Stillroom Book
of Tess Arnold,
Penfolds Hall, Derbyshire,
1802–1806
Chapter 22
Lady Harriot’s Celebration
30 August 1806, cont.
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THE PROSPECT OF A FINE MEAL AMIDST ELEGANT COMPANY must give rise to the most pleasurable anticipation in the dullest of times; but when set in the frame of recent events, and coupled with the knowledge that one or more of my companions might be guilty of murder—it gains considerably in piquancy.
I had occasion to reflect upon this when Mr. Charles Danforth vied with his brother for the honour of taking Lady Harriot Cavendish into dinner, only to be supplanted—as must be natural—by Lord Harold Trowbridge, his senior in both years and consequence. Lord Harold preserved his command of countenance, and Mr. Charles was too well-bred to cavil. He turned instead to the Countess of Swithin, our dear Desdemona, who accepted his arm with alacrity and the greatest good-humour in the world. Mr. Andrew Danforth was consigned to me—the eldest, least attractive, and most impoverished of the lot. But such is the fate of younger sons. He bore his duty well, and was so obliging in his manner, that I nearly forgave him the role of chief suspect in a heinous crime. Mr. Andrew’s attentions drew Lord Harold’s eye so often during the course of dinner, in fact, that I felt myself in the slightest measure repaid for his lordship’s own excessive devotion to Lady Harriot.
We were twelve at table—I had not looked for so great a crowd with the family in mourning, but Lady Harriot’s native day had drawn nearly every relation to her. Georgiana Morpeth, Lady Harriot’s elder sister, sat to her father’s left. Lord Morpeth had brought his wife down from their home at Castle Howard, in Yorkshire, and intended to return thence on the Monday—Lady Morpeth’s three little children being constantly in want of her. The Countess of Bessborough, younger sister to the late Duchess of Devonshire, was but lately arrived from her home at Roehampton; she intended a stay at Chatsworth of some weeks.
Lady Bessborough is a bewitching woman, with Hary-O’s rapier wit and a faded beauty that is nonetheless enchanting. Here was the mold from which Hary-O had been struck; and I should not be greatly surprised to learn that Lord Harold had once been as enslaved to the charms of this Harriot as he was now thoroughly devoted to her niece. Though she was a Countess (and the Earl yet lived), the burdens of public rectitude had never weighed overly-heavy on Lady Bessborough’s white shoulders; she had brought an excessively handsome young man, Granville Leveson-Gower, in her train from Roehampton. All at the Chatsworth dining table acknowledged him as her lover, despite the twelve-year difference in their ages; and as Leveson-Gower might command a fortune, and the notice of any woman in the world, we may adjudge his attachment a tribute to Lady Bessborough’s fascination.
The Duke sat at the head of the great dining table, but the chair to his right—the late Duchess’s place—was draped with black crepe. Lady Elizabeth, I saw with some relief, had not yet attempted to seize her dear friend’s empty chair. One other seat had gone unfilled, as though reluctant to disturb the symmetry of our arrangement: the Marquess of Harrington’s. The boy had not appeared at dinner; and I was not alone in remarking upon the absence.
“Where has young Hart hid himself, Your Grace?” Lord Morpeth cried to his father-in-law, when the first congratulations and wishes for returns of the day had been offered to Lady Harriot. “I should not have thought he would neglect his sister on so signal an occasion.”
“No doubt he’ll turn up,” the Duke returned vaguely. “Always out until all hours. Can’t drag the fellow off his mounts. Sportsman. Think he sleeps in his riding breeches.”
“Did Hart know of the excessive anxiety he causes,” managed Lady Elizabeth, “I am certain he would make amends, dear Morpeth; but he is of an age where the claims of Society are as nothing. The boy is heedless, foolhardy, and given over to the very worst sorts of humours—but possessed, I am sure, of the dearest heart in the world! There is nothing to his grief for our beloved Georgiana. Indeed, as I said to Lady Bessborough only this morning, I must forgive Hart every unfeeling wound when I consider of the depth of his loss.”
“You are too good to us all, I am sure, Lady E.,” retorted Hary-O, with barely suppressed rage. “What my brother might be, without your influence in this household, does not bear thinking of.”
Granville Leveson-Gower regarded Lady Harriot narrowly—he was seated immediately to her left—then looked all his enquiry at Lady Bessborough directly opposite. The Countess gave a barely discernible shake of the head, and reached for her wineglass. Leveson-Gower sat back, his eyes yet fixed on Hary-O. There was curiosity in his gaze, I thought—but anxiety, too, for her welfare.
“And has grief entirely blasted your twenty-first summer, Lady Harriot?” he asked her gently.
She fixed her eyes upon her lap as she replied; but a warmth suffused her countenance. “It should be very strange, sir, had it not. Though I do not make a parade of sorrow, as some do, I must feel my mother’s loss as deeply.”
“I’m sure you must,” he returned. “No more excellent lady lived. And the continued torments of Chatsworth—the thousand unquiet memories of happiness, now gone forever!—must deepen your pain. Lady Bessborough, I think, intends to carry you back with us to London; and there, I am sure, the diversions of Town, and the novelties of a new Season, must invariably raise your spirits.”
