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  “And as a sporting fellow, I should accept the challenge,” Sir James cried, “but for the excellent report of both your characters I received from George Hemming, whom I have known these three decades and more.”

  “Mr. Hemming I never met before Monday evening,” I declared, “and my cousin has not seen him this age. Besides, Mr. Hemming may stand in testament to nobody; his own actions at present will not bear scrutiny. No, no, Sir James — you must preserve the cold judicial eye of the Law. We are none of us above suspicion, and I for one am glad of it. Only the most discerning and impartial mind shall discover the truth in this sad tangle.”

  “Well said.” He poured out a tankard of ale for himself and quaffed it deeply before replying. In the silence I could hear a slight noise in the passage beyond the parlour’s closed door, and wondered if Jacob Patter or his serving girl was lingering there, in respect of Sir James’s conversation.

  “Have you an idea where Mr. Hemming could have got to?” I enquired.

  The Justice shook his head. “I may say that I am most uneasy in my mind, that he should have neglected of his duty. Indeed, his conduct throughout this affair must lay him open to the most uncomfortable scrutiny; it is unlike anything I have witnessed in George Hemming before. He certainly does not serve Charles Danforth as I should like.”

  “Not at all! The gentleman seemed astonished at the tenor of the Coroner’s questioning, and that anyone in Bakewell should remain so in ignorance of the facts, or of his own peril, is in everyway remarkable.”

  “Except, perhaps, when his solicitor conspires to keep him so,” Sir James observed. “Though Danforth summoned Mr. Hemming to Penfolds yesterday, to my knowledge the solicitor did not appear; and so poor Charles went forward to the Inquest without the slightest sensation of danger.”

  “Mr. Hemming did not appear? But surely—” I stopped short, uncertain of what should be said. Might Mr. Hemming’s sudden disappearance creditably be laid to my own account? I had bullied the man unmercifully, and it seemed that he had fled.

  Sir James smiled grimly. “I could wish Mr. Danforth greater fortune in his movements that night; he possesses not a single person who may testify to his presence at the house, or about the fields. But still he may claim some friends. His housekeeper is surely one of these. Had Augusta Haskell not fainted dead away, we must have seen her master charged with murder.”

  “Given the direction of Mr. Tivey’s questions, the panel may be excused for believing no other course left open to them,” I agreed. “But what do you know of Mr. Danforth’s brother, Sir James? For he was also abroad that night. Is he a man to be trusted?”

  “As to that, I cannot presume to say whether any man is entirely to be trusted, Miss Austen. Andrew Danforth was certainly present at Chatsworth on Monday evening, however. He appeared at the house at six o’clock, and sat down to dinner at seven; the last course was cleared at half-past ten, and the ladies quitted the dining-room. The gentlemen rejoined them at a quarter to twelve, when the card tables were set out—”

  “What late hours these Whigs do keep, to be sure!” I murmured. It was the Austen habit to retire early; I was generally abed by ten o’clock.

  “—and the entire party broke up after supper, at approximately half-past one o’clock in the morning. Andrew Danforth cannot have reached his bed before half-past two, I should judge, in travelling at that hour; and by that time, it seems safe to say, the maid was already dead.”

  “You were prevented from saying it, however, by the sudden end of the Inquest,” I mused. “But perhaps it is just as well. I have long determined that an Inquest is no place for justice — it serves no greater purpose than to satisfy the local worthies that they may manage the affair themselves. Impartial judgement may only be won from impartial judges; and for them, we must look to the Assizes.”

  Sir James drew his chair somewhat closer to mine. “You referred Tuesday evening, Miss Austen, to a former intimacy with the investigation of murder. I must confess that I have not been so unfortunate. My experience of such tangles is … limited. I should dearly love to learn your opinion of this dreadful affair.”

  “My opinion, sir?” I returned with some surprise. “But I know nothing of the country or its inhabitants. I am acquainted neither with the victim, nor with the family that employed her. I cannot be allowed to have formed an opinion.”

