Jane and the Stillroom Maid Read Online Free PDF Page B

carriage of consequence is subject to my view; and as the principal London stages must change horses here before proceeding on to Manchester, the parade of the fashionable, the frivolous, the indigent, and the wary must be a source of constant amusement. Add to this the luxury of a snug upstairs parlour set aside for our party’s use, and the wild beauty of the surrounding country—and we are considerably more comfortable than we should have been among the victims of whooping cough.
    My cousin Mr. Cooper did not return until our dinner was very nearly laid—which at The Rutland Arms occurs at the grand, unfashionable hour of four o’clock. I was sufficiently recovered to quit my bedchamber and join Cassandra and my mother in the parlour a few moments before Mr. Cooper alighted wearily from George Hemming’s trap. Heavy dark clouds had rolled in from the hills, ominous with the threat of rain; thunder bruited in the distance. The air was oppressive and increasingly close—hardly uncommon of an August afternoon. Today, however, I read portents in the storm. The natural order had been violated—a man despatched as one might butcher a calf—and all of Heaven knew it.
    My mother was attempting to mend the lace on one of her caps; she had drawn her chair quite close tothe window in a vain search for available light. At the sound of carriage wheels in the cobbled street below, she set down her muslin and peered through the storm-darkened panes.
    “Well. There he is at last, Jane,” she said, “and not a hint of a corpse about him. I do hope the inn boasts a laundress. The smell of blood can be most persistent.”
    “Yes, ma’am,” I replied. I had ordered a bath myself upon returning to The Rutland Arms, and scrubbed my skin raw.
    “He does not bring his friend with him,” she observed. “Pity. I had marked out Mr. Hemming for one of you.”
    “Thank you for my part of the favour, Mamma, but I do not wish to spend the rest of my days in Derbyshire,” Cassandra said plaintively. “Although a trifle advanced in years, and undoubtedly given to the wearing of flannel during the winter months, Mr. Hemming will do very well for Jane. She may learn to prepare any manner of fish in five different ways, and exclaim continually over the glories of the Peaks.”
    “I think I might be equal to the latter,” I mused, “did the gentleman consume his fish himself.”
    The door to the hall was flung open, and Mr. Cooper appeared. My cousin’s hair was disarranged and his countenance drawn and pale. His good worsted suiting was smeared with dark stains that could only be blood.
    “Dear ladies,” he said faintly, and bowed.
    “My poor Edward.” My mother’s accent was more brisk than fond. “Pray take a chair. The roast shall be sent up presently. Unless you should prefer a cold dinner today on account of the juices,” she added obscurely.
    “It makes no odds,” Mr. Cooper replied absently, “my appetite is fled. I commend your Christian charity, however, for considering of it, Aunt. My cousin has informed you of the sad events of this morning?”
    “You must know that Jane loves nothing so well as a tale of murder,” my mother replied comfortably. “I blame her father, Mr. Cooper. George Austen was an excellent man and an accomplished sermonist—quite lauded in his day, and besieged with offers of publication, which he would not hear of, except insomuch as his fame contributed to his supply of students, for he was always disposed to the tempering of young minds—particularly when their patrons were generous with board, and paid on time. But where was I?”
    “You were about to say, ma’am, that my father disposed me to relish a tale of murder,” I supplied.
    “And so he did. All that novel-reading of a winter’s eve! The more horrid the better. And she has gone from bad to worse, Mr. Cooper—she practically chuses her friends from among the intimates of the dock. First it was the Countess of Scargrave, who