Sunday travel, the horror of every person who professed to keep the Sabbath — and an opportunity, did we force my cousin to it, for an unremitting martyrdom of hymn singing. “Certainly not,” I replied. “We might perfectly quit this place on Monday. Have you communicated your intentions, Cousin, to Sir James?”

Mr. Cooper slapped his wife’s missive down upon the table. “I have no opinion of Sir James Villiers. He does not deserve such attention. I am certain that he has led the people of this despicable hamlet to believe the very worst sort of nonsense. In moving through the streets today, Cousin, I felt as though an hundred eyes were upon me, and the most malicious falsehoods whispered in my train.”

“Indeed, Mr. Cooper, I am sure you take too much upon yourself. The unsettled nature of events has given rise to unnatural fears. You must endeavour to calm yourself, and consider where your duty lies.”

“My duty! My duty!” Mr. Cooper’s countenance was purple with rage. “Let us better consider of Sir James’s duty, Jane! Any person of sound understanding would counsel the Justice to lay that villain Charles Danforth directly by the heels! If Sir James does not effect it soon, the local folk will achieve justice in his stead!”

“Of what are you speaking, Mr. Cooper?” My entire body felt suddenly cold, although the heat had not yet faded from the day.

“Of that cursed and misbegotten soul,” my cousin retorted, “the maid’s employer! It was Danforth’s clothes she wore at the moment of her death; and he is everywhere acknowledged as a Freemason, and an excellent shot. Clearly he was sent to destroy the girl when she would have published the dark secrets of the Masons’ lodge!”

“Good Heaven, Edward, do you truly believe such rank nonsense? What would your noble patron, Sir George Mumps, say if he did hear you? He should reconsider his pressing invitation to join the Staffordshire lodge!”

My cousin faltered an instant, then summoned energy for a final retort. “Charles Danforth has the mark of the Devil upon him, Jane, and he shall be strung up on a tree before the night is out. There are the torches in evidence!”

I looked through the windowpane at Mr. Cooper’s direction. A grim band of local men was assembled at the head of Matlock Street. There were thirty of them at least, some mounted and some on foot, with burning staffs raised high. At their head was Michael Tivey, the coroner and surgeon; and it was clear from all aspects they meant nothing but mischief.

“Are they bound for Penfolds Hall?” I enquired in a breathless accent.

“As soon as darkness will descend.” Even my cousin had left off his bluster, at the sight of the milling men.

“Then someone,” I said with decision, “had better send word to Chatsworth. The Danforths are from home tonight, and would not wish their house burnt down in their absence.”

“But it is none of our affair!” my cousin cried. “We are strangers to Bakewell and everyone in it. If these vicious fellows would string one of their company from the nearest tree, then I for one shall not risk my neck to stop them.”

“And is this the issue of a day spent humbly on your knees, Cousin?” I enquired with scorn. “You had better have devoted the hours to your fishing rod. If you do not chuse to sound the alarm, when all of Bakewell must know what these ruffians are about, then I shall do so.”

“I beg you will not,” snapped Mr. Cooper, now white-faced. “You will bring the whole town in arms to the inn, and then who shall save us all? Charles Danforth is entirely unknown to us, and very likely a murderer. He can be nothing to you.”

“Nothing, sir, but a fellow creature and a gentleman,” I cried. “If Mr. Danforth is a murderer, let an English court pronounce him so! Come, come, Mr. Cooper! Do you think that rabble below has any notion of justice? They are moved solely by superstition and the most appalling ignorance. I despise that sort of public tyranny!”

My cousin had the grace to look somewhat ashamed. My sister Cassandra, who had overheard the whole, turned her gaze intently from one to the other of us, her troubled countenance betraying her dismay at family discord. I am always firm, however, when I know myself to be in the right. I reached for the inn’s supply of paper and searched among my things for a well-trimmed pen.

“Rough justice made a mockery of peace in France,” I told Mr. Cooper. “I shall not stand idly by while it has its way with England, sir!”

28 August 1806, cont.

SALLY, OUR PARLOUR-MAID, WAS DEEMED WORTHY OF bearing secrets; and so she was summoned, and requested to despatch two missives, hastily penned and sealed up with wax. The first bore the name of Lord Harold Trowbridge; he should know better than anyone how to convey the news of a hanging party to the Danforth brothers, without alarming the Duke’s entire household. I did not feel secure in communicating directly with Charles Danforth — did the bearer read his name upon the letter, even one despatched to Chatsworth, Mr. Danforth might never receive it.

The second letter was directed to Sir James Villiers, at his ancestral home near Monyash. If violent men were abroad in Derbyshire at night, the local Justice was the most proper person to rout them; but I chafed at the delay necessitated by so indirect an approach. Could I have sent immediately to Penfolds Hall, and warned the steward, I should have done so; but the likelihood of a messenger’s being prevented from travelling the same road as the men he hoped to forestall, argued against that course of action.

Sally solemnly assured us that she would see the letters into the hands of her male relations, who might be trusted to carry them safely through the dusk. I pressed three coins into her palm, and offered fervent thanks; and so, with a wide-eyed impression of her own importance, Sally ventured forth on an errand whose nature remained obscure to her. Those of us privileged to know the evil that men may do, were forced to wait in painful suspense, while the darkness gathered and the company of ruffians increased in the streets below.

“I fear there is a poisonous quantity of gin in circulation,” observed my mother resignedly. “They will all be wanting coddled eggs in the morning.”

THE TORCHES MADE THEIR WAY OUT OF BAKEWELL along the road I had last travelled in Mr. George Hemming’s pony trap, towards Ashford-in-the-Water and Miller’s Dale and the small town of Tideswell just beyond, where Penfolds Hall was said to be situated. It was a considerable distance for such a party, a fact that Mr. Tivey the surgeon must have anticipated — for several drays and waggons were pressed into service, and those without mounts of their own obliged to crouch in the springless bottoms of their fellows’ equipages. I watched them quit Matlock Street in silence, for Mr. Cooper had abandoned his post by the window and was now established over his writing desk. My mother and Cassandra had gone to bed. I was considering of a sleepless night myself, when a small tap came at the parlour door, and Sally peered into the room.