  “From what little I know of your character and understanding, Miss Austen, I doubt very much that this is the case.” Sir James was studying my countenance over the rim of his tankard; the directness of his gaze brought the colour to my cheeks.

  “What can you mean, sir?”

  “Your understanding and good sense were recommended to me in the most fulsome terms last evening — and from a source that I should consider unimpeachable.”

  “Were they, indeed!” I could not suppress a stirring of curiosity. “You have been speaking again with my cousin, I perceive.”

  “Such events in your life as were then unfolded,” he continued without a yea or nay, “confirmed my good opinion of your penetration and firmness of mind — and determined me in my course of soliciting your aid in the present affair.”

  “Good God!” I cried. “What can my cousin have told you, Sir James? I fear that he has grossly exaggerated my talents, for some mischievous purpose of his own.”

  “Mr. Cooper would never presume to impart particulars so injurious to the reputation of a lady, and a lady so closely connected to himself,” Sir James said quietly. “In the present instance, indeed, he would not wish it known that you have been associated with past cases of murder. It might enflame the gossip already circulating about the town.”

  I coloured, doubted, and was silent.

  “The intelligence I received, Miss Austen, was from a very old acquaintance we hold in common. He is presently residing at Chatsworth, being an intimate of the Duke.”

  “Chatsworth!” I cried. “I must believe you to have been imposed upon, Sir James! For I know no one in Derbyshire.”

  At that moment, the rustling in the passage increased and the parlour door was thrust open. I turned, gazed, and rose immediately from my chair. A spare, tall figure, exquisitely dressed in the garb of a gentleman, was caught in a shaft of sunlight. He lifted his hat from his silver hair and bowed low over my hand.

  “It is a pleasure to see you again, Miss Austen. We have not met this age.”

  Nor had we. But I must confess that the gentleman had lately been much in my thoughts.

  “Lord Harold,” I replied a trifle unsteadily. “The honour is entirely mine.”

  A Way of Getting Sons

  All babes are male in the womb, and turn weak and female only through the humours of the Mother. Therefore, if a girl child be desired, the Lady must spend her time of increase in lying upon the Sopha, and drink only warmed milk with little egg in it. If a boy child be the object, then the Lady is advised to eat heartily of chopped beef and mutton boiled in Claret nearly every day. She must rise early, and spend her Mornings in healthful exercise, such as walking about the country or riding to hounds; her evenings should be principally spent among friends, with the diversion of dancing and conversation. At no time should she waste more than seven hours in sleep, for a male child will not require it.

  — From the Stillroom Book

  of Tess Arnold,

  Penfolds Hall, Derbyshire, 1802–1806

  Chapter 8

  A Period of Mourning

  28 August 1806, cont.

  THE APPEARANCE OF LORD HAROLD TROWBRIDGE HAS ever been a source of astonishment in my life, the sudden intercession of a breathless world, imperfectly understood. His taste for fashionable intrigue and clandestine statecraft, when allied with a character already prone to discretion, make him an elusive figure. Although an intimacy of sorts subsists between us — as much as any such condition may, when the lady is single and impoverished and the gentleman one of the most pursued partis on the marriage circuit — I never know when h
e is on the Continent or in Town; in danger of his life on behalf of the Crown, or dying of boredom at a country retreat. Ours is not the sort of footing that might encourage a voluminous correspondence. The exchange of letters between a lady of my station, and a gentleman of his, might suggest an improper liaison or a secret understanding. I have never enjoyed either in my association with Lord Harold.

  On the present occasion we met after a silence of above eight months, and the absence, on his part, of nearly a year. I had seen vague reports in the public journals of diplomatic sallies in the Baltic, and visits to the Prussian Court; I had snatched at rumours of romantic alliance with a certain Russian Princess, and the whiff of scandal in the Montalban chit’s elopement. I knew not what to credit, what to deny, what to approve, or what should give me pain.

