"Jane and the Stillroom Maid" - читать интересную книгу автора (Barron Stephanie)

Chapter 18 A Natural History of Despair

29 August 1806, cont.

“AND DID YOU SPEAK TO THE STEWARD — MR. WICKHAM?” I enquired of Lord Harold as our hired curricle rolled away from Penfolds Hall.

“I did — though Mrs. Haskell would have it the man was indisposed, on account of his unhappy experience with the ruffians last night. I was obliged to expend full a quarter of an hour in attending to the lady’s history of that dreadful affair; I was treated to tears, convulsive fits, and a threatened swoon, at which I gallantly applied Mrs. Haskell’s vinaigrette with my own hands.”

I glanced at him sidelong. “And to what purpose, my lord?”

“Are you so mistrustful of gallantry, Jane? What possible cause can the male sex have given you, for so unbridled a cynicism?”

“I do not pretend to know anything of the general run of men.”

“Ah. Very well. Your mistrust is reserved for myself alone. Or perhaps it is applied universally to second sons? In either case — I commend your ruthless opinion. I managed to convey to Mrs. Haskell my infinite concern for her late difficulties — dropped a word or two as to the wild character of so many young women — the world of trouble devolving from the management of a great household — the sadness attendant upon the Danforth family—”

“And Mrs. Haskell poured out to you her soul.”

“The sum of the matter is this: She had long suspected the nature of Tess Arnold’s interest in her employer’s brother, and set a tenant’s child to the task of following the stillroom maid whenever she should have occasion to quit the Hall. This infant — being early schooled in extortion and deceit — so informed upon Tess Arnold, that Mrs. Haskell contrived to discover the girl Monday in a state of undress in an abandoned ice-house on the western boundary of the Penfolds property—”

“Playacting,” I murmured.

“—taking care, one imagines, to watch Mr. Andrew safely away before visiting her wrath. She claims that Tess denied the liaison—‘bold as brass,’ was Mrs. Haskell’s encomium — and so she dismissed the girl from service on the spot.”

“Tess Arnold was not admitted back into the house?”

“Not by Mrs. Haskell — or at least, not with her knowledge. She swears she never saw the girl again.”

Lord Harold did not need to inform me of how readily a way might be found into Penfolds Hall. I had entered it myself this morning, without the housekeeper’s being in the least aware. “So she could offer no notion, I collect, of how the maid came by Charles Danforth’s clothes that evening?”

“None whatsoever. She has interrogated most acutely the two maids who shared Tess’s garret quarters — and though either might be sworn to silence, or feel themselves allied with the dead maid against their superior, Mrs. Haskell believes they know nothing more than they have said. I gather she did not scruple to lay the rod against their backs — and what the rod does not reveal, is not worth our consideration.”

I shuddered. “And all this you learned in a mere quarter-hour? I should better have left Jennet Arnold in your care! Rather than dark hints and brooding surmises, you should already have won the name of Tess’s murderer! But what does Mr. Wickham say to such disorder? Did Mrs. Haskell overcome her scruples, and disturb the steward’s rest?”

“Upon learning that I was come direct from Chatsworth, ostensibly with instructions from Charles Danforth intended for Wickham’s ears alone, Mrs. Haskell let me to him. A most amiable fellow, and quite the gentleman. We had a good deal of conversation, while you mused on the nature of tansy and bergamot.”

“—Without recourse to fits and vinaigrettes?”

“Wickham did not swoon, I gather, even in the noose’s mouth. He reserves a just and noble rage for the men of Bakewell, who nearly had his neck last night; but knows nothing of stillroom maids and their schemes, profitable or amorous. He regards Charles Danforth as the most amiable of men; considers his recent history lamentable in the extreme, and deserving of pity rather than malice; and hopes that the appearance of a new mistress among the household might turn the tide of public sentiment in his master’s favour.”

I regarded Lord Harold steadily. “Is Mr. Wickham so close in his master’s confidence, as to speak the name of Lady Harriot?”

“A man cannot always be observing his fellows on horseback, riding over the fields to Chatsworth, without drawing the proper conclusion,” Lord Harold replied. His countenance preserved an admirable gravity. “I gather Wickham has been urging marriage on the mourning widower, though Lydia Danforth is but four months in the grave.”

“Curious,” I commented. “Did he give any reason for such haste?”

Lord Harold snapped the reins over the backs of our borrowed horses. “You never fail to amaze, my excellent Jane! A thousand women should have exclaimed at the indignity visited upon the dead lady, in thus driving her husband to the altar; a thousand more should have berated Mr. Wickham, or Mr. Danforth, as dishonourable and unfeeling brutes. You merely wish to know the reason why. Very well — I shall tell you. Or perhaps, I may say, I shall tell you why not.”