“Carry Hary-O into Town!” cried Lady Elizabeth, before the young lady could express her thanks. “What an excellent notion, Lady Bessborough! The very thing! We are excessively obliged to you! For Lady Harriot cannot have many eligible young men thrown in her way in Derbyshire, you know,” she added, with cruel disregard for the Danforth brothers, “and she does not grow the younger, as our happy occasion must only emphasise.”
“I see you regard the improvement of her circumstances in the proper light,” murmured Lady Bessborough ironically.
“Canis and I shall be at Devonshire House by Christmas,” Lady Elizabeth continued insensibly. “I should dearly love to chaperone our little Hary-O this winter, and I am sure that Georgiana would have wished me to stand in her place—but I fear my delicate condition of health forbids it.” At this, Lady Elizabeth managed an example of her peculiar, hacking cough.
That she should put herself forward, as Hary-O’s chaperone—an office belonging first to the married elder sister, and more properly to Lady Harriot’s aunt—defied belief! That the Duke’s mistress should carry his daughter into Society! Was Lad
y Elizabeth so blind to the impropriety of her own position, as to imagine it went unnoticed by all around her?
Lady Harriot rolled her eyes towards Heaven. Lord Harold’s composure was excessively correct; but his eyes met mine with the most satiric look.
“We may take it as settled, then,” interposed Leveson-Gower briskly. “When the Duke is once more in residence at Devonshire House, Lady Harriot shall naturally make her home there; but until that time, she shall remain with the Countess.”
Lady Bessborough reached across the table and squeezed Hary-O’s hand. “You must let us spoil you a little, my dear—and afford us all the pleasure of your wit and intelligence during a most dullish period. Parliament is in recess, you know, and everyone off shooting; but if you consent to remain with us until December—”
“Then you shall succeed in drawing every available parti to Town, and shooting be damned,” Lord Harold concluded.
“What are birds, to the most fascinating young lady in London?” enquired Andrew Danforth. “I have had enough of country life! Charles may moulder in the Midlands all he cares—it suits his temperament to be melancholy and retired. But I am for Town!”
However teazing the gentleman’s looks—however lighthearted his air—I judged him to speak in the greatest earnestness. Lady Elizabeth might consider Andrew Danforth the least eligible match in Derbyshire; but that gentleman was not about to let slip his chance at a Duke’s daughter.
“And you will have your career in Parliament to prepare for,” I observed. “There must be all the formality of the hustings, to be sure; but with His Grace’s influence, much might be done in a very little time. Of course you must go to London, Mr. Danforth! There is not a moment to be lost, if you would take your borough at the next offering!”
“Do you mean to stand, then?” Leveson-Gower’s gaze was arrested. He stared first at Andrew, and then at the silent, absorbed face of his brother, Charles, who had contributed nothing to the conversation. At the question, however, Charles Danforth stirred.
“You might better enquire, Granville, how he intends to fund his bid! My brother’s taste in horseflesh and wine—not to mention the cost of his tailor and his hounds!—runs to considerable expense. A commission in the Life Guards might better suit his style; but we may regard public office as a luxury he may ill-afford.”
The words were as biting as a schoolmaster’s to an errant headboy; and Andrew Danforth flushed. It was the first evidence of discomposure I had ever witnessed in that smooth and plausible gentleman—but an instant only was suffered to pass, before he summoned his answer.
“Were we all as close with the purse-strings as Charles, my dear Leveson-Gower, the kingdom would falter for lack of commerce! Besides—he must know quite well that sitting Members cannot be seized for debt! Who would account the cost of attaining office, when it affords such liberal terms?”
Everyone laughed at this sally; and Andrew Danforth was acquitted of folly. His brother, however, had emerged the worse from the exchange—for where Andrew retained his charm in the face of insult, Charles could appear only grasping and mean. I wondered how often the ill-disposed talents of both served the elder to disadvantage.
“You shall be following in your dear mother’s path, Lady Harriot, do you intend to take up the cause of politics,” observed Granville Leveson-Gower quietly, “for there was never a greater hostess, nor a better judge of a man’s character, than the late Duchess. Pray inform me when you set up your salon—for I shall be constantly in attendance.”
Lady Harriot smiled—she cast a wistful, searching gaze at the handsome Leveson-Gower—and so their conversation ended. I do not think they exchanged more than ten words for the remainder of that dinner; but Lady Harriot was able to lift up her eyes, and throw off her contempt for her mother’s rival, and enjoy the attentions of all at the party who wished her well. For this, if nothing else, I regarded Granville Leveson-Gower with gratitude—whatever his reprehensible attentions to another man’s wife. There is more disinterested good in the fellow than reputation would allow.
WE SURFEITED OURSELVES ON WHITE SOUP AND PLAICE, chickens and tongue, a fricasee of turnips and buttered prawns. There were forcemeat balls and macaroni, a ragout of celery with wine, dressed lamb and asparagus; sole with mushrooms. There was a gooseberry pie, and a quince preserve; a jaune mange and a marmalade of apricots; almonds and raisins and lemon ice. We drank negus and Madeira and smugglers’ claret; we sat while the covers were twice exchanged. And at last, when nearly three hours had been suffered to pass away, the ladies retired and left the men to discuss the prospects for government and Charles James Fox.