  I cannot presume upon Lord Harold’s notice, or even look for the continuance of his friendship. But he is, without exception, the most intriguing member of my acquaintance; to move in his circle is to drink a kind of elixir, not necessary to the maintenance of life, but sparkling in its effect and invariably invigorating.

  Though my mother and sister disapprove Lord Harold’s influence, I consider my intimacy with the Gentleman Rogue to be a considerable honour, and one not lightly bestowed. On certain occasions, and in certain circumstances, I have known some part of Lord Harold’s confidence and his counsel — and in this, I understand myself to have been the keeper of his trust. Should he disappear from the face of the earth and persist in silence the better part of a decade, I should still meet his renewed attentions with cordiality.

  “I understand your mother and sister are also in Bakewell,” he said to me now, and I replied in the affirmative. “They are well?”

  “Perfectly well, I thank you.”

  “Despite the intrusion of a murderer in their midst?”

  “I do not think my mother has afforded the Arnold girl more than a quarter-hour of consideration,” I said drily, “and my sister, though greatly distressed by the reports she has heard, was spared all sight of the corpse. We must remember, Lord Harold, that it is August. The world’s concerns cannot be too deeply felt when the weather is fine.”

  This sally won the barest ghost of a smile. “What brings you into Derbyshire? I should have thought to find you in Kent, at Mr. Edward Austen’s estate, in such a season.”

  “My brother is from home at present,” I told him, “having taken a house at Ramsgate; but I may find it in my power to visit Godmersham again in the autumn. We intend a removal in October to Southampton, my lord.”

  “Southampton?” he repeated, with a slight frown; “I should not have thought your character any more suited to a watering place, Jane, than it has been to the dissipations of Bath. Of what is your mother thinking?”

  “Of economy,” I returned, “and of my brother, Captain Francis Austen, who makes his home our own. Southampton is but seventeen miles from Portsmouth, and the naval stores; wherever Frank’s duties may take him in the world, he shall always return to the Hampshire coast.”

  “I see.” Lord Harold declined Sir James’s offer of refreshment and drew forward a chair. “It was very wrong of me to speak as I did — the effect of surprise alone must explain it. But what brings you then to Bakewell? It is rather more northwards than Southampton, surely?”

  The Gentleman Rogue had never been given to idle chatter, and if I wondered at his distracted air, and his random pursuit of subject, I forbore from comment. I found his appearance to be remarkably ill. I had never seen him so obviously prey to an inner torment as he now appeared, and I experienced the most lively anxiety on his behalf. His beak of a nose looked sharper than ever, the skin being stretched tightly across the bone; his eyes were hollow, and I should judge that his rest had been disturbed for some nights past. Perhaps the affair of the Russian Countess — so vaguely alluded to, in the slyest of morning papers — had exacted a greater toll than I realised. Had there been a duel? A suicide? An illicit birth in a small town on the Continent? It seemed as though a great sickness or a desperate sorrow must gnaw at the man. Lord Harold looked all his eight-and-forty years at least.

  “We have been embarked on a journey of pleasure this summer,” I told him gently, “and being so near to the Peaks as my cousin’s home in Staffordshire, could not defer a glimpse of Derbyshire’s beauties.”

  “I rather imagine it is a chance you will forego next time it offers,” observed Sir James. “If Mr. Cooper is to be consulted, you should better have stayed at home.”

  “Tess Arnold would still be as dead,” I replied.

  Lord Harold said nothing. His grey eyes were fixed upon my face. In the usual way I would never have presumed to enquire as to his movements, but he was so little master of himself that the question sprang thoughtlessly to my lips. “And you, my lord? What brings you to Derbyshire?”

  His eyelids flickered. “A visit of condolence,” he said. “The heaviest I have ever been called upon to pay. You will have heard, naturally, of the Duchess’s death.”

  “The Duchess of Devonshire?”

  Lord Harold dropped his gaze to the pair of gloves he clutched tightly in his hands; and it was then that I troubled myself to notice that he was arrayed entirely in black. It had often been a habit of his — a kind of elegance of attire — but on the present occasion was accompanied by a total lack of adornment. He was plunged into the deepest mourning. Was this, then, the source of his trouble?

