“Mr. Hemming is at liberty?”

“He is — and will soon leave the district with the intention of seeking a holiday. I am sure he will have returned for the Derby Assizes, however.”

Where Andrew Danforth should be tried for the murders of Tess Arnold and Charles Danforth. I could no longer consider the latter his brother; for indeed, they had not the slightest particle of blood in common.

Sir James peered at me narrowly. “I cannot entirely reconcile George Hemming’s willingness to shoulder Andrew Danforth’s guilt. Such dedication in a solicitor for one of his clients is beyond the bounds of my experience.”

“But you may have known a similar loyalty in a father for his son,” I observed gently. “Mr. Hemming’s feeling for Andrew Danforth, I should judge, was just that strong in degree and kind.”

“I see,” Sir James returned thoughtfully. From the rapid change in his countenance, I discerned that he would consider new sources of information, that must invert the nature of the problem. But no word of that lovely old miniature, borne by both father and son, did I offer. Andrew Danforth might have sacrificed every consideration of civility, by his vicious conduct; but George Hemming yet deserved my protection and silence. I suspected that he had paid already for his indiscretions, in years of blackmail to Betty Arnold, who had known the truth of Andrew’s origins. Her daughter Tess had undoubtedly shared them with Andrew himself — and in fear that his illegitimacy should be proclaimed, and his eventual right to inherit Penfolds disputed, he had been moved to murder.

George Hemming would continue to pay for that single great love, that rash act of youth, until he found his own grave; I had no wish to add to his burdens by publishing his past before all of Bakewell. I had already won Hemming’s enmity, by stilling the hand of the executioner and placing the noose around his son’s neck. Far from expressing gratitude at his deliverance, and a proper sense of respect for the working of justice, he had taken no leave of the Austen family.

My cousin Mr. Cooper was greatly surprised by this rude parting; but reflected with satisfaction that he had behaved blamelessly himself throughout the entire affair, and might expect a glowing commendation from so great a personage as Sir George Mumps, when that gentleman knew the whole. He would continue, he informed me, to pray for his sad friend.

Sir James stood up and held out his hand. “I hope, Miss Austen, that if you ever find it possible to take Bakewell in your way, that you will not hesitate to call at Villiers Hall. I should have engaged you for dinner at Monyash, had your visit been prolonged; but the duties of justice—”

“—and the claims of a friend with a Scottish manor,” I added, “should never go neglected. I am honoured by your invitation, Sir James, and shall avail myself of the opportunity of accepting it, whenever the occasion may offer.”

He bowed — begged to be remembered to my mother and sister, already established in the carriage below — and took himself off.

I tarried for a last look from the parlour window, as if in expectation of observing a glossy equipage, in the First Stare of Fashion, emblazoned with the serpent and the stag — but Matlock Street was empty of life, but for our own post chaise bulging with baggage and a quantity of dried trout.

I turned away from the window, and found him standing in the door.

“Lord Harold!”

“My dearest Jane.”

He crossed swiftly and seized my hand; held it to his lips, and closed his eyes. The ravaged looks of the previous few days were gone; he might rest now in the certainty that his duty to Georgiana’s children had been discharged. But I detected no joy in his countenance — only resignation and the hollowness of loss.

“You have asked for her hand,” I said, “and she has refused you.”

His grey eyes flew open and gazed into my own. I was pleased to observe no tragedy in their depths; the hint of self-mockery prevailed. “It is ridiculous for a man of eight-and-forty to expect such a creature to return his affection. She must regard me as almost a father.”

“Do not sell yourself so cheap, my lord. Fathers, in Lady Harriot’s estimation, cannot be accounted highly.”

He released my hand. “No matter. I should not have taught myself to hope. It is the effect of old love, you know — unrequited love for her mother; and the sensation of seeing the woman reborn once more in Hary-O. Such a union must have ended in folly.”

“You may find that with time, the lady’s sentiments may undergo a revolution. She is very young, and has suffered much in recent months; perhaps when another twelvemonth has passed away—”

“—I shall be merely another year older. No, Jane — however much I may esteem her — however much I regard her as exactly the sort of woman to suit me — we should not have gone on well together. She is at the very beginning of her powers, while I approach their end.”

“Fiddlesticks!” I cried. “You are worth ten young men put together — in understanding, knowledge of the world, brilliance. There is charm and flattery enough, my lord — but nobody is brilliant any more.”

“Thank you, my dear,” he replied with a trace of amusement. “I know you well enough to value your frankness. But truth to tell, I should have been tempted to put Hary-O in a gilded cage; and she has spent most of her life in one already. What she desires now is flight — and a man who might give her wings.”

His expression, as he uttered the words, became fixed and closed to me; and in this I sensed the depth of his regret. There was nothing more to be said. He had resigned all pretension to the woman he loved.

The Gentleman Rogue, however, was not yet done. In a tone of some briskness he declared, “I must congratulate myself, Jane, in having discharged this last service to Georgiana — in having saved her beloved Harriot from a most unsuitable marriage. Who knows where Andrew Danforth’s rapacity might have led?”

“To the murder of his wife, perhaps, against the vastness of her fortune?”

“I have you to thank for Hary-O’s present safety. I shall always think of you with gratitude and fondness, Jane — for this, as for so many past examples of your goodness.”

“As I shall think of you,” I managed. And stifled all other words that might have come. I reached for a small packet that yet stood upon the parlour table, and presented it to him. “Pray extend my thanks to the Countess for the use of her combs.”

“I believe she intended to make a present of them to you.”

“Lady Swithin is very good — but I could never accept anything so fine.”

He gave me a long look, then slipped the jeweller’s box into his coat. “Shall I escort you below? The dissipation of a giddy watering-place, and a thousand gallant sailors, await you in Southampton.”

He offered his arm; I tucked my hand between the folds of sleeve and coat; and so was carried off quite handsomely to the waiting chaise. He handed me in, and lifted his hat; and as the carriage creaked to life, I summoned resources enough to wave.

But it was a considerable period before I could utter a word, or appear sensible to my mother’s cries of delight as the carriage slipped south with the autumn leaves; and of Mr. Cooper’s voice lifted fulsomely in hymns of praise, I heard not a syllable. The image of a silver head and a whipcord form — of one last, serious parting look — were all that filled my sight. I suppose more than one young woman has been sustained a twelvemonth on so little.