Jane and the Stillroom Maid (15 page)

“Observe the river,” Lord Harold commanded. “The course of it has been altered, and swelled into greater, but without any artificial appearance. This stone bridge”—as the horses’ hooves clattered across it—“was also built in the last Duke’s time.”

“I have never seen a place for which nature has done more, or where natural beauty has been so little counteracted by an awkward taste.” In this, I might hope to judge Chatsworth entirely without prejudice, as Lord Harold had preferred; my whole heart was filled with delight at its beauty, and at everything that proclaimed the elegance of its owner.

“You detect the hand of Capability Brown,” Lord Harold replied. “There was no man for designing a park quite like him.”

Sheep scattered at the curricle’s approach; the splendid façade of the house drew near, with its masses of windows, its central pediment blazing with the Devonshire arms, its ornate pilasters and casement stonework—and above all, surmounting the broad, flat roof, a parade of urns and statues from antique climes. It was a picture of elegance and taste that rivalled everything I had ever seen; and to think that I should enter through the great portals of Chatsworth, and attempt to pass myself off with credit, must strike terror to the very bone.

The curricle pulled up—a waiting footman stepped forward—and I was handed down to the sweep before the massive divided stair that led to the very door.

“Thank you, Dawson,” Lord Harold said absently to the coachman; and offered me his arm.

28 August 1806, cont.
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A
FOOTMAN IN SKY BLUE AND BUFF LIVERY LED US
from the West Entrance through an open colonnade, to a great hall with a painted ceiling and branching twin staircases.
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I should have liked, at that moment, to be a stranger even to Lord Harold—a mere pleasure-seeker escorted by the Chatsworth housekeeper, who might be expected to stare boldly upwards at the vivid frescoes. A multitude of classical figures—in the usual state of undress—reclined on a swirling bed of painted clouds, without taking the slightest notice of my existence far below: a metaphor, one might say, for the entire Whig view of Society.

“You shall gaze upon Caesar until you are sick of him, my dear Jane,” murmured Lord Harold at my ear, “once you have been properly introduced. The State Apartments, too, are not to be missed; but they are well above, on the second floor. Pray attend to the footman!”

I tore my eyes from the Painted Hall and hurried resolutely after the servant. He led us through a passage to the rear of the great house and from thence to a stone terrace. Beyond it lay a sweep of lawn, more verdant and inviting even than the formal parterres that lay to the east of the building; and there, like the Muses themselves, were arranged the figures of three ladies.

“Uncle! And my dear Miss Austen! It has been an
age!”

It was the Countess of Swithin who first distinguished me, as should be only natural—rising from her chair beneath a spreading oak, where she had been disposed with an easel and crayons, intent upon capturing the scene. Lord Harold drew me forward across the flags, up a short flight of steps to the lawn, past several flower beds, where some late blooms were charmingly grouped among the lavender—and bowed low upon achieving the ladies.

“I dared not dream that Uncle would prevail upon you to pay a call today,” said Lady Swithin. “It is very good of you, and far more than we deserve, after all that you have been through. You must be utterly fagged!”

Lord Harold’s niece was considerably altered since I had last seen her—for two years, in the life of such a young lady, must make a distinct change. Her countenance was less open, less touched by innocence, but still as glowing; her figure, though full with the burden of her approaching child, yet managed a youthful grace. Her hair was as golden, and her gown as before the fashion, as ever they had been; but where once her attire had possessed the simplicity of youth, there was
now an elegance and refinement due entirely to her familiarity with the Great. I was pleased to detect no sign of weariness or sorrow about the eyes, no suggestion of a private pain. The Earl of Swithin was always a difficult companion, and the love that united him to Desdemona of a jealous and fitful kind; but it appeared that the two had learned to suit, and that no spectre of unhappiness could dog their union.

Two other ladies were seated near the Countess, on chairs set out upon the lawn. One was fast approaching middle age, and wore the decent but unadorned dark grey cambric of a lesser relation or superior domestic; the other was a strong-boned, fresh-faced, alert young woman of middle height, with a figure fully-formed, and a wild cascade of gingery curls about her nape.

How shall I relate my first impression of Lady Harriot Cavendish, second child of the Duke of Devonshire? She is not a beauty by any means, but her face has a certain intelligent distinction; it shall be called “handsome” with time, and her character will stamp it. The nose is a defiant blade, the chin square and stubborn; her round eyes and full lips, I later learned, she received from the Cavendish side of the family, but her temperament is entirely Spencer.
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I should judge her to be of an age with the Countess of Swithin, but being yet a dependant in her father’s home, she wants Lady Desdemona’s easy assurance. Her countenance, too, is bereft of Mona’s happy glow; she is altogether a more subdued and reflective companion than I should look to find at the Countess’s side.

Lady Harriot’s gown was of sheer grey Alençon lace, over a dark grey underskirt; it was trimmed in white soutache, which offered some relief from the austerity of mourning. But the languor of grief clung about her still—she moved with the weariness of a spent child.

Lord Harold drew me forward. “Lady Harriot, may I have the honour of introducing Miss Jane Austen to your acquaintance? Lady Harriot Cavendish.”

The Duke’s daughter closed the volume she had been reading and nodded austerely. Those round eyes, deeply shadowed, swept the length of my person. “Welcome to Chatsworth, Miss Austen. You find us in a melancholy state, I own, but we are glad you are come to lighten it.”

