And, of course, the stillroom that had been Tess Arnold’s particular province.

Jennet peered over my shoulder towards the far end of the corridor. The clatter of pots and the shrill voices of several women suggested that beyond lay the kitchen.

“… a quantity of ash for the soap-making, and now’s all spoilt fra’ the rain. If another of they teacups goes missing, Sarah, ah’ll have it fra’ tha wages …”

The maid grasped my arm, and pulled me quickly through a doorway.

It was a surprisingly small space for the size of the household — a room perhaps twelve feet by ten, lined with shelves and marble counters. Jars of preserved vegetables and fruits, of jams and cordials and candied peel, winked brilliantly from those shelves with all the enticement of a jeweller’s cases. A large sink stood under a window, and an iron stove beside it; a scarred oak table ran the length of the stone floor, with fragrant bunches of herbs depending from the ceiling overhead. One hard wooden chair was tucked into a corner, perpetually unused from its neglected air; and a remarkable cabinet — at least as tall as myself, and filled with rank upon rank of square, iron-bound drawers — dominated the wall opposite to the door. Labels, penned in neat script, had been affixed to each shelf and each drawer of the cabinet. I crossed to where it stood, and peered at several. Betony. Myrrh. Elixir of Roses—

“Here it be,” Jennet said, and handed me Tess Arnold’s stillroom book.

I held in my hands a quarto-sized ledger, bound serviceably in linen; most of the pages had already been cut.[11] She had kept her records in the same neat script as her labels, rather more crabbed due to the dearness of paper and a native economy. I turned the initial pages with care, and observed that the dates commenced in 1802.

“I thought your sister entered into service at the age of twelve,” I remarked to Jennet. “This ledger encompasses only the past four years. Are there earlier volumes?”

She shook her head. “Tess only learnt her letters when she were seventeen. That’s when the Mistress coom to Penfolds, and set up her school.”

“The late Mrs. Danforth?”

“Aye. Full o’ ideas she were, ‘bout us and our letters. Those as wanted to learn, might. Our Tess was up until all hours, most nights, working on her copybook. She had the sharin’ of it with two others, and didn’t get the time of it she should; but happen she were quicker’n most.”

“I see. And so she commenced this ledger four years ago — when she would have been about twenty.”

“Our Tess knew the remedies Mam taught her by heart,” Jennet said frankly, “but she reckoned it’d save a good deal o’ trouble if they was writ down. So she asked the Mistress for this book, next time Master went to Derby; and the Mistress were happy to give it. The Mistress set a good deal o’ store by our Tess and her healing ways.”

“Did she, indeed?”

“T’were Tess got her the boy,” Jennet said frankly.

“The boy?” I repeated.

“Little John d’Arcy. Him what died last spring. No more’n two he were, and a fine, strong lad afore the convulsives got ’im. Apple of Master’s eye.”

Charles Danforth must be called the Master now, though she had spoken of him so bitterly in the hills above Miller’s Dale. The boundaries of Jennet Arnold’s world, I thought, must be contiguous with the extent of Danforth’s fields.

“Your mistress bore a son because of Tess’s remedies?”

“‘Fore that, Mistress only had girls — two what miscarried, and two what lived. Fond as he was of ’em, Miss Emma and Miss Julia did the Master no good at’ all.”

“I see.” Simples and excessive faith had produced the coveted heir; illness and misfortune had claimed him again, and his stillborn brother. Perhaps Lydia Danforth had meddled too much in the ways of Providence.

I opened the heavy volume and began to leaf through its pages. “If the boy was but two when he died, the entry you speak of should be somewhere in 1803. And so it is—‘Remedy against miscarriage’ and one for conceiving a boy.”

“Mistress always were prone to losin’ her babes afore they time.”

“Indeed.” I scanned Tess’s narrow lines. “And when the children fell ill?”

“Tess did ’er best,” Jennet retorted sullenly. “T’weren’t her fault they died. T’were the fault of they London doctors, what the Master called in. Tess weren’t good enough for him, though the Mistress set such store by ’er. And the little’uns died apace, for all they cuppings and bleedings and fancy draughts. How Tess did laugh at they great pompous oafs fra’ Buxton and London!”

I stared at Jennet, a creeping horror in my throat impeding all speech. The children of her fond mistress had died in pain and suffering — and Tess Arnold had laughed.

A scream from the stillroom doorway brought both our heads around. Mrs. Haskell stood there, her face as white as a sheet, and her eyes fixed upon my companion’s face.

“Thought I’d seen a ghost,” the housekeeper said faintly, “but it’s Tha’, Jennet Arnold, coom back like a bad penny. I thought I’d forbid Tha’ the house! Tha’ set that Michael Tivey on us all, and lucky we were not to be murdered in our beds! Shift thysel’, girl — there’s visitors coom—”

“Good morning,” I said, stepping into the housekeeper’s line of vision. “You must be Mrs. Haskell. I am Miss Jane Austen. I believe my friend Lord Harold Trowbridge has arrived in search of me?”

“Lord Harold? In search of Tha’?” The good woman looked bewildered, as well she might. “And ‘ow did the lady come to be ’ere, wi’out my knowing of it?”

“I confess I encountered this young woman in the grounds. I had walked some distance in the heat of the day, and felt a faintness coming on. She was so kind as to offer a glass of angelica water. Most refreshing!”

“Oh, aye.” The housekeeper eyed Jennet balefully. “What right the girl has to do the honours of the house, I’d like to know—”

“Lady Harriot Cavendish sends her best respects, Mrs. Haskell, and begs that you might extend to her the Penfolds receipt for quince preserve?”

“Preserve?”

“Ah’ve been searchin’ it out fer her,” Jennet said, “froom our Tess’s book.”

At the sound of the maid’s voice, Mrs. Haskell’s eyes sought her face, then shifted uneasily away. The fear and dislike that had dogged the housekeeper at the Inquest was not entirely fled. Mrs. Haskell crossed the stillroom swiftly and snatched the quarto volume from Jennet’s hands.

“Take it to Lady Harriot an’ welcome — and ajar o’ the preserve by way of a present,” she said hurriedly.

“You are too good,” I returned, with an inward exulting. Now I might peruse the stillroom book at my leisure.

“Did’na tell Tha’ to be off?” the housekeeper snapped furiously at Jennet.

“But—”

“Mr. Wickham!” Augusta Haskell screamed at the top of her lungs. “The constables, if you please!”

Jennet looked scathingly at Mrs. Haskell, and began muttering under her breath; the housekeeper stepped backwards, and made the sign against the evil eye. With a slight smile of scorn, Jennet turned for the door; to myself, she said not another word.

“T’were a black day for Derbyshire when that family crawled out of the hills,” Mrs. Haskell whispered. “I don’t say no word against Old Arnold, mind — him what’s done fer garden afore I were born — but I don’t have to tell the miss what that Tess was. Out for all she could get, and no better than she should be.”

“My dear Miss Austen,” observed Lord Harold placidly from the doorway. “I thought I heard you scream.”

“How very kind of you to come to my aid! I was merely remarking upon the excellence of the Penfolds cordials.” I reached for a clear glass bottle filled with a liquid like clouded brandy. “Angelica water, Lord Harold — most refreshing on such a heated day. I am sure it will do you a world of good.”