“Exclusion is the better part of reason, my lord.”

“I endeavoured to learn, with infinite discretion, whether Mr. Danforth is embarrassed in his circumstances, and requires a wealthy wife with a considerable fortune to save him — but Mr. Wickham assures me that, in addition to the comfortable rents of the Penfolds estate, Charles may depend upon his late wife’s income. Lydia Danforth, it seems, was the only child of a prosperous textile-mill owner, such as are prevalent in these Midland parts; and though her birth was inferior to her husband’s, she brought Charles Danforth no less than an hundred thousand pounds. Lydia possessed only a life-interest in the sum, however; by stipulation of her father’s will, the principal was to be settled upon her children. At her death — all such children having predeceased the lady — the wealth became Charles Danforth’s to command.”

“Good Lord!” I cried. “If ever there were a motive for murder, there is one! Had the maid and her mistress exchanged places, we might look no further for the cause! But though a man might often be blamed for his wife’s death in childbed, I have not heard it called murder.”

“Not in an English court of law, in any case,” his lordship replied. “But such a vast sum of money does give rise to speculation. Had the children not preceded their mother to the grave—”

“Had the babe not been stillborn, and carried his mother with him—”

“Then Charles Danforth should be a much poorer man.” Lord Harold tapped the squarish parcel that rested on the curricle seat between us. “What did you spirit away from Penfolds Hall, my dear Jane?”

“Tess Arnold’s stillroom book,” I replied. “In which she recorded the histories of each of her cases, the dates on which the poor sufferers sought her aid, and the remedies she availed them.”

“Compelling reading,” Lord Harold observed. “Do not neglect to study her account of the Danforth progeny. Precarious though childhood may be — and beset with every danger from contagion to accident — I cannot quite credit the parade of misfortune that has dogged Penfolds Hall. It strains the bounds of human belief, does it not?”

“But may be well within the bounds of human infamy,” I replied.

I WAS SET DOWN AT THE RUTLAND ARMS AT THREE o’clock. My sister and Mr. Cooper had walked out in the direction of All Saints Church — a difficult, though rewarding, climb up a considerable eminence in Bakewell — Mr. Cooper being most desirous of showing Cassandra the tombs in the Vernon transept, recommended to his notice by Sir James Villiers. My mother was dozing in her chair in the upstairs parlour given over to our comfort; but at my entrance, came to her senses with a start.

“And so Lord Harold has been carrying you off into the countryside, Jane,” she cried by way of greeting. “We are fortunate this outing did not end in a report of your death!”

“He is a most cautious and proficient handler of horseflesh, ma’am,” I replied.

“And yet murder and every sort of disgrace are forever nipping at that gentleman’s heels! He cannot be in the country, without a body being found under every hedgerow! It bears a most suspicious aspect, my dear; and if your father were alive, I am sure he would agree. I am sure Mr. Austen would forbid you that gentleman’s company, being most anxiously concerned for your health. He should certainly not wish you to enter a closed carriage. Any sort of mischief might ensue, in such company.”

“It was a curricle, ma’am,” I told her. “There can be nothing disgraceful in a summer airing, amidst the beauties of the Peaks.”

My mother looked darkly and said, “I suppose Lord Harold denies all part in that unfortunate maid’s end?”

“Naturally, ma’am — having learned of her existence only Tuesday, in company with ourselves.”

“You are far too artless, Jane! You ought not to believe everything you are told,” my mother returned. “It is necessary to give the appearance of belief when one is young, and in the world — anything else should be immodest in the extreme. The arch and knowing woman will drive off every eligible prospect that offers. But among your family, Jane, I hope you will always speak frankly.”

“You may be assured of that, dear ma’am. I have not the slightest doubt of Lord Harold’s being other than a murderer; and I cannot think that any ill should attach to my name, from being known to have driven out in his company, nor to have dined at his invitation at Chatsworth. I should rather be the object of envy from our entire acquaintance, and serve to raise our credit wherever we are known.”

“I have sent the grey silk to Sally for airing”—my mother sighed—“and have told Mr. Cooper that does he wish to quit this place for Staffordshire on the morrow, he must do so alone. You are not growing any younger, Jane — and against such an extremity as spinsterhood, a trifling affair of whooping cough must be accounted as nothing.”