  The passing of Georgiana, Duchess of Devonshire, so recently as March, had been the sensation of the Season. Not only was she the most powerful hostess of the great Whig families, a lady who had presided over a veritable court to rival King George’s, but she had been the most fashionable figure of the past age, almost a queen in her own right. It was Georgiana and her circle at Devonshire House that Richard Brinsley Sheridan burlesqued in A School for Scandal, and it was Georgiana, not Queen Charlotte, whom the public followed in blind adoration. Her blond curls, her sweetness of temper, and her youth — she was a Duchess at seventeen — had recommended her to the multitude; and no gown was adopted, no style or habit worn, that Georgiana did not set. More than this, however, had been her ambition. Her intellect ranged beyond the frivolities of Fashion. Some two decades ago, in the Westminster election of 1784, she had discarded the reserve so usually associated with great ladies of her station and fortune, and had condescended to campaign on behalf of the Whigs’ political light, the Genius of the Rabble, the Monster of Richmond, Charles James Fox. It had been rumoured in broadsheets that the two were lovers; Her Grace had been everywhere reviled, for buying votes on the hustings in return for kisses; but Fox prevailed in his parliamentary contest, and went on to sustain a brilliant career. With the death of the Tory leader, William Pitt, this past January, Fox at last bid fair to win the post of Prime Minister for which he had apprenticed all his life — and he owed his ascendancy in no small part to the Duchess of Devonshire.

  When a liver ailment at last would claim her, huge crowds stood vigil with flaming torches before the gates of Devonshire House in London. The Prince of Wales paid a death-bed call. And the newspapers squandered oceans of ink for ensuing weeks, in eulogizing her fame.

  I had known, of course, of Georgiana’s death — much as I had known of Marie Antoinette’s, and with as little personal sensibility. Although my brother Henry and his little wife, Eliza, the Comtesse de Feuillide, may have attended her routs at Devonshire House, the Austens were not in general a Whiggish family. My mother regarded the great ducal families, and their determination to control their King, as a select form of heathenry — one that possessed more wealth and influence than any heathen ought. Georgiana was as remote from my world as might be the moon.

  But she had not been remote from Lord Harold’s. He was, after all, the son of a duke.

  “You were intimately acquainted, sir?”

  “From our infancy,” he replied. “I am Devonshire’s junior, of course — he is eight years older than his late wife �
� but with Georgiana I was always of an age.”

  “My deepest sympathy, my lord.”

  He shrugged slightly, as though from embarrassment at his own emotion. “The best-natured and best-bred woman in England is gone, Jane. There is nothing more to be said.”

  “Hear, hear,” murmured Sir James. I glanced at him, and found an unwonted gravity in his looks. It was to be expected, I suppose, that a baronet and a native of the country would be acquainted with the Cavendish family — he must often have been invited to dine at Chatsworth when the Duke was in residence.

  “Do you make a long stay in the neighbourhood?” I enquired.

  Lord Harold seemed to rouse himself from a brown study. “Unhappily, not so long as I could wish. Parliament is at present recessed, but when it sits again we shall have much to do, if Fox is to prevail. Napoleon’s victories in Austria have satisfied the Emperor’s appetite, for a time; but more of Europe, and its armies, and its resources, are in thrall to the Monster, and he has never been a man to let fall a weapon when he might rather use it. Worse is yet to come, and we must be prepared to meet the Empire with force on both land and sea. I am come to Chatsworth, Miss Austen, to consult with His Grace the Duke — for no one may move the Whigs as Devonshire, if only he will give himself the trouble.”

  I smiled faintly at Lord Harold. “You would do well to guard your tongue, my lord. You speak to a respectable Tory, who must declare with Pitt that the map of Europe had better be rolled up again, for we shall not be wanting it this decade or more. I will not listen to the schemes and stratagems of a Whig! And I rather wonder whether His Grace is in any condition to hear you? Is not the Duke at present prostrate with grief?”