“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 He had been replaced by a London physician, who could do nothing to save little Julia; after three weeks of worsening ills — of morphia drops and Tess’s draughts — the child gave way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?

Chapter 19

A Pleasure Party, Interrupted

Saturday

30 August 1806

THE SUN WAS HIGH BY THE TIME I APPEARED IN THE parlour, but as Mr. Davies only served breakfast at ten, I was able to scavenge some rolls and order a fresh pot of tea for my refreshment. Cassandra was seated over a book near the front window; Mr. Cooper had gone to pay a call of condolence upon George Hemming — a call that would undoubtedly involve the entire gaol in a good deal of singing — and my mother had walked out in the direction of the confectioner’s, intent upon procuring some little iced cakes for her dinner. After five days, she had grown tired of Bakewell pudding.

“You look rather pale this morning, Jane. Did you sleep well?”

“Well enough, Cassandra.” I raised one hand to my head and peered doubtfully at the harsh sunlight flooding the parlour. I would pay for the abuse to my eyes with a headache, and I was not careful. There could be no reading today.

“I hope you are not going to be indisposed,” she observed, “on the very day of Lady Harriot’s party.”

“Never! I shall be carried senseless into the dining parlour, if need be. All I require is a little breakfast.”

“And perhaps a change of scene,” she suggested. “You have spent a good deal of this visit to Derbyshire in racing over the countryside in Lord Harold’s company, and very little of it in mine! I feel myself outrageously neglected. Not to mention ill-used. The management of Mr. Cooper and my mother has been all my own, Jane, and I have not derived unalloyed pleasure from the task!”

The words were reproachful — but the tone was light-hearted; and I felt a welling of gratitude towards my sister, whose sacrifices were always borne with the best will in the world. I had hoped to spend a good part of the morning in perusing Tess Arnold’s stillroom book — but all such selfish notions should be put aside. I reached instead for Cassandra’s hand and squeezed it.

“I owe you a thousand apologies, my dearest. Such arrears in attention as I owe shall be totted up, with interest. Are you worn to a thread between the efforts of my mother and Mr. Cooper both?”

“Mr. Cooper — having accepted with ill grace the deferral of his departure until Monday at the earliest — has taken the notion that he must stand friend to Mr. George Hemming in his hour of need.” She snapped together the covers of her book and set it upon the table. “You may thank me for having begun the idea, Jane, with many hints and careful surmises as to the nature of a soul in darkest torment, and the obligations of Christian charity, and the conduct his noble patron, Sir George Mumps, might reasonably expect. Our cousin presently regards himself in the light of a saviour. I daresay, if Mr. Hemming is reduced to a pitiable jelly by the effects of Mr. Cooper’s plainsong, we may win another four-and-twenty hours.”

“Delightful creature!” I cried. “What plans of pleasure have you drawn up for the day?”

“My mother begins to tire easily,” Cassandra mused. “I do not think she will like to drive out, once her errand with the confectioner’s is done. She will spend the period before dinner quite comfortably, in reading her correspondence and writing letters. I think we may regard the day as ours, Jane — and I am perishing for a breath of air, and a glimpse of the hills!”

“Then you shall have them. The cost of a pony trap and driver should not exceed the combined weight of our purses, and Mr. Davies is most obliging in the provision of horses.” I pulled on the bell-rope to summon Sally. “I have two pounds, five shillings, and seven pence I may call my own; and I shall speak to the innkeeper directly. Where should you like to drive?”