After dinner, I settled myself beside a tallow candle with Tess Arnold’s stillroom book. The cooling air crept softly through the open casement, and all the horror of yesterday evening — the drunken shouting, the gathering of men like a bated storm — might never have happened. Had the Danforth brothers returned to Penfolds? I wondered. Or did they remain at Chatsworth, in respect of tomorrow’s dinner party? My heart quickened at the idea of being once more in the midst of that brilliant company. There should be much to enjoy — and much to observe. Purposefully, I opened the dead maid’s book.

Tess Arnold had been a most active stillroom maid, between the demands of her employers, their several children, and a house full of servants. It was a wonder that she could spare any time from her duties to attend to the ills of all and sundry in the Peaks — much less go playacting with Andrew Danforth; but spare the time, she had. A brisk trade in draughts and powders, steel pills and plasters was managed from the Penfolds still-room. Tess had turned a pretty penny.

This was the first mention I had found of Michael Tivey, though I assumed their association was an ancient one; nobody raised in so confined a society, with a mutual concern in curing the sick, could fail to learn of one another. I wondered at the surgeon seeking out a simple healer for his ills; but then recollected that he was supposed to be enamoured of the maid — and perhaps it was no uncommon thing to find a surgeon seeking the skills of another as apothecary. But surely there were apothecaries enough in Bakewell? So large a town — and so well patronised by a comfortable gentry roundabouts — must boast at least two or three.

The entries in the journal ran on through the years from 1802 until the summer of 1805, with just such a mixture of trifling incident and common ailments — here a case of the dropsy, there an attack of the rheumaticks; until August of 1805, when I noted an entry that must alert all my senses.

This was the first time I had noticed an entry regarding the intimates of Chatsworth, and I found it in every respect extraordinary. That Her Grace the Duchess — who could command the finest physicians in the land, and must employ a stillroom maid herself at Chatsworth — should attempt to find aid from the servant of a neighbour, confounded belief. Had Tess Arnold’s reputation for healing merited such sponsorship? Or had Lady Elizabeth, whose hand had carried the tincture to her bosom friend, gone far afield in search of discretion?

Here was one mystery solved at least; Lord Hartington had met Tess Arnold first under the guise of treatment.

“Will you not retire, Jane?” my mother enquired, breaking into my thoughts. “It has grown very late, and you shall strain your eyes, in reading by such a poor candle! They were never very strong in any case; and you must look your best tomorrow.”

“Coming, Mamma.” I pressed my fingers against my eyelids — they were, as my mother suspected, reddened and sore with reading — and flipped rapidly through the remainder of the autumn. Lord Hartington had contrived to visit Penfolds at least once each week. Sometimes the oyster liquor was applied; at others, warm almond oil to which spirits of juniper were added. A gap of over a month occurred in late November; presumably, his lordship had been absent in Town. One visit occurred in March of 1806—but by this period, more disturbing entries demanded my attention. I read through them once more.

A similar series of entries occurred in October and November. I read them with a gathering disquiet in my mind and a vice tightening around my heart.

That was all Tess Arnold had thought fit to record; the words told nothing of Lydia Danforth’s agony, or Charles Danforth’s despair; nothing of the other children left silent and bewildered with their nurse upstairs; nothing of the dreadful building of so small a coffin, or the pain of leaving it, solitary in the autumn cold, in the Danforth tomb. Tess Arnold had said very little, I reflected, regarding the nature of the little girl’s illness. Her pen was reserved for the remedies she had prescribed. But there had been others in attendance who might well know more. Dr. Bascomb of Buxton, for one.

I read on, as the hours of night fled away; I exchanged a guttering tallow candle for a fresh; I fought back weariness with the sick horror of one who cannot turn her eyes from disaster. The second eldest child — a girl of four named Julia — succumbed in February to a persistent fever and coughing; a wasting disease not unlike consumption, but far swifter in its effect. Dr. Bascomb, I observed, was not in attendance. He had been replaced by a London physician, who could do nothing to save little Julia; after three weeks of worsening ills — of morphia drops and Tess’s draughts — the child gave way to a violent sickness in her bowels, much as Miss Emma had done.

I set aside the book at half-past two in the morning, unable to read any more — or to face the minutiae of small John d’Arcy’s end. I understood, now, why the people of Bakewell wished Lydia Danforth at peace. Her final months on earth had proved a living hell. And how had Charles Danforth sustained his soul through such an onslaught of unspeakable misery? How could he not have thrown himself into the earth, that day in May when Lydia died, along with all his family? His survival beggared belief.

And with that final thought I stopped short on the threshold of my bedchamber, staring mutely into the darkness. How long would Charles Danforth have continued in health, had Tess Arnold remained alive?