Jane and the Stillroom Maid jam-5 Page 15

  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.”

  To Avoid Apoplexy

  This 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.

  “You are lost in reverie, Jane,” Lord Harold remarked as we descended the final curve of road towards Miller’s Dale. “You are hardly attending to what I have said.”

  “I freely confess that I have heard not a word,” I admitted, “though you speak so well and so knowledge-ably, my lord, on every subject. It is one of your talents, is it not? The judicious employment of silence and volubility. It is an aspect of your character that must make you a friend to every salon. I have an idea of the scene: Lord Harold enters upon a fashionable rout; he takes the measure of his company, and determines in an instant whether the taciturn or the feckless is most suited to the occasion.”

  Lord Harold drew up his horses not far from the miller’s cottage. “I appear to have misjudged the present instance lamentably.”

  “Not at all,” I protested. “Your voice gave the perfect foil to thought — so insinuating, so low, so charming in every respect. I have been gazing upon the beauties of the Peaks, and considering of Andrew Danforth’s bed.”

  “Jane!”

  “Do not Jane me! Everyone is always doing it — particularly my cousin Mr. Cooper, who seems to feel himself my moral arbiter now my father is gone to rest. The presumption is most trying, I do assure you.”

  “You have the advantage of me, dear lady,” Lord Harold replied, as he swung himself down from our hired curricle; “for I have never considered of Andrew Danforth’s bed in the whole course of our acquaintance.”

  “A palpable falsehood. It was first brought to my notice by your own communications.”

  He looked up, and offered his hand. “You would mean the fact of Tess Arnold’s having been discovered in it?”

  “Exactly.” I stepped lightly from the curricle and smoothed the creases from my rose-coloured gown. “The housekeeper claims the maid was dismissed for an indiscretion. Sir James would have it that the indiscretion was Andrew Danforth’s. The gentleman, I may add, does not seem unduly grieved by Tess Arnold’s death, so there cannot have been much affection in the case — at least on Andrew Danforth’s side.”

  “But we know nothing of the maidservant’s heart. She may have allowed herself to regard anything as possible. She may have aspired even to becoming Mrs. Andrew Danforth. He is, after all, only a younger son.”

  “And must therefore make his fortune through marriage! It has been my experience, my lord, that the habits of younger sons run to considerable expense. Andrew Danforth intends to have a Duke’s daughter, and all of Parliament at his feet; and with such ambitions, Tess Arnold must prove a shameful impediment.”

  “Lady Harriot and her role in Danforth’s brilliant career may have been utterly unknown to the stillroom maid,” Lord Harold objected.

  “I very much doubt that there was anything toward in the Peaks that Tess Arnold did not know. From what I hear of her character, she was a woman to regard intelligence as gold.”

  “Very well. Proceed with the fruits of reverie, Jane. I expect to be amply repaid for my wasted chatter along the road.”

  “George Hemming confessed to having called Tess Arnold out on Monday night, with the intention of murdering her,” I declared, “and yet, she is known to have been dismissed. Did she quit Penfolds Hall that evening at the housekeeper’s injunction? Or George Hemming’s?”

  “That is the first of many flaws in the solicitor’s story.”

  “And one reason I do not believe it — entirely.”

  Lord Harold looked at me swiftly. “Then you credit some part of the tale?”

  “I have observed, Lord Harold, that when a man would plausibly lie — as George Hemming has done — he is inclined to present a patchwork, not a tale made of whole cloth. I believe him when he says that the girl would blackmail him — that she had blackmailed him, for years together. So much of his confession bears the ring of truth.”

  “Then we must consider what the maidservant might be in a position to learn,” Lord Harold mused, “and turn to profitable account.”

  “She was a stillroom maid. She was everywhere regarded as a sort of country apothecary — the compounder of draughts, of ointments, of remedies for common ills. Therein lay her knowledge and her power. We must find the cause of Hemming’s grievance among the herbs and simples of Tess Arnold’s storeroom. I know, for example, that he lost his wife in childbed nearly a decade ago.”

  Lord Harold surveyed my countenance. “If the lady’s death was due to any error of the maid’s, it should rather be Hemming’s case to blackmail her.”

  “True. I doubt, however, that Tess Arnold was in attendance upon Mrs. Hemming. She would have been only fifteen or so at the time. But perhaps Betty Arnold may recall the circumstances.”

  “How may the revival of such a grievance further our purpose, Jane? For you would have it that Hemming is innocent of the maid’s death. You have declared him incapable of the act.”

  “And so I believe him to be. But in the patches of truth Mr. Hemming has tossed us, we may learn much of Tess Arnold’s life and purpose.”

  “For example — why she left Penfolds Hall Monday in the dead of night.”

  “We cannot be certain that she did,” I objected. “We know only that she was dismissed from service sometime during the course of Monday, and met her death a mile from Penfolds Hall late that night. I do not imagine Mr. Tivey’s estimation of the hour of the murder to be exact; and Mrs. Haskell was prevented, by her timely swoon, from outlining the facts of the maid’s disgrace.”

  “But if Tess was dismissed for a dalliance with her employer’s brother,” Lord Harold observed, “then we may certainly set the earliest limit of her departure. Andrew Danforth is known to have quitted Penfolds for Chatsworth at roughly five o’clock. If the maid was turned away, her infraction must have been discovered before that hour.”

  “Did Danforth come on horseback?” I enquired curiously.

  “He did,” Lord Harold replied, “and an impressive animal it was. However varied his taste in young women, Andrew Danforth has a superior eye for horseflesh. The gelding could not have done less than twelve, and not more than sixteen miles an hour o
ver the fields between Penfolds Hall and Chatsworth; and the distance to be traversed is no more than six or eight miles. I should judge that Danforth was perhaps half an hour upon his road — three-quarters, if he took the horse at a trot.”

  “And when did he appear?”

  “I cannot swear to the hour. I was dressing at the time.”

  The admission shocked me. Lord Harold was always so perfectly turned-out, I had grown to believe he was somehow beyond the common human endeavour of dressing. The idea of the Gentleman Rogue in smallclothes, before his valet and his mirror, brought a bubble of laughter to my lips. I averted my gaze, lest he espy it. “I believe Sir James was told that Danforth arrived at six o’clock. There might be time enough, I suppose, to beat a hasty course into the hills, slay the maid, and turn the horse towards Chatsworth before dinner.”

  “So early as half-past five? In August, when the light does not fade until after nine o’clock? Why run the risk of such exposure?”

  “Very well. Then let us consider his opportunity along the road home. At what time did the Chatsworth party break up?”

  “Dinner was served at seven o’clock — the Duke keeps the hours of Town, even in Derbyshire — and between the demands of cards, conversation, and Lady Harriot’s instrument, Danforth cannot have called for his mount until after one o’clock.”

  “What dreadful habits of dissipation! But he may have made his way, under a fitful moon, to the hills above Miller’s Dale no later than two o’clock.”

  “I understood that was the hour he is said to have arrived at home.” Lord Harold studied my countenance with interest. “You believe the maid to have been waiting at the place of her death, at Danforth’s instruction? It seems a tedious business, and little to the point. If he wished to be considered as beyond suspicion, due to his engagement at Chatsworth, then he should take care to fix the hour of Tess’s death during the period he was known to be safely away.”