“Held on’t the horse’s reins, any road,” he muttered proudly.

“You did quite well, my dear sir. We were both quite thankful to have you at the fore,” Cassandra gasped.

“I should recommend aiming for some other part of the anatomy than the head, however,” I counseled. “Even in the case of defence against highwaymen, a judge may not look kindly upon outright murder.”

“’Tisn’t murder, when the gun fires wild,” Nate returned indignantly. “There was nivver a chance of it. But yon fellah’s done for hisself, by the look o’ things.”

“He is certainly suffering from a nasty blow to the skull,” I observed, “if not a broken neck.”

“I’d best fetch a bit rope and tie ’im into the trap. Justice’ll be wantin’ to see him.”

“I suppose there’s no other course open to us” — Cassandra sighed — “but I had hoped for the standing-stones, Jane. And consider of that lovely hamper! I’m positively famished!”

Chapter 20

The Fate of Chamber Pots

30 August 1806, cont.

WITH A MISCREANT INSENSIBLE AT OUR FEET AND THE picnic hamper perched upon our laps, we achieved Bakewell in less than two-thirds of the period required for quitting it. Perhaps twenty minutes into our journey, a series of groans could be heard emanating from the pony trap’s floor; the highwayman was once more in the land of the living, and by the sound of his mournful tones, regretting the privilege. He was too securely bound to occasion alarm; I resisted the impulse to set my feet upon his head; but with such music in our ears, neither Cassandra nor I could summon the energy for conversation. The remainder of our pleasure drive was spent in the grimmest silence, while the beauties of Derbyshire passed away unnoticed.

Nate drove straight through the town from the Baslow road and made directly for the constables’ watchhouse, where our burden was deposited amidst cries of wonder and consternation; the watchmen could no more recognise the fellow, when deprived of his India cotton scarf, than Nate had been able to do. Cassandra insisted at this juncture upon walking the last few hundred yards to the head of Matlock Street, where all the comfort and sustenance of The Rutland Arms awaited; we left the picnic hamper to Nate’s attention, and thanked him profusely that we had not come to greater harm.

“And I shall send immediately for Sir James Villiers,” I informed the constable, “with the instruction that he must seek you out, and question narrowly this fellow in your keeping; do be certain to keep him close, and watch him well, for he seems to me the slipperiest of brigands.”

The highwayman positively swelled with pride at this encomium, and the constables looked all their confidence; I left the whole party in rousing good spirits, and determined to enjoy themselves.

“What did that ruffian mean,” Cassandra enquired at last, “when he spoke of a book you had taken from Penfolds Hall, Jane? I had not known that you found occasion to visit the place.”

“I presume the fellow would mean the stillroom book belonging to the murdered maid,” I replied. “Her sister placed it in my keeping only yesterday.” Her sister. If the masked highwayman had known to follow me from Bakewell, as I must presume he had done, then Jennet Arnold must have set him on me. Whether she had done so with the intent to harm remained open to question. At the very least, she had been pressed for her knowledge; but who could wish to secure the still-room book so desperately, that he should send out a man with a pistol in broad daylight? The highwayman himself — or one who employed him?

One lesson, however, I had learned: The stillroom book must be secured against theft or injury, if I had to carry it myself to Chatsworth that evening in a reticule the size of a carter’s dray.

“MY DEAR CASSANDRA! — JANE! THE OUTRAGE THAT has occurred in your absence!”

My mother cried these words as we appeared on the parlour threshold, and immediately sank back into her chair, a square of lawn pressed to her eyes. Sally bent most anxiously over her, waving a vinaigrette, while Lord Harold Trowbridge himself appeared to be occupied chiefly in collecting shards of pottery from the parlour floor. My cousin Mr. Cooper was singing. The volume of sound in that small place was sufficient to drive out every other thought.

Cassandra set down her sunshade — which alone she had retrieved from Nate’s trap, the rest of our things being intended to arrive with the driver — and untied her bonnet strings. “My dear mother, have you suffered on our account? Has some news of our mishap travelled already to your ears? But we are perfectly well, I assure you — neither Jane nor I regard the indignity as being in the least out of the ordinary way.”

“Not out of the ordinary way?” my mother cried, with a wild look. “Such spasms in my side — such palpitations of my heart — when a respectable woman is robbed in her own rooms, in a decent inn managed by worthy people? I should call it very much out of the way!”

“Robbed?” Cassandra pressed her fingers against her ears, as though to ward off the bellowing chorus from Mr. Cooper, and glanced anxiously at me.

“Lord Harold,” I called out, “I had not looked for the honour of this visit. Would you be so good as to tell us who has been robbed?”

“Michael Tivey,” he replied, “and of the better part of his reason.”

“Michael Tivey! The surgeon?”

“I fancy he appeared more in the role of blacksmith this morning. But yes. The same Michael Tivey.” Lord Harold stood up and carried the shards of crockery over to the parlour table. The devoted Sally — whom my mother had waved peremptorily away at the first sight of her daughters — set down the vinaigrette and commenced loading a kitchen tray with smashed earthenware.

“It is the chamber pot, Jane,” Cassandra murmured with twitching lips. “We seem destined to destroy them all.”

“Mrs. Austen has been troubled this morning by an unwelcome visitor,” Lord Harold explained. He crossed to the corner near the parlour window, where my cousin still stood, drawing breath for a fourth verse, and seized him by the arm. “My good fellow — if you do not leave off that dreadful noise at once, I shall be forced to call you out; and though it has been my habit, in affairs of honour, never to aim for the heart — in your case, my dear sir, I should be sorely tempted.”

Mr. Cooper paused, his mouth agape; allowed an expression of mortification and sheer terror to fill his countenance; and then exited the parlour without another refrain.

“I have affronted him,” Lord Harold observed. “That is very well. Nothing so becomes a man as a sensation of injured pride. He will set himself to drafting letters to my direction; he will consider the naming of seconds; and when Mr. Cooper comes to realise that the only possible second remaining to him is presently residing in Bakewell gaol, and thus beyond all power of a dawn meeting — he will drown his injury in a quantity of hock. A far preferable recourse than pistols for any self-respecting clergyman.” Lord Harold dusted a few fragments of pottery from his fingers and raised an eyebrow in Cassandra’s direction.

My sister choked on what might have been a laugh.

“Does no one spare a thought for me?” my mother exclaimed indignantly.