“You have my deepest sympathy, Lady Harriot, and my gratitude for allowing this trespass upon your kindness at such a time.” I curtseyed deeply.

Lady Harriot made an impatient little movement—a plucking with one hand at the lace of her gown—and then recovered her countenance. If she had heard my words, she had already dismissed them as a commonplace—the muttered decencies of the Polite World—and accorded them no other significance beyond an irritant. I had not known her mother; I could not possibly comprehend what Georgiana Duchess, nor her passing, had meant in this household, and every attempt at condolence must be regarded as the grossest impertinence. I wondered if Harriot Cavendish was often prone to dismiss the goodwill of others. Her life must be full of sycophants and toad-eaters.

“May I introduce Miss Trimmer to your acquaintance?” Lord Harold directed my steps towards the creature in grey cambric and inclined his head with a certain fond deference. “Miss Jane Austen—Miss Selina Trimmer. Miss Trimmer has been Lady Harriot’s governess from her earliest years, and now serves by way of companion.”

“It is a pleasure,” Miss Trimmer said, with a nod of her head. “Any friend of our excellent Lord Harold must always find a welcome at Chatsworth.”

“Do you make a long visit in the neighbourhood, Miss Austen?” enquired the Countess of Swithin. “Do say that you intend a few weeks, at the very least!”

“I fear it is beyond my power to name the length of
my stay, Lady Swithin,” I replied with a smile, “since I remain at the pleasure of my cousin Mr. Cooper, who was so good as to bring me into Derbyshire.”

“I do not know that name,” Lady Harriot observed with a frown. “Is he a gentleman of Bakewell? I do not believe that we have ever met.”

“Mr. Cooper is a clergyman, Lady Harriot, with a living in Staffordshire, and I fear his interest in this county does not extend beyond its trout streams! I have seen very little else, I assure you, during the three days I have spent at Bakewell.”

“Then you must remain another week complete,” Desdemona said warmly, “and allow us to show you the wonders of Derbyshire. There are said to be at least seven, are there not, Uncle?”

“Only by the county’s detractors, Mona. I could name an hundred, and never tire of discovering more.”

“There is Cresswell Crag, and the Heights of Abraham,” she began, numbering them upon her fingers, “and the Nine Ladies—they are monstrous great stones, Jane, rather like to the Henge—and the Blue John Cavern! Have you ever descended into the depths of the earth, and seen stone carved by nature into the semblance of a cathedral?”

“I confess that I have not.”

Lady Swithin clapped her hands. “Then we shall make up a party and spend the day. You must and shall see the Blue John!”
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“If your cousin is an angler, Miss Austen,” Lady Harriot interposed, “then you may assure him that the very best streams are on the Chatsworth estate. Mr. Cooper must come one day and fish with the other gentlemen, before he quits the neighbourhood.”

“You are very good, my lady,” I replied, “but I fear Mr. Cooper is lately surfeited with trout streams. I do not think he will be fishing very much in future. Miller’s Dale has put paid to his passion.”

She gazed at me in some little puzzlement, then said, “Why, of course! You are the lady who stumbled over the dead maidservant!”

“If Miss Austen
was
so unfortunate, Hary-O,” said Miss Trimmer briskly, “I cannot think she would wish to be reminded of it.”

The governess’s words barely checked her former charge. “Mona informed us of it only yesterday! An extraordinary business, was it not?”

“Extraordinary,” I murmured in assent, though there were many other words I might have chosen to describe Tess Arnold’s end.

“I cannot remember the like in all my days in Derbyshire! And the Inquest was held this morning, I believe. Did the panel put a name to the murderer?”

“Unhappily, they could not. The Inquest was adjourned.”

“I cannot recall that I ever encountered that maid,” Lady Harriot mused, “though I have often been at Penfolds Hall.”

“Have you, indeed?” I enquired, with a quickening of interest.

“Of course. A tie of the deepest respect subsists between Chatsworth and the Danforth family. Its basis is nearly two hundred years old. I feel this … misfortune of theirs … quite deeply.”

“I understand that they have suffered much in recent months.”

Her head came swiftly round, and she studied me acutely. “Have you been listening, then, to gossip in the streets of Bakewell, Miss Austen? I would not credit everything you hear. More superstition is bred in those stone cottages than miners’ whelps, and ignorance is
the commonest form of barter. We trade in everything but charity, in these wretched hills.”

Startled, I glanced at Lord Harold. For a lady nearly ten years my junior, the Duke’s daughter had a tongue swift as a viper’s. I must be on my guard in future, did I hope to pry any secrets from Chatsworth’s walls.

“It was Sir James Villiers who first repeated something of the Danforths’ history,” I replied.

“Mr. Charles Danforth but lately lost his wife—having lost, in turn, the four children she had borne,” Lady Harriot informed me. “First little Emma was taken, in the midst of a virulent fever, when she was but five years old. That would be last November. She was a beautiful child—very pretty in her ways.”

Lady Harriot rose restlessly from her chair and began to pace about the lawn, her eyes fixed upon the grass and her tone growing ever more strident. “Then Julia died suddenly in February, of acute gastric attacks. Mr. Danforth was from home at the time—and the illness came on suddenly. My father called a physician from London, and sent the man express at his own expense. Everything was done for her—purges, draughts, bloodletting.” Lady Harriot shook her head. “Nothing could save the child.