“Have I stumbled upon Paradise?” I murmured.

“It was not always thus,” Lord Harold replied. “The approach was formerly from the east, in Elizabeth’s time. The present Duke’s father determined that it had better be changed to the west, and so pulled down some old stables and offices on this side that interfered with the view. He razed the cottages of Edensor Village as well, which used to sit near the river.”

This, I supposed, was the privilege of a Duke — to destroy the homes of his dependants in order to enclose his park. How admirably the Whigs did manage the people! “How large is the estate, my lord?”

“Some thirty-five thousand acres. But I presume you would mean the park itself. Dawson?” Lord Harold threw the word over his shoulder. “How many miles round is the park?”

“Near ten mile, sir,” the coachman replied.

We gradually ascended for half-a-mile, and then found ourselves at the top of a considerable eminence, re the wood ceased, and the eye was instantly caught by Chatsworth House, situated on the opposite side of a valley, into which the road with some abruptness wound. It was a large, handsome stone building, standing well on rising ground, and backed by a ridge of high woody hills.

“Observe the river,” Lord Harold commanded. “The course of it has been altered, and swelled into greater, but without any artificial appearance. This stone bridge” — as the horses’ hooves clattered across it — “was also built in the last Duke’s time.”

“I have never seen a place for which nature has done more, or where natural beauty has been so little counteracted by an awkward taste.” In this, I might hope to judge Chatsworth entirely without prejudice, as Lord Harold had preferred; my whole heart was filled with delight at its beauty, and at everything that proclaimed the elegance of its owner.

“You detect the hand of Capability Brown,” Lord Harold replied. “There was no man for designing a park quite like him.”

Sheep scattered at the curricle’s approach; the splendid façade of the house drew near, with its masses of windows, its central pediment blazing with the Devonshire arms, its ornate pilasters and casement stonework — and above all, surmounting the broad, flat roof, a parade of urns and statues from antique climes. It was a picture of elegance and taste that rivalled everything I had ever seen; and to think that I should enter through the great portals of Chatsworth, and attempt to pass myself off with credit, must strike terror to the very bone.

The curricle pulled up — a waiting footman stepped forward — and I was handed down to the sweep before the massive divided stair that led to the very door.

“Thank you, Dawson,” Lord Harold said absently to the coachman; and offered me his arm.

28 August 1806, cont.

A FOOTMAN IN SKY BLUE AND BUFF LIVERY LED US from the West Entrance through an open colonnade, to a great hall with a painted ceiling and branching twin staircases.[4] I should have liked, at that moment, to be a stranger even to Lord Harold — a mere pleasure-seeker escorted by the Chatsworth housekeeper, who might be expected to stare boldly upwards at the vivid frescoes. A multitude of classical figures — in the usual state of undress — reclined on a swirling bed of painted clouds, without taking the slightest notice of my existence far below: a metaphor, one might say, for the entire Whig view of Society.

“You shall gaze upon Caesar until you are sick of him, my dear Jane,” murmured Lord Harold at my ear, “once you have been properly introduced. The State Apartments, too, are not to be missed; but they are well above, on the second floor. Pray attend to the footman!”

I tore my eyes from the Painted Hall and hurried resolutely after the servant. He led us through a passage to the rear of the great house and from thence to a stone terrace. Beyond it lay a sweep of lawn, more verdant and inviting even than the formal parterres that lay to the east of the building; and there, like the Muses themselves, were arranged the figures of three ladies.

“Uncle! And my dear Miss Austen! It has been an age!”

It was the Countess of Swithin who first distinguished me, as should be only natural — rising from her chair beneath a spreading oak, where she had been disposed with an easel and crayons, intent upon capturing the scene. Lord Harold drew me forward across the flags, up a short flight of steps to the lawn, past several flower beds, where some late blooms were charmingly grouped among the lavender — and bowed low upon achieving the ladies.

“I dared not dream that Uncle would prevail upon you to pay a call today,” said Lady Swithin. “It is very good of you, and far more than we deserve, after all that you have been through. You must be utterly fagged!”

Lord Harold’s niece was considerably altered since I had last seen her — for two years, in the life of such a young lady, must make a distinct change. Her countenance was less open, less touched by innocence, but still as glowing; her figure, though full with the burden of her approaching child, yet managed a youthful grace. Her hair was as golden, and her gown as before the fashion, as ever they had been; but where once her attire had possessed the simplicity of youth, there was now an elegance and refinement due entirely to her familiarity with the Great. I was pleased to detect no sign of weariness or sorrow about the eyes, no suggestion of a private pain. The Earl of Swithin was always a difficult companion, and the love that united him to Desdemona of a jealous and fitful kind; but it appeared that the two had learned to suit, and that no spectre of unhappiness could dog their union.

Two other ladies were seated near the Countess, on chairs set out upon the lawn. One was fast approaching middle age, and wore the decent but unadorned dark grey cambric of a lesser relation or superior domestic; the other was a strong-boned, fresh-faced, alert young woman of middle height, with a figure fully-formed, and a wild cascade of gingery curls about her nape.

How shall I relate my first impression of Lady Harriot Cavendish, second child of the Duke of Devonshire? She is not a beauty by any means, but her face has a certain intelligent distinction; it shall be called “handsome” with time, and her character will stamp it. The nose is a defiant blade, the chin square and stubborn; her round eyes and full lips, I later learned, she received from the Cavendish side of the family, but her temperament is entirely Spencer.[5] I should judge her to be of an age with the Countess of Swithin, but being yet a dependant in her father’s home, she wants Lady Desdemona’s easy assurance. Her countenance, too, is bereft of Mona’s happy glow; she is altogether a more subdued and reflective companion than I should look to find at the Countess’s side.

Lady Harriot’s gown was of sheer grey Alençon lace, over a dark grey underskirt; it was trimmed in white soutache, which offered some relief from the austerity of mourning. But the languor of grief clung about her still — she moved with the weariness of a spent child.

Lord Harold drew me forward. “Lady Harriot, may I have the honour of introducing Miss Jane Austen to your acquaintance? Lady Harriot Cavendish.”