I felt myself to have grown quite flushed with food and spirits, and suspected that not even Cassandra’s grey silk might disguise the damage to my complexion. The great French windows had been thrown open to the night, affording a pleasant coolness. While Lady Swithin went cheerfully in search of her needlework, and Lady Harriot stood in closest conversation with her aunt, and Lady Elizabeth enquired fretfully of Georgiana Morpeth how her youngest child did—whether the danger of quinsy was entirely past—I wandered over to the open window, and saw that a broad stone terrace lay just beyond. It overlooked the parterres of the formal garden that flanked the eastern facade of the Great House. A wave of scent rose up from the boxhedge and flowers; I stepped out into the darkness, and breathed deep.
The moon was now fuller and stronger than it had been on the night of the maid’s death. The stars shone out, in a bewildering pattern overhead; owls called from the Spanish oaks, from the heavy coverts of trees lapping Chatsworth for mile upon mile; a deep stillness lay over the countryside, beautiful in its peace—an ageless stillness, such as must have obtained in this part of the world from time immemorial. Its illusion of measureless happiness was utterly bewitching. Great power was sunk in the stones of this house, great brilliance and talent in those who commanded its halls. I could not deny its seductive force; everything in my heart and soul longed to claim a part of this world. Lord Harold’s world.
Naked with ambition, grasping in its ruthless drive for self, and glittering in its possibilities, the chances it risked. There was great happiness—great sorrow—but always passion in such a world. Better to throw oneself on the wheel, to rise and fall with its whims, than remain forever bound to the earth—
Perhaps the Madeira and the French wine had quite gone to my head. The age of thirty was a trifle late to adopt the role of romantic heroine—to pin all of life on an excess of sensibility, and die when the object of love was denied. As I stood in the darkness above the spreading parterre, awash in that tide of scent, I acknowledged that Lord Harold alone could form my idea of happiness; and knew, with all the finality of earth thudding down upon the grave, that such happiness must be denied.
“Your ladyship has ever been the soul of forbearance.”
His voice, as though I had conjured him from the darkness, spoke softly from the shelter of the neighbouring window.
“It is just that I feel it my severe duty, Lord Harold, to be the next Duchess of Devonshire,” Lady Elizabeth replied, her voice breaking with tears. “Poor Canis is quite lost without me! But no one knows with what dread I regard the prospect! No one takes my part—no one feels the depth of my suffering, to stand in the place of she who was dearest to me in all the world!”
“I am sure we can none of us be in ignorance of what you feel, Bess,” Lord Harold equably replied. “Perhaps with time—”
“Yes,” she faltered. “Perhaps with time, I shall see better what path I must follow—which duty should be regarded as the most pressing. I do not speak of one’s duty to oneself—that cannot be held in the balance. I learned long ago to disregard self entirely.”
“You were always a creature of sacrifice,” Lord Harold murmured.
“And it is in the nature of sacrifice to be misjudged, and ill-regarded,” she returned bitterly. “I am sure I should be quite lost without such good friends as you and Lady Bessborough.
The young people positively blame me for their mother’s death!”
“Surely not.”
“Lord Hartington most certainly does! As though I, who nursed Her Grace to the last—through those horrible final hours, when she neither spoke nor knew anyone, and suffered the most fearful agony—as though I could have wished Georgiana ill! I cannot tell you, Harry, how the cloud of suspicion and neglect has deepened my grief! It is a wonder I have not already found my own grave!” Lady Elizabeth blew her nose rather noisily into a handkerchief. “But for the thought of dear Canis, and his helplessness—I believe I should have been carried off!”
“Lord Hartington must be very foolish,” Lord Harold observed. “There can be no possible cause for accusation. Indeed, I cannot believe it even of him. Though I know the young fellow to be yet in the grip of grief, surely his reason must urge restraint.”
“It is all on account of that wretched maid.” Lady Elizabeth sighed. “I wish that she had never been born, with her schemes and her remedies and her incantations!”
“Of whom are you speaking?”
I knew that note in Lord Harold’s voice; he was instantly alive to every possibility, and determined never to betray it. Lady Elizabeth was the merest trout—a slippery fish that had taken the Rogue’s lure. I waited, my breath suspended, for my lord to play the line.
“The stillroom maid, from Penfolds Hall,” Lady Elizabeth retorted peevishly. “The great healer you all cannot be done talking of—the girl so viciously murdered. Young Hart made quite a pet of her, you know.”
“Did he, indeed?” Lord Harold managed to suggest the faintest air of distaste, as though schoolboys who dallied with maidservants were decidedly not the thing.
“It is vastly shocking, I am sure—Hart is rather young, and so awkward in his ways—but I assure you, Harry, that we knew nothing of the matter until last month! Canis had occasion to run across the boy on horseback, and observed him parting from the maid. It seems that Hart had been riding over to Tideswell to see the girl ever since his dear mother died.”
Jane and the Stillroom Maid Page 22
