“Do you know very much, Lord Harold, about your friends at Chatsworth — though you have been acquainted with them this age?”

I had been fixed by the window as we conversed, my gaze moving restlessly over the herd of townspeople below — the good folk of Bakewell, all agog with the news of a respectable man’s misery. Lord Harold arose, and joined me at the view.

“I know enough to be deeply troubled, Jane,” he replied. “What exactly did you observe during your interval under the Spanish oaks?”

“A household in some upheaval,” I replied, “spurred by the twin influences of jealousy and competition. Lady Elizabeth has much to answer for.”

“Say, rather, the Duke, since it is the result of his perennial weaknesses that disorder is allowed to flourish. Could you apprehend, Jane, the qualities for good in that man — the immense talents, so indolently employed — your heart would surge with indignation at all he has squandered. The late Duchess’s gaming debts are nothing to it. There, we speak merely of money.”

“That such a character as Lady Harriot’s could be formed in so pernicious an atmosphere, is a testament to her breeding,” I observed.

“In her we see again the strength of her noble family, rather than its decline.” Lord Harold fidgeted restlessly with a signet ring on his left hand, his countenance for once unguarded. “Harriot is very much like her aunt, Lady Bessborough — keen of wit, sharp of tongue, utterly discerning, and blessed with a singular understanding. Had she been born a man—” He broke off, and allowed his hands to fall to his sides.

“And in the Marquess, Lord Harold? What do we observe in Devonshire’s heir?”

“The callowness of youth, and a depth of misery unimaginable to ourselves.” He looked at me keenly. “Georgiana’s death is a blow from which her youngest child has not recovered. I may say so much; the rest you will discern for yourself. The very circumstance to which you refer — my long acquaintance and friendship with the Devonshire household — must prohibit me from speaking rashly now. But I will admit, Jane, that I am most distressed in my soul about Lord Hartington.”

“His words to me were indisputably singular,” I persisted. “‘I’d hoped the witch had died in agony.’ What can his lordship have meant by so frank and brutal a sentiment?”

“You are not alone in posing such a question,” Lord Harold replied. “Lady Harriot is most uneasy for her brother. He has been too much alone this summer at Chatsworth; he barely speaks a word to anyone. You saw how all his family regarded you with amazement, when he deigned to question you concerning the maid’s death; only the most ardent interest could have moved Lord Hartington to address a stranger.”

“And I thought them merely appalled at his conversation.” I studied Lord Harold’s countenance; but as ever, it revealed only what he would have me to know. “Would you make me your proxy, sir, in this dreadful business? Am I to be forced to the unhappy duty of examining that privileged household — one of the most exalted in England — because your honour forbids you do it?”

“Remember that you possess a motive I lack,” he replied. “If you would save George Hemming’s neck, my dear Jane, you must place another in the noose.”

“The discovery of guilt and innocence is more properly Sir James’s province.” And yet, as Lord Harold observed, Sir James was compelled to do nothing further. An honest man had come forth to claim his share of blame; the Law was satisfied, and Sir James might take up his old schoolfellow’s invitation, to shoot grouse in Scotland.

“I do not mean to suggest that George Hemming is entirely blameless,” I attempted. “He is certainly most determined upon shielding another, and may even possess a dangerous knowledge — knowledge that torments him. But I do not believe that he killed Tess Arnold. Though he was anxious and preoccupied at the moment of the corpse’s discovery, it was not the anxiety of guilt. He was startled, he was amazed, he was determined to conceal the whole — but he was not fearful for the salvation of his soul.”

“Prove it, Jane,” Lord Harold retorted with a smile.

“How, my lord?”

“You must first comprehend the nature of the woman Hemming claims to have killed. You know already that she was hated by some, and feared by others. But you know nothing of what Tess Arnold regarded with ambition and dread. When we comprehend so much, we may claim to understand why she died.”

“You urge me to this, though you know full well that whatever I learn may harm the people you love best in all the world?”

His eyes did not waver. “I cannot sit by and watch a good man go to his death without cause. Neither will I countenance evil with equanimity. I cannot undertake to betray my friends, Jane. But if you choose to probe the nature of Tess Arnold, I shall support your endeavour. You must attempt the matter soon, however: I understand that your cousin, Mr. Cooper, hopes to quit Bakewell as soon as may be.”

“He has forbidden me to dine at Chatsworth tomorrow,” I told his lordship with a smile. “My mother, however, has secured me borrowed feathers; and from this we may assume that my attendance is certain. The next day being Sunday, we are entirely fixed — Mr. Cooper would never profane the Sabbath with travel. I shall remain in Bakewell until Monday at the very least.”

“Excellent,” Lord Harold cried. “That wins us nearly three days. How shall you use them?”

“First, by returning to Miller’s Dale. I wish to review the ground where the maidservant died, and consider where her murderer might have hid. And if energy enough remains, I intend to walk the path she might have taken from Penfolds Hall. Much may be learned from the country itself, if one has but the courage to ask.”

“You will require a carriage,” he added thoughtfully, “and a broad-brimmed sunbonnet, if you hope to do so much of an August morning. Pray leave the business to me.”

29 August 1806, cont.

THERE ARE MOMENTS IN LIFE THAT SHOULD JUSTIFIABLY live long in memory — moments of experience so deeply felt, whether of pain or pleasure, that they mark the human soul even unto the grave. I am long familiar with such intimate scars. I may recall with the vividness of yesterday, the happy agitation of being first asked to dance — though by entirely the wrong gentleman; the pain of Tom Lefroy’s defection for Ireland, and a lady of greater fortune; the oppression of spirits at the death of Cassandra’s betrothed. My father’s laugh, ringing out again in memory, will bring both tears and joy; so, too, will the idea of reading aloud in Madam Lefroy’s front parlour of a winter afternoon, long ago. What is life, but an accumulation of such memories, a gathering of sensibility?

And yet, not all that is precious must be alloyed with pain. I have also these moments in Lord Harold’s company, on a golden day in the High Peaks, with the swift shadows of clouds chasing the sheep on the hillsides and the babble of torrents curling whitely over stone. The soul may be as indelibly marked by such impressions of peace — by a conversable man of elegant appearance and the clop of a well-shod hoof — as by an experience of the most shattering emotion. When the rains of January have overtaken Southampton, the Gentleman Rogue will rise in memory as one of the better gifts